"That man's late again. He always is. Tom, don't ever ask him again.
He seems to treat me with studied rudeness."
Thus Mrs Inglefield, consulting her watch. She was an acid looking
person, who might once have been passable in aspect. Now the deepening
of her habitual frown was far from prepossessing.
"It's only on the stroke of seven," said Inglefield, shortly. "Give him
a little law, Annie. He'll be here directly. Perhaps some nigger
turned up at the last moment on particular business."
The suggestion was like throwing paraffin upon flames.
"That makes it worse," exploded the lady. "To keep me--to keep us--
waiting to suit the convenience of a few filthy blacks--"
"Well, give the chap a show," snapped Inglefield, not in the best of
humours himself. The while, Crosse, the cattle inspector, sat
profoundly pitying Inglefield, thinking, too, that the defaulter, when
he did come, was not going to enjoy his dinner overmuch.
"Hope I'm not late," said a voice in the doorway.
"Not a bit, Ames; at least, only two minutes, and that doesn't count,"
cried Inglefield, cordially, feeling very much "in opposition."
"Roll up, man, and have an appetiser, Crosse, you'll cut in?"
John Ames, ignoring the coldness of his hostess' greeting, noticed that
fully a quarter of an hour went by before they sat down to table. When
they did sit down the interior of the hut looked snug enough. The
bright lamp shed a cheerful glow upon the white napery and silver forks;
and pictures and knick-knacks upon the walls and about the room--or
rather, the hut, for such it was--rendered the place pleasant and
homelike, suggestive of anything but the wilds of savage Matabeleland.
Any remark, however, which he addressed to his hostess was met by a curt
monosyllable, she turning immediately to converse with Crosse, affably
voluble. It mattered nothing. He had only consented to come upon
Inglefield's urgent and repeated invitation, having experienced that
sample of behaviour before.
"What sort of a time did you have down in Cape Town, Ames?" said Crosse
presently, when he could conversationally break away.
"Rather a good one. It was a great nuisance having to come back."
"Mr Coates was such a nice man," interpolated Mrs Inglefield, with
meaning, referring to John Ames's _locum tenens_. "We used to see a
great deal of him."
"Find any nice girls down there, eh, Ames?" said Inglefield, slily,
fully alive to the unveiled rudeness of his spouse.
"Oh yes--several."
"And one in particular, eh?" went on the other, waggishly, drawing a bow
at a venture; for John Ames was not one to wear his heart upon his
sleeve or to embark in chatter upon the subject nearest and dearest to
that organ.
"_Nice_ girls! I didn't know there were any nowadays," snapped Mrs
Inglefield. "A pack of bicycling, cigarette-smoking, forward tomboys!"
"Oh, come, Mrs Inglefield," laughed Crosse, "you mustn't be so down on
them. They're only up to date, you know."
"Up to date! Then, thank Heaven I'm not up to date; I'm only
old-fashioned," she retorted.
"I'd be sorry to wear the boots of the chip who told you so, Annie,"
pronounced Inglefield. "Besides, you're romping hard over Ames's
feelings; at least, I surmise you are. He's too close a bird to give
the show away. _But_--as poor old Corney Grain used to say."
"Oh, I always say what I mean," she answered, with an air which plainly
added: "if people don't like it so much the worse for the people." And
John Ames was thinking that never again, under any circumstances
whatever, would he sit at the table of this abominably ill-bred and
offensive woman. He was right. He never would; but for a reason that
it was as well he--and all of them seated there--did not so much as
dream.
Then, partly that subject-matter for conversation is, to isolated
dwellers in a remote wilderness, necessarily limited, partly because he
deemed it a safe topic, Inglefield led the talk round to the day's
doings--the destruction of Madula's cattle.
"It's an infernally wasteful way of getting rid of them," he said. "I
dare say you've blazed away nearer a thousand cartridges than a hundred,
eh, Ames?"
"Quite that. As you say, it is an abominable waste, and if ever the
time comes when we shall sorely need every one of those cartridges for
our own defence--"
"Oh, now you're croaking again, old chap," interrupted Inglefield; while
his spouse remarked--
"Faugh! I'd as soon be a slaughter-house butcher at once. Sooner."
"Somebody must do it, you know, Mrs Inglefield," replied John Ames,
placidly. "If the job were turned over to natives they'd waste five
times the number of cartridges, and the poor beasts would suffer all the
more."
"Suppose we change this very unpleasant subject," she remarked, looking
pointedly at him, quite ignoring the fact that it had been started by
her husband, and she it was who had done the most towards keeping it
going.
"Policeman he want to see Inkose."
The interruption proceeded from one of the two small boys who acted as
waiters, and who had just entered.
"Tell him to wait until I've done dinner, Piccanin," replied Inglefield,
placidly.
"It may be something important," hazarded John Ames.
"Oh, it'll keep till after dinner," was the airy rejoinder. "Er--which
policeman is it, Piccanin?"
"Big policeman, 'Nkose; him name Nanzicele. Him come up from barracks
now."
The men's quarters--which, by the way, were not barracks but native
huts--lay about three hundred yards below those occupied by their
officer.
"Then tell `him' to go back to them again, and wait until I've done
dinner," replied Inglefield, briskly; for he was of an obstinate turn,
besides instinctively resenting anything like interference on the part
of his brother official.
The small boy retired, and for a moment voices were heard outside. Then
there entered--Nanzicele.
"Great Caesar!" cried Inglefield, reddening. "What the devil do you
mean, sir, by disobeying orders? Go back to the barracks at once!
Here, _Puma! Hambasuka_! Footsack!"
But ignoring the pointing finger of his irate superior, Nanzicele took
one step to the side--leaving the door clear--and, standing at
attention, ejaculated in loud and sonorous tones--
"_Baba--'Nkose_!"
Was it a signal? Crosse, who was seated opposite the door, lurched
forward, falling with his face on the table, simultaneously with the
crash of two shots fired from outside. John Ames, pinned to his chair
by a grip as powerful as steel, was impotent to do more than
ineffectually struggle. Half a dozen stalwart savages rushed into the
hut, and, dividing their forces, four of them threw themselves upon
Inglefield, the remaining two turning their attention to the latter's
wife. It was all done in a moment. The suddenness of it, the total,
utter unpreparedness of those who, but two seconds ago, had been
unsuspectingly dining, left not the smallest chance of resistance.
Inglefield, starting up, instinctively to seize the carving-knife, was
stabbed again and again with sword-bayonets before he could raise a
hand, and fell to the floor. The wretched woman, too petrified with the
suddenness and terror of it all even to shriek, was promptly despatched;
one savage drawing his weapon across her throat with a slash that nearly
severed the head. It was all over in a moment. Yet one victim
remained:
John Ames, now bound fast to his chair with straps, felt himself grow
dizzy and sick with the horror of this appalling butchery. Blood
dripped to the floor, then splashed in bright red drops on the garments
of the murderers. And those garments were the uniform of the Native
Police.
All seemed to heave in misty dimness before his eyes. In a moment he
would faint. Then, with a vast effort of will, he recovered himself.
Why had _he_ been spared? In a moment the whole situation flashed
through his brain. This was the beginning of a general rising. The
Native Police had no grudge against their officers, let alone against
Inglefield, who was, if anything, too easy-going. If _they_ were in
open revolt, then the rising was general, even as he and one or two
others had feared might one day be the case. The fiercely sullen
demeanour of Madula and his people at the destruction of their cattle
now assumed an aspect of deadly significance. The destruction of their
cattle! Ah, there was the last straw! But--why had he been spared?
Then amid this scene of horror hope came uppermost. His administration
had always been signalled by strict and impartial justice to the
natives, even when white interests were concerned--a line, be it
whispered, not invariably the rule in those days, when the policy known
as "supporting the white man against the black" at any cost, was deemed
wise and necessary. He was known to several of the chiefs, and by
chiefs and people alike respected. It might well be that he was marked
out for exemption from a general massacre.
But now a voice, lifted up, seemed to shatter to fragments any such
hopes--a great jeering voice, vengeful, triumphant, menacing. It was
the voice of Nanzicele, addressing him in voluble Sindabele.
"Ho, Jonemi! Where are you now? And these? `Let the people have
patience. Let the people have patience,' Your words, Jonemi. Great
words, Jonemi! Well, the people have had patience, and now their day is
come. By this time to-morrow all the whites in the land will be dead."
"Will be dead," echoed those around, with an emphatic hum.
"Why have you--have you all done this thing, Nanzicele?" said John Ames,
striving to repress the shudder of loathing and disgust which shook his
voice. "Have you not been treated well--treated with every
consideration and justice by your officer? And yet--"
"Justice!" growled the savage. "Justice! Now nay, Jonemi; now nay. I
was a chief in the Amapolise, now I am a common man again. Who made me
so? Not this"--pushing with his foot the bleeding corpse of Inglefield.
"But for thy counsels he would not have brought me down. It was thou,
Jonemi--thou. Now shall thy blood pour over my hand."
Nanzicele all this while had been working himself up to a state of fury,
as he talked into the face of his helpless prisoner, or victim, the
others standing around emphatically applauding. Now he seized a poultry
knife from the table, and, jerking back John Ames' head, held the edge
against his throat.
It was a horrible moment, that expectation of an agonising death, and an
ignominious one to boot--one of those moments which could concentrate a
lifetime of horror. The helpless man could do nothing. Every second he
thought to feel the keen blade slashing through vein and muscle, carotid
and windpipe. But the barbarian seemed in no hurry. He threw down the
knife again.
"I have a better way with thee than that, Jonemi. When we have finished
we will burn down this hut, leaving thee here. Ah--ah!" Then he turned
his attention to the table, where the other murderers were promptly
demolishing the remnants of the feast.
But for the tragedy just perpetrated the sight would have been comic.
Two had got hold of a roast fowl and were quarrelling over it like a
couple of dogs over a bone. A third had cut a huge chunk out of a leg
of sable antelope, and having plastered it thickly with mustard, was
devouring it in great bites, the tears streaming down his face the
while. Pepper, too, had discomfited another; and yet another, trying to
use it, had driven a fork nearly through his cheek, all talking and
spluttering the while. Yet all were foul with the blood which had just
been shed; even the white cloth was splashed and smeared with it. Among
them John Ames recognised his own body-servant, Pukele. The latter had
taken no active part in the murders, having, with two other men, come in
later. Still, there he was among them, the man whose faithfulness, to
himself at any rate, he had always deemed beyond suspicion; the man with
whom he would have entrusted his life, even as poor Inglefield had said
but an hour or two ago with regard to Nanzicele. Yet that fiend had
been the first to murder him in cold blood. In truth, one could trust
nobody. Little, therefore, was he surprised now when Pukele, turning to
him, joined the others in abusing and threatening him.
A bottle of whisky, half emptied, stood on the table, and another,
unopened, on the sideboard, together with two of "squareface." Most of
those present understood the corkscrew of civilisation, and in a few
moments were choking and gasping with the effects of their fiery
libations. As this unwonted indulgence began to take effect, the uproar
created by the murderous crew became simply indescribable. Plates and
dishes were smashed, glasses thrown at each other, and one of the
bottles with its precious contents was smashed. And foremost of all,
amid the madness of the riot, was Pukele--the quiet Pukele, the faithful
Pukele.
Already two of the murderers had rolled under the table dead drunk,
falling upon and clutching the gashed bodies of their victims. Others,
snatching up knives from the table, with reeling step and blood-lust in
their drunken faces, staggered towards their victim. But between the
latter and them, somehow, was always interposed the form of the faithful
Pukele, of the riotous Pukele, of the treacherous, murdering Pukele.
To John Ames it seemed that death's bitterness should already be past,
for whatever the method of it, death itself was sure. He knew he would
never leave that hut alive, and could almost have prayed that all were
over. Then his thoughts reverted to Nidia Commerell. How thankful he
was that she was in safety twelve hundred miles away. Would she feel
more than a transient sorrow or regret when she heard of his end? He
would have died at his post anyhow. And then he recalled the words of
flattering approval she had more than once uttered when expressing an
interest in his career. And that last long golden day they had passed
together. Well, even at this terrible moment he felt thankful he had
lived to go through that experience. But--what was this?
The strap which bound his right arm to that of the chair had snapped.
Snapped? No; it had been cut. The large form of Pukele stood in front
of him, was standing with his hands behind his back, and one of those
hands held a sword-bayonet such as was used by the Native Police, its
haft _towards_ John Ames. Now he saw who had cut the strap.
He reached forth cautiously, and gently withdrew the weapon from
Pukele's grasp; then, having cut the strap confining his other arm, bent
down, and in a moment his legs were free. Pukele the while was
discoursing volubly with the other Police rebels, fanning a heated
discussion and egging them on to drink. But ever between them and the
prisoner he stood. A horrible sight they presented, their once smart
uniforms filthy with blood and grease, their faces lolling with
intoxicated imbecility, their speech thick and their legs tottering.
But the treacherous Pukele, the riotous, drunken, abusive Pukele, now
seemed, strange to say, as sober as the proverbial judge. He stood
firm, unless perhaps a gradual swaying of his body to the left were
perceptible; and the door of the hut was behind him--a little to the
left.
John Ames, between him and the door aforesaid, watched every move. The
savage roysterers were becoming alternately more and more riotous and
maudlin. Then the faithful Pukele made a movement with his hand behind
him. It was unmistakable. John Ames slid from the chair, and in a
moment was through the door, and round behind the hut just in time to
avoid running right into the arms of a new--and sober--body of the now
revolted police, who had come up to join in the fun and to loot their
murdered officer's quarters. He had escaped with his life. After all,
there was some fidelity left among these barbarians, he thought, as he
stepped briskly, yet cautiously, through the darkness. He had escaped
with his life, yet here he was, in the heart of a rebel country--every
one of whose white settlers had probably by this time fallen in savage
massacre--without food or means of procuring any, and with no other
weapon than a sword-bayonet. The outlook was far from reassuring.