More than a week had elapsed since the events related had taken place,
and the two Europeans still remained, half free, half prisoners. From
the day when Masheesh had witnessed the Hottentot's cruel death, up to
the present, he had not been seen, either by the white men or by the
Amatongas. The rest of their followers had made their escape, finding
their way back as they could, and their position, perfectly alone among
the savage tribe, their safety hanging only on the cupidity of the
treacherous Umhleswa, was most critical. For two days after Luji's
death, all had seemed quiet in the kraal, but then a party had sprung up
among the men, some of whom had been urged on by the dead chief's wife
to avenge on the two white men his death. This party had gradually
grown stronger, and its members never lost an opportunity of showing
their hate; indeed it was on more than one occasion only the fear of the
deadly rifles which kept them from open violence.
There they sat before their hut, under the shade of the tree, feeling
and looking disconsolate enough. It was the eighth day since they had
again taken possession of it, and not once had they seen Umhleswa during
that period. A good provision of manioc flour had been conveyed to
them. Their shot guns had supplied them with small game, for they dared
not venture far from the kraal, for fear of awakening suspicion, and
even as it was, found themselves closely watched.
The two had just finished a supper they had cooked themselves. They
were both fully armed, and near them, within reach of their hands, lay
their rifles. The sun had set, the air was warm, and the breeze
scarcely moved the leaves of the tree overhead. Before them lay
stretched the plain with its belt of forest-land, and in the distance
the faint line of the Matopo hills. Close by, the densely populated
kraal, the blue smoke from many fires curling up into the air. The hum
of the bees was heard as they winged their way homewards towards the
forest, and above them in the tree the cries of the parrots, as they
quarrelled before composing themselves to sleep. Rising and shading his
face with his hand, Hughes gazed in the direction of the kraal. A
solitary figure was wending his way through the huts, coming towards
them.
"It's weary work this," he remarked, as he sat down again with a sigh,
"keeping watch and watch all day, and dividing the night between us,
too. It's a weary life. What can have become of Masheesh?"
"The Matabele brave has cared for his own skin, and has fled to the
mountains, like the rest of them," replied the missionary.
"I thought better of him," said Hughes, absently, "and I am sorry I was
wrong."
"Look, is not that Umhleswa coming towards us," said Wyzinski. "God
grant he may have made arrangements for our journey."
"It is he, indeed," replied the other, as he rose to heap fresh branches
on the fire.
Slowly the chief stalked along, apparently not caring where he went,
stopped opposite the two, and then, as if perceiving them for the first
time, approached and squatted by the fire.
Umhleswa's evil nature was now too well-known, for this seeming
carelessness to dupe them.
"Have my white brethren all they can want?" he asked.
"No, chief, we ask the fulfilment of our contract, namely, an escort as
far as the Zambesi."
"My braves are badly armed, and may be unable to protect you. Will the
white men give their rifles now?"
The treacherous nature of the request was too evident for the veriest
tyro to fall into the trap. To give up their means of protection, and
at the same time the only ransom they had to offer, would have been an
act of folly, "No, chief, we will not," replied Wyzinski, a silence
following on his words. Suddenly an idea struck him. What if he were
to utilise Masheesh's absence? It could not possibly do any harm, and
it might do good.
"Will Umhleswa wait until the Matabele chief comes with Mozelkatse's
warriors to serve us as an escort. He has been gone many days and
should be on his return?" he asked.
The wily savage started, fidgeting as he sat. "It is a long journey
across the Tati," he replied.
"The Tati, chief?" asked Wyzinski, remembering at once that Masheesh had
spoken of that river.
"Yes, the Tati, where the yellow gold is found, which the Bamangwato now
claim," replied the savage, pointing with his hand. "It lies yonder,
between those hills of the Matopo and the more distant Zouga mountains."
"And who owns the land?" inquired Wyzinski.
"The great chief Machin calls it his," was the answer, "and Mozelkatse
claims it as his, too."
"You see, Hughes, how all tallies. Beyond those mountain somewhere near
the sources of the Limpopo, there exist gold fields, and these rivers
which Umhleswa names run into the Limpopo. Here, between those gold
fields and the coast, were built the cities of the gold seekers of
Solomon. We have trod their streets, and yonder stream, which Masheesh
truly named Auro, took their riches to the port."
"The deuce take your ruins, Wyzinski!" said Hughes. "Do try to get us
out of the scrape we are in. Humour the scoundrel."
Umhleswa seemed uneasy at this by-play, not understanding one word of
English.
"Will the white men keep their promise if Masheesh comes?"
"Certainly not. He will then be our deliverer, not you, and the rifles
must be his."
"Umhleswa saved you when the knives of his people were about to drink
your blood?" sententiously remarked the savage.
Wyzinski shuddered. "Come, chief," he replied, taking from his belt a
revolver, "send us on our journey, and this shall be yours." Raising
his arm, he fired barrel after barrel into the air, pausing between each
ere he drew the trigger to enhance the effect.
The savage's eyes glistened, and he showed his filed teeth. He doubted
not that Masheesh had been sent to bring down the Matabele warriors upon
him, in which case he should lose the promised reward.
The thought swayed him; the sight of the revolver finished the matter.
Slowly rising, he walked away several paces, and the missionary's heart
beat quickly, for all seemed lost. Turning, he pointed to the sky.
"When the moon rises yonder, and my people are buried in sleep, let the
white men be ready. Umhleswa does not lie," he said, moving away.
Hardly had he gone a dozen paces, when he again paused, hesitated, and
once more returned.
"The rifles are for my braves," he said, again speaking slowly; "the
small gun," pointing to the revolver, "is for Umhleswa. Will the chief
give it now?"
Wyzinski hesitated, and for a few moments seemed plunged in thought.
"Take it," he said at length frankly, as he placed the coveted weapon in
the hands of the savage. "Take it, but remember that at a chief's belt
two such weapons should hang; the second will be yours when we reach the
Zambesi."
Umhleswa looked the speaker full in the face, slowly nodding his head
three times, then once more pointing to the sky.
"Let my white brethren be ready when the moon rises," he said, as he
stalked away proudly; perhaps the only native in that part of the
country possessed of a revolver.
"Do you think he will keep his word, Wyzinski?" asked Hughes, when the
conversation was translated to him.
"He is sure to do so," replied the missionary, "simply because it is his
interest."
"Then the best thing we can do is to be in readiness. There are many
things we must leave behind," returned Hughes. "The moon will rise in
two hours."
Entering the hut once more, and as they fervently hoped for the last
time, they set about their preparations, no easy task, when out of the
scanty materials, all of which had been deemed necessary a short time
since, the greater part were to be left behind. They were still busy,
when a body of men gliding out from among the huts by twos and by
threes, assembled at the entrance, one of their number signing to its
tenants to follow. Carrying their rifles in the hollow of the arm,
their pistols at their belts, they cast one look round the interior of
the hut which had served them so long as a home, and stepped out into
the night.
The moon was just rising over the mountain range, the night was quite
still, save when from time to time the cry of the jackal could be heard
from the plain. In the native kraal all slept, and the party,
consisting of fifteen men armed with assegais, and commanded by the same
brave who had conducted them from their camp at Gorongoza, moved
silently away the moment the white men joined them. Avoiding the kraal,
they shaped their course to the north, travelling as swiftly as they
could through a country densely covered with forest. Game seemed to
grow more scarce as they neared the end of their journey; and, except
for necessary purposes, it was little sought after, the object of all
being identical, namely, to strike the Zambesi as soon as possible.
This they at length did, though the forest growth impeded their progress
so much, that it was only on the evening of the ninth day after leaving
the country of the Amatonga that they reached its banks. Under the
shade of the high hill of Baramuana a small tent was pitched, not larger
than that used by the French soldier, and known by the name of tente
d'abri. A fire burned fiercely in front of it, and close by ran the
Zambesi, a fine broad stream flowing towards the sea, between banks
covered with reeds of luxuriant growth. Beyond the river a level plain,
broken by forest-land, and in the distance the blue outline of a high
mountain range.
Near the fire were seated the two Europeans, and in a semicircle round
them the fifteen Amatonga warriors who had been their guides. Further
down the stream, at a bend of the river, the walls of a brick building
were visible, some ten miles away.
A perfect jungle of forest swept up almost to the spot where the group
were seated, the tamarind and acacia trees growing to the river bank,
covered with creeping plants, such as the convolvulus, the jasmine, the
deadly nightshade, all festooned from tree to tree, while the wild
guava, the pomegranate, and many a sweet-scented bush pushed upwards
their luxuriant undergrowth. The bees were humming among the
sweetly-scented flowers of the dholicos, and the rushing sound of the
river, as it took its way to the sea past the fort of Senna, was music
to the ears of the two travellers.
"Give them their due, Wyzinski, and let us be rid of them; I hate the
very look of an Amatonga," exclaimed Hughes.
The group of savages sat round, staring at the two with a steady,
concentrated gaze, their long assegais raised in the air, "Matumba,"
said the powerful, but stunted brave, who had been in command of the
party, speaking with difficulty the Zulu tongue, "Matumba has done his
duty, let the chiefs do theirs. Yonder are the walls of their
brethren's fort."
The missionary did not at once reply, but pushing the promised arms
towards the speaker, took from his belt his revolver, discharging its
barrels into the air, handed it to the Amatonga.
"This is now Umhleswa's property, and thus the white man fulfils his
promise."
"We are left with our two rifles and one revolver between us," remarked
Hughes. "If ever I get the chance of paying off these thieves, won't
I?"
Matumba took the arm, and, turning to his men, distributed the rifles
among them. A sharp conversation followed, unintelligible to the
Europeans, save that the Amatonga pointed several times to the two
remaining rifles.
"The white men," resumed Matumba, once more turning to them, "are near
their friends. They have no need of their guns, the Amatonga are far
from their kraal. Let them give the two guns, which are now useless."
"Never, Matumba," exclaimed Wyzinski, springing to his feet and cocking
both barrels of his piece. "Look out, Hughes, they mean mischief. We
have kept our word, Amatonga. Keep yours."
A sharp conversation ensued between the natives, all talking together,
the chief, Matumba, evidently trying to keep them within bounds, while
they as evidently wished to take the coveted rifles by force. Placing
their backs against the rocks, their rifles ready, the two waited the
result, but great was their relief when the whole party, after much
talking, at last moved off in Indian file, and disappeared under the
deepening forest shade.
"We are well out of that, Wyzinski," remarked Hughes, as he seated
himself at the foot of the rock, "and now, what are we to do next?"
"Break ground as soon and as speedily as possible. We have but to
follow the stream, and we shall be within the walls of Senna in three
hours."
The little tent was struck, the knapsacks strapped on, and their rifles
at the trail, both moved rapidly away. But a deep cut they found ran
between them and the Portuguese fort. It was filled with heavy timber
and luxuriant undergrowth. Night came on, and there was no moon, so
that the direction of the stream was soon lost, and they were brought to
a stand still.
"Let us halt here," said Wyzinski, as they pushed their way through a
clump of mimosa, and gained a small clearing, hemmed in on every side by
the forest.
"We can reach Senna by early morning, and I am half dead with hunger."
A fire was lit, some strips of venison cut from an eland killed the
previous day, roasted on the embers, and they made a hearty meal.
"It will be a relief to me to see the inside of the fort, Hughes," said
Wyzinski. "I misdoubt those Amatongas."
"They have done better by us than your favourite Matabele. I never
thought Masheesh would have left us thus. If you will take the first
turn, I'll have a sleep," replied Hughes.
"Agreed," returned the missionary, as his comrade placing his knapsack
under his head, threw himself under a low bush, and was soon sleeping
heavily. Hours went by, and still the missionary, with his rifle thrown
across his knee, sat by the fire. He rose from time to time to collect
and heap on it the dried branches. Once he heard distinctly above the
noises incidental to an African night in the wilderness, the splintering
of wood. He was in the act of throwing an armful of dry branches on the
blaze. Stooping, he seized his rifle, and was just about to wake his
companion, when the noise ceased. Stepping up to where the soldier lay,
he looked at him. The starlight shone over the bronzed and travel-worn
face. The cap had fallen off, and the long locks of dark hair touched
the ground. "It would be a pity to wake him," muttered the missionary.
"I am not tired; the presentiment of evil is upon me, and I could not
sleep even if I tried."
Turning, he again squatted down by the fire, the cocked rifle over his
knee. Once, more than an hour after, the same sound, like to the
breaking of wood, reached his ear.
"It may be some heavy animal feeding," he thought, "and my fears be
groundless; the darkness of the night, the loneliness and fatigue, have
unnerved me."
Soon his thoughts were away in other lands, and with friends, some of
whom had been long since dead. Then they returned to the ruined cities
of this wild land. Had they any affinity to those found in Mexico? he
asked himself. No, they must be Egyptian.
Suddenly a wild shout burst on his ear, a crashing blow, a whizzing in
the ears, and all was darkness. The missionary lay stretched beside the
embers of the fire.
How long he remained insensible on the ground Wyzinski never knew, but
the grey dawn was just breaking as he struggled back to consciousness,
to find his arms tightly and painfully bound behind his back, his head
splitting with pain, while the clearing seemed filled with the dark
forms of the Amatongas, seated in a circle, and evidently debating on
their prisoner's fate. As he lay there on his back, barely able to turn
his head, his open eyes gazing upwards at the stars, whose feeble light
was just paling before the first grey streaks of dawn, a black mass
intervened between him and the blue sky. It was a woman's head, the
long hair told him this much, but the face was that of a demon; the
beadlike eyes which peered into his flashing with malicious hatred; the
thick lips parted, showing the yellow teeth clenched with passion; the
flat nostrils distended with rage, and the hair, matted with grease and
dirt, sweeping his face as she bent over him.
It was a face he knew, for it was that of the dead chief's wife; and as
the missionary closed his eyes to shut out the horrid vision, the hag,
seeing he had again become conscious, uttered a piercing yell, and
dashed into the middle of the council ring, chattering in a shrill and
parrot-like voice. The missionary's eyes remained closed, for he felt
his position was hopeless, and what at this moment grieved him more was,
that by his negligent watch he had sacrificed his friend. If he had
been struck down and made prisoner with his rifle in his hand and wide
awake, what chance was there for the sleeping soldier? He knew he
should, after the fashion of this tribe, be tortured; he prayed for
firmness to meet his doom, but he thought with agony of what had been
his comrade's fate during the hours he himself lay insensible and
apparently dead.
A rude stroke from the sharp point of an Amatonga spear roused him, and
in obedience to the command he endeavoured to struggle to his feet.
Unable to effect this, two of his captors roughly seized him, dragging
him up. The dawn was just lighting up the scene, as he glanced round.
There lay the embers of the fire scattered about the clearing; there lay
the soldier's knapsack, and there, near it, with an ox hide thrown over
it, something which took, under its coverings, the shape of a human
form. There was no mistaking it.
The missionary's eyes filled with tears, and a convulsive sob heaved his
breast, as he looked on all that was left of the man who, in his dead
sleep, had trusted to his friend's vigilance.
The Amatongas seemed to have no time to lose, for hardly giving their
prisoner space to realise what was passing around, they hurried him
along through the bush, retracing their path until the whole group
reached the foot of the Baramuana hill, where the distribution of the
rifles had taken place the day before.
"My presentiment of evil did not deceive me," muttered Wyzinski; "fool,
triple fool as I was not to profit by it, and yonder," thought he, as
his eyes followed the course of the river, and the brick walls of the
fort met his gaze, just tipped by the first rays of the sun, "yonder lay
safety."
Grinning, laughing, and chattering, the circle of Amatonga braves drew
round him. Their prisoner was thrown to the ground and his feet bound
with the palmyra rope; the woman fiend, her passion lending her
strength, hauling at one end of the rough cord until it literally cut
into the flesh. A stake was driven into the ground at the foot of the
rock, and then the missionary knew his doom was, like Luji's, death by
fire. Next the whole band dispersed, going into the forest, and
returning by twos and threes, laden with brush as dry as tinder.
Quickly the semicircle of boughs and long grass grew round the stake,
while close to the prisoner's head sat the fiend-like woman, spitting
out her rage, heaping imprecations on his head, and occasionally
breaking out into a slow chant or death song.
The missionary's eyes were again closed; his lips were moving in prayer.
He was asking for strength to bear his fearful death, as a man should
whose negligence has brought evil not only on himself, but on others.
The belt of forest trees ran close to the spot where he lay, and while
he prayed a dark face put aside cautiously the clusters of convolvuli
which formed a flowery screen among the trees, as two black piercing
eyes gazed out from among the flowers, seemed to take note of the scene,
and then disappeared.
And now four of the Amatongas emerged from the bush, bearing the
nameless something, covered up with skins, but yet showing the outlines
of the human form. Wyzinski shuddered as he opened his eyes and saw it.
The pile of brushwood grew higher and higher, and the missionary felt
himself rudely dragged along the ground, and fastened to the stake. The
palmyra rope which cut into his flesh was removed, and his feet firmly
tied apart to two small wooden pins driven into the ground. The hideous
looking woman, who had been dancing and singing round him, waving her
lean arms, and clashing together her long yellow teeth, now sat down
right opposite the victim, her eyes intently fixed on his, to enjoy his
agony. The last armful of brush was tossed upon the heap, fire was
procured, and a long twisted wisp of dry grass lighted, and placed in
the widow's hands.
Chanting out a monotonous song, the woman rose and came on. She reached
the wall of dry brush, she waved the wisp of flame in her victim's face,
scorching his hair and whiskers; then, with a yell of vengeance, stooped
to kindle the fire, when a flash of light seemed to quiver through the
sunshine, and she fell forward, pierced through the heart by an assegai,
the torch falling from her dying hands, kindling the dry grass and
brushwood.
In an instant the missionary was surrounded by a semicircle of flame,
the reports of rifles rang in his ears, a loud shout of "Boarders,
away!" came from among the trees, as half a dozen Portuguese soldiers,
led on by Hughes, the Matabele chief, Masheesh, and Captain Weber of the
"Halcyon," dashed across the open, scattered the burning brush right and
left, cut away his bonds, and dragged the half-choked missionary free of
the flames.
Three of the Amatongas had fallen by the first discharge, and without
halting to reload, the Portuguese charged with the bayonet, led by an
old seaman, whose scar-seamed face told of some recent fight. It was
Captain Mason, late of the "Argonaut." The savages, wholly surprised,
at once fled, but halting as they reached the belt of forest, threw
their assegais. "Forward, my lads; no quarter for the accursed
scoundrels!" shouted the excited Mason. "For--," the word was never
spoken, for an assegai struck him in the left eye, piercing to the
brain. He fell heavily on his face, his clubbed rifle tumbling to the
ground; a deep groan, one or two spasmodic struggles, and the captain of
the "Argonaut" was no more, the whole band of savages having disappeared
in the bush.
Volume 1, Chapter XV.