Bully Rawson lay in his camp in the Lumisana Forest in north-eastern
Zululand. He was playing cards with himself, and as he played he
cursed.
Primarily he cursed because he could not quite bring off a move in the
game which, with a real adversary, would inevitably give him an
advantage--profitable but wholly illicit. Secondarily he cursed merely
by way of something to say. Thirdly and generally, he cursed from sheer
force of habit; but whichever way he did it, and from whatever motive,
Bully Rawson's language was entirely unprintable, and, in its relation
to the higher Powers, rather bloodcurdling even to those who were by no
means straight-laced.
Now, blowing off a fine stream of such expletive, he rose to his feet,
and flung the whole pack of cards high in the air. Naturally they would
descend in a wide and scattered shower, then he would make his Swazi boy
pick them up again, and kick him for not doing it quick enough. This
would relieve his feelings some; and would be consistent with the
methods he usually adopted to justify his _sobriquet_.
Seen erect he was a heavy, thick-set man, with a countenance that was
forbidding to the last degree. His nose had at one time been broken,
and his eyes rolled fiercely beneath shaggy black eyebrows. He wore a
long black beard, just turning grey in parts, and plentifully anointed
with tobacco juice; and his hands, knotted and gnarled, seemed to point
to enormous muscular strength. He looked round upon the sunlit forest,
cursed again, then turned to enter a circular thorn enclosure within
which rose the yellow domes of half a dozen grass huts.
Two native girls--well-formed as to frame, and with faces that would
have been pleasing only that the bare sight of Bully Rawson was not
calculated to bring a pleasant expression into any human countenance--
were squatted on the ground. Both wore the _impiti_, or reddened cone
of hair rising from the scalp, together with the apron-like _mutya_
which denotes the married state. They were, in fact, his two wives.
"Where is Pakisa?" he said.
"He? Away at the wood-cutting," answered one.
"You two then, go and pick up the `pictures' I have scattered."
"And the meat I am roasting--what of it?" said the one who had answered.
"You, Nompai," turning to the other, "You go--_au_! _tyetya_!"
This one got up and went out without a word--taking care not to pass
this manly specimen any nearer than she could help. As she rose she
slung an infant on to her back--an infant far lighter in colour than the
lightest native.
"You, Nkombazana, you are rising to the heavens," he sneered. "You are
growing too tall for me. Now I think some hard stick laid about thy
bones will keep thee from growing so over fast."
The woman's eyes glittered, and a sort of snarl just revealed the fine
white teeth. But she did not move. She only said:
"The Snake-doctor--_whau_! his _muti_ is great and subtle."
The white man, in the voice of a wild beast's growl, fired off a storm
of expletives, mixing up Anglo-Saxon where the Zulu fell short of lurid
enough blasphemy. But Nkombazana answered nothing, and still did not
move.
He made a step towards her, then stopped short. The allusion was one he
perfectly understood, and it seemed--yes, it seemed almost to cow him.
With her he knew well it would not do to go too far. She was a Zulu,
and the daughter of a fairly influential chief; the other, Nompai, was a
Swazi and the daughter of nobody in particular, wherefore Nompai came in
for her own share of kicks, and most--not all--of Nkombazana's too. He
had a lively recollection of a sudden and unaccountable illness--an
internal illness--which had seized upon him on a fairly recent occasion,
and which for hours had put him through the torments of the damned.
This had followed--it might have been a coincidence--right upon a
terrific thrashing he had administered to Nkombazana, and his awful
convulsions had only been allayed by the treatment of a certain
_isanusi_--known to the natives as the Snake-doctor--treatment for which
he had to pay pretty heavily lest worse should befall him. But though
he frequently abused and snarled at her, he had never laid hand--or
stick--upon his principal wife since. Indeed he would gladly have been
rid of her at any cost now. He would not have hesitated to make away
with her, but that he dared not. He would willingly have sent her back
to her people, but it would never do to arouse their hostility by the
slur upon her that such a course would imply, and have we not said above
that her father was an influential chief? So to that extent Nkombazana
remained mistress of the situation.
Bully Rawson went into a large hut, which he used as a trading store,
and reaching down a square bottle filled an enamelled iron cup. No
"trade" gin was this--liquor trading by the way was not allowed in the
Zulu country at that time, but plenty of it was done for all that. No.
This was excellent Hollands, and having poured the liberal libation down
his throat he went forth again. There was not much trade doing just
then, but he had entered into a contract for the cutting of poles, to be
taken to the coast and shipped; for which he had obtained a concession
from the local chief. Now, having lighted his pipe, he strolled
leisurely through the forest to where the sound of saw and axe told that
such work was going on.
Several natives were more or less busily engaged. These were not Zulus,
for at that time no Zulu had yet learned "the dignity of labour"--not in
his own country at any rate. They were for the most part. Tonga boys
from the coast, and, as ill-luck would have it, just as Rawson emerged
from the trees, one of them happened to be squatting on the ground
taking snuff. His back was towards his fate, nor did any of the others
dare to warn him. Suddenly he felt as though a tree had fallen upon
him, and the next few moments were spent by his employer in savagely
kicking him round and round the clearing, till at last the luckless
wretch fell on the ground and bowled for mercy. This he might not have
got but that his afflictor became aware of the presence of three tall
Zulus, who stood watching the proceedings, a gleam of mingled amusement
and contempt upon their fine faces.
"Greeting, Inxele!" said one.
Bully Rawson scowled. He resented the familiar use of his native name,
instead of the respectful "_'Nkose_." He further resented the sheaf of
assegais and small shield which each carried, and which should have been
dropped before coming into his camp, or at any rate, while addressing
himself. But the Zulu is quick to recognise a blackguard and loth to
show him deference, and that this white man was an egregious blackguard
as white men went, these were perfectly well aware.
"I see you, _amadoda_," he answered shortly.
"He, there, has a message," said the first who had spoken, indicating
the only one of the three who was not head-ringed. "It has travelled
from Tegwini." [Durban.]
"Well, what is it?" rejoined the white man, shortly.
"It is here," said the unringed native, producing a small packet, which
he carried tied on to the end of a stick. Rawson snatched it eagerly.
It was a sort of oilskin enclosure.
"Now, what the devil can this be?" he said to himself, fairly puzzled.
But the mystery was soon solved. The wrappings being undone, revealed
nothing less commonplace that a mere letter--addressed to himself. Yet
why should the bronze hue of his forbidding countenance dull to a dirty
white as he stared at the envelope? It might have been because he knew
that writing well, and had cherished the fond delusion that the writer
hadn't the ghost of an idea as to his own whereabouts. What then?
Well, the writer of that letter had power to hang him.
He remembered to give the Zulus snuff out of a large box which he always
carried, then while they sat down leisurely to enjoy the same, he tore
open the envelope, and that with hands which trembled somewhat. The
communication, however, was brevity itself. Thus it ran:
"A friend of mine--name Wyvern--is going into your part, even if he is
not already there. Take care of him. Do you hear? _Take care of
him_.
"Warren."
Rawson stared at the words while he read them again and again, "Take
care of him." Oh, yes, he would do that, he thought to himself with a
hideous laugh. Then he fell to wondering what sort of a man this object
of Warren's solicitude might be--whether, in fact, he would prove an
easy one to "take care of." Well, that, of course, events would show.
Anyway, what was certain was that Warren's wishes had to be attended to
by him, Bully Rawson.
Turning to the Zulus he asked about news. Was there any?
Not any, they said. The country was getting more and more disturbed
because the English Government could not make up its mind. It made one
arrangement to-day, and another took its place to-morrow, and now nobody
in Zululand knew who was his chief or whether he had any chief at all.
There had been some fighting, they had heard, in Umlandela's country,
but even about that there was no certain news.
After a little similar talk they got up and took their leave. Rawson,
his mind filled with the untoward turn events had taken, quite forgot to
kick or thrash any more of his labourers.
The sun's rays were lengthening, and with a few parting curses to those
ill-starred mortals he took his way homeward. The cool shaded forest
gloom was pleasant, but his thoughts were not. What he was chiefly
concerned about was not the task that Warren had set him to perform.
Oh, dear no. That, indeed, was, if anything, rather a congenial one to
a born cut-throat such as Bully Rawson. What concerned him, and that
mightily, was that Warren should have located so exactly his
whereabouts, for he knew that thenceforward he was that astute
practitioner's unquestionable and blindly obedient slave; and the part
of obedient anything, in no wise appealed to the temperament of Bully
Rawson. If only he could, on some pretext, inveigle Warren himself up
to that part; and with the idea came a conviction of its utter futility.
Warren was one of the sharpest customers this world ever contained, and
none knew this better than he did.
Thus engrossed it is hardly surprising that even such a wide-awake bird
as himself should remain ignorant of the fact that he was being
followed. Yet he was, and that from the time he had started from the
wood-cutting camp. Half a dozen lithe, wiry Zulus--all young men--were
on his track, moving with cat-like silence and readiness. They were not
armed, save with sticks, and these not even the short-handled,
formidable knob-kerrie; but their errand to the white man was of
unmistakable import; and fell withal--to the white man.
Suddenly the latter became aware of their presence, and turned. They
were upon him; like hounds upon a quarry. But Bully Rawson, though
unarmed, and the while cursing his folly at being found in that helpless
state, was no easy victim. He shot out his enormous fist with the power
of a battering-ram, and landing the foremost fair on the jaw, then and
there dropped him. The second fared no better. But, with the cat-like
agility of their race, the others, springing around him on all sides at
once--here, there, everywhere--kept outside the range of that terrible
fist, until able to get in a telling blow. This was done--and the
powerful ruffian dropped in his turn, more than half-stunned, the blood
pouring from a wound in the temple. Did that satisfy them? Not a bit
of it. They then and there set to work and belaboured his prostrate
form with their sticks, uttering a strident hiss with each resounding
thud. In short, they very nearly and literally beat him to a jelly--a
chastisement, indeed, which would probably have spelt death to the
ordinary man, and was destined to leave this one in a very sore state
for some time to come. Then, helping up their injured comrades, they
departed, leaving their victim to get himself round as best he could, or
not at all.
You will ask what was the motive for this savage act of retribution.
Some outrage on his part committed upon one of their womenkind? Or,
these were relatives of his own wives who had chosen to avenge his
ill-treatment of them? Neither.
In this instance Bully Rawson was destined to suffer for an offence of
which he was wholly innocent; to wit, the bursting of a gun which he had
traded to a petty chief who hailed from a distant part of the country--
for he did a bit of gun-running when opportunity offered. But the old
fool had rammed in a double charge--result--his arm blown off; and these
six were his sons resolved upon revenge. They dared not kill him--he
was necessary to far too powerful a chief for that--though they would
otherwise cheerfully have done so; wherefore they had brought with them
no deadly weapons, lest they should be carried away, and effectually
finish him off. Wherein lay one of life's little ironies. For his many
acts of villainy Bully Rawson was destined to escape. For one casualty
for which he was in no sense of the word responsible, he got hammered
within an inch of his life.
It must not be taken for granted that this ruffian was a fair specimen
or sample of the Zulu trader or up-country going man in general, for
such was by no means the case. But, on the principle of "black sheep in
every flock," it may be stated at once that in this particular flock
Bully Rawson was about the blackest of the black.