Madula's kraal, in the Sikumbutana, was again in a state of profound
malcontentment and unrest, and again for much the same reason as before.
Then that reason had been the imminent loss of its cattle, now that
loss had become a certainty. The dread scourge had swept over the land,
in all its dire unsparingness, and now Madula and his people were
convened to witness the destruction of their worldly wealth.
For the edict of the ruling power had gone forth. The animals were to
be destroyed, and that wholesale. Segregated into small herds, they
were carefully watched. With the first case of sickness becoming
apparent the whole herd containing it was doomed. And now nearly the
whole of Madula's herds had been declared infected.
The place appointed for this wholesale slaughter was an open plain some
little distance from the kraal. About threescore dead oxen lay where
they had fallen, the nostrils of a few still frothy with the fatal
running which denoted the fell pestilence. John Ames, grounding his
smoking rifle, turned to talk with Inglefield and another white man, the
latter being one of the Government cattle inspectors. Both these
carried rifles, too, and behind them was drawn up a troop of native
police. In a great semicircle Madula's people squatted around, their
countenances heavy with sullen rankling, their hearts bitter and
vengeful. In the mind of the chief the dexterous venom of Shiminya was
taking full effect. The fact of a few cattle being sick was seized upon
by their rulers as a pretext for the destruction of all; and what would
become of the people then? In the minds of the people the predictions
of Umlimo were being fulfilled to the letter. Now, however, they could
afford to wait. Soon there would be no more cattle; soon--very soon--
there would be no more whites.
John Ames, laying down his weapon, addressed the muttering, brooding
savages. It was a most revolting task that which had been put upon him,
he explained; not one that he would have undertaken of his own free
will. To shoot down miserable unresisting animals in cold blood, one
after another, could not be otherwise. It would seem to the people that
to destroy the whole as well as the sick was an act of sheer wanton
tyranny, but they must not look at it in that light. The Government was
their father, and had their interests at heart; and although it was
found necessary to reduce them to seeming poverty for the time being,
yet they would not be losers in the long run. Then, again, they were in
no worse case than the white men themselves, whose cattle was destroyed
in the same way if disease broke out; but, above all, they must be
patient, and bear in mind that by right of conquest all the cattle in
the land belonged to the Government, and what they had was only allowed
them by favour. This disease was a cloud they were all passing through,
white and black alike. It would pass, and the sun would shine forth
again. Let them be patient.
John Ames, in the plenitude of his experience, noted the sullen apathy
wherewith his words were received, yet he attached no greater importance
to it than he reckoned it deserved; he could appreciate the outrage on
their feelings which this wholesale destruction of their most cherished
possessions must involve. Then Madula spoke.
"What Jonemi had told them must be true, since Jonemi said it. But what
the people could not understand was why Government should have restored
them their cattle, if only to destroy it all before their eyes; should
give it back with one hand to take it away with the other. That did not
seem like the fatherly act of a fatherly Government. Nor could they
understand why the beasts that were not sick should be shot just the
same as those that were. Let them be spared until the signs of sickness
showed, then shoot them. Those signs might never show themselves." And
more to the same effect.
With infinite patience John Ames laid himself out to explain, for the
twentieth time, all he had said before. It was like reasoning with a
wall. "Let the people only have patience," he concluded. "Let the
people have patience."
"M--m!" hummed his auditors, assenting. "Let the people have patience."
But there was a significance in their tone which was lost on him then,
though afterwards he was destined to grasp it.
"It's a disgusting business all this butchery," he observed, as he and
the other two white men were riding homeward together. "I don't wonder
the people are exasperated. As Madula says, they'll never understand
how the Government can give them back the cattle with one hand only to
take it all away with the other."
"It strikes me that Mr Madula says a great deal too much," said
Inglefield, dropping the bridle on his horse's neck, while shielding a
match with both hands so as to light his pipe. "A little experience of
the inside of Bulawayo gaol would do him all the good in the world, in
my opinion."
"You can't work these people that way, Inglefield, as I'm always telling
you," rejoined John Ames. "You've got to remember that a man like
Madula wants some humouring. He was a bigwig here before either you or
I held our commissions in this country, possibly before we had,
practically, ever heard of it. Now, for my part, I always try and bear
that in mind when dealing with the old-time indunas, and I'm confident
it pays."
"Oh, you go on the coddling plan," was the thoughtless retort. "For my
part--well--a nigger's a nigger, whether he's an induna or whether he
isn't, and he ought to be taught to respect white men. I wouldn't make
any difference whatever he was. An induna! Faugh! A dirty snuffy
nigger with a greasy black curtain ring stuck on top of his head. Pooh!
Fancy treating such a brute as that with respect!"
"All right, Inglefield. I don't in the least agree with you. Perhaps
when you've had a little experience you may be in a position to form an
opinion as to which of our lines is the most workable one."
"Oh, draw it mild, Ames," retorted the police officer, ill-humouredly.
"It doesn't follow that because a fellow can patter by the hour to a lot
of niggers that he knows everything. I say, old chap, why don't you
chip in for some of old Madula's daughters--marry 'em, don't you know?
He has some spanking fine ones, anyway."
The tone was ill-tempered and sneering to the last degree. Inglefield
could be bumptious and quarrelsome at times, but he had a poor life of
it, with a detestable wife, and an appointment of no great emolument,
nor holding out any particular prospect of advancement. All of which
bearing in mind, John Ames controlled his not unnatural resentment, and
answered equably:--
"Because I hope to make a better thing of life, Inglefield. But that
sort of thing is rather apt to stick to a man, and crop up just when
least convenient. I'm no prig or puritan, so putting it on that ground
alone, it's better not touched."
"Oh, all right, old chap; only don't be so beastly satirical. I can't
help grousing like the devil at times when I think how I'm stuck away
here in this infernal God-forsaken hole. Wish I could fall into a bunk
at Bulawayo or Salisbury or anywhere. Even Crosse here has a better
time of it going around sniffing out rinderpest."
"Don't know about that," said the cattle inspector. "I'll swap you
bunks, anyway, Inglefield."
"Wish we could, that's all," replied the police officer, who was in a
decidedly "grousy" vein, as he owned himself, half petulantly, half
laughingly, when presently the conical huts of Sikumbutana hove in sight
over the brow of the rise. "Well, now, Ames, you'll roll up to `skoff'
at seven, won't you, unless you'll change your mind and come in now?"
"I'll roll up all right. But not now, I've got some work on hand, and
it's early yet."
"Very well. Seven, then. Don't go sending over some tinpot excuse, you
unreliable beggar."
"No; I'll be there. So long. So long, Crosse." And he turned his
horse's head into the track that led to his own compound. "Rum chap
that fellow Ames," said Inglefield, when he and the cattle inspector
were alone together. "He's a rattling good chap at bottom, and we are
really great pals, but we fight like the devil whenever we have to do
with each other officially."
"How's that?" said Crosse, a quiet, self-contained man, with a large
sandy beard and steady, reliable eyes.
"Oh, I don't know. He's so beastly officious--he calls it
conscientious. Always prating about `conscientious discharge of his
duties'--`can't conscientiously do it'--and so on. You know. Now, only
the other day--or, rather, just before he went on leave--he must needs
get my pet sergeant reduced--a fellow worth his weight in gold to me as
a hunter. Now, of course, the chap has turned sulky, and swears he's no
good--can't tell where game is or is likely to be, or anything."
"So. How did he get him reduced?"
"Oh, some rotten bother with that old nigger who was out to-day, Madula.
Nanzicele--Oh, blazes! I can't manage these infernal clicks."
"Never mind; you'll learn some day," said Crosse. "Well, what did
Nanzicele do?"
"Nothing. That's the point of the whole joke. He was sent to collar
some cattle from Madula, and he--didn't collar it."
"And is that why he was reduced?"
"No fear. It was for _trying_ to collar it. The niggers came in and
complained to Ames, and Ames insisted on an inquiry. He took two mortal
days over it, too; a rotten trumpery affair that ought to have been let
rip. Then a lot of darn red tape, and my sergeant was reduced. No;
Ames always pampers the niggers, and some day he'll find out his
mistake. If they come around--especially these indunas--he talks to
them as if they were somebody. _I'd_ sjambok them out of the compound."
Crosse, listening, was chuckling to himself, for he knew whose judgment
was likely to be the soundest, that of the speaker or that of Ames.
Then he said:--
"And this Nanzicele--is he that big tall Kafir who was nearest us, on
the outside of the line, during the cattle-shooting?"
"Yes; that's the chap. By George! he's a splendid chap, as plucky as
the very devil. Many a time I've had him out with me, and he'd go
through anything. He was with me once when I missed a charging lion out
beyond Inyati. _He_ didn't miss him, though--not much. I'd trust my
life to that fellow any day in the week."
"Trust your life to him, would you?"
"Yes. Rather."
"M--m!"
"Yes, I would. You don't know the chap, Crosse. I do. See?"
"'M--yes."
The while, John Ames, having turned his horse over to his boy, entered
his office. There was not much to do that day, as it happened, so after
spending half an hour looking over some papers, he locked up for the
day, and adjourned to the hut which served him for sitting and dining
room combined, in which we have already seen him.
He threw himself into a chair and lighted a pipe. There was an absent,
thoughtful look in his eyes, which had been there ever since he found
himself alone; wherefore it is hardly surprising that in lieu of seeking
solace in literature, he should have sat, to all outward appearances,
doing nothing. In reality, he was thinking--thinking hard and deeply.
A month had gone by since his unexpected and most unwelcome recall; but
unwelcome as it had been, he could not quarrel with it on the ground of
its superfluity. Times had been lively since his return--more than
lively--but not in an exhilarating sense. The rinderpest had taken firm
root in the land, and was in a fair way of clearing it of horned cattle
from end to end. Not at domestic cattle did it stay its ravages either.
The wild game went down before its fell breath; every variety of
stately and beautiful antelope, formerly preserved with judicious care
beneath the rule of the barbarian king, underwent decimation. But it
was in the mowing down of the cattle that the serious side of the
scourge came, because, apart from the actual loss to the white settlers,
the enforced destruction of the native stock rendered the savages both
desperate and dangerous. Already rumours of rising were in the air.
The sullen, brooding demeanour exhibited by Madula's people was but a
sample of the whole.
To the perilous side of the position, as regarded himself individually,
John Ames was not blind. He was far too experienced for that. And his
position was full of peril. Apart from a rising, he was marked out as
the actual agent in executing the most hateful law ever forced upon a
conquered people. His was the hand by which actually perished its
animal wealth. Every bullock or heifer shot down sent a pang of fierce
vindictiveness through more than one savage heart. In blind, barbaric
reasoning, what more plausible than that to destroy the instrument would
be to render inoperative the cause which set that instrument in motion?
A blow from behind, a sudden stab, in the desperate impulse of the
moment--what more likely?
Not of peril, present or potential, however, was he thinking, as he sat
there alone, but of the change, absorbing and entire, which had come
over his life since returning from his all too brief furlough. He had
left, cool, well-balanced, even-minded; he had returned, so far as his
inner moments were concerned, in a trance, a state of absorption. It
was wonderful. He hardly recognised himself. But what a new glad
sunshine was now irradiating his lonely life. The recollection! Why,
he could sit for hours going over it all again. Not again only, but
again and again. Everything, from the first accidental meeting to that
last bright and golden day by an enchanted sea--to the last farewell.
Every word, every tone was recalled and weighed. Ah, he had not known
what it was to live before! He had grovelled like a blind grub in the
dust and darkness--now he was soaring in arrowy gleams upon wings of
light. But--no words had been uttered, no promises exchanged. What
matter? If at times of physical depression he felt misgivings he put
them from him.
True to her promise, Nidia had written--once--and with that letter he
had had no cause to find fault. She had even sent him a dainty little
portrait of herself, the only one she had, she explained; but where that
was habitually kept we decline to say, "We shall meet again," she had
declared. Yet if that utterance were to be unfulfilled, if indeed this
dream were to fade, to go the way of too many such dreams, and to end in
a drear awakening, even then was it not something to have lived in the
dream, to have looked upon life as so new and golden and altogether
priceless? With such considerations would he comfort himself in moments
of depression.
"We shall meet again."
Often he would picture to himself that meeting. There would be others
present most probably, but she, in his sight, would be alone. She would
be surrounded by adorers, of course, but as her eyes met his she would
know there was in reality but one. In all the adjuncts to her serene
loveliness which taste and daintiness could surround her with, she would
stand before him. Such would be their meeting, and upon it he dwelt;
and to it his imagination reached through space, as to the culminating
ecstasy of the goal of a life attained.
From such soarings, however, comes a descent, as abrupt as it is
profound, in this hard work-a-day world. John Ames sat bolt upright
with a start of dismay, for the clock opposite told its own tale. His
musings had carried him over some hours. It was nearly dark, and he was
due--almost overdue--at Inglefield's.