Chapter Twenty Five.
“The Perils and Dangers of this Night.”
What was to be done? The great, grisly brute stood there pawing and scraping, keeping up the while his gruesome moanings, his shrill bellow. But there was now a note of savagery in these: whether it was that the smell of blood, and a great deal of it, had worked him up, together with the fact of finding himself all alone, so far as his kind went—his voice took on that strange growling note which enraged cattle take on at times, and then—look out for mischief. And the girl stood, absolutely unprotected, the prostrate form of her friend lying there at her feet, helpless. Had any been there to see it her face wore the same look that it had worn as she stood holding the big stone ready to throw, what time Elvesdon came between her and the great snake.
She let go the whip-lash with a resounding crack in the direction of the menacing beast. He was of the large homed kind that would have been the delight of a Plaza de Toros, and looked horribly formidable, tossing his white sharp horns in the moonlight. Then he charged.
Edala did not yield an inch as she stood over the body of her friend. She calculated her distance to a nicety, and as coolly as if she had been fly-fishing, she sent out the whip-lash again. Fortunately the charge was a half-hearted one, and the cutting voerslag, catching the enemy full in the eyes, brought him up as sharp as though the cruel banderillas had suddenly been stuck in his withers in the plaza in old Spain. She gave him no law. Twice in rapid succession again she gave him the voerslag, and the blinded beast, mad with pain, backed, then trotted unsteadily away.
Edala’s breathing came in spasmodic gasps as she watched him out of sight, and the reaction made her knees tremble beneath her. Oh hang it! She must keep up, she told herself. She could not afford to follow Evelyn’s example, or what would become of them both? So this girl, with the glorious gold-crowned head, alone there under circumstances of peril and horror, started to work out the situation for the safety of both.
“Come Evelyn. Pull yourself together, and get up!” she cried, half carrying, half dragging the other to the house door. “Lord! I shall have to shy a bucket of water over her yet!” she added almost savagely, panting from her exertion.
But this drastic remedy proved unnecessary, for Evelyn opened her eyes, then sat up, staring about her in a dazed kind of way.
“What is it? I’ve been dreaming—something horrible,” she said.
“Yes, you have. Never mind. Buck up now, and come inside. It’s beastly cold out here.”
“Why yes. I feel tottery though. Oh Edala, what a fool you must think me.”
“No. Only, don’t do it again,” was the reply, accompanied by a curious laugh. Edala was thinking—though not resentfully—of how a day or two ago the other was lecturing her: in a way talking down to her, while disclaiming any intent to do so. Now she was the one upon whom everything depended. The situation was in her hands.
They went inside, and Edala mixed a glass of brandy and water.
“You drink this,” she said. “Then go to sleep for an hour or two and we’ll start for Kwabulazi.”
“But I hate spirits—Ugh!” with a shudder.
“So do I; and I hate medicine too; but both are necessary sometimes. Down with it.”
Evelyn obeyed, with more than one additional shudder. But the end justified the means, for, sitting back in a low roomy armchair, she soon felt drowsy and dropped off to sleep.
Edala felt no inclination to follow her example, on the contrary she had never felt more wakeful in her life. She wandered from room to room. There was her father’s library, and his favourite chair and reading lamp. There were his cherished books, and all the surrounding was alive with his presence. She could hardly realise that he was no longer there, but instead was a prisoner—a hostage—in the hands of insurrectionary savages; whose wild mad scheme of rebellion could end in no other way than that utterly disastrous to themselves, and then—?
She looked around the room, and a terrible wave of compunction, or remorse came over her. How hard, how selfish, how unloving she had been towards him. Who was she that she should judge him? Yet she had, and that at every moment of the day.
All the affection and care and consideration he had lavished upon her came back now. It would, when it was too late, he had more than once said in his bitterness—Evelyn too had all unconsciously echoed his words. And it had. Should she ever see him again—ever look upon that loving presence—to whom she had been all in all for the whole of her young life, and whom she had met with ingratitude and repulsion? In the lonely silence of the still midnight the girl who had faced physical danger with a calm front, and rare readiness of resource, broke down.
“Father darling—darling! come back to me,” she moaned. “Only come back to me, to your little one again, and all shall be so different, so different.”
She had dropped upon her knees, her head buried in the chair—his chair. Her heart seemed breaking in her sobs—her great sobs—which hardly relieved it. What if she should never see him again, to tell him how his words had been surely fulfilled—never—never? No, she could not realise it. This room, which more than any other in the house seemed sacred to his presence and—now empty of it. A large portrait of him hung on the wall. Rising she went over and pressed her lips to the cold, not too carefully dusted, glass again and again.
The sound of stirring in the other room now came to her ears. It brought her down to the hard, material side of the situation. She dashed the tears from her eyes, fiercely, determinedly, and went to join her relative. Evelyn was awake again, and was looking around in rather a frightened way.
“Oh, here you are, Edala! Shall we start? I feel ever so much refreshed now. But you, child—have you had some sleep?”
“Yes—no,” was the half-absent reply. “Start? Yes, as soon as you’re ready. Wait though. I’ll go and get some supplies for the way. Later on you’ll find it no joke walking thirteen miles across the veldt on nothing but air.”
She was all material and practical again now. In a marvellously short space of time she returned with a well packed wallet stored with provisions.
“You sling this on,” handing the other a vulcanite water bottle. “I’ll carry the skoff—and the gun. It’s a pity you couldn’t learn to shoot, Evelyn, or you might have carried another. As it is we’ll hide the other two—inside the piano. No Kafir would think of looking for them there.”
This was done, then having carefully extinguished the lights and being well wrapped up, for the nights were fresh; and in dark attire, for safety’s sake, they went forth.
“I wonder if we shall ever see the old house again,” said Edala bitterly. “It’ll probably be burned to the ground, and all father’s treasured books,”—she added, with the catch of a sob. “These brutes—who have known you all your life, and then even they fall away from you! They’ll stick at nothing.”
There was silence then as they started upon their long tramp. The bodies of the poor dogs lay where they had been slain, plainly outlined under the cold moon, whose light glared down too upon that other mangled human relic, which, fortunately they could not see. High in the air invisible plover wheeled and whistled, and down in the blackness of the kloofs, right across their way, the answering bay of hunting jackals, and the deeper voice of the striped hyena, echoed eerily upon the night. Evelyn shuddered.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Edala. “Nothing to be afraid of there—quite the contrary. It means that our way is clear, or no animal would be kicking up all that row. That’s just what we want. Hallo—here’s our friend back again,” she broke off, as a trample of hoofs, and a quick shrill bellow, told that the bull had returned. Again Evelyn shuddered.
“Will he attack us?” she said.
“I hope not, because this time I shall have to shoot. A charge of Treble A. at ten yards’ll split even his tough skull. But the last thing I want to do is to loose off a shot at all. By the way, that’s old Blue Hump. He must have got cut off from the herd when they drove it off—or cleared on his own. He’s a vicious old brute, anyway.”
The animal was trotting parallel with their course and every now and then they could make out the great branching horns above the bush sprays. But he must have grown tired of it, or feared to come to closer quarters, for presently they Saw no more of him.
“There’s a pathway here that cuts a considerable corner,” said Edala. “Whew! how cold it is.”
It was, and in spite of the exercise and plentiful wrapping up, both girls shivered. There were stealthy rustlings in the darkness of the brake, and once a great ant-bear rushing across the road, looking pale and uncanny in the moonlight, drew a stifled shriek from Evelyn. The other laughed.
“They’re the most harmless things on earth. Hyland and I and poor Jim used to hunt them often at night with assegais.”
Thus they travelled on, and soon Evelyn became accustomed to the unwonted experience of walking all night across wild country in potential peril at every step: fortunately she was in hard physical training by now. Once Edala’s quick vision had detected a puff adder lying in the path, but a few stones hurled from a little distance, soon drove the bloated, hissing reptile to seek safety somewhere else. Now and again a great owl would drop down right in front of their faces, and they could see his head turning from side to side as he sailed along on noiseless pinions, uttering his ghostly hoot: or the ‘churn’ of the nightjar would echo weirdly from beneath some overhanging rock; or again, a tiger-wolf howled, and big beetles in blundering flight, boomed through the air. So the voices of the night were never still.
They had sat down for a brief rest, and some refreshment, then on again. Suddenly Edala grew uneasy. A white mist was settling down upon the land. This was serious; for not only might they run plump into those it was all important to avoid, but there was grave danger of getting ‘turned round’ and finding themselves back at Sipazi again. The mist deepened, and so did Edala’s growing anxiety. It was one of those thick white mists which settle down upon the land in the small hours of the morning, fearfully disconcerting from a wayfarer’s point of view, but which melt away as by magic before the sun is an hour high. But that was small comfort to these two. They wanted to be at Kwabulazi before the sun was above the horizon at all. Suddenly Edala started.
“Hark!” she whispered, stopping short.
In front—directly in front—was audible a deep, confused murmur of sound, rolling, as it seemed, from one point to another, and drawing nearer and nearer. And with it came another sound. Those who have heard it can never mistake it, and these two had heard it all too significantly of late. It was the quivering rattle of assegai hafts.
From the sounds, spread out as they were right across their front, it was manifest that a large body of natives was moving towards them in open order. The fact that they were all armed told its own tale. This was a rebel impi, and but for the friendly mist these two would have run right into it.
“Quick, Evelyn! This way!” breathed, rather than whispered, Edala.
Holding her companion’s hand she drew her after her. The way she was taking now ascended sharply, but it was the only way. The rime rolled along, now in gusty puffs. This seemed to tell that they were gaining some height. Both were panting from their exertion, but there was no such thing as pausing, for now from the sounds beneath it was evident that the savages had suddenly altered their line of march, and were coming on in the same direction as themselves. Had they heard the sound of their steps, the clinking of a stone—what not? Anyway they could not go down, these two. That was out of the question.
On and upward. A puff of damp air, now nearly in their teeth, showed that they had attained the summit of some height. Suddenly Edala seized her companion’s hand in a strong grip and held it—and its owner.
“What is it?” whispered the latter.
“We are on the edge of a big krantz, that’s all. Three or four more steps and we should have been over.”
It was even as she had said. The ground ended just in front of them, and the blast of air coming up denoted a cliff, and one of considerable height.
But now it was lightening, and they could make out the long smooth edge of the height stretching away on their left front. And—good Heavens! Now the voices sounded from that direction—advancing from that direction as though to meet the owners of those coming up behind. These two were in a trap, caught between two fires. It was evident that the savages suspected their presence—the presence of somebody—and were quartering the ground in order to clear up the mystery. And there was nowhere to hide. The mountain top was flat and grassy. Suddenly Edala gave a violent start.
“I know our bearings now,” she whispered. “We’re on the top of Sipazi. Now Evelyn, there’s one chance for us, and one only—if you’ve the nerve to take it.”
“And that?”
“My ‘aerial throne.’”
The other gasped. She remembered how her flesh had crept before, when Edala had taken her to see the famous tree, how she had turned away almost faint, as she watched the girl spring out fearlessly on to this dreadful seat—with a careless laugh as though she had just dropped into an armchair. And now she too must sit dangling over the awful height. At that moment she almost preferred to take her chance of the assegais of the savages. But that chance might possibly mean even a worse one, and the thought decided her, as Edala whispered impatiently:—
“It’s got to be done. It’s our only chance. But you can’t fall. I’ll take care of that. Come.”
The deep voices sounded alarmingly near now. We have said that the brow of the mountain went down by a grass steep that was almost precipitous, to the stump of the tree. Edala let herself down this with cat-like security of footing, keeping ever a firm hold upon her companion—her gun she wedged into the root of a stunted bush growing out from the grass.
“Now we’re all right,” she whispered, as they sat wedged upon the projecting tree trunk, their feet dangling over space. “You can’t possibly fall, you know, as long as you hang on to that root, and I’m holding you. It’s a triumph of matter over mind instead of t’other way on, and as long as you forget there’s more than six foot of drop between this and the ground why you’re as jolly here as in an armchair on the stoep.”
And the other was somewhat reassured, although the situation to her was ghastly and horrible in the extreme. But now the voices drew very near indeed, were right overhead. Fortunately the mist had suddenly thickened, and the tree, which was some little way down, was quite blotted out to the vision of those above. To Edala, who understood what was said, the moment was one of awful tensity. Someone had been upon the mountain, of that they were convinced. But where could they be? There was no hiding place. Unless they had fallen over the cliff they would be here now.
Thus the discussion flowed on. Even the vibration of the tread of feet above caused the tree trunk to quiver slightly. At any moment the mist might lift. And it seemed to these two, suspended over awful space, an eternity. Then with unspeakable relief and thankfulness they heard the footsteps and voices retreating.
“Not yet,” breathed Edala. “Not yet. We must let them get clear away first. See. It’s getting lighter.”
It was. The dawn was at hand; in fact had already begun to break. The outline of the cliff above was visible now, plainly visible, and devoutly thankful did Edala feel that this lightening had been deferred as long as it had.
“My ‘aerial throne’ has its uses, Evelyn—eh?” she whispered.
Then something moved her to look up again. Her exaltation was dashed, shattered to the ground. On the brink, calmly gazing down upon them, stood the tall figure of a man—a dark man—and the outline of his figure and head-ring stood out against the sickly murk. She recognised Manamandhla. The bitterness of death had come.
For a few moments the Zulu thus stood, his eyes meeting hers. Then, without a word, he turned away and disappeared.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Of a Home-Coming.
The kraal of the chief, Ndabakosi, was in a state of somewhat unusual excitement. Men were passing from hut to hut, but there were few women to be seen. The blue smoke reeks rose to bluer sky, and the odour of kine was in the air. Around, the veldt, dotted with feathery mimosa, lay shimmering in the afternoon heat.
The kraal was a fairly large one, but somewhat of a strain must have been put upon its capacity for accommodation, for a considerable number of people seemed to be gathered here—not all together, for they kept continually passing and re-passing from hut to hut, and hardly ever in the same groups. Quite a number of them too, carried assegais, and, not a few, shields. Clearly something was in the wind.
The horseman, pacing along the dusty track of road, was not in a good humour. We regret to have to record that more than once he swore—swore right heartily too. Nothing is more conducive to such behaviour than the discovery, in the course of a hot and tedious journey, that one’s mount has gone lame. This one had just made such a discovery—wherefore—he swore.
Dismounting, he looked again at the defaulting hoof, felt the pastern. Seen thus, he was a tall, broad shouldered young fellow, light-haired, blue-eyed, straight as a dart. He was puzzled. There was nothing to account for this sudden lameness. The steed was not of the best, but it was the best he could hire when he got off the train at Telani, at an early hour that morning, in his impatience to get home. And now it was out of the question that he should reach home that night. The horse was not very lame, certainly; but it was likely to go lamer still with every mile or so.
“It’s just possible I might borrow a horse at old Ndabakosi’s place,” he said to himself, “and that can’t be more than a mile further on. Yes there it is,” as, topping a rise, he could discern a ring of domed huts crowning a kopje a little way off the road in front. “These nigger gees are beastly screws as a rule, but ‘needs must, etc.,’ and it may get me as far as Kwabulazi to-night at any rate. He’s a decent old chap is Ndabakosi, and a long cool pull of tywala won’t come in badly just now. Gee up, you brute!”
Hyland Thornhill’s visions of home-coming were pleasant in spite of the above-detailed contretemps. It would be no end jolly to see the old man again—he and his father had always been more like chums than anything else, and the confidence between them was perfect. And little Edala—she was wrong-headed on certain points, but still—what times they would have. And the strange visitor? He wondered what she would be like. Well, the more the merrier—anyway, he was going to have a ripping time of it now he had broken loose at last. He had put up a surprise visit on them, and it would all be great fun.
But between himself and Sipazi there lay—Ndabakosi’s kraal.
The latter, for a moment had been unwontedly lively; then it was as dead. When Hyland Thornhill rode up to it, two ringed men stood watching his approach with listless curiosity.
“Saku bona ’madoda!” he cried. “And the chief—how is he?”
They returned his greeting.
The chief was asleep, they said. In fact he was getting old, and was not very well.
“Au! That is bad news,” returned Hyland. “But—we are old friends. I would like to look upon his face once more. Tell him Ugwala is here,” giving his native nickname.
The two, whose faces were strange to him, looked at each other. Then one went in the direction of the chief’s hut, while the other went in another direction. The while Hyland had not dismounted. Presently the first returned.
The chief was awake, he said, and would see Ugwala presently. Meanwhile would he not dismount?
But a very strange kind of instinct had come over Hyland Thornhill, warning him to do nothing of the kind. It happened that as he sat in the saddle waiting, he had happened to see, by a side glance, the hut which the other man had entered. The doorway, for one brief moment, had been crowded with faces, whose expression there was no mistaking. His glance had also caught the gleam of assegais. All the rumours he had heard on the way down and, especially when he had got off the train at Telani, where in fact he had been seriously warned against taking this journey all alone—came back to him. He remembered, too, that many of the more reliable chiefs were reported to be disaffected.
“I will not wait, then,” he answered. “I must reach Kwabulazi to-night. Hlala-gahle.”
The other grunted a sullen reply. Hyland, as he pushed his lame horse along, did not feel at all easy in his mind. He would have felt less so still had he seen what happened a few minutes afterwards. Hardly was he out of sight of the kraal than a number of armed savages issued from it, racing over the veldt at an angle of forty-five divergent from the direction he was taking. But they knew their own plan. They knew moreover that he was riding a lame horse. And they never intended he should reach Kwabulazi that night—or ever.
As he held on his way his uneasiness took a new turn, and that on behalf of his father and sister. If things were going from bad to worse Sipazi was a lonely place. Surely his father would know better than to remain on there. Perhaps they were already in laager—he had heard that in some parts the farmers were going into laager—and again and again he cursed his luckless mount which had had the unfortunate foolishness to go dead lame just as he wanted him to put his best foot foremost.
Stung by these obtruding apprehensions, Hyland lashed his steed savagely. It sprang forward into a half-hearted canter, and again he lashed it. In front rose a long acclivity, the straight road ribanded out in red dust, in contrast to the green of the veldt. Then began a race—all unconsciously on the part of one competitor, but not so on that of others. Threescore armed savages were straining every muscle to gain the top of that acclivity the first, advancing stealthily through the mimosa bushes and long grass.
Up this the sorry horse cantered half heartedly. But Hyland Thornhill was in a bad temper now, a condition of mind begotten of growing anxiety. What was a mere quadruped to him then? And again the raw-hide lash curled round the animal’s ribs. It gave a feeble kick or two, but started off at a fairly respectable pace.
“Get on, you brute!” he growled savagely.
It may grieve the moralist, but it is hard fact that that outburst of bad temper saved the rider’s life. For by just the time saved by the enforced acceleration of the horse’s pace did he gain the top of the rise first and—became alive to what he had, by such a shave, escaped. The crawling forms were not a hundred yards distant on his right when he sighted them, and on realising that they were discovered, they bounded forward with a roar. But it was downhill work now, and Hyland sent his steed along at its best pace, soon leaving his enemies behind.
“Near thing that, damn it!” he muttered grimly, turning in his saddle to see if he was being pursued.
He was. Dark forms, strung out like a pack of hounds, were sprinting along the road in his rear. He had got a good start, but what if this confounded screw should stumble and fall? Then—good night! And Kwabulazi was not exactly near, either. He had a good, business-like revolver slung round him, concealed by his coat; but what was that against such odds? It would mean selling his life at the price of four or five of theirs, and keeping the last bullet for himself.
He had served in Matabeleland as well as in the Dutch war. He was hardened and resourceful, but among the things he had learned in the former campaign was the accepted fact that it did not do to fall into the power of hostile savages, helpless and unarmed.
But no more did he see of his pursuers, and he felt almost affectionately disposed towards his defaulting mount, as he topped the last neck, and looked down upon Kwabulazi.
What was this? The place was all alive with people. The tents of several waggons showed up white in the evening glow, and as he drew nearer he could see a number of men digging for all they were worth. They were making entrenchments. The place had gone into laager, then. His father and sister would be there, and safe. After his own experience he was filled with unutterable relief and thankfulness as he realised this.
Several of the surrounding farmers had gathered here with their families for mutual defence, and an outlying storekeeper or two, and all hands were turning to with a will to bank up an adequate breastwork. Within this the waggons, together with boxes and bales, should form an inner line of defence. There was a lull in the work as Hyland rode up.
“Dashed if it isn’t young Thornhill!” said one—an old man with a bushy grizzled beard.
“Dashed if it isn’t old Seth Curtis,” responded Hyland, coolly.
“Well that’s a damned respectful way to talk to a man old enough to be your father,” growled the other.
“Old enough to be, but thank God he isn’t. I’m quite content with the one I’ve got,” answered Hyland shortly. He was not inclined to be cordial towards the speaker, or towards anyone there. He resented the attitude the neighbours had taken up towards his father, and didn’t care how much they knew it. “Where is he, by the way?”
There was no answer. A sort of blankness came over the group which had gathered. Each looked at the other. Hyland felt his face growing white and cold. His fists instinctively clenched.
“Can’t some idiot answer?” he snarled savagely, glaring at the blank faces, with a murderous longing to run ‘amok’ and dash his fists in to them all. Then a girl’s voice sounded forth clear and full.
“Why—it’s Hyland.”
“Edala—where is he?” was the first question in the midst of a hurried embrace. “Not killed?”
“No—not that.”
“What then? Wounded?”
“No. But—they’ve got him.”
“Good God!”
“Come with me and I’ll tell you all about it quietly,” and she led him to Elvesdon’s house where she and Evelyn had taken up their quarters. The latter’s presence he hardly noticed as he acknowledged their introduction mechanically. Then Edala gave him all particulars of the semi-tragic termination to Tongwana’s war-dance.
“Why the people have known him all their lives,” said Hyland. “What can be their object? I could understand if they had killed him—them—but to keep them prisoners—Oh Lord! Edala, can nothing be done to rescue them? We can’t sit down and let things slide.”
And he began to pace about the room. Edala shook her head, dejectedly.
“Mr Prior has been doing what he can. He has sent out two of his native detectives to try and find out where they are, and bribe the chiefs to release them. He does not believe that Tongwana had any hand in it. Nteseni might have, or Babatyana. He, by the way, has broken out, and there are rumours that old Zavula has been murdered by him.”
“Well, it’s quite likely. Yet that paying dodge is about the only chance at present that I can see,” said Hyland, gloomily. “We must first find out where they are, and if they’re alive I’ll get ’em out, or go under myself—even if I have to do it alone, for I don’t suppose any of these white livered curs round here would risk their skins to lend me a hand. They’re first-rate at snapping at a man’s heels though,” he ended savagely.
Edala knew to what he was referring, and secretly writhed. The lash was stinging her too.
“Hy, darling—it’s a perfect godsend that you have come. Oh, we must do something,” she said, her eyes filling. Edala the light-hearted, the careless, the somewhat hard—had softened marvellously since that experience.
Then Prior came in, and Hyland greeted him cordially, for they had been great friends; in fact the magistrate’s clerk was one of the very few in the neighbourhood with whom he would exchange much more than a word, for the reasons given above. Now he gave him his experiences at Ndabakosi’s kraal, and subsequently.
“If I’d got off that horse I should have been a dead man,” he concluded. “So I should be if I hadn’t got my shirt out, and quilted that poor lame old crock rather sinfully. Well, you see—you can trust none of these chaps after all. If there’s one nigger in all Natal I should have sworn was straight it’s old Ndabakosi.”
So they talked on. Prior, by reason of his official position, and as the deputy of his absent chief, found himself in a sort of post of command—the detachment of Mounted Police, too, being under his orders, and it looked as if Hyland Thornhill by reason of a masterful force of will was going to share it with him, in the active line at any rate, if they came to blows with the rebels. Than this Prior asked nothing better and said so with unfeigned satisfaction.
We last saw Edala and her companion poised on the dizzy altitude of what the former called her ‘aerial throne,’ surrounded by peril. Moreover they had just been discovered. Manamandhla had seen them, as to that there could be no doubt. Every moment they had sat there expecting the return of those they had heard above—then death; and every such moment was bitter with the bitterness of death. Yet, when they climbed up nearly an hour later and stood, cramped and shivering, the summit of Sipazi was clear. Sorely was Edala puzzled. Clearly the Zulu had not betrayed their presence. What strange unfathomable motive could he have had in sparing their lives—hers especially, thought Edala, whose father had deliberately attempted to take his? Yet he had done so.
And in the result Prior was astounded to see at about mid-day, instead of his chief returning—for he had taken for granted the latter was spending the night at Thornhill’s—two tired and haggard-eyed girls walking up to the place; and more astounded still when he recognised their identity, and learned the strange doings they had to tell of.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Defence of Kwabulazi.
All round the earthwork men were posted, many for the air was keen and biting. The stars, not yet faded, shone frostily, but there was no mist; and for this they were thankful. Each man had a gun of some sort, from an up-to-date Mauser or Lee-Metford, down to a double-barrelled shot-gun.
The first dull red streaks had begun to appear in the eastern sky, and at the sight a thrill of excitement ran along the circle, for such is almost invariably the time chosen by the wily savage for making his murderous rush. These were all prepared to give him a most unhealthy reception.
“Don’t light that silly pipe, Jenkins,” growled Hyland to his next door neighbour. “D’you hear? What are you doing, man? D’you think we want ’em to know we’re anxiously waiting to welcome them?”
The man addressed snarled.
“Who the ’ell are you?” he grunted. “I’m not taking orders from anyone.” Still he hardly dared disobey. Hyland Thornhill had a reputation for being a terror with his fists, and he was as strong as an elephant.
“I’ll knock it out of your silly jaws if you attempt to light it,” was the uncompromising answer. “Hallo!” as he became aware of another presence just behind him. “What are you doing here, Edala? Go in at once.”
“I’m going to take a hand in this game,” she answered, showing her revolver—her brother had impounded her gun, having none of his own.
“Not if I know it. Clear back in again at once, d’you hear.” Then in a tender undertone, “Be sensible, little girl. Go inside, and keep all those women from yelling themselves to death with funk directly. You can do it.”
She obeyed, with no further demur.
“‘The Lord is King,’” quoted with a sneer, the man just taken to task, to his neighbour on the other side. “But it seems to me that old Thornhill’s pup is king over Him.”
“Meaning yourself?”
“Oh, you’re so damn funny, Bridson. You’ll bust yourself if you don’t watch it,” rejoined the other resentfully.
Hyland, the while, was occupying himself by drawing a cross-nick with a pocket-knife on the apex of each of his Lee-Metford bullets. The gun was a rifle and smooth bore, and with a heavy charge of Treble A in the shot barrel, was calculated, as he put it, to stop the devil himself at no distance; anyhow many black devils would probably undergo the experiment before the day was an hour older. He had just finished on the last bullet when something caused him to throw up his head, rigid and motionless, listening intently. He had caught the faintest possible suspicion of that unique sound—the quiver of assegai hafts.
“Pass the word round ‘Stand by’,” he whispered to each of his neighbours. One ignored it—he recently rated, to wit. Who the devil was young Thornhill, to come here skippering the whole ship? he wanted to know—to himself.
Hyland was sighting his piece. In the fast lightening dawn his keen vision had detected a tongue of dark figures flitting stealthily out of the mimosa bushes some couple of hundred yards away—and striking out a line which should bring them round to the back of the entrenchment. This was the encircling manoeuvre, he decided. And then he let go.
But the detonation, and the wild yell of more than one stricken savage—for he had fired into them bunched up—was drowned by an appalling roar, as a dense mass sprang up among the low bushes on that front, and, waving shield and assegai, charged straight for the earthwork.
“Aim low—aim low,” was each man’s injunction to his neighbour as the firearms crashed: in the semi-light making a circle of jetting flame. With effect too, for the front rows went down like mown corn.
“Ho-ho-ho! Haw-haw! Hooray!” were the varying forms of hoarse guffaw that went up, and the joke was this. Those immediately behind the fallen ones, pressed on over the bodies of the latter, intending to rush the earthwork before the defenders should have time to reload. But they, too, went down in sheaves, and that before another shot had been fired. They had got into an entanglement of barbed wire, which had been stealthily and quickly fixed round the defences the night before, but after dark, lest the watchful eyes of scouts should perceive it and so prepare their countrymen, for this surprise. And now the surprise was complete.
“Give it ’em again!” shouted Hyland, setting the example. This time the fire was not directed upon those who had fallen among the wire entanglement, but on those immediately behind them. The effect was awful. The whole roaring, struggling mass fell back upon itself—then, dropping to the ground, glided away like snakes among the long grass, and many were picked off while doing so. Then, those especially who had shot-guns, played upon those who were trying to extricate themselves from the wires. They could not take prisoners, and they had their families to defend. The odds were tremendous against them: it was necessary to read the enemy a severe lesson, to inflict upon him a stunning loss. Hyland Thornhill for one, the probable fate of his father clouding his brain as with lurid flame, raked the struggling bodies again and again with charges of heavy buckshot. The carnage was ghastly, sickening, but—necessary. The alternative was the massacre of themselves and of their women and children.
The latter had been stowed within the Court house for safety, and now with the lull in the attack the frightened screeches of some of the former, and the unanimous howling of most of the latter were dismally audible. Edala had carried out her brother’s injunction and was trying to reassure and pacify them. Evelyn too was ably seconding her, and soon with some effect. The sight of these two, calm and unconcerned, carried immense weight.
“What’s that you’re saying, Prior?” said Hyland Thornhill, turning his head, for he had not moved from his post. “Not come on again? Won’t they? You’ll see. I’m only wondering what devil’s move they’re up to this time. They’re too many, and we’re too few for them to give up in any such hurry. Pity that infernal wire has been cut or we’d soon have them between two stools.”
This was in allusion to the telegraph, which early in the previous afternoon had been discovered to be not working. The magistrate’s clerk, and some of the older farmers had been holding a hurried council of war.
“Let’s get in one of these shamming cusses and question him,” went on Hyland. “He’s sure to be, but it’ll help pass time. Hey—you!” he called out in the vernacular. “You with the scratched toes. Get up and come over here at once, or I’ll blow twenty holes into your carcase with a very heavy charge of shot. You know me. I’m Ugwala.”
The name was magical. The man addressed, a sturdy muscular fellow who had been shamming death, raised his head and asked to be reassured on the word of Ugwala that his life should be spared. This was done, and he clambered over the earthwork.
“Whose people are these?” began Hyland, who had risen and joined the rest. “Those of Ndabakosi?”
“All people, Nkose,” was the reply. “Some of Babatyana, some of Nteseni, some from over the river.”
“Do they expect to take this place?”
“Au Nkose! They knew not that Ugwala had come into it,” answered the man, with a somewhat whimsical smile, the inference being intended that had they known of his presence they would not have attempted such a forlorn hope.
“Are you from beyond the river?”
“E-hé, Nkose.”
“Who are leading these?”
The man looked at him, and shook his head. But he made no reply. Hyland repeated the question.
“I cannot betray my chiefs,” was the answer.
“Oh then you’ll have your brains blown out,” came the savage rejoinder. But it was not uttered by Hyland. It came from the man whom he had prevented from lighting a pipe. He had drawn a revolver and was pointing it right into the face of the Zulu. But in a moment Hyland’s arm flew up, and the pistol, jerked from the other’s grasp, spun away into the air.
“I have the promise of Ugwala,” said the savage, calmly, showing no sign whatever of trepidation.
“That’s quite right,” said Prior emphatically. “Damn it. The fellow’s quite right not to give away his chiefs. Hallo—what’s up now? Here, sergeant, shove him into the lock-up with leg-irons on. We can’t have him escaping just now, anyway.”
All possibility of any pursuance of the quarrel on the part of the aggrieved Jenkins was at an end—for the present at any rate. All hands saw that which told that their work was by no means done. They would need all their coolness and energy for the next half hour—after that, things wouldn’t much matter either way. The horses were picketed inside, and outside the defences a large enclosure had been hastily constructed of thorn bushes, and into this the trek oxen were driven at night, making quite a respectable herd. Three sides of this kraal were well covered by the fire of the defenders, but the fourth, of course, was not. Losing no time after their first repulse the assailants had, with incredible rapidity, breached this fence and were driving out the whole herd. But not as spoil—no not yet. For them they had another purpose, and grasping its import the defenders realised what new peril threatened.
Away up the valley the oxen had been driven by a number told off for the purpose, and now they were returning. By this time the animals were becoming uneasy and excited—tossing their heads and throwing up their tails, and bellowing wildly as they ran.
“Here, Prior. Is there any paraffin about, or kerosene?” asked Hyland eagerly. “Because I have an idea. Only—sharp’s the word.”
“Yes. Come along.”
They went into the store and in a second Hyland had got off the head of a paraffin tin. There were some old sacks in the corner. Seizing one of these he quickly deluged it with the liquid. He rolled his eyes around impatiently.
“A pole—Prior, damn it! I must have a pole of some sort.”
“Here you are,” dragging one out from under some rubbish. It was an old pole which had been used for hoisting a flag on occasions of national festivity. Hyland seized a chopper, and having split the thinner end of the pole, inserted the paraffin-soaked sacking in such wise that it should be held gripped within the cleft. Then they went out.
“Now you fellows,” he cried. “They’re going to drive the oxen bang over us and rush us under cover of them, and I’m going to split the herd. Cover me well when I skip back, but don’t shoot wild.”
A hurried murmur of applause. It was a feat whose daring was about equalled by the quickness of resource which had devised the plan.
The oxen were coming on now at a canter, about a hundred all told. The impi had thrown out ‘horns’ so that the terrified animals, beset by a leaping, yelling crowd on either side, had no option other than to rush blindly ahead.
Hyland Thornhill leaped over the breastwork, armed with his impromptu torch. Carefully avoiding the wires, he advanced about fifty yards and lighted it. The oxen were about twice that distance from him—rendered frantic by the yells and whistling of the savages urging them on behind. The flame roared up the soaked sacking, and as he waved this about, on a level with the eyes of the animals, Hyland fired off a series of appalling yells worthy of the savages themselves. Would his plan succeed? Those watching it seemed turned to stone. The oxen were almost upon him—they could not stop. Then, as he charged them with the flaming ball, they were suddenly seen to split off into two sections, and in wild mad career to dash through those who would have turned them back, galloping away into distance. Almost before the enemy, coming on behind, could take in this feat its daring perpetrator was back within the defences again. A ringing cheer broke forth. It was answered from the other side.
Usútu! ’Sútu!
The roar of the terrible black wave as it rolled forward. It was full daylight now, and the tossing shields, and broad blades gripped in each right hand were clearly discernible. The war-shout of the late King told that these were largely made up of those from beyond the river. The defenders had to meet the dreaded Zulu charge.
Would it never be turned? The guns of the defenders grew hot, with the rapidity of the fire. Assegais came whizzing over the breastwork—one, striking a man between the shoulders as he lay at his post, literally pinned him to the earth—but no one had time to notice this. That awful raking of the front ranks, combined with a wholesome dread of the barbed wire, whose disastrous effects they had witnessed, had brought the savages to a halt. Assegais, however were hurled in showers, killing another man and wounding several. For a moment the fate of the day hung by a hair, but the terrible incessant fire, and that from guns that seemed to need no reloading, was too much. The line wavered, then dropping to the ground, the assailants crawled away among the grass and bushes as before.
A sigh of relief that was almost a murmur, escaped the defenders. Grim, haggard-eyed, they looked furtively at each other, and each, in the face of his fellow, saw the reflection of his own. Each and all had been within the Valley of the Shadow. It had seemed not within their power to turn that last charge, but—they had done it. An odd shot or two was fired at long range after the retreating army, and then men found speech, but even then that speech was apt to be a little unsteady.
“I say, Prior!” cried one devil-may-care fellow, who had borne a tiger’s share in the fight. “How about ‘The Governor of North Carolina’? We must drink Thornhill’s health. He saved this blooming camp.”
“Ja-ja, he did,” was the response on all sides.
“Oh damn all that for bosh!” was the half savage, half weary, comment on the part of him named.
There was a laugh—a somewhat nervous laugh—the effect of the strain.
“All right,” said Prior. “Elvesdon has some stuff, but we mustn’t clean him out of it all, you know. Ugh! These dead devils look rather disgusting,” for he was not used to the sight of bloodshed. “We must keep the women from seeing them.”
“Master,” said a timid voice, on the outskirts of the crowd. “I make good dinner now for all gentlemen?”
There was a roar of laughter and a cheer. The voice had proceeded from Ramasam, Thornhill’s Indian cook, who had spent the time of the fight in the kitchen of Elvesdon’s house, green with scare.
“Well done, Ramsammy. So you shall,” cried Prior.
“Zulu nigger all run away now, masters?” queried the Indian. Whereat the roar redoubled—the point of the joke being that the speaker was a very black specimen of a Madrassi, some shades darker than the darkest of those he had defined as “Zulu nigger.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
“Can the ‘Ethiopian’ Chance his Skin?”
“Well, we’ve managed to run our necks into a nice tight noose, Thornhill,” was Elvesdon’s first remark as he realised that they were virtually prisoners in the hands of insurrectionary savages, which meant that their position would grow more and more dangerous every day.
“The next thing is to get them out of it,” rejoined Thornhill fighting his pipe, and puffing away calmly as he walked.
“What about the ladies—will they be safe?”
“Oh yes. If they’d wanted them they’d have brought them along with us.”
“Sure?”
“Dead cert.”
Elvesdon felt immeasurably relieved. Now, more than ever; now that he was separated from her; might never even see her again; he realised what Edala had become to him. She had fascinated him from the very first, and of late had become part of his life. But it would not do to give way to depression. If Thornhill, who knew these people better than he did, had no anxiety about his daughter’s ultimate safety, why surely he himself need have none.
“You see, this hasn’t come to anything as yet,” went on Thornhill, “whatever it’s going to do. Now they know that to interfere with white women in any way would be to bring about a general bust-up, which as yet, they’re probably not ready for. But likely enough they’ve got wind that there’s an idea of arresting some of the chiefs, and are holding us as sort of hostages. Have you any notion that there’s any such idea on foot?”
“I’ve heard nothing about it officially or in any other capacity. But if such a programme is on the boards we shall get our throats cut if it’s carried out. Is that the meaning?”
The other nodded.
“Well Parry,” went on Elvesdon, cheerfully, “you wanted to see the war-dance but you didn’t bargain for this, eh? I suppose you’ve read about this sort of situation too.”
“Often, sir. But people always manage somehow to get out of it I notice.”
“And so shall we.”
Cheered by the optimistic demeanour of his official superior, and the no less calm one of his other companion in adversity the young Police trooper began to enjoy the situation. What would his people at home say if they could see him now, a prisoner in the hands of armed savages?
It was no end exciting; for of course they would manage to escape. As he had said, people always did—in books. Poor boy!
Those who custodied them, even as those forming the escort for the two girls, were not communicative. To the question as to where was Tongwana the reply was short. The chief had gone away. To that as to where they were bound for it was shorter still. They would see.
It was dark when they reached a large kraal, situated in a wide, bushy valley. The country as they journeyed had become more and more wild and broken. Thornhill declared they couldn’t be far from the Tugela Valley, which seemed to point to an intention on the part of their custodians to rush them over the Zulu border, for the sake of better concealment.
Their arrival seemed to provoke no curiosity, or, at best a languid one; certainly there were not many about to evince it. Thornhill, though not seeming to do so, was keeping a bright look-out. Two or three faces he thought he knew, but the bulk were those of strangers. They were taken to a large hut in the centre of the kraal, and ordered to enter. But when Parry would have followed the other two in he was promptly and roughly stopped. It was in vain that both Thornhill and Elvesdon pleaded that he might not be separated from them. He was only a boy, they represented, and could not talk with their tongue. Let him remain with those who could. One stalwart scoundrel who appeared to be in a position of some authority, bent down and shook a bright, wicked looking blade within the low doorway.
“Keep quiet, Abelungu! You are not masters here. If you come forth without orders, that is death.”
“Abelungu!” “White men!” That was a pretty insolent sort of way to address a Government official, together with a man of Thornhill’s standing. It bore its full significance too. But they were helpless. Two men unarmed against a large armed force! Of course they were helpless.
“Poor boy,” said Elvesdon as they were left alone. “I’m afraid he won’t find it so exciting now.”
“In a way I’m glad we’re alone together for a time at any rate,” was the answer. “We can talk things over more freely. And we’ll not have to do that too loud either, for there’s a good sprinkling of these chaps who know English—though they won’t let go that they do—thanks to the mischievous idiots who have gone in for educating them.”
“If we come through this all right, I’ll put in all the good word I can to get that youngster on in the force,” said Elvesdon. “He showed pluck and readiness to-day, never lost his head for a single moment.”
“More he did. Now I wonder who wrote you that letter.”
“Oh don’t refer to the beastly thing, Thornhill. If only I had opened it at first—as I ought to have done. No—it won’t bear thinking about. Wait—I’ll burn it, in case it might compromise the writer, if the worst comes to the worst.”
He twisted the letter into a screw and set it alight, kindling his pipe with it. Anyone might come in at any moment, and such a proceeding would, in that event, look less suspicious.
Someone did come in, but it was rather a welcome entry, for it was that of a couple of women, bearing food; roasted mealies and some grilled beef, which latter, however, neither looked nor smelt very tempting.
“What’s this? Water?” said Elvesdon, investigating the contents of a bowl. “The stingy swabs might have sent us some tywala while they were about it.”
Putting it to the women, who were kindling a fire in the round hollow in the middle of the floor, one of them replied that beer was scarce. There were so many men in the kraal—she supposed they must have drunk it all. Elvesdon put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a shilling.
“See if you can find some,” he said. “Here. This is for you—for the two of you. You can halve it.”
But the recipient, carefully placing the coin in her bag, replied stolidly that she could not halve a gift. Elvesdon laughed and found a similar coin for the other. It proved, however, a bad investment, for no tywala was forthcoming.
“This looks more cheerful,” he went on, when they were alone again, and were discussing the food. “It was beastly cold, too, without a fire. Wonder where they’ve put the young ’un. It rather handicaps us being apart from him in case we saw a chance of doing a bunk, for of course we can’t leave him behind.”
“No, we can’t, but we shall get no such chance just yet. Hear that.”
All round them was the sound of voices, deep voices. Some were right against the hut which was their prison. A strong odour of roast told that their custodians were enjoying themselves in the most enjoyable way known to savages—feasting, to wit. Once Elvesdon opened the door to look forth. In a moment two savages, armed with assegais, sprang before the entrance and ordered them to keep it shut.
“I’ve a notion,” said Thornhill, “that this is Nteseni’s ‘great’ place, and if so we’ve fallen into bad hands.”
“That bears out what Teliso used to say. He always maintained that Ntesini was a bad egg.”
“M-yes. I wonder where the said Teliso is now. You know I hinted to you that he might require a little watching himself.”
“He’s been away a precious long time. By the way I wonder if he wrote that letter. He could talk some English but I don’t know about his ability to write any. He may have been murdered for all we know.”
“He may, or—he may not.”
Elvesdon was impressed. A qualm of misgiving came over him that he might have trusted Teliso too much. What, by the way, if he were at the bottom of their seizure? He might be. There was no trusting anyone. Decidedly there was something suspicious about the length of time Teliso had been away on his mission, and that without sending in any communication whatever.
Poor Teliso! His cracked and whitened bones lying in the lonely ravine beneath the krantz, picked clean by the tiger-wolves and jackals, could not now rise up under the stars to testify whether or not Nteseni was—as Elvesdon had put it—“a bad egg.”
The next morning to their intense relief they were allowed some measure of liberty. They could stroll about outside the kraal, for instance, but even then only in the open, and with groups of armed men constantly on their steps. If there was any considerable body gathered at the kraal those composing it must assuredly have kept within the huts; possibly sleeping off the heaviness of the feast the night before. Decidedly it was strange to these two, accustomed as they were when visiting or passing such places to meet with deference at every turn—now to find themselves actually obliged to obey orders from those over whom one of them at any rate had partially ruled. But the ruled now aspired to be the ruling, and, certainly, into far as they themselves were concerned, had succeeded.
They were threading their way among the huts when, from one of them there emerged suddenly a man—a black man—but not blacker than his coat, nor very much blacker than his dingy tie that had once been white. He had crawled through the low doorway, and stood upright before he was aware of their presence. The instant he became aware of it he brought his hand to his mouth with an ejaculation of amazement and dismay, and stood staring, surprised for the moment out of all self-possession. Both looked at him—Elvesdon especially—with an expression of aversion and contempt.
“So!” was all that Elvesdon said.
It seemed difficult to tell on which side the surprise felt was the greatest. In the fat, greasy features both the white men recognised the Rev. Job Magwegwe, the Ethiopian preacher.
“You not get my letter, sir?” said the latter, hurriedly, eagerly.
“Your letter? Oh, I see,” replied Elvesdon.
“I warned you sir; you not take my warning. It not my fault you here, sir.”
“It’s damned well your fault there’s a ‘here’ for us to be in, and the fault of those who sent you, you scoundrel,” returned Elvesdon bitterly, and perhaps a little unjustly. For again the self-reproach in not having taken the warning in time, came uppermost, and here was some one to vent it on.
“I help you sir—now if I can,”—said the Fingo, earnestly. “But—it not easy and—”
“Whau! Jobo!” cried a great voice as two hulking Zulus came up. “Here is much white men’s talk—too much. Get back to thy preaching—that is more in thy line. Whau!”
They were Zulus from beyond the river, and cared nothing for missionaries and their methods—let alone for a greasy humbug of an inferior black man. The Rev. Job Magwegwe slunk away before their great domineering voices and manner. And the two white men felt immeasurably more drawn to these.
“So that’s the chap who sent the letter!” remarked Elvesdon. “He’s an infernal rascal all the same. ‘Help’! Fat lot of help he’ll give us—even if he could.”
“Don’t you be too cock-sure about that, Elvesdon. I’ve known queerer things in my time than even that. It’s astonishing how things can work round—not when—but where you least expect them. It’s something to know we have a friend among the enemy let me tell you. He might be of use to us yet.”
“Well if he is I’ll forgive him—or try to. These swine, though, are responsible for nearly all the mischief. I’d hang the whole ‘Ethiopian Church’ if I had despotic power, or, at any rate, give its infernal mischievous emissaries a hundred apiece with the cat and then disband the whole rotten organisation. But, Thornhill. Do you think this schelm really would help us if he could?”
“I sort of do. You see when these chaps get partly civilised, although it deteriorates them as savages it has often the effect of making them all unconsciously cling to the white man. Now this one is a Fingo, and his traditions would make all that way. He no more wants to set up a universal black Power than you or I do; he knows where he, and all his like, would come in under it. At present he’s paid to preach it but I’m perfectly certain he no more believes it possible than you or I do either. So let’s make use of him if we can; though I doubt if we can, for they don’t seem to trust him overmuch here from what we’ve just seen.”
“‘Can the Ethopian change his skin?’” quoted Elvesdon, sourly.
The day wore on. Both men—Elvesdon, especially, being the younger—were wistfully trying to glean from the talk they could overhear, what was going on outside. They tried questioning those around them but without result. They asked too, about their fellow prisoner, the young Police trooper, who had been so arbitrarily separated from them; but beyond the fact that no harm had been done him, they could get no further. The while both were sizing up every chance for effecting an escape, but even had such offered it was out of the question they should have availed themselves of it at the price of abandoning a fellow-countryman—a fellow-countryman, too, who was doubly helpless, in that, being a new comer, he was entirely unversed in the language and ways of those who held him in durance.