Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Snake-Doctor
Baffled in their search for Bully Rawson the disappointed savages surged round their two captives like a swarm of devouring ants; and, in fact, it was to the awful, torturing death by this instrumentality that they clamoured the two should be given.
The impi was made up almost entirely of young bloods. There were few head-ringed men among them, and even Laliswayo, though a chief was young for that dignity. His sympathies, too, lay far more with them than with the older and wiser indunas of the nation. In common with young bloods of whatever nationality demoralised by a generality of public disturbance, and collected together under arms by reason of the same, there was a strong element of irresponsible rowdiness among them which is apt to find its outlet in cruelty; and these were savages. Many hands fastened upon the bound and helpless white men, and they were dragged roughly towards one point where the bush line began.
“Ha! The black ants are hungry. The good black ants,” was jeered at them. “Now they shall be fed, fed with white meat Ah-ah – with fresh white meat.”
“But this is how you treat your abatagati,” (Persons condemned for witchcraft) Fleetwood managed to get out. “We are not such. Therefore if we are to die let it be the death of the spear.”
But a howl, wrathful and derisive was the only response. They were not going to be done out of their fun. It would be a novel sight to see how the black ants would appreciate white meat. An appeal to Laliswayo on the part of the victims proved equally fruitless, for the simple reason that the chief had purposely withdrawn into the background of his followers. He did not want to hear any such appeal.
The full horror of the fate in store for them was equally patent to both victims. They would be stripped and bound down upon an ants’ nest, to be literally devoured alive by countless thousands of the swarming insects. It was a mode of torture frequently resorted to by all the native tribes of Southern Africa in former times, but usually only as the penalty of supposed witchcraft, and even then rarely among the Zulus. It spelt hours of indescribable torment and raving madness, before death brought a merciful relief.
“But ye are abatagati,” roared the crowd. “It is through your witchcraft that Inxele has escaped. He was to have fed the ants. He has gone, therefore you must take his place.”
“We are not abatagati. We are men,” urged Fleetwood. “Let us then die fighting. Bring any two of your best fighters against each of us – or three if you will. Then you shall see a far more warrior-like sight.”
Derisive jeers were the only reply to this appeal, and now their tormentors flung them down on the ground. They had found an ants’ nest, and the black, vicious insects, stirred up with a stick, were swarming to and fro, their venomous nippers open and extended. An animated discussion was going on among the savages as to which should be the first victim, and whether he should be hung by the heels to a tree with his face just touching the nest, or fastened down straight across it.
“Are they doing this just to scare us?” said Wyvern, through whose mind the bitterest of thoughts were surging. It was hard to die now just as that which they had sought was within their reach. But what a death! Would Lalanté ever come to hear of it, he wondered and would she, in time, when his memory became dim, console herself? And the bitterness of the idea well-nigh served to blunt the anticipation of the ghastly torture that awaited. But as though to remind him of it some sportive savage, not minding a few bites, grabbed a handful of the stuff of which the nest was made, and incidentally many ants, and dashed the lot into Wyvern’s face. A howl of glee went up as, stung by the venomous bites of the insects, the victim instinctively started, and his powerful convulsive efforts to burst his bonds produced a perfectly exquisite degree of amusement. In fact it suggested a new form of preliminary fun. Handfuls of the ants, and dust, were gathered, and placed within the clothing of the sufferers.
Their position was undignified, ignominious. To both of them this consideration occurred.
“Keep it up, Joe,” said Wyvern, with an effort refraining from wincing under the abominable pain of the stings. “Here we are trussed up like a pair of damned fowls, but we needn’t howl out just yet. Suppose that’ll come later.”
Their fortitude seemed to impress the savages. They stared in wonder, reduced to a temporary silence. Then as the clamour broke out afresh, that it was time to begin on the real horror, an interruption occurred.
At first it took the form of a weird, long-drawn sort of chant, drawing nearer and nearer. The Zulus, whose attention had been concentrated on the two captives now turned it in this direction.
“Whau!” they cried. “It is the Snake-Doctor!”
In silence now they stood, as the sound approached, then divided, giving way to a tall and terrible figure which strode down the lane thus opened. For the limbs and body of this weird being were alive with hissing snakes, whose horrible heads and waving necks started forth from him in every attitude and at every angle, while scarcely anything could be seen of him for the moving, glistening coils but his face. And that face! The fell ferocity of it no description could adequately convey, and to complete its horror it was deeply pitted with small pox.
In awed silence the warriors stood while this dreadful being moved between their ranks. Of them however it took no notice but advanced straight to the two helpless white men. And Wyvern, for all the strain of the peril he was in, was lost in wonder at the sight, for this was the third time he had gazed on this apparition. The first was on the occasion of the slaughter of the sheep, the second in the moonlit wildness of the Third Kloof, and now – here. What did it mean? Could it be that these people had real powers of witchcraft, or, as some believed, held real communication with the demon world? It really began to look as if such might be the case. How had this one escaped what seemed certain death, and not only that but had obtained power over the venomous reptiles, one of which ought by all physical laws to have been his destroyer on that first occasion? Could he have discovered some wonderful remedy known only to the natives, which had not only cured him but had rendered him thenceforward immune from their venom? It might be so; and being so the man might have turned the circumstance to account by setting up as a magician, and so have wandered up here.
“These are mine!” he mouthed, pointing to the luckless pair. “I claim them. Now shall my serpents rejoice.”
A murmur of respectful assent went up at this, of eager assent. This would be a new and original mode of amusement, in fact an improvement on the ants’ nest plan.
“This one first,” said the Snake-Doctor, designating Wyvern, who in obedience to another signal was seized and dragged a little further off to a spot where the ground was quite smooth and open. Those who had thus dragged him withdrew, not without some alacrity, to a respectful distance, to watch the fun.
The Snake-Doctor advanced and drawing forth a long reptile, of the yellow-snake variety, held it by its middle, and, standing over his victim allowed it to make a vicious dart, which just stopped short of the latter’s face. This was repeated again and again, the while from the crowd which ringed them around, now in respectful silence, a deep-chested gasp arose with every strike.
The said victim lay, looking upward at his tormentor. He had first intended awaiting the death stroke with closed eyes, but a sort of unaccountable fascination held them open. The black, cruel face, hideously pock-marked, the wool standing out in fantastic plaits from the head, like so many horns, made a satanic picture which the writhings of the satanic reptiles completed. A cold perspiration stood forth upon his face, as he expected every stroke of the deadly reptile to be the last. Then the Snake-Doctor desisted, gathering back the thing again.
Now the next act in this drama of torture by anticipation was to begin. All the loathsome glistening coils which enveloped the person of the Snake-Doctor like clothing, were in motion as he cast forth some half dozen of the reptiles. These crawled around the helpless victim, heads erect and hissing horribly. It was clear that some marvellous magic controlled them as they moved to and fro, obedient to a scarcely perceptible hissing chirrup on his part. Then, in obedience to the same mysterious signal, they approached him, even gliding over his body, but making no attempt to strike him. The hush of the silence was tense. The awed spectators, some of whom had seen instances of the Snake-Doctor’s marvellous skill before, watched, still as death, wondering how soon the white man’s nerve would break down, and he would become a raving madman, such as his tormentor-in-chief they knew to be at intervals.
There is a period beyond which a state of tense apprehension cannot be kept up. Until this was reached Wyvern underwent the tensest of its torments. Instinctively he turned from side to side with every movement of the horrible reptiles, then, when he found himself staring into the countenance of a great black mamba within a yard of his own the point of indifference was reached. He felt capable of no further agony. The sooner the fatal stroke was dealt the better.
Then the Snake-Doctor began to call in his horrible myrmidons. One by one they came, and, in silent glide, each once more hung its glistening coils about the body and limbs of its repulsive master. Again an awestruck gasp went up from the entranced crowd. What would be the next trial in store for the victim? Something fearful beyond words, for, had not the Snake-Doctor claimed him?
But like the movements of the crawling serpents, a very writhe of panic ran through the riveted spectators. The weird death-hiss broke upon the silence and down they went in scores before the assegais of the advancing enemy; who, in the all entrancing abandonment of the novel spectacle had noiselessly rushed them on all sides, and now was right in among them, stabbing in every direction. They had been surprised by an impi of the rival faction, as strong, if not stronger than their own, now considerably stronger, if only that many, in their fancied security, and the absorbing interest of their cruel entertainment had thrown down their weapons and shields, and so were massacred in an absolutely defenceless state. The din and horror was indescribable as the surprise became manifest. In among them were the destroyers, stabbing, hacking; and the death-hiss vibrated upon the air, then the war-shout “Usútu,” and the flap of shields in counter strife, as the assailed managed to effect some sort of rally. The chief, Laliswayo, was among the earliest slain, and the demoralised Usutus, now without a recognised head, were still making a desperate effort to regain the day.
Wyvern, lying there, expecting immediate death, though now in a different form, suddenly became aware that his bonds had been cut. Stiff and bewildered he strove to rise, and found himself staring stupidly into the face of Mtezani, who was bending over him.
“Take this, Kulisani,” said the latter, in the excitement of the moment levelling down into the use of his native sobriquet, and thrusting a heavy, short-handled knob-kerrie into his hand. “Get away, quick, now – into the bush – while there is time. I can do no more for you.”
They were almost alone. The roll of battle had carried the contending ranks, like a wave, beyond them. Amid the general confusion none had any thought to spare for any consideration beyond that of repelling the attack.
“But – what of U’ Joe?” answered Wyvern. “Where is he? I cannot desert him.”
“U’ Joe? He is gone,” rejoined the young Zulu, impatiently. “Are you tired of life, Kulisani? If not, go too – while there is time.”
Wyvern hesitated no longer. Gripping his rude weapon he jumped up and made for the nearest cover, just as, his escape being discovered, several of his late tormentors sprang with shouts in his pursuit.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Hunted
On, on through the forest shades the hunted man sped, the voices of his pursuers, like hounds upon a trail, sounding deep behind him. Though strong and otherwise athletic, he was in no condition for running, especially for keeping up a long chase, the chasers being wiry, untiring savages.
The ground, too, became rough and stony, and this taxed his powers still more. His aim was to reach the rocks and holes on the Lebombo slopes; could he do so while yet at a fair distance from his enemies he stood just a chance. They might look for him for ever there, or again they might just hit upon the right place.
He set his teeth firm, and with elbows to his sides, kept on, husbanding his wind like a trained sprinter. The while, bitter thoughts surged through his mind; for it was bitter to die just then, tenfold so now that Lalanté was within his reach at last; now that a means of escape had been afforded him. He thought of Joe Fleetwood too, and wondered if he had managed to get clear away and if so in what direction. They had been separated by some little distance what time the snake-torture had begun, and if the other’s liberation had been effected in the same way as his own, even as Mtezani had given him to understand, why then it is probable that Fleetwood would head in the direction he himself was taking, to find refuge among the caves and krantzes around the spot where the object of their search lay hidden.
The bush became somewhat dense, and more tangled. Thorns caught and tore at his clothing, and now the voices of his pursuers, and the ferocious deep-toned hum which they had kept up as they ran, was growing very near. They were sure of their prey. What could a white man, and a big and heavy one such as this, do against them as a runner? He might keep it up for a time, but sooner or later they would come up with him, probably utterly exhausted. He was unarmed too. So, not hurrying themselves, they kept on at a long, steady trot – some singing snatches of a war-song as they ran.
Wyvern gripped his short-handled knob-kerrie, wondering whether it was not time to make a last stand before his strength should entirely leave him. But it occurred to him that he could make simply no fight at all. His enemies had only to keep their distance and hurl assegais at him until they had finished him off, and that without the slightest risk to themselves. Turning suddenly, to avoid a clump of haak-doorn, whose fish-hook-like thorns would have held him powerless, or at any rate so seriously have delayed him that he might just as well have given up the struggle, he became aware of a small yellowish animal blundering across his path, together with a hideous snarl just behind. To this, however, he paid no heed His enemy now was brother man, not the beasts of the forest. Just turning his head, however, for a glance back – he felt his footing fail, and then – the ground gave way beneath him. Down he went, to the bottom of what seemed a deep, covered-in donga.
Yes – that was it. Boughs and bushes, interlaced in thick profusion, all but shut out the light of Heaven from above. He estimated he had fallen a matter of over twenty feet, but the slope of the side had saved his fall. The place was, in fact, the exact counterpart of that into which the unfortunate Kafir had fallen with the puff-adder hanging to his leg, at Seven Kloofs. Well, he would be utterly at the mercy of his enemies now, and with no more facility for making a fight for it than a rat in a trap.
Bruised, half-stunned, he lay and listened. Ah! they were coming. They would be on him in a moment. The secret of his sudden disappearance would be only too obvious to their practised eyes. His time had come.
Suddenly a terrific series of roars and snarlings broke forth above. With it mingled volleys of excited exclamations in the Zulu voice, then the Usútu war-shout. The clamour became terrific. The ground above seemed to shake with it. With each outbreak of roaring, the war-shout would rise in deafening volume – then snarling and hissing, but the sounds would seem to be moving about from place to place. Then arose a mighty shout of triumphant cadence and the roaring was heard no more – instead a hubbub of excited voices, and then Wyvern, partly owing to the tensity of his recent trial, partly owing to sheer exhaustion, subsided into a temporary unconsciousness.
This is what had happened above. The lion-cub which had run across Wyvern’s path had strayed from its parent. The latter, with another cub, bounded forward just as the foremost of the pursuing Zulus arrived upon the scene. She sprang like lightning upon the first, crushing his head to fragments in her powerful jaws, and that with such suddenness as to leave him no time to use a weapon. Another, rushing to the rescue, shared the same fate, and then the whole lot came up. There were under a dozen, but they were all young men, and full of warrior courage; yet, even for them, to kill a full-grown lioness – and this one was out of the ordinary large and powerful, and fighting for her cubs to boot – with nothing but assegais and sticks, was a very big feat indeed, and appealed to their sporting instincts far more than continuing the pursuit of one unarmed white man. So with loud shouts they entered into the fray, leaping hither and thither with incredible agility so as to puzzle the infuriated beast, the while delivering a deft throw with the lighter or casting assegai. Another received fatal injuries, and two were badly torn, then one, with consummate daring, watching his opportunity, rushed in and drove his broad-bladed assegai right into the beast’s heart; and that one was Mtezani, the son of Majendwa.
A roar of applause and delight arose from the few left. Auf the son of Majendwa was a man indeed – they chorused. Surely the trophies of the lioness were his. The throws of their light assegai were as pin-pricks. It was the umkonto of the son of Majendwa that had cleft the heart. And then they started a stirring dance and song around their slain enemy.
“Have done, brothers!” cried Mtezani at last. “I think we have done better than running down and killing one white man and he unarmed. Now we will take off the skin and return with it; and I think my father will no longer say I am still a boy, and unfit to put on the head-ring.”
They agreed, and in high good-humour all turned to to flay the great beast. None had any idea as to the part Mtezani had borne in the escape of the said white man, or of his motive in joining in the pursuit. Further, it is even possible that if they had, his last feat would have gone far in their eyes to justify it or, indeed, anything which he chose to do.
Wyvern awoke to consciousness in the pitch dark. His confused senses at first failed to convey any clear idea of what had happened; indeed the first shape his thoughts took was that he had been killed, and buried. The damp, earthy smell around him must be of course that of the grave, and yet he had suffered little or no pain. How had he been killed? Then suddenly and with a rush all came back – the lion-cubs and the snarl, his own fall, and the tumult overhead. He was not dead then, and now an intense joy took possession of him. All was not yet lost, no, not by any means. It must have been hours since he had fallen in there, and now, listening intently, he heard no sound outside. The Zulus must have given up the pursuit His fall into the covered-in donga had been the saving of him. Clearly the lioness had attacked the pursuing warriors and had either been slain by them or had delayed their advance to such an extent that they had not deemed it worth while to continue the pursuit; and here the strangeness of the repetition of incidents suggested itself. On a former occasion he had been spared the necessity of combating a formidable enemy in an unarmed state by the intervention of a snake, now the same thing had happened through the intervention of a lion.
And now the next thing was to get out of his friendly prison. Looking upward, the overhanging boughs and bush were faintly pierced by threads of golden moonlight; and he blessed that light for would it not make his way plain once up above? He guessed that the donga was of the same nature as the one at Seven Kloofs although here there was no river for it to open into, and to that end he slowly began to make his way downward. No easy matter was it however, in the pitchy gloom, but by dint of taking time, and exercising great care he at length came to where it opened into a kloof, and breathed the fresh air of night once more. Then he remembered that in his eagerness to get out he had left his knob-kerrie in the donga. He was now entirely unarmed.
Well, it was of no use going back to look for it. He would cut a cudgel presently, but in his eagerness to proceed, he was in no hurry to do that. He began to feel desperately hungry, but that caused him not much concern, for in the course of their wanderings together Fleetwood had put him up to what he had called “veldt-scoff,” to wit such roots and berries as were innocuous and would sustain life at a pinch. What was worse however was that a burning thirst had come upon him, and where to find water in what was, for all he knew, an utterly waterless waste, might become a most serious consideration. Still, there was no help for it. He must endure as long as he could, and a feeling of elation took hold of him as he thought of the awful experiences of the last twenty-four hours and the peril from which he had escaped; for now a sure and certain conviction was his that he had been spared with an object, and that object the happiness of Lalanté, and, incidentally, of himself.
And this spirit supported him as, hour after hour, he held on his way, now climbing the wearisome side of a steep kloof, only to find nothing but another on the further side, steering his way by the stars, and lo! – towards morning, in the waning moonlight, there rose the ridge of the Lebombo, right at hand – with its grand terraced heights of bosh and forest and krantz. And – better still – and his heart beat high with joy – he had come right upon the spot where the object of their search lay.
Yes. There was the black opening of the triangular cave about a mile ahead. In the dimness of the hour before dawn he recognised it. Hunger and thirst were forgotten now and he could have sang aloud in exultation; for within that black triangle lay hidden that which should bring him Lalanté.
In his haste to reach it he almost ran. Was it the same? At first a misgiving tortured his mind. There might be many such holes among the broken-ness of the foot-hills. No. There was the ridge from which the wretched myrmidon of Bully Rawson had fired at him. This was the place.
In his hurry he dived inside it. There was something in being on the very spot itself – besides now in the lightening dawn it would serve as a hiding-place in case any of his late enemies were still about or searching for him. The coolness of the hole was refreshing after his rapid and heating travel; so refreshing indeed that a sudden drowsiness came upon him, and he sank on the ground and fell fast asleep.
When he awoke the sun was high in the heavens. Gazing outward he could see the shimmer of heat arising from the stones. Then as he was looking around, reassuring himself as to the undoubted identity of the place, something moved. He could have sworn it was something or somebody trying to see within. Nonsense! The solitude and excitement of recent events had got upon his nerves. He looked steadily into the gloom of the interior for a moment, then turned suddenly to the entrance. Peering round the great boulder which constituted one side of this was the shaven, ringed head of a Zulu.