Chapter Twenty Three.
Of the Hostile Usutus
Wyvern had no difficulty in making his way up to the spot whence the shot had been fired, and arriving there an unexpected sight met his eyes. There, sure enough, was Mtezani, and in his hand he held a big, wicked-looking assegai, upraised and in striking attitude, while beneath him, face to the earth, he seated astride upon it, lay the body of a man, another native. Beside them both lay a rifle.
“Lie still, dog,” warned the young Zulu. “Lie still, and move not, else my broad blade shall pin thee to the earth. Nkose! Here is he who would have shot you. Look at him.”
Wyvern did so, and could not but feel some astonishment, for he recognised in his would-be murderer the boy whom Bully Rawson had so mercilessly thrashed on the first occasion of his visiting that worthy’s kraal, Pakisa.
“Here he is,” went on the chief’s son. “I was behind him when he fired the shot, but just too late to prevent him. But he got no chance of another. Whau!” and his glance rested meaningly on a heavy, short-handled knob-stick which lay on the ground beside them, and at the head of his prisoner, from which blood was trickling. “I am going to kill him now, Nkose, but first he will tell us why he shot at you. Now dog, why was it?” emphasising the question by a sharp dig in the back with the assegai he held.
The wretched Pakisa, beside himself with fear, stammered forth that it was an accident; that he had taken the Inkosi for a buck, and had fired at him.
“That for the first lie,” said Mtezani, emphasising the remark with another dig, which made the prostrate one squirm and moan. “Answer, or I cut thee to pieces, strip by strip. Now – why was it?”
“He said I must.”
“Ha! Inxele?”
“Eh-hé, Inxele. He promised to shoot me if I failed, and now he will.”
“He will not. Go on,” said Wyvern. “Why were you to shoot me?”
“I cannot tell, Nkose. Except – yes, I heard him say, when he had taken too much tywala, that you must go – that you must be taken care of – yes that was how he put it, but I knew what he meant. He gave me this gun – I often go out and shoot game for him, Nkose– and told me to go and watch for you. If I did not take care of you, and that soon, he would come after me, and shoot me, wherever I might be. And he would have done it. I know Inxele, Nkose, if you do not.”
“And the other Inkosi, U’ Joe – were you to have ‘taken care’ of him too?” said Wyvern.
“Nothing did he say about that, Nkose,” was the answer. “It was you – only you.”
Wyvern pondered. What sort of vindictive fiend could this be, he thought, who could deliberately and in cold blood order his assassination merely because he had disapproved of his brutal and barbarous ways? Then the incidents of the falling tree and the spring-gun recurred to him. That these were no accidents he had long since determined, and now here was a fresh attempt; but that Rawson had some powerful motive for removing him out of existence over and above that of sheer vindictiveness, of course never came into his mind.
“How long have you been watching for an opportunity to ‘take care of me’?” he asked, but his Zulu was defective, and it was not at once that he could compass the answer.
“Since you have been at your present outspan, Nkose. He said he would shoot me, and he meant it.”
“And you, Mtezani,” said Wyvern, turning to the latter. “Said I not that you must not leave U’ Joe, or the camp until my return? Why then are you here?”
“Nkose! I have smelt this dog prowling about for two days following you. That is why I am here.”
Wyvern could hardly find further fault, so he only said:
“Let him up.”
“Nkose! I will let him up – I —Ijjí!”
The last came out in a strident ferocious gasp, as its utterer drove the broad blade of his assegai down between the shoulders of his helpless captive. The limbs contracted convulsively, and the slayer, maddened by a sudden access of ferocity, drove in his spear-head again and again.
“That dog will yelp no more,” he growled, rising erect.
Wyvern felt absolutely sick.
“What have you done, Mtezani?” he said, sternly. “You have killed an utterly defenceless man. That is not the act of a warrior but of a coward.”
The young Zulu looked more than sulky.
“That was not a man but a dog,” he said. “And he would have taken your life, Nkose.”
This was undeniable. Wyvern felt he could hardly quarrel with a man who had just saved his life; further he recognised that one of those irresistible impulses to shed blood common to most savages had come upon Mtezani. Moreover the thing was done, and no amount of objection on his part could undo it. So he rejoined:
“And you have saved it, Mtezani. Good. I will not forget.”
“Nkose is my father and saved mine,” was the reply. “Now we are a life for a life.”
The speaker had quite regained his good-humour. The paroxysm of savagery had passed, and his pleasant, intelligent face was as usual.
“Whau ’Nkose! What is one dog more or less?” he went on, with a careless laugh. “And – that one knew too much.”
“Knew too much?”
“Eh-hé! He was sent by Inxele to find out what you were here for, and to-day he knew. Now he knows no more.”
Wyvern stopped short and fixed his eyes on the other’s face.
“And you, Mtezani? Do you know?”
“Ou!” bringing a hand to his mouth. “Even that might be, Nkose. But others will not.”
Wyvern eyed him curiously, then led the way back to the camp.
“We shall have to reckon with Inxele about this, Mtezani,” he said. “You have killed his ‘dog.’”
“Hau! and I would kill the dog’s master,” and the savagery blazed up again. “I am a son of Majendwa, Nkose, and a son of Majendwa fears nobody, let alone a white ishinga (a worthless person) such as Inxele Whau, ’Nxele! Xi!”
The contempt expressed was so complete that Wyvern burst out laughing.
“White people like you and U’ Joe, Nkose,” went on the Zulu, “that is one thing, but such as Inxele, that is another! They say you have no king, you Amangisi (English), only a woman for king. If you had a king surely Inxele would have been long since dead.”
Wyvern laughed again at this way of putting things. It was naïve, to say the least of it.
Joe Fleetwood lay restless under several blankets when they reached the camp. The day was blazing hot, but the chills of the dread up-country fever held him in their grip.
“Buck up, old man,” said Wyvern gaily. “I’ve struck it at last.”
“So? Quite cert?” asked the other listlessly.
“Rather. Look at this,” showing the opal. And then he told him all about the finding of it. Fleetwood’s listlessness vanished.
“By Jove, we’re on the spot at last,” he said. “It’s awkward though, Wyvern, that sweep Bully being on our spoor like this. Looks as if he’d got some wind of our plan.”
“Yet that wretched devil that shot at me gave me to understand that it was only me he wanted out of the way. I own I’m stumped. Surely even such a brute as that wouldn’t persistently have a fellow murdered simply because he didn’t like him.”
“Not, eh? It’s plain you don’t know Bully Rawson.”
“Well, at any rate, it’s a relief to know he hasn’t scented our job,” said Wyvern. “Send the other boys out of reach on some sham errand, Joe, and let’s get Hlabulana here and talk things over.”
This was done. With perfect imperturbability the Zulu pronounced that Wyvern had hit upon the spot. When asked why he had allowed them to spend days and weeks in useless search when he could have cut it short by a word he answered:
“You white people cannot hide your minds, Amakosi, and the eyes and ears of Inxele have been ever present I was waiting until there was no more Inxele.”
“Until?” repeated Fleetwood.
“Until there is no more Inxele. Soon there will be no more Inxele.”
“By Jove, there’s no mistaking that for a hint,” said Wyvern in English. “There must be mischief brewing against our exemplary friend. Oughtn’t we to warn him?”
“Not much. Bully Rawson’s big enough and quite ugly enough to take care of himself. Nor does he deserve anything of the kind after his little tricks,” answered Fleetwood decisively. “Besides, it’s him or us, and you know what we’ve come up here for, Wyvern. I’m afraid you’ll never be practical, and it’s time you learnt to be by now. I’ve never shirked helping a friend in a row, but I’m not going out of my way to stick my head into a hornet’s nest for such an unhung blackguard as this.”
“Hallo! What the deuce is up!” exclaimed Wyvern as the furious gallop of a horse drew near. Nor was the mystery long in solving, for there dashed right into the camp, and at headlong pace, no less a personage than he whom they had just been discussing. Moreover he was bleeding from a wound in the hand, and another in the head.
“Chaps,” he roared, flinging himself unsteadily from the saddle. “Get out the shooters mighty quick. The Usutus have looted my kraal, and are coming on, hot foot, behind me. They’ll be here in a sec.”
Fleetwood and Wyvern looked at each other, and both thought the same. Instead of putting their heads into a hornets’ nest for this ruffian, he had brought the hornets’ nest about them.
“Oh, ah, but it can’t be helped,” he jeered, reading their thoughts. “We’re all in this together. You’re white men and you can’t refuse to stand by another white man. So get out the shooters, and we’ll give ’em hell directly.”
Our friends’ camp consisted of a strong scherm, made of thorn boughs tightly interlaced. Within this stood the two waggons, and at nightfall the horses and oxen were brought inside, a necessary precaution, for the bushy and broken fastnesses of the Lebombo range still contained a few lions. Now, even as they were getting out arms and ammunition, the boys who were outside came running in in alarm. Hlabulana, seated on the ground, was taking snuff with his usual imperturbability. Mtezani stood, equally imperturbable except that he gripped his shield and broad assegais in such wise as to suggest that he was ready for as much fight as anybody chose to put up for him.
There was not long to wait. The scherm was erected in an open space, and now from the lines of cover, swarms of Zulus were issuing. The full-sized war-shields and certain personal adornments left no doubt as to their errand being the reverse of a peaceful one, as they poured forward ringing in the scherm on every side. And, swift with thought there flashed through Wyvern’s brain the knowledge that they two had attained the object of their search just too late. What could three men do against this swarming number, with no cover but a bush fence, and as for aid from without why there was no such thing possible!
Fleetwood, standing on a waggon box, raised his voice to try and obtain a parley, but even while he was doing so, a shot rang out, then another and another, and with them he realised that the time for parleying had gone by. For Bully Rawson, judging it best to take the bull by the horns, had jumped to the side of the scherm and was pumping the contents of a Winchester repeating rifle into the thickest of the on-rushing mass. Several were seen to fall, and now with an awful roar of rage, the whole body hurled itself upon the barricade like a wave upon a rock.
“Don’t fire a shot, Wyvern,” whispered Fleetwood hurriedly. “We can’t possibly stop them, and it may be our only chance.”
What happened next Wyvern for one could hardly have told. The whole inside of the scherm was alive with waving shields and savage forms, and glinting blades. Rawson had gone down under a knob-kerrie deftly hurled, but he and Fleetwood still kept their position upon the waggon box, their undischarged weapons in their hands. They saw their native servants ruthlessly speared, all save a couple who had managed to hide beneath the waggon sail, and death was but a question of moments. Should they die fighting or elect to stake all on their only chance?
The while, Hlabulana sat calmly taking snuff.
Chapter Twenty Four.
“The Hornets’ Nest.”
The two men sat there side by side, expecting death.
The crowd of roaring, mouthing, excited savages that ringed them in, was increasing from without, and still the sea of waving spear-blades refrained from overwhelming them. The ruffian who had brought this upon them they could not see for the crush.
“Ho, Muntisi! Ho, Laliswayo!” called out Fleetwood in stentorian tones, recognising two men whom he knew.
These, who had only just come up and were pushing a way through the crowd, which parted for them as well as it could, recognised the speaker.
“What is the meaning of it?” cried the latter. “You Laliswayo, who are a chief – what does this mean? There is no war.”
“Why as to that, nothing is sure, U’ Joe,” answered the chief. “You, and Kulisani there, must give up your weapons and you can go.”
“And our oxen have all been speared. Can we drag our waggons ourselves?”
“For that I know nothing nor care,” was the answer. “As to the waggons these will lighten them for you.”
A howl of delight went up from the listeners, who had attained to some degree of quietude while the chief was speaking.
“Take your choice,” went on the latter, seeing that they hesitated and were rapidly conferring together. “Look at these,” waving a hand over the expectant crowd, which having already tasted blood was hungry for more. “You may kill one or two, or even three, but you cannot kill all. And then, no swift and easy death will yours be.”
The tone of hostility underlying this frank threat, was not disguised.
“You, Laliswayo, will be the first to die.”
Fleetwood’s tone was sternly determined. He had covered the chief with his rifle.
“Bid these go away,” he went on. “At once, before I count ten, or the son of Malamu shall go in search of his father. You know I never miss.”
The moment was a tense one. A dead hush had fallen upon the crowd, but the chiefs face was as unfathomable as stone. It looked as if cool, resolute courage was going to prevail, when there befel one of those accidents which seem almost to justify a belief in luck, good or bad.
Both men had stood up in front of the waggon box, and now Wyvern, slightly shifting a foot, managed to lose his balance, and fall heavily to the ground. Instinctively trying to save himself he cannoned against Fleetwood, upsetting him too, his rifle going off as he fell – but into the air. Quick as thought their enemies were upon them. Their weapons were snatched from their grasp, and they were held down by the sheer force of many powerful hands, while others fetched reims which hung about the waggon and in a moment they were bound so tightly that they could not move.
The roar of mingled rage and exultation that went up, as they were dragged forth into the open, was indescribable.
“They would have killed the chief! They tried to!” were among the exclamations of threatening fury which arose on all sides. Laliswayo strode forward. He was a middle-aged man, tall and well-proportioned, good-looking too after the clean-run Zulu type, and held himself with all the dignity of his race and position.
“What was my word to you, U’ Joe?” he said, his face coldly dark with resentment. “That yours should be no swift and easy death. And now you have tried to kill me even while we were talking together. Hau!”
The disgust expressed by this last exclamation evoked another wrathful outburst. Through it Fleetwood managed to call out:
“That is not true, son of Malamu. By accident did the gun go off.”
“By accident!” echoed the listeners. “By accident! Whau!” And shouts of jeering laughter went up at this.
“By accident, I repeat,” said Fleetwood, calmly. “See. There must be not a few here who know me. Have such ever found me a liar?”
But for some reason this appeal met with no response. The threatening clamour increased, and amid it there were murmurs of death by fire, or the black ants. The chiefs word had gone forth that no swift and easy death should fall on those who withstood his terms. How could a chief go back on his word? It must stand. Thus they murmured.
Fleetwood glanced at Wyvern to see if he had understood, and he hoped not. But his own heart sank. He knew this Laliswayo, as one of the most prominent and relentless leaders of the Usútu faction, a man bitterly hostile to the whites since the war, and, worst of all, a man who loved popularity. Could he now refuse to accede to the demand of his followers or restrain their barbarous and bloodthirsty aspirations? If not, why – they two had better have blown their own brains out while they could.
Then a diversion occurred.
Mtezani, during the disturbance, had been standing aloof against the further side of the scherm watching events. That he could have been of no use whatever to the sorely harassed pair by coming forward he fully knew, but by keeping in the background until the psychological moment it was just possible he might be. So with the true philosophy of the savage he had kept in the background accordingly.
Now they had discovered him. In the tumult of rushing the scherm he had been overlooked as one of themselves, and now, with the discovery, a clamour arose that he should be killed. He, a Qulusi, the son of a chief ilke Majendwa, to go over to the Sibepu and Hamu faction, and take sides against the King, why death was the least he deserved. Thus they raved, and a ring of spears and infuriated countenances threatened him. But Mtezani sitting on the ground, got out his snuff-horn, and passed it on to Hlabulana as calmly as if they were not there.
Then they jeered at him. He had become the white man’s dog – Sibepu’s dog. He was in with those who were supplying arms and ammunition to be used against them, the side of the nation, the larger side, which was loyal to its King. And, jeering, their mood grew even nastier than when angry. Hau! A traitor was a coward, of course. Who was there among them mean enough to kill such. And they made mock to look around among each other in quest of some one; and their tone, from jeering, became snarling, and Mtezani’s life hung on a hair.
Then Mtezani rose to his feet.
“Where is there one mean enough to kill me?” he repeated, confronting the numbers of those who threatened him. “Whau! Who is there great enough to kill a son of Majendwa? For surely no common man may kill such.” And he threw his shield and weapons on the ground, and stood, looking at the raging and fast thickening crowd with calm contempt.
There was a momentary stirring among the latter. Then someone was pushed forward, a fine young warrior, fully armed. Mtezani’s face lightened and he made a move to pick up his weapons. But it was only a momentary impulse.
“I am Tulaza, the son of Umbelini,” said the chosen champion. “Now I think we have found one great enough to kill a son of Majendwa.”
Mtezani uttered a click of contempt.
“Go home, half Swazi dog,” he said. “Thou art not even of the Amazulu. Umbelini! Whau! Umbelini!”
This was too much. The one thus insulted hurled a heavy knob-kerrie. In the same move of ducking to avoid it. Mtezani picked up his shield and weapons, and then the fight began. None had any doubt as to how it would end – for the many sons of Majendwa were of noted prowess in deeds of arms – and as it progressed, gradually feeling went over to the other side, for, as he had said, Mtezani was one of themselves, and in fact many of his tribe were present, whereas the other was the son of a refugee Swazi who had done konza to Cetywayo, and had helped in the English war. So the flapping of shields together, and the lungeing and parrying and feinting, caused tremendous excitement among the spectators, which rose to a perfect uproar, as Mtezani managed to beat down his adversary’s shield and at the same time deal him a crashing blow on the head which sent him to earth like a felled log.
“It appears,” said the victor, looking around, “that the one who is great enough to kill a son of Majendwa is yet to be found.”
“Eh-hé,” assented Hlabulana, who, the white, had been seated taking snuff, while watching the fight in the capacity of calm, dispassionate critic. A roar of applause endorsed this. The tide had turned. Nobody wanted to kill Mtezani now.
Laliswayo, the while, though he had turned his face towards the scene of the tumult, had not taken the trouble to go over and look into it personally. Now he turned his attention once more to his prisoners.
“You hear what these cry, U’ Joe?” he said, “that my word must stand.”
“Oh but, you are doing a grave thing, son of Malamu,” answered Fleetwood. “You are bringing further ruin upon the nation of Zulu than that which has already befallen it. We are peaceful traders, and there is no war in the land, yet you rush our camp – as if it was Isandhlwana over again – kill our oxen and our servants, and treat us with indignity and even threaten us with death. Do you think our people will allow that to pass unavenged? Whau, Laliswayo! it may mean that such conduct may make the downfall of the Great Great One, the son of Mpande, more complete.”
“Peaceable traders!” echoed the chief, with an evil sneer, for he was striving to lash himself up into rage to cover the secret misgiving which these words caused him. “Peaceable traders, Whau! Such do not join with those like Inxele. You have shot several of our people Is not that making war?”
“We have not. Look at our guns. Except for mine that went off by accident they have not even been fired. You can see for yourself. All the shooting was done by Inxele. Ask him.”
“Yeh-bo! Inxele,” echoed the bystanders. “We will bring him to life again and ask him,” and a rush was made for the spot where Bully Rawson had fallen, stunned and unconscious.
He was no longer there.
Then, indeed, surprise, consternation, was their portion. Why he had been almost killed – so nearly so indeed that they had not thought it worth the trouble of securing him. When he came to they had intended to put him through a few hours of discomfort in which live ashes would play a prominent part, as a preliminary to abolishing him from Zululand in particular and this terrestrial orb in general, and now he had disappeared. The thing was incredible. It was a thing of tagati.
How could it have been? How could he have slipped through and got clean away? It was true they had forgotten him in the excitement of these other two whites and the fight between Mtezani and Tulazi, but how could he get away unseen? Further, he was nearly killed. Well, he could not have gone far.
With shouts of ferocious anticipation they started to quarter the surroundings in search of him – the scherm had been pulled down from the very first. No – he could not have gone far, and when they did find him, why then a long reckoning would have to be paid for the guns supplied to the enemies of the King.
Like hounds they quartered the ground in every direction. No sign of their quest. Then the bush line was entered. Here they would have him. He could not go far. Oh no. He could not go far.
But whether he could go far or not, certain it was that they failed to find him. They searched and searched, far beyond the distance he could possibly have reached within the time, but all to no purpose. Well there were still two upon whom they could wreak a cruel vengeance, and now, all the savage aroused within them, they turned back, discussing what they should do with these other two when the chief had given them over, as of course he would.