Bertram Mitford (continued 3)

“I’m sorry. I—we—shall miss you so much, Mr Glanton—and you have been so kind to us—”

“That all?” I thought to myself bitterly. “Sort of ‘make myself generally useful’ blank that will create.” Her next words made me feel ashamed of myself.

“But you will come and see us directly you return, won’t you? I shall look forward to it, mind—and—I hate being disappointed.”

Good Heavens! The voice, the gleam of white teeth in the little smile, the softening of eyes in the starlight! Had we been alone I believe I should have lost my head, and uttered I don’t know what. But you can’t say anything of that sort with a lot of people jabbering and laughing, and nothing between you and them but an open door and ditto window.

“You shall not be disappointed in that very unimportant particular at any rate,” I answered. “And you are good enough to say you will look forward to it. Why I shall look forward to it every day until it comes.”

This was pretty plain-speaking and no mistake, but I had been surprised out of myself. What she might have answered I can’t even conjecture, for at that moment through a lull in the racket within, was raised a voice.

“Glanton? Yes. He’s a good old buffer, Glanton. Why, what’s become of him?”

Aïda Sewin’s eyes met mine and I could see that she was bubbling over with the humour of the situation. We broke into a hearty laugh, yet not loud enough to reach those within.

“There. Now I hope you’re duly flattered,” she said. “A fresh unconsidered outburst like that must be genuine. We don’t often hear so much good of ourselves even without being listeners.”

“But consider the qualifying adjective. That, you know, is rather rough.”

“Not necessarily. Only a term of good fellowship, I expect. No. You ought to feel brotherly towards him after that.”

Somehow the whimsicality of it did avail to restore my good humour, or the words and tone of her utterances that went before may have had something to do with it. Had she been reading my thoughts as I sat silent among the rest? Well, what if she had?

The storm had passed us by and a haze of continuous lightning in the loom of a receding cloud together with an occasional mutter away over the further ridge of the Tugela valley was all that remained of it. She had moved towards the end of the stoep as though to obtain a nearer view of this.

“I have something on my mind, Miss Sewin,” I began, “and it is this. You are good enough to say I have been of use to you all, needless to say how delighted I am to have been able to be. Well now, I shall be right out of the way for a time, and I am trying to puzzle out a plan of letting me know in case you might urgently want me.”

I don’t know what on earth moved me to say this. Why should they want me—urgently or otherwise? To my surprise she answered:

“It would be a great relief to my mind if you could. I don’t know what you’ll think of me, Mr Glanton, but there are times when our isolation frightens me, and then I think we never ought to have come here. And now you are going away, and Falkner, too. And—do you know, I have an uneasy feeling that I couldn’t account for to save my life, but it’s there, unfortunately. I believe it has something to do with the witch doctor, and that eerie affair down at the pool.”

“As to that don’t let it affect you. Ukozi is a clever specimen of a witch doctor but not a malevolent one. For the rest you are as safe here as you would be in any country part of England, and a good deal safer than in some.”

The words “we never ought to have come here” alarmed me. What if when I returned I should find them gone? Oh, but—that wouldn’t bear thinking of. So I did my best to reassure her, and to all appearances succeeded. Yet if I had known then—or had the faintest inkling of—what I afterwards knew—Well when I did it was too late.

Chapter Fourteen.

A Bad Beginning.

We crossed Umzinyati above where the Blood River joins it. This was something of a round but I didn’t want to pass through Sirayo’s section of the country; for it so happened I had had a bit of a breeze with him on a former occasion, and he would remember it; moreover his clan were a troublesome lot, and likely enough wouldn’t stick at trifles—not the salt of Zululand by any means. So I elected to make a few days of easy trek outside the border, and then cross over into Zululand a good deal further north.

Old transport-riders will tell you there is no life so fascinating as that of the road. With all its hardships and drawbacks—drought, wet, waterless out-spans, mudholes into which wheels sink axle deep, bad and flooded drifts, involving hours of labour, and perhaps the borrowing of a brother trekker’s friendly span—heat, cold—everything—yet the sense of being on the move, the constant change of scene, even of climate—has a charm all its own. This I can quite believe—because the waggon life off the road is even more fascinating still, in that the drawbacks are fewer, and you are more independent. You trek or outspan at your own sweet will, undeterred by any misgivings as to goods being delayed an inordinate time in delivery and the potential loss of future commissions in consequence. And you have time and opportunity to indulge in sport if there is any to be had, and there generally is when you are right off the roads, unless the country carries too thick a population.

These advantages held good of our then trek. I had a first-rate tent waggon of which mention has already been made. This, besides its load of the lighter kinds of trade goods was fitted up with a kartel and mattress, for bad weather accommodation—in fine weather we preferred sleeping on the ground. For the heavier kind, blankets and Salampore cloth, pots and kettles and so forth, I had loaded up a buckwaggon, constructed to carry anything up to twelve or fourteen thousand pounds weight. Thus we travelled—carrying our home along with us.

A surprise had come upon me almost at the last moment, and that was that by no possibility could I get any natives in our neighbourhood to cross the Zulu border. Those who had at first engaged to cried off. If I had been trekking with only one waggon I could have cut the knot of the difficulty by driving it myself, and making my body servant Tom—who would have gone to the ends of the earth with me, and to the devil after that—act as leader, but I had two. Ivondwe I knew would have gone, but I could not think of taking him away from the Sewins. The thing became seriously annoying. I appealed to Tyingoza. What was the matter with all the people? Were they afraid, and, if so, what of?

He was rather mysterious. There were rumours around that the Zulus were not well disposed towards white people, he hinted, especially those away on the northern border, where the King’s authority was least strong. That being so those in the position of white men’s servants would undergo risk—grave risk. But he would see what he could do, and in the result he found me one man who understood driving. This man, whose name was Mfutela, came from a kraal not far from Maritzburg. He was a ringed man, and brought with him his son, a youngster of about fifteen, to do leader. That would do. Things were brightening so far. I could drive one of the waggons myself, until such time as I had taught Falkner Sewin enough of the art to enable him to relieve me, and having thus decided I was all ready to start when—another turned up.

This fellow was something of a mystery, and was not keen on answering questions, but I gathered that his name was Jan Boom, at least that was the only name he would own to, and that he was a Xosa from the Cape frontier—far enough away in all conscience—who had drifted up to these parts. I suspected he had “drifted” out of gaol, and that before the time appointed to him for compulsorily serving the Government had expired; but with this I didn’t concern myself at all. He was first-rate at working with oxen and that was all I cared about.

Falkner Sewin, contrary to my expectations, had given no trouble to speak of. He would grumble outrageously at first when I turned him out before it was light so as to be ready for the earliest possible trek, and on one occasion turned nasty. He hadn’t come along as my servant, he fumed, and wasn’t going to take orders from me. So I reminded him that it was no question of taking orders, but he had even gone so far as to promise to do all he was told. I pointed out further that I hadn’t asked him to help me in any way, but that if he was going to do anything to hinder me why there was nothing to prevent him changing his mind and finding his way home again: we had not come so far that he would meet with any great difficulty in the way of this. He saw I meant what I said, and after sulking for half a day he climbed down, which was as well, for if there was one thing I intended it was to be skipper of my own ship. All the same he was destined to prove a mighty handful before I’d done with him.

We trekked easy the first few days, for the grass was not so green as it might have been, and I wanted to avoid pushing my oxen while the waggons were loaded at their heaviest, and so far had met with no adventures. The first was to come, and it came in this wise.

We had crossed the Blood River, and after an extra long morning’s trek had outspanned on one of the small tributaries of that stream. We had not seen many people hitherto, and the demeanour of such as we had seen was strange; not exactly hostile, but sullen, and as different as possible to the light-hearted, good-humoured cordiality I had always found on previous trips into the Zulu country.

Perhaps this had something to do with the extra caution I laid upon Falkner, when having resolved to take advantage of our halt to ride over and visit a neighbouring chief with whom I had former acquaintance I saddled up with that intent. I took my boy Tom along, more because it enhances your prestige to move about attended than for any use I had for him, but Falkner couldn’t come to any harm. Jan Boom the Xosa, spoke fair English, in case any of the natives should visit the outspan, and their speech require interpreting, and the other driver Mfutela, seemed a reliable man. Surely, one would think, there was no room for Falkner to get into any mischief here.

I was away about three hours. When I came in sight of the camp again, Tom, who was trotting by the side of my horse, said something that made me start.

I spurred forward. The outspan was hidden again by another rise in the ground. Topping this here is what I saw.

Standing forth, in an attitude of the noble art of self-defence, was Falkner Sewin. His fists were clenched, and his rolled up sleeves showed a really magnificent display of brown and corded muscle. Confronting him was a big Zulu, equally muscular, and armed with a formidable knobkerrie and a small shield. For “gallery” but with their backs to me, squatted in a semi-circle about thirty more Zulus.

Annoyed as I was, for the life of me I could not but feel interested. Both the contending parties were watching each other intently and it was clear that so novel a mode of fighting had appealed to this warlike people to the extent of their allowing their adversary fair play instead of rushing him by weight of numbers. I had seen the same kind of thing among them before, notably on that occasion when Tyingoza’s son had accepted the invitation to head a sort of flying invasion of the opposite side. But now, as then, they were destined to forget the strict rules of fair play when blood was up.

The Zulu was waltzing round Falkner, but the latter beyond turning to face him never moved, and his adversary seemed in no hurry to come within reach of those formidable fists. Then, goaded perhaps by the jeers of his comrades, who were tiring of a fight wherein no blows were struck, he feinted at his adversary’s head, then quick as thought threw up his shield and made a terrific sweep at Falkner’s leg beneath it.

But the latter was up to this stale dodge—indeed, I myself had put him up to it. Springing lightly aside, in time to avoid by a hair’s-breadth a blow that would have shattered his kneecap and set him up with a highly respectable limp that would have lasted him for the term of his natural life, he shot out his right fist in such wise as to catch his assailant smack full on the side of the jaw. The big Zulu went down like a shot buck hit in full course.

“He’s out!” cried Falkner. “John, tell ’em to put up their next man.”

But before Jan Boom could render this injunction or not render it, the whole lot had sprung to their feet and a mighty hubbub ensued. They had seized their weapons, and were gesticulating and pointing at Falkner: in fact, working themselves up to a state of wild and dangerous excitement. It was as well, perhaps, that unseen by them I was near enough to interpose.

“Hold!” I roared. “Hold! What means this? And who are ye that rush into my camp with weapons in your hands?”

As I said, I had approached unseen, and now the very suddenness of my appearance availed to stay the tumult, for a moment. But only for a moment. “Who are we? Au! Mlungu! that is no matter. Your oxen have eaten up our corn and now you must make it good. You must make it good we say.”

“Umlúngu” meaning simply “white man” was impudent, especially as I was sure some, if not all, of these knew me. At that moment I took in that they were all young men, of any age not much overtopping twenty, consequently at the most reckless and mischievous stage of human existence.

“Go—go,” I answered. “Send your fathers here. I talk not with children.”

The hubbub grew deafening and they drew in closer—growling, chattering in their fine deep voices, pointing viciously at us with their blades. My taunt had exasperated them to a dangerous degree. One fellow went so far as to dance out from among the rest and gwaza at me with his assegai, and all were brandishing theirs and closing in upon us nearer and nearer. I have always made a point of never being afraid of savages, but really when you get an irresponsible young ruffian lunging an eighteen-inch assegai blade within half that distance of your nose, and he backed up by thirty others, the situation begins to have its skeery side.

“Keep ’em steady a minute, Glanton, while I get out our ‘barkers’,” said Falkner. “That’ll start ’em to the rightabout double quick.”

“No. Better leave that. They’re only blowing off steam.”

But I wasn’t easy: more, I realised that the situation was a confoundedly ticklish one. They were working each other up into a state of ungovernable excitement, and simply howling down whatever I was trying to say. If I had had my pistol on I believe I should have drawn it, but it was at that moment reposing in one of the waggon pockets, some twenty-five yards behind us. The same held good of Falkner’s. He, characteristically, now brought matters to a crisis.

“Shut that silly jaw,” he growled, seizing the wrist of a fellow who was doing gwaza with a big assegai close to his face, and, with the other hand hitting him a terrific blow right between the eyes, felling him.

Then I thought my last hour had come, but no—they fell back as though scared. Falkner’s fighting powers had done us yeoman’s service after all, was the thought that flashed through my mind—and then I saw that it was not so; that our respite was due to another cause.

Unseen by either party to the turmoil two Zulus had come up—and one of them I knew, and knowing him, felt devoutly thankful that he was a pretty considerable chief.

“Now I see men,” I said, “men with rings on. Now I can talk. Greeting, Nonguza.”

He answered me with scant cordiality. He was a tall, fine man, but his face was heavy and sullen, more than that, it was a cruel face. The glance he shot at Falkner especially was not benevolent.

“I see you, Iqalaqala,” he said. “What is this, for my dogs seem to be barking over loud!”

I told him what I knew, which was little enough, and calling the waggon drivers we got at the rest of it. They had gone to look after the oxen, which were turned loose to graze, and had arrived in time to find a crowd of armed Zulus driving them off. Some had come for themselves, driving them up to the waggons, threatening them. It was then that Falkner Sewin had come out, and singling out the spokesman had challenged him to fight.

Nonguza called to two of the rioters, and ordered them to tell their story. It was soon told. They had found our oxen eating and trampling the corn of their father, Magebe, and had driven them off until their owners should pay for the damage.

Now Magebe proved to be the man who accompanied Nonguza, and on hearing this he became excited, and must needs rush off to ascertain what damage had been done. This Jan Boom pronounced to be next to nothing.

“They were hardly in the field at all, Baas,” he said in an undertone, and excellent English. “Zulu nigger one damn great big liar.”

The speaker being some shades darker in colour than any Zulu there present I could hardly restrain a laugh. Falkner couldn’t. He guffawed outright. The chief looked angry.

“Steady, Sewin,” I warned. “You’re spoiling everything.” Then to Magebe. “We had better all go and look what has been done. Then we can settle it.”

The mealie crop was only just over the rise, so we were there very soon. I had told Falkner to come too, fearing he might get into more mischief if left behind: and yet it was almost as bad having him, for he eyed the two Zulus with a sort of resentful contempt, more than once expressing a desire to knock their qualified heads together.

Even as Jan Boom had said, the damage proved to be very slight; but Magebe, an old man and avaricious, set to work to make the most of it. Half his crop was ruined and so forth. I must pay him two oxen.

Of course I had no intention of doing anything of the sort, so we adjourned to the waggons again to talk it over. There the discussion became long and heated, notwithstanding the fact that I opened it by filling them up with a great deal of black coffee and sugar. Nonguza, who did most of the talking, and I felt sure would claim the lion’s share of the spoil whatever it might be, was especially curt and offensive. I got sick of it at last.

“Here,” I said, spreading a new green blanket on the ground, and piling upon it a couple of big butcher knives—which Zulus dearly love—some strings of black and white beads, a few brass buttons and a goodly length of roll tobacco. “This is more than twice the damage my oxen have done. So now, Magebe, take it, and I will send one of my drivers with these two,” pointing to the two young Zulus who had explained matters, “and he will bring back the oxen.”

But Magebe objected that this was not enough, no, not nearly enough.

“There it is. Take it or leave it. If you leave it, then we leave the Zulu country—walk out of it, for we cannot drag our waggons. Then, when the Great Great One—he who sits at Undini—is called upon to make good the loss of two spans of oxen, two waggons and the whole of their contents—to the Englishmen whose oxen were taken—were taken by Nonguza, the induna whom he sent to keep order here on the boundary, what will he say, that Lion—what will he do? Tell me that. What will he do?”

“I know nothing of your oxen, Umlúngu,” said Nonguza, sullenly. “It is not I who have taken them.”

“Not you? Ha! When an induna of the King is present, is he greater than only the head of a kraal—a large kraal certainly—or is he less? Tell me that, Nonguza?”

It was a good game of bluff to play, and I was about at the end of my patience. I held trumps and I knew my hand, for I knew perfectly on what errand this chief was there. Now he turned and gave an order to those who had lately been threatening us, and I knew that the game was won. Yet even then, as I noted the look of sullen vindictiveness that fled swiftly across the chief’s face, I was not inclined to exult, for I was well aware that he would go a good way to be even with me yet, and in the then unsettled state of the border it would be strange if some opportunity of making himself disagreeable did not afford itself.

“Well, I’m sick of all this jaw with a couple of snuffy niggers, Glanton,” growled Falkner. “What’s going to be done?”

“Oh shut your silly head,” I said, irritably, for of course an unconciliatory tone tells its own tale even though no word is understood. “I suspect your readiness to bash all and everybody is at the bottom of the whole bother.”

“Well, if a brute comes at me brandishing a stick with a knob like a cricket ball I’ve got to do something, haven’t I?” he answered, lighting his pipe and slouching away in the sulks.

I was in no better humour, to tell the truth, but laid myself out to do the civil to Nonguza, by way of smoothing his ruffled feathers. Then, as time went by, and I was beginning to feel a little anxious once more, to my intense relief my ears caught a well-known sound, the trampling of hoofs to wit, and lo—coming over the rise were my oxen, driven at a run by those who had taken them. I gave orders at once to inspan, returning a curt negative to Magebe’s inquiries as to whether I would not stop and trade. I was going kwa Majendwa, I answered. There no mistake would be made as to who I was.

So we marched forth with all the honours of war, but as the whips cracked, and the spans tugged out in response I noticed that the cloud of armed Zulus watching us was increased by others coming over the ridge—part of Nonguza’s impi—and thought we should be lucky if we escaped further trouble at the hands of these. It was a bad beginning to our trip—in the temper the people were evidently then in—yes, a bad beginning.

Chapter Fifteen.

Two of a Trade.

When Dolf Norbury learned that another white man was coming to Majendwa’s country on trading intent, his first remark was that he was damned if he should. This statement he followed up with the use of absolutely unprintable language for the space of many minutes. His first act was to shy a bottle at the head of his informant, who ducked in time to avoid disastrous contact with the same, and then to make him exceedingly drunk with the contents of another bottle, not yet reduced to its last use—as a missile to wit. This by way of compensation.

The process had another effect, that of making the injured man talk. He for his part was a young Zulu of no particular account, and what he stated was perfectly true, he went on to declare. The white man was a trader known as Iqalaqala, and with him was another white man, a great fighter, who could knock men senseless with his fists even as one might do with a large and heavy stick. He who spoke knew, for he had seen it done—not once only, either. At this Dolf Norbury’s language grew vehement and sultry again, and was interlarded by many aspirations after just one glimpse of the man who could knock him senseless or knock him anything else. Only just one glimpse, that was all. The next thing he did, by way of relieving his feelings was to start in and thrash the nearest of his native wives—of which he had several—she, unfortunately for her, being the one of least family standing, and therefore the least likely to raise resentment on the part of the relatives—or others, a thing which is bad for trade. Then he opened a bottle of “square face,” took a very big drink, and putting the bottle in a pocket or his leather coat went round to the chief’s hut.

“I have news, Mawendhlela,” he began, when he found himself inside. “But”—with a look at some others who were seated there—“it will keep.”

Not long was it before these took the hint, and stole out, one by one. The chief’s eyes twinkled as he noted the familiar bulge in the pocket of his visitor.

“Au! it is cold,” he said, pretending to shiver, “and I am getting on in years and need warmth.”

“This will give it you,” said the white man, producing the bottle.

The chief’s eyes sparkled as he watched the gurgling rush of the potent liquid into the calabash drinking vessel. Then he tossed off half of it with a gasp of contentment.

“That is indeed warm—yes, warm,” he said.

“And good. But there will soon be no more.”

“No more? Now why, Udolfu?”

“Because I am going—going away.”

“Going away? Now that cannot be.”

“It can and it is. There is no longer room for me here. There is a cow at hand who will give you more milk than I can, but not such milk as this—oh no!”

“Ha!”

“It is Iqalaqala who is the cow that lows at the gate. Iqalaqala does not trade in strong drink—neither will he bring you any guns or cartridges or powder and lead. His trade is the trade for women—beads, coloured cloth, and such.”

“M-m! Why then, Udolfu, there is still room for you here, for Iqalaqala can do the women’s trade and you can still do that for men—guns and cartridges—and drink like this—like this—which warms—ah, ah, which warms,” added the chief finishing his allowance of “square face” and pushing his calabash meaningly towards the other.

“But I will not. There is no room for two here. I will have all the trade or none.”

Mawendhlela’s face fell. He was a man who liked his comfort and the enjoyment of a daily modicum of “square face” gin, or Natal rum had become essential to this. As a chief he was not unmindful of certain plain hints on the part of those very high up indeed in the councils of the nation, to the effect that those under them were required to obtain the weapons of the white man as far as this could possibly be done. Yet here was the man who supplied him with both, threatening to withdraw. He saw the loss of his beloved drink with dismay, and with even greater dismay he contemplated the disfavour into which he would fall with those in high quarters, if his people showed but a poor muster in the way of firearms. The while Dolf Norbury was reading his thoughts, and could gauge their drift exactly. He knew, too, that personally Mawendhlela and many of his people would gladly see the last of him—but, the above considerations were potent.

“We cannot both trade here,” he repeated. “Iqalaqala must not be allowed to come. That’s all.”

“What can I do, Udolfu?” answered the chief helplessly. “Majendwa is a bull that roars louder than I, and he has the ear of the Great Great One himself. It is to Majendwa you must talk.”

“Majendwa?” repeated the white man, with a scowl as though the very name was unpalatable to him—and, indeed, it was—“Majendwa? Au! his kraal is far enough away. But here, you are chief, you, Mawendhlela. And for some days the people have been talking of the coming of Iqalaqala! Well, he must not come.”

They looked at each other for a little while in silence. Then the chief spoke.

“I can do nothing, Udolfu,” he repeated. “But you—au! you white people can do everything. And I do not want a white man who only brings trade for women.”

“Then you leave it to me?” said the trader, reaching over the square bottle and replenishing the calabash.

“It is nothing to me,” said Mawendhlela, carefully extracting a cockroach which had fallen from the thatch into his liquor, and throwing it into the fire. “No more than that—” as the insect crackled up.

Dolf Norbury chuckled, and took a big drink himself. The life of another man, a fellow countryman—or, it might be of two men—was no more to him than that of the burnt insect. They understood each other.

It may be asked how I am able to reproduce a dialogue between two persons sitting together alone in a hut—alone mind—and I many miles away at the time. Well, passing over the question as to whether anyone ever really is alone—especially in a Zulu kraal—rather than that the veracity of this my narrative be in any wise impugned, I would remind the reader that at an earlier stage thereof I took him into confidence so far as to explain that I was wont to derive a considerable amount of information from native sources, and that such information was surprisingly accurate. So—there it is, you see!

The while we were trekking by slow and easy stages. There was a restlessness among the people as to which there could be no mistake. They were moving about in bands of ten or twenty instead of singly or in pairs, and fully armed, and now and then two or three men would come up hurriedly to the waggon, and hardly troubling to drop their weapons as required by etiquette, would start on again after a few words of inquiry as to our destination. In short the country seemed about as settled as an ant’s nest the top of which has just been kicked off; and more than one rumour had it that armed collisions had occurred with the grazing Boers beyond the Luneburg and Utrecht borders. Towards ourselves the behaviour of the people was rather offhand and independent, the young men especially being inclined to treat us to quite an unnecessary display of swagger. This was a source of anxiety to me, in that it involved a continuous strain upon my moral influence to keep Falkner Sewin from his favourite pastime of head punching, and this was difficult.

So far too, trade prospects seemed but poor. Formerly from each group of kraals we passed, people would have come eagerly forth to do a deal—now for ordinary trade goods they seemed to have no hankering. More than one head-man would ask, talking “dark,” if I carried what they wanted, and on assuring themselves that I did not, soon showed no further desire to trade. Now “what they wanted,” done into plain English, meant firearms and ammunition, and this was a form of illicit trade from which I had always kept my hands clean. Not that the temptation was not great at that. The profits were ditto and the risk to one with my facilities, hardly worth considering, and the same held good of liquor selling, though as to this latter perhaps considerations of self interest lay behind my scruples, for it was in no wise to my interest to bear part in ruining this fine race among whom I lived, and from whom I drew a living.

For the rest, life was pleasant enough as we moved along easily—outspanning during the heat of the day for several hours—and then trekking on until dark. Then the night camp under the stars, when the savoury game stew—or if we couldn’t get any game, the fried rashers of bacon, had been discussed, and pipes were in full blast—this constituted not the least pleasant moment of the day, as we sat and swapped yarns, to the accompaniment of the monotonous crunch-crunch of ruminating oxen tied to the yokes; or the occasional howl of a hyena, or the cry of some mysterious night bird coming up out of the surrounding blackness. All this my companion enjoyed immensely, as well he might. He did not so much enjoy the reverse side of the medal though, when a sudden thunderburst and a night of chilly, pelting downpour—which precluded all thoughts of a fire, or anything hot—drove us to huddle within the tent waggon, and browse upon biscuit and tinned stuff. However I had broken him in fairly well by that time, and he was disposed to take things as they came. Now and again he would try my patience by some outbreak of mulish cussedness, but I remembered his character and training, and had no difficulty in keeping myself in hand. Added to which I believe I entertained a sneaking softness towards the fellow if only that he constituted a connecting link with those I had left behind. Those? Well, to be candid, but—never mind.

We were approaching the mountainous regions of the north, and the bushy valleys and slopes of the lower country had been left behind. The air grew clear and sharp, and the nights had become downright chilly. Around, the hills rose in abrupt slopes, their sweep broken up into great terraces as it were, by tiers of smooth grey cliffs. To all appearance the country might have been uninhabited, but I knew better: knew that the great clefts which fell abruptly from the track contained teeming kraals, whose presence might easily remain unsuspected by the casual wayfarer: knew, too, that not a mile of our advance but was carefully watched and duly reported. In the Zululand of those days the passage of a white man’s waggons was an event, and that from more than one point of view.

Chapter Sixteen.

To Blows.

“Here come men, Nkose, and I think that they come to cause us trouble,” said Mfutela, shading his eyes to look up the road.

I followed his glance. A dark crowd was swarming over the ridge half a mile in front, and in the then rising sun I could make out the glint of assegai blades. That was nothing, since every man in Zululand at that time seemed to make a point of moving about with as many assegais as he could conveniently carry. But it was significant that at sight of us they should have halted for a moment, and then come forward at a run, shouting like mad.

“Is there to be no end to all these mischievous idiots and their larks?” I said, sourly and in English. And yet at the time I felt not altogether happy—things happen suddenly among savages. What if the tension on the Transvaal border had already brought on an outbreak.

“Hallo! What’s the row?” sang out Falkner, from the tent waggon, into which he had dived to fetch something or other. “Any more fellows whose heads want punching—eh, Glanton?”

“No,” I answered more sourly still. “Keep those itching knuckles of yours quiet for once—for Heaven’s sake.”

It was early morning as I have said, and we were in the act of inspanning. We had camped in an open valley, and in front lay a long acclivity of miry red track mapped out by ancient wheel ruts and rendered diabolical by a heavy rainfall during the night. It was at the head of this that the crowd had appeared, and looking at both I was all the less disposed to meet opposition with the good humour which is always advisable.

“Zulu nigga troublesome debbil,” said Jan Boom, the Xosa, who was fond of airing his English, and his contempt for those of his own colour who “had none.”

The new arrivals left us in no sort of doubt as to their intentions, for they charged straight for us, and waving their weapons roared out to us to stop.

“Tre-ek!” I yelled, seizing the whip from Mfutela, and letting out the long lash in a couple of resounding cracks which had the effect of making one fellow who was brandishing a war-axe within an ace of Tom’s nose—who was leading—skip aside with some alacrity. Jan Boom, who was driving the other waggon, was quick to follow my example, and to the accompaniment of a cannonade of whip cracking and ear-splitting yells, the two spans tugged out laboriously over the heavy miry road.

So far as our disturbers were concerned, I kept silence, by way of showing that I considered them beneath my notice, until I saw that their mouthings and gesticulations as they kept pace with us on either side, were likely to schrik our two horses, leading on behind, to the point of nearly causing them to break their reims and rush away the devil knew where.

“Who are ye?” I shouted. “Who are ye that come bellowing down upon me like a pack of kraal curs? You are not children either, for I see among you men with rings. Go away.”

But the ringed men, to my surprise, were among the most boisterous.

“Turn back, Umlungu,” cried one of them. “Turn back. It is the word of our father, Mawendhlela.”

Mawendhlela! The name set my misgivings at rest in a moment. Mawendhlela a chief by virtue of birth and possessions, a man who was no warrior but one of the few Zulus at that time who was addicted to gin, and disliked me because I had always steadfastly refused either to trade or give him any.

“Mawendhlela!” I echoed. “Hau! I go to a bull that roars louder than he. I go to Majendwa—to Majendwa I say. Now—go away.”

But this, to my surprise, they showed no inclination to do. On the contrary they closed up in such wise as to bring the front waggon to a standstill. Short of cutting a way through them there was no method of proceeding, and there were about a hundred of them, all bristling with assegais. I had my revolver on though it was not visible, and for all their numbers I made up my mind to shoot the first who should lay a hand upon my people or my oxen: for there are times when forbearance may be stretched to a dangerous limit. What would have happened next I won’t pretend to guess, but some sort of diversion must have occurred, for heads were turned, looking back over the way they had come. Then the crowd parted, precipitately too, some tumbling over each other’s heels in their alacrity to get out of the way, and through the lane thus opened there rode up at a furious pace, a man—a white man.

“Here, get out of this!” he bellowed, firing off a very blast of profanity. “Turn your blanked oxen round, and trek back—d’you hear? trek back a sight quicker than you came. D’you hear?”

“May I be permitted to ask why?” I said, sarcastically.

“No, you mayn’t and be damned to you. But I’ll tell you. Because I say so. That’s why. Because I say so. You’ve heard of me.”

“Don’t know that I have. Who might you be when you’re at home?”

“I’m Dolf Norbury. That’s who I might be. Dolf Norbury, d’you hear? I’ve got the trade up here, and I’m damned if I’m going to have any dirty winkler from Natal coming up here to make holes in it. Now—d’you hear?”

“Winkler” meaning a small shopkeeper, was meant to be offensive.

“Oh, so you’re Dolf Norbury, are you?” I said, pretending to be impressed.

“That’s right. I’m Dolf Norbury, and no man ever got the blind side of me and kept it. Now—clear.”

“Ah!” I said. “I’m Godfrey Glanton, and no man ever got the blind side of me and kept it. Now—clear.”

I thought he would there and then have tumbled down in a fit. It happened that I had heard a good deal about this Dolf Norbury, but had only seen him once, at Krantz Kop, and that some years before; on which occasion, however, he had been far too drunk to remember me now. He was a big, roaring, buffalo bull of a fellow of about fifty, who would be sure to gain ascendency among savages if he laid himself out to do so. He had Mawendhlela completely under his thumb, and that for a further reason than those which have just appeared, which was as well for himself, for the more respectable chiefs of Zululand would have nothing to do with him by this time. He would have been turned out of the country, or would have died suddenly, before this but that he had his uses; for he was a most daring and successful gunrunner among other accomplishments. With all his bounce he was not wanting in pluck, and could hold his own anywhere, and always had held it as some had found to their cost—he would add, darkly boastful. His record was uncertain, but he had an intimate acquaintance with the Transkein border and Pondoland: and talked the native dialects faultlessly; in short he was just the type that would drift into the position of “chief’s white man,” with all the advantages of self-enrichment which it affords—and these are not small if the thing is properly worked. The only thing certain about him was that for some time past he dared not show his face upon any square yard of ground under British jurisdiction—on pain of death in mid air, it was not obscurely hinted. In aspect he was heavy and powerful of build. His face, tanned to a red bronze, was half hidden in a thick and flowing beard just turning grey, but the jet black of his shaggy eyebrows had not begun to turn. Under them his eyes, black and piercing, glittered like those of a snake. Now they began to roll till you could see scarcely anything but the whites. He seemed on the verge of a fit.

“Don’t put yourself in a passion,” I said, for I had become cool in proportion to the other’s rage. “There’s no occasion for it, you know. Only I may as well tell you that I don’t take any man’s bounce, and the idea of you, or any other man coming along here to give me orders strikes me as a joke. See?”

“Joke does it?” he gasped. “You’ll find it a mighty dear joke.” Then followed more talk which it is impossible to reproduce on paper. “A joke does it? D’you know I’ve killed men for less than this—yes, killed more men than you’ve even fought. A joke eh? Now—you’ll see.”

He was just turning to the noisy crowd, who however had sunk into silence, and, with eyeballs strained, were watching developments, when Falkner, whose restraint had come to an end on seeing a white man, and therefore as he afterwards put it one who could stand up to him, instead of a lot of miserable niggers who couldn’t—lounged forward.

“Here, I say. You’ll hurt yourself directly, old man,” he drawled—I suspected purposely putting on his most offensive manner.

“Hurt myself will I—aw haw?” returned the other, imitating Falkner’s drawl. “Hurt myself will I, my blanked popinjay? But first of all I’m going to hurt you—I’m going to hammer you within an inch of your life, and I won’t promise to leave you that.”

He jumped off his horse, and Falkner winked at me, for this was just what he wanted.

“I say, you know, I can’t hit you. You’re too old,” he said, in a tone calculated to exasperate the other, and it had just that effect, for literally bellowing with rage Dolf came straight at him. At first Falkner undertook to play with him, but soon found that he had got his hands full, for the other had weight and was enormously strong, and although he was inferior in science his mad rushes were nearly as irresistible as those of a buffalo bull, which was just what he reminded me of, with his eyes swollen and glaring, and his beard red and shaggy with blood. But he was uncommonly quick on his pins, and did not fight blindly by any means—indeed for some time I should have been sorry to have risked a large sum on either of them. It was a battle of giants.

I confess to watching the contest with a very keen interest. The Zulus standing around, were still as bronze as they craned eagerly forward to watch this, to them, absolutely novel form of battle. My people standing exactly where they had been, were no less interested spectators. At last I thought to detect a sign of weakening on the part of the enemy. Youth and science was beginning to tell against sheer strength. Norbury must have realised this, for shaking his head like a bull about to charge, he hurled himself forward for a final effort, striking out with terrific force. Falkner got it full on the forehead, but managed to keep up. The other staggered back, and then as he was about to make another rush I saw his right hand go behind him.

“Drop that!” I said sharply bringing round the butt end of my whipstick upon the wrist. With a howl of rage he complied literally, as the sheath knife which he had just drawn leapt from his hand. I put my foot on it just as Falkner, rushing in, knocked him fairly and squarely out.

“Two to one, you blanked cowards,” he snarled, in between curses, as he picked himself unsteadily up, half stunned as he was. “That your idea of fair play, is it?”

“And this is your idea of fair play?” I said, holding up the knife. It had a good eight-inch blade and was ground like a razor. “Why you infernal murderer, did you think I was going to stand by and see you use it?”

“You’re a liar,” he answered. “I never pulled it. You knocked it out of its sheath yourself, just for an excuse to pack on to me two to one.”

“Liar yourself,” I said. “You’d pulled it all right. Now clear out, and by the Lord, if you try any dog tricks on us by way of being even we’ll shoot, you understand. This is outside British jurisdiction, you know. So look out.”

He gave me a look that was positively devilish, and which his battered and blood-smeared countenance did not soften, you may be sure.

“Look out yourself,” he retorted furiously. “What sort of a man are you to come in and try to sneak another man’s trade? I was here first, I tell you.”

“That’s all right. But you might as well have made sure I was trying to sneak your trade first. Instead of that you come charging up to me at the head of about a hundred armed scoundrels and start a game of bounce. Did you think I was going to turn my waggons, and trek back at your bidding, or at any man’s bidding, because if so you got hold of the wrong pig by the ear, that’s all. I hadn’t intended to go near your old soaker’s place—but now I shall please myself about it.”

“Will you? All right. You were saying something just now about being outside British jurisdiction. Well, remember that. You’re not out of this country yet remember, and while you’re in it you’d better keep a bright look out. Dolf Norbury ain’t the man to be bested all along the line—and I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t begin now. So keep a bright look out, that’s my advice.”

“Oh all right. I’m not afraid,” I sung out after him, for he had jumped on his horse and was now riding away without another word. “Tre-ek!”

The whips cracked, and the waggons rolled forward, now without opposition. The turbulent crowd had completely quieted down, and although they still kept pace with us it was with a subdued sort of air. The reason was easy to read. We had come off best in the affair—wherefore it was obvious to them that we must be greater than Dolf Norbury. Of their first annoyance I took no notice whatever, treating it as a matter of such small account as not even to be worth remembering; and soon they began to drop off by twos and threes, till at last there was only a handful left—to whom I administered a suitable lecture.

“Think that skunk’ll give us any more trouble, eh, Glanton?” said Falkner, presently.

“Shouldn’t wonder. Anyway we’ll take his advice and keep a bright look out. He’s more than capable of trying a long shot at us from behind, if he sees his chance.”

“By Jove, but that’s a tough customer. If he’d only had science I should have been nowhere with him. It’s science that does it,” he added complacently. “Ever learn boxing, Glanton?”

“No. Yet I’ve held my own in a scrap on an occasion or two.”

“Well learn it. I can tell you it’s worth while. You get the science that way. We used to go in strong for it in the regiment, but there’s every chance of forgetting it here. These silly niggers can’t use their hands at all.”

“No, but they can use other things, and if you’ll take my advice you’ll keep yours off them. Keep them for fellows of the Dolf Norbury stamp.”

It must not be supposed that friend Falkner had come off light in the scrimmage; for in truth a goodly share of punishment had fallen his way. Both his eyes were badly bunged up, and he had a knob like a walnut over one temple. He further owned to the loosening of a couple of teeth. In short his countenance presented an aspect that would not have endeared him to those of the opposite sex on sight, say his cousins whom he had left behind. But he had held his own like a man, and of his pluck there could be no question at all; and I own that he had gone up very considerably in my estimation since the time of our earlier acquaintance.

Chapter Seventeen.

Majendwa’s Kraal.

A large, well-built Zulu kraal is to my mind a picturesque and symmetrical object with its perfect double circle of ring fences enclosing the yellow domes of the grass huts, and the large open space in the centre, dappled with many coloured cattle, or alive with the dark forms of its inhabitants. Such a kraal was that of the chief, Majendwa. It lay deep down in a large basin-like hollow; an amphitheatre, as it were, sparsely bushed and surrounded by high, terrace-like cliffs. On one side these rose up to a tall cone of considerable height.

The valley bottom and the slopes of the hills were covered with grazing herds, all sleek and round and shining, for the grass was abundant, and rains had been plentiful in these highlands.

“That looks promising,” I remarked to Falkner, as we gazed around upon this land of plenty. “I hope to take back a good few of these with us.”

“By Jove, yes,” he said. “I say, I wonder if there’s anything to shoot among those cliffs over there.”

“Not very much. An odd reebok or klipspringer is about all you’d get. However, we can try later on. Hallo! That looks uncommonly like Majendwa himself.”

Two tall Zulus were stalking along a path which should converge with ours a little way ahead. We had ridden on, leaving the waggons to follow, and the sound of their creaking and jolting was even now borne to our ears behind, as they wound down the rocky track which led into the hollow from that side, together with an occasional driving shout.

“Is it?” said Falkner, looking up with some curiosity. “By Jingo, he’s a fine-looking chap for a nigger, anyway.”

“Thought you’d worn through that ‘nigger’ string of yours, Falkner,” I said. “Don’t play on it for the benefit of Majendwa, that’s all.”

I may have seen as fine, but I never saw a finer specimen of a Zulu than Majendwa. Tall and straight, and for his age marvellously free from that corpulence which seems to come upon nearly all Zulus of rank or birth in middle life, every movement of his limbs showing great muscular strength the man’s frame was a model. His countenance even from a European standpoint was singularly handsome, the broad, lofty forehead and clear eyes conveying the idea of intellectuality and high breeding, in short he looked what he was, an aristocrat of his race. His greeting was dignified yet cordial.

“I see you, Iqalaqala,” he said, having waited for us to come up—“and am glad. It is long since you brought trade our way.”

I answered that my wandering days were over for the present, yet I could not altogether sit still, so had come straight up to the Abaqulusi to trade with them first. Then following their inquiring glance at my companion, I told them he was a neighbour of mine who had been an officer in the English army, causing them to look at him with redoubled interest.

“What’s it all about, Glanton?” struck in Falkner who was always impatient when I was talking and bound to cut in at the wrong time. “Who’s the other chap?”

“Muntisi, the chief’s second son. He’s got seven, but this and the eldest are the only two who wear the ring.”

“Well, I like their looks. Here, have some ’bacca, old chap,” pulling out his pouch.

Majendwa, who of course didn’t understand the familiarity of the address, received the tobacco, in his dignified way, with a slight smile and a glance of furtive curiosity at Falkner’s parti-coloured countenance, which had by no means shed all traces of his bout of fisticuffs with Dolf Norbury. Then he said:

“Come within, Iqalaqala. I will send men to show your people where to outspan.”

We walked on with them, leading our horses, for we had dismounted to greet them. As we drew near, the kraal, which had seemed deserted, sprang into life. Heads appeared above the thorn fence, watching the approach of the waggons in the distance, and from where the red topknots of women were grouped, a buzz and chatter of expectation went up.

“Hallo, Glanton. You’re never going to leave that there?” said Falkner, as I deliberately put down my rifle outside the gate before entering. “I’m hanged if I’ll leave mine.”

“But you must. It’s etiquette.”

“Oh blazes, but I don’t like it,” he grumbled, as he complied reluctantly. However Majendwa, whose ready tact had seen through his reluctance, told me we need not disarm there, and in fact we had better bring in our weapons, for there was nothing he enjoyed so much as inspecting firearms.

As we passed among the huts, I greeted several men whom I knew personally. Falkner the while staring curiously about him.

“I tell you what, Glanton. Some of these are devilish fine-looking girls,” he remarked. “Quite light coloured too, by Jove.”

I rendered this for the benefit of the chief that my companion observed that the women of the Abaqulusi were far better looking than any he had ever seen in Zululand, which evoked a laugh from those men who heard, and a delighted squeal from those of the sex thus eulogised. Then Falkner committed his first blunder.

We had gained the chief’s hut, and stooping down, I had entered the low door first, Falkner following. When halfway through he drew back.

“Dash it all!” he exclaimed, “I’ve dropped my matchbox.”

“Never mind. Come right through,” I warned. “Don’t stop on any account.”

But it was too late. He had already crawled back, and picked up the lost article.

“Why what’s the row?” he said, startled at my peremptory tone.

“Only that it’s awful bad manners with them to stop halfway through a door and back out again. It’s worse, it makes a sort of bad múti. It’s a pity you did it.”

“Oh blazes, how was I to know? Sort of ill luck, eh—evil eye and all that kind of business? Well, you can put that right with them.”

I tried to do this, incidentally explaining that he was a new arrival in the country and could not talk with their tongue yet, and of coarse was not familiar with their ways, that I hoped they would bear this in mind during the time we should spend at the kraal. But although the chief and his son took the incident in good part I could see they would much rather it had not happened. As regarded the offender himself one thing struck me as significant. Time was, and not so long ago either, when he would have pooh-poohed it, as a silly nigger superstition. Now he showed some little concern, which was a sign of grace.

Tywala, which is beer brewed from amabele, or native grown millet, if fresh and cleanly made, is an excellent thirst quencher on a hot day, and you never get it so well and cleanly made as in the hut of a Zulu chief. Of this a great calabash was brought in, and poured out into black bowls made of soft and porous clay.

“By Jove, Glanton,” cut in Falkner, during an interval in our talk. “This is something like. Why this jolly hut,” looking round upon the clean and cool interior with its hard polished floor, and domed thatch rising high overhead—“is as different as possible to the poky smoky affairs our niggers run up. And as for this tipple—oh good Lord!”

There was a squashing sound and a mighty splash. He had been raising the bowl to his lips, and that by the process of hooking one finger over the rim thereof. The vessel being, as I have said, of soft clay was unable to stand that sort of leverage, and had incontinently split in half, and the contents, liberal in quantity, went souse all over his trousers as he sat there, splashing in milky squirts the legs of Majendwa and three or four other men of rank who had come in to join the indaba. These moved not a muscle, but I could catch a lurking twinkle in the eyes of the chief’s son.

“Here, I say. Tell them I’m devilish sorry,” cried Falkner shaking off the stuff as best he could. “I’m not accustomed to these things, you know.”

I put it to them. They looked at Falkner, then at the shattered bowl, and as a Zulu is nothing if not humorous, one and all went off into a roar of laughter.

“Hallo! That’s better,” grinned Falkner looking up, as he tried to wipe off the liquid with his handkerchief. “Why these are jolly sort of fellows after all. I was afraid they were going to look beastly glum over it. Tell them I’ll get into their ways soon, Glanton. Meanwhile here’s their jolly good health,” taking a big drink out of a fresh bowl that was placed before him, only this time taking care to hold it with both hands.

Soon the cracking of whips and an increased buzz of voices without announced the arrival of the waggons, and we all went out to the place of outspan. The sun was sinking behind the high ridge which bordered the great basin, and the plain in front of the kraal was dappled with homing herds, and on these I looked with the eye of a connoisseur and especially on the little fat, black Zulu oxen, which always fetch a good price for trek purposes. The shrill shout and whistle of the boy herds, blended with the trample and mooing of the cows brought in for the evening milking—but the chief interest on the part of the denizens of the great kraal was centred around the waggons. However it was too late to unload for trade purposes that evening, so beyond getting out a few things for gifts to Majendwa and some of the principal men of the place, I left everything undisturbed.

“Here’s our hut, Falkner,” I said, presently, as we returned within the kraal. “We’re going to sleep here.”

“Sleep here?” he echoed. “Don’t know. I’d much rather sleep at the waggons. How about crawlers,” surveying doubtfully the interior, wherein Tom was depositing the few things we should require for the night.

“Oh, that won’t trouble us. Beyond a few cockroaches of the smaller sort a new hut like this is clean enough. You see Majendwa’s an old friend of mine, and he wouldn’t take it in good part if we didn’t sleep in his kraal, at any rate for a night or two. Now we’re going to dine with him. Look they’ve just killed a young beast in honour of our arrival.”

And dine with him we did, and Falkner himself was fain to own that the great slabs of grilled beef, cut from the choicest part, down the back to wit, which were presently brought in, flanked by roasted mealies, and washed down by unlimited tywala constituted a banquet by no means to be sneezed at. What though a clean grass mat did duty for a plate, and a skewer of wood for a fork, even he admitted that we might have fared much worse.

I did not talk much as to the state of the country with our entertainers that night—that I could get at better by degrees, and later. But they chuckled mightily as I described the scrap with Dolf Norbury.

“Udolfu!” Oh yes, they knew him well, used to trade with him at one time, but they didn’t want such whites as him in the Zulu country, they said. I could understand this the more readily, for I knew that he had tried on his bounce even to the verge of attempted blows with Ngavuma, Majendwa’s eldest son, who was from home just now, and for his pains had got a broad assegai into his ribs which had kept him quiet on the flat of his back for a matter of three or four months or so. So chatting—and translating for the benefit of Falkner—even he agreed we had got through an uncommonly jolly evening, and that the real Zulu was a real brick, by Jove! Then we turned in.

I have a knack of shutting my eyes and going sound off about thirty seconds after my head touches the pillow, or whatever does duty for one, and that night made no exception to my general practice. I heard Falkner fumbling about and cussing because he couldn’t get his blankets fixed up just as he wanted them, and so on; then I recollect my half-smoked pipe dropping from my mouth just as usual, and then I recollect no more, till—

I woke—not at all as usual when there was nothing to wake me. The moonlight was streaming in through the interstices of the wicker slab that constituted the door, throwing a fine silver network upon the floor of the hut. Striking a match I looked at my watch. It was just after one. But as the light flickered and went out I became aware of something else. I was alone in the hut. What the deuce had become of Falkner?

Raising myself on one elbow I called his name. No answer. I waited a little, then got up and crawled through the low doorway.

The moon was nearly at full, and I stood looking over the screen of woven grass which was erected in front of the door, leaving just room on each side for a man to pass. The scene was of wonderful beauty. The great circle of domed huts lying between their dark ring fences, the shimmering solitude of the moonlit plain, and beyond, the far amphitheatre of terraced cliffs rising to the twinkling stars. The calm beauty of it all riveted me, accustomed as I was to night in the open—do we ever get accustomed to such nights as this I wonder?—and I stood thinking, or rather beginning to think—when—

Such a clamour broke forth upon the sweet stillness of the night as though all the dogs in the kraal—no, in the world—had suddenly gone stark, staring, raving mad, and then in the light of the broad moon I saw Falkner Sewin clad in nothing but a short light shirt, sprinting as I feel sure he never sprinted before or since. Behind him poured forward a complete mass of curs, gaunt leggy brutes and as savage as they make them, given the conditions of night and a fleeing unwonted object. The ground was open in front of Majendwa’s huts, so he had some start.

“This way!” I yelled, lest he should mistake the hut, then quick as lightning I was inside. So was he, in about a moment, and was on his back with both heels jammed hard against the slammed-to wicker slab that constituted the door, while the whole snarling mouthing pack was hurling itself against the same, snapping and growling, till finding they couldn’t get in, the ill-conditioned brutes started to fight with each other. Then a man came out of an adjacent hut and shied knobsticks into the lot, dispersing them with many a pained yell. The while I lay there and laughed till I cried.

“If you could only have seen yourself, Falkner, covering distance in the moonlight and a short shirt,” I managed to gasp at length. “Man, what the deuce took you wandering about at night? They don’t like that here, you know.”

“Oh damn what they like or what they don’t like!” he growled pantingly. “I couldn’t sleep—some infernal leggy thing or other ran over me—so thought I’d admire the view a little by moonlight. Then those loathly brutes came for me all at once. Here! give us hold of that fat flask we had the sense to bring along. I want a drink badly.”

“So do I!” I said starting off to laugh again. “Well, you mustn’t do any more moonlight patrols. It’s tagati, as the Zulus say.”

Chapter Eighteen.

A Grim Find.

Soon trade became brisk. I had the waggons partly off-loaded, and by dint of stretching a large sail across both of them formed an impromptu store in which the goods were piled. All day long the people crowded up, those who were not dealing enjoying the fun of witnessing the arts and dodges of those who were; just as an outdoor sale on the market square of a town will always attract a number of folks who have nothing else to do, and also, an equal number perhaps of those who have.

Cattle would be driven up; good ones, for I had given out distinctly that it was waste of trouble to bring anything but good ones,—and then the owners, squatting around, would spend an hour or so haggling, to go away firmly resolved not to deal, but they nearly always came back, and, meanwhile, others would take their places, and go through in all probability exactly the same process; for your Zulu at a deal is a born Jew, and will spend an astonishing amount of time haggling out of sheer love of haggling. He would go on for ever but for one consideration—the amount of goods is limited in quantity, and if one neglects to secure his share another does not. So for the first few days I sat tight, making up “lots” with green blankets and cooking pots, butcher knives—always in great request—and brass buttons, beads and Salampore cloth, which by the way, is not cloth at all, but a light gauzy fabric of dark blue, greatly in favour with the unmarried girls. All sorts of “notions” were in request, the veriest trifles as to market value, but highly prized up there; and as a thing is worth what it will fetch, why there comes in much of the trader’s legitimate profit. I always held that no trade was too small to be refused, and I would accept curios, which were always in demand by down-country dealers in such things. Assegais however were extremely difficult to obtain, so much so indeed as to be practically outside articles of barter, and this was significant. Another thing not less so was the universal request, open or covert, for firearms and ammunition. It was not much use my explaining to them that they were better off without either, that a man can do much better with a weapon he understands than with one he does not. For some reason or other they were bent on having them.

However, in a short while I found myself in possession of quite a nice lot of cattle, the sale of which would leave me a very considerable profit over when expenses were cleared, so I was not dissatisfied. Then, all of a sudden, trade fell off, then ceased altogether. There was no apparent reason for it. I stood well with Majendwa, indeed I always erred in the right direction with regard to the principal chiefs when on trading ventures in their districts, holding that it is far better policy to be too liberal than too mean. But there was no blinking the fact that for some reason or other further trade was “off.” No more were my waggons thronged from morning till night. Those from outlying kraals who had been the most eager, stopped away altogether, but now and then someone from close at hand would drop in for something, and even then the deal would be so insignificant as to remind me of my store at Isipanga.

I put the matter squarely to Majendwa, but it didn’t seem to help. He admitted that for some reason or other my trade had stopped. What could he do? He could not order his people to deal. I agreed with him there, still I was puzzled. I had calculated to have easily cleared out all I had at his place. Yet I had done well enough so far, but when I proposed to move further northward, and get into Uhamu’s country, Majendwa seemed for some reason or other unwilling that I should.

“You will do no better there, Iqalaqala,” he said, “and, for the rest, it is not advisable. See, we are alone, and are talking beneath the bullock’s skin. Again I say—do not go there. Return rather to your own country, even if you have to carry back some of the goods you have brought. Or, there may be those on your way who will relieve you of them.”

I looked at him fixedly and a thought struck me. The phrase he had used might well bear two meanings. Had he intended it as a warning? Such might well have been the case.

Falkner the while had been amusing himself as best he could. He soon got tired of watching the barter, though at first it had afforded him some amusement, but I had laid a stern and uncompromising embargo upon any approach even to practical joking. So he would roam off with a rifle or shot gun, and although I was anxious lest he should get into some mischief or other yet he seemed not to. Now he welcomed the idea of clearing out, when we talked things over. To my surprise he propounded an idea when I was telling him how our trade had come to a standstill.

“What if that sweep whose head I punched should be at the bottom of it?” he said. “Dolf Norbury, I mean?”

I thought there might be something in it. However if it were true, he was bound to have gone to work in some such way that it would be impossible to prove anything, and even if we did, it was hard to see what we could do.

“Do? Why call round and punch his head again, of course,” he answered briskly.

“That wouldn’t help us to recover our trade. Besides Dolf Norbury isn’t the sort to let himself be caught that way twice running. This time it would be a case of shooting on sight.”

“That’s a game two can play at,” said Falkner.

“Yes,” I answered, “but in this case it’s a game in which he holds all the hand. It’s clear that he has some following, and we have a lot of cattle to drive. Well, while we were settling accounts with him his, or rather Mawendhlela’s, rips would have no trouble in clearing these off to some part of the country where we should never see a hoof of them again.”

“But would they have the cheek to do that?”

“Wouldn’t they? And this is a time when neither the King nor any of the chiefs would be over-keen to interfere in a quarrel between two white men. Let them settle it themselves is what would be said and meanwhile we should have lost all we came up for.”

“Damn!”

“I echo that sentiment most fervently, but it can’t be helped,” I said. “As it is I’ve a notion we shall have to round up our belongings extra tight till we are clear of the country.”

“Oh well. Let’s make the best of it and sit tight here a week or so longer, Glanton. I’m beginning to enjoy this shooting among rocks. These klip-springers are such cute little devils. It’s more fun shooting them than it used to be markhor, and nothing like the fag.”

Falkner was a capital shot with rifle and bird gun alike, and one of his good points was that he was a keen and thorough sportsman. That being the case he had been able to find game up here where one less keen would have given up in disgust, and it was a good thing, if only that it kept him out of mischief.

Jan Boom, the Xosa, was the only one who would hint at any reason for the falling off of our trade, but, as it happened, I was rather prejudiced against him by reason of his affectation of a certain air of superiority over those of his own colour, on the strength of his knowledge of English. In fact I rather disliked him, and therefore of course distrusted him. Subsequently I had reason to alter my opinion with regard to him: but that will keep. Out of Mfutela I could get nothing on the subject. Either he knew nothing or was too “close” to say: and when a native is “close” why it is rather less difficult to make an oyster open by whispering soft nothings to it than to get him to unfold.

One day Falkner and I started off to have a hunt among the krantzes beyond those which walled in the hollow. We took Jan Boom with us, and a couple of young Zulus to show us the short cut. It was a grey and lowering day, gloomy in the extreme, and every now and then a spot of rain showed what we were likely to expect, but Falkner was keen on sport, and I was getting hipped, besides, in those days I cared little enough for weather. We scrambled about all the morning among the rocks, with absolutely no luck whatever, and then I got sick of it, wherefore after we had lunched upon what we had brought with us I proposed to find my way back to the waggons. Falkner of course wanted to keep on, but I pointed out that my defection need cause no drawback to him, for I would leave him the boys and make my way back alone. So we separated and before we had long done so a distant report, some way above, showed that at any rate he was beginning to find sport.

I struck downward, rapidly making use of half obliterated cattle tracks, for the Abaqulusi were largely a mountain tribe, and there were outlying kraals among the heights as well as in the hollows. Following one of these paths I came suddenly upon a steep gorge, falling abruptly to the next slope some distance below.

This gully was in places almost chasm-like in its formation, and was indescribably wild and gloomy in the utter solitude of the grey afternoon. I had just crossed it where the path dipped, when, looking up, there stood a klipspringer gazing at me.

He was an easy hundred yard shot. Slipping from the saddle on the further side from him, I thought to myself that Falkner would not altogether have the crow over me when we got back. But—when I looked again, expecting to take a quick aim, by Jingo! the little beast had disappeared.

This was annoying, for now a disinclination to return empty handed had seized me. Quickly and noiselessly I made my way up to where he had been. It was as I had thought. He had been standing on a sort of pinnacle; and now, as I peered cautiously over, there stood the little buck, less than the first distance below.

He was outlined against the black and shadowed bottom of the gorge, and was gazing away from me. Now I would have him, I decided. In a second my sights were on him full—I didn’t take long over aiming in those days—when I lowered the rifle with some precipitation. Right bang in a line with where the klipspringer had been standing—had been, observe, for the slight additional movement on my part had caused him to disappear again—was the form of a man.

It gave me a turn, for with lightning rapidity it flashed through my mind that nothing could have saved him. Then consternation gave way to curiosity. The form though that of a man was not that of a living one.

Down in the shadow of a dark hole, overhung by gloomy rocks, it sprawled in a constrained half upright posture against one of these. It was too far off and the light not good enough to be able to distinguish how it was secured in this position, but it seemed to be facing upward in a dreadful attitude of scared supplication. I would go down and investigate. But before I had taken many steps in pursuance of this resolve I stopped short.

For an idea had occurred to me. The body was that of a native, and it was obvious that life had been extinct for some time. What good purpose could I serve by investigating it further? I was in a savage country in which life was held cheap. The man whoever he might be, had quite likely been executed for some offence; the method of his death being in all probability designed to fit the offence. Clearly therefore it was no concern of mine, and accordingly I decided to forego further investigation. And then, as though to confirm me in the good policy of such decision something happened—something that was sufficiently startling.

A bullet pinged against a stone beside me, sending up a hard splash of splinters and dust, and, confound it, the thing had hit barely a yard from where I was standing.

“Hallo, Falkner!” I hailed, deeming the puff of smoke from among the rocks above and opposite must be his work. “Look out I’m here. D’you hear, man?”

But no answer came, not immediately that is. In a minute however, one did come, and that in the shape of another bullet, which banged up the dust just about the same distance on the other side of me. My first impulse was that Falkner was playing one of his idiotic practical jokes at my expense, but with the idea I seemed to feel sure that it was not Falkner—and that, in short, I had better withdraw from this very uncanny spot.

As I hastened to carry this judicious resolve into practical effect I won’t pretend that I felt otherwise than uncomfortable and very much so. Whoever it was up there could shoot—confound him! an accomplishment rare indeed among the natives of Zululand in those days. Clearly too the exact nicety with which both distances had been judged seemed to point to the fact that both shots had been fired by way of warning. That I had at any rate accepted such I trusted I had made clear to the giver of it, as I walked—I hoped without undue haste but rapidly—to where I had left my horse.

Nothing further occurred, although until clear of the heights I kept an uncommonly sharp look out. Once clear of them however, the incident left no great impression on my mind. I had unwittingly stumbled across something unusual and had been about to pry into what didn’t concern me, and it had been resented. The Abaqulusi were an independent and warlike clan who would be sure to resent such. I had received a hint, and a pretty forcible one, to mind my own business, and I concluded that in future I would mind it, at any rate while in these parts. That was all.

Chapter Nineteen.

Concerning a Letter.

Evening was closing in wet and gloomy. The lowering clouds swept along the high ground which shot in the great hollow, causing the cliffs to seem three times their real height in the ghostly murk. Added to this it was raw and cold, which had the effect of causing the inhabitants of the big kraal to hug their firesides. Here and there a form swathed in an ample green blanket might be seen moving from one hut to another, quickly to dive within the same, for your savage is a practical animal, and sees no fun in foregoing any of his comforts when no necessity exists for doing so—and the interior of the huts was warm and dry, and, without, it was neither.

I was alone at the waggons, Falkner not having yet returned. For this I was not sorry, for although Falkner and I had grown accustomed to each other, yet there were times when I could cheerfully accept a holiday from his presence.

Darker and darker it grew. The oxen were driven in and fastened to the trek chain for the night, and the boys, lying snug under the shelter they had rigged up by means of a large sail thrown over the buck waggon, leaving one side between the wheels open, were chatting in their rhythmical deep-voiced hum, and the fire they had built not far from the opening glowing more and more redly as the gloom deepened. Then their talk suddenly ceased, as out of the darkness appeared a tall figure, saluting.

“What have you there?” I said, as the new arrival began fumbling for something in his skin pouch.

“Incwadi ’Nkose,” he answered.

I own to a thrill of excited expectation very foreign to my normally placid way of taking things, for incwadi is the word for a letter or a token of any kind. I could hardly restrain my eagerness to open the packet carefully sewn up in oilskin, which the man now handed me. Aïda Sewin, then, had availed herself of the means of correspondence which I had arranged, but—what if this were not addressed to me after all, but only to Falkner? and at the thought my anticipations fell. Still it would be good to hear, anyhow. The rather startling incident of a few hours ago was driven clean from my mind now.

I climbed into the tent waggon and lighted the lantern which hung from the tent, and you may be sure it didn’t take me long to unroll the oilskin wrapping. Two letters it contained—one for Falkner and one for myself—the latter in the handwriting I knew, and one that a reader of character from handwriting would assuredly not have reported upon unfavourably. Having once satisfied myself on the point, I believe I was in no hurry to open it. The pleasures of anticipation, you see, counted for something with me still.

Then came another phase in the above. I drew from the envelope several sheets rather closely written. Why, this was too much luck. I glanced quickly through them to ascertain that the whole of it was for me, but resolved not to anticipate the contents in any way. More than ever was I glad now that Falkner had not returned. I could well do without his somewhat boisterous company for the next half-hour, or even longer. Then I spread open the sheets before me, and by the somewhat dim light of the waggon lantern began to read.

“Dear Mr Glanton,—I am taking advantage of the arrangement you so thoughtfully made, and only trust this will not miss you during your wanderings. Mother is writing to Falkner at the same time. I hope you have been able to make him useful, and that he has behaved himself generally well. He is a good sort of boy at bottom, but gets far too much spoilt among us all, as you must have observed, though I believe I am the one who spoils him least. At any rate a little roughing it will do him no harm.

“Things are very much as usual. We see a good deal of Mr Kendrew, who comes over when he can and is a great help.”—“Oh, the devil he is!” said I to myself at this point. “Just what I foresaw, confound it!”—“But we miss you very much, and are hoping soon to welcome you back after a thoroughly successful expedition.”

This was more comforting, I thought to myself, laying down the letter and conjuring up a recollection of the writer’s words, that last evening. She would look forward to my return, she had declared—would be disappointed if I did not go to see them immediately. Confound it, what was the matter with me, that I sat dreaming and building castles in the air? The rain fell upon the canvas of the waggon tent with monotonous drip, and a puff of raw air through the flap of the tied-down sail caused the light of the hanging lantern to flicker—but I was no longer in the gloomy wilds of Northern Zululand, on a rainy, chilly, and altogether abominable evening. I was again in the starlight glow as on that evening, listening to the sweet tones of the writer’s voice, and gazing at the beautiful, highbred face.

The letter went on, dealing now with everyday matter, in a bright, natural, chatty style. The Major was in great form and delighted with his garden and its development, thanks to some fine rains. The Scotts had been over to see them a couple of times—and here followed some banter at the expense of that worthy and neighbouring family, the head of which—originally a waggon-maker’s journeyman—was, incidentally, addicted to too much grog, when he could get it—which wasn’t often. At Major Sewin’s he could get it, and became comical, but always harmlessly so. Things on the farm were going well, thanks to Ivondwe, who was worth his weight in gold, and—I could read between the lines—was practically running the place himself. Tyingoza had been over to see them too, and seemed completely to have forgotten Falkner’s liberty with regard to his head-ring, for he had been exceedingly pleasant, and, through Ivondwe, had said a great many nice things about me—reading which I felt more than brotherly towards Tyingoza, and made up my mind then and there to present him with something of large and practical value when I should get up my next consignment of trade goods.

This had covered some three sheets, closely written, and there were still quite as many more. Decidedly Miss Sewin was a good correspondent. I had been going through her letter grudgingly, as if the turning of every leaf should bring the end near. The sail was lifted, and Tom’s honest black face appeared, to ask some question. I curtly told him to go to the devil, and resumed my reading.

“And now,” went on the letter, “I am coming to something that I feel I must tell you, and yet I hardly like to. It seems so ridiculous somehow when one comes to put it down on paper, though if you were here, and we could talk it over, well—it might not. You remember that last evening, and what we were talking about when I asked you if some plan could not be arranged under which I could write to you if I felt that we were in need of your aid or advice? The idea rather originated with yourself if you remember, in your usual kindness and forethought, so that consideration alone emboldens me to write what might otherwise seem to you only fanciful and foolish. You know, too, I am not inclined to indulge in that sort of thing, so you will, I am sure, bear with me. But I must begin.

“You remember that witch doctor, Ukozi, who came upon us suddenly at the waterhole that same last evening, when my coin was lost? Well, he has taken to coming here a great deal. At first my father used to get angry with him and want to drive him away; you know, quite in the old style, before you taught him—or tried to teach him—that the natives here were not to be driven like our people in India used to be. But Ukozi didn’t seem to mind. He would go away chuckling, but the next day sure enough, there he was again. Then father suddenly swung round and seemed to take a fancy to him. He would talk to him by the hour—through Ivondwe interpreting—and when we wondered, would tell us that he was getting Ulcozi to teach him some of the native magic. Of course it seemed to us absurd, but if we said anything of the sort father would get angry, so the only thing was to let him go his own way. But when it came to his going out at night with the witch doctor and coming back at all hours thoroughly done up, why it seemed that the thing was going too far. He has become very mysterious too. Once he let drop that Ukozi was going to tell him all about the waterhole, and the strange thing that we saw there, and then he became more angry still and vowed that he wouldn’t be interfered with—that here was a chance of learning something quite out of the common, and he was going to take it whatever happened. Nothing we can say or do seems to weigh with him in the least, and really, if it didn’t sound too absurd, I should say that this witch doctor had got him right under his thumb. I asked Ivondwe about it quietly, but he was very nice, and said that the old Nkose was a wise man, yet there were things that his wisdom had not yet reached, and now he would like to learn them—that was all. There was nothing to trouble about. When he had learnt what Ukozi could—or would—teach him—and that was not much—then he would be the same as before. Now, Mr Glanton, you know these people, and I ask you what does it all mean? My father is altogether a changed man—how changed you would be the first to recognise if you could see him. What, too, is the object; for Ukozi, beyond getting something to eat, and tobacco now and then, does not seem to ask for anything by way of payment, and I always thought the native isanusi was nothing if not acquisitive? But he is always here. For want of a better expression he is getting upon my nerves, and not only upon mine. It seems as if we were somehow being drawn within an influence, and an influence the more weird and inexplicable that it is through an agency that we should traditionally hold as something inferior, and therefore quite absurd to take seriously. I mean a native influence.

“Shall I risk disgracing myself for ever in your eyes by owning that I am getting just a little bit frightened? Yes, frightened—I’m afraid there’s no other word for it—and the worst of it is I don’t in the least know what I am frightened of. It seems as if a something was hanging over us—a something awful, and from which there is no escape. You remember it was such a presentiment that made me say what I did the last time you were here, and you reassured me on the subject of the witch doctor at any rate. As to him, there is another strange circumstance. Arlo, too, seems to have come under his influence. Arlo who never could be got to take to any native, and now he is more obedient to this Ukozi than to any of us; yet it is the obedience of fear, for he whines and crouches when the witch doctor speaks to him. Here, you will allow, is a real mystery.

“There are other things I might say, but I think I have said enough. Again I hope you won’t put me down as a weak-minded idiot frightened at her own shadow. This country, you see, is so new and strange to us, and our position is rather lonely; father, too, is ageing a good deal, so there is some excuse if we feel a little—well, nervous, at times. As it is I have put off writing to you until, as I reckon from what you said, your time in Zululand must be nearly up, and then only that you may not delay to come and see us immediately on your return.

“All send kind regards and are looking forward to welcoming you back, but none more so than—

“Yours very sincerely,

“Aïda Sewin.

“P.S.—I would rather you didn’t mention anything of this to Falkner.”

This letter was, to say the least of it, puzzling. Carefully I read it through again, and then it became obvious that the main drift of it was, if not exactly an after-thought, at any rate not in the writer’s mind to communicate when she first began. Her contradictory accounts of her father pointed to this. I made an effort to put behind me for the present the feeling of exultation that I should be the one appealed to—the rock of refuge, so to say—for I wanted to think out the drift of the whole thing; and all my experience has gone to teach me that you can’t think, of two things at once without only half thinking of both of them. The witch doctor’s conduct was inexplicable viewed by the ordinary light of common-sense motive. But I had lived long enough among natives to know that I didn’t really know them, which is paradoxical yet true. I knew this much, that underlying their ordinary and known customs there are others, to which no white man ever gains access except by the purest accident—customs, it may be, to all appearances utterly inconsequent or even ridiculous, but others again of darker and more sinister import. Such are denied by them with laughter, as too utterly absurd for existence, but they do exist for all that, and the confiding European is lulled completely, thrown off the scent. And now, putting four and four together, I wondered whether it was not somewhere in this direction that I must search for Ukozi’s motive.