Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 9

Umhleswa’s Bargain

The following day the whole kraal was in commotion, Umhleswa summoning the braves of the tribe around him in council, the white men not being deprived of their arms, but very closely watched. The assembly was a noisy one. On the one hand the native superstitions invested the ruins with a sacred character, and the Amatonga chief had been placed where he was to prevent any access to them by Europeans. There could not be a doubt that the whole tribe had been guilty of negligence, their chief included, and that they were responsible to the king of Manica for what had happened. On the other, Masheesh, as the representative of his chief, loudly proclaimed the white men to be under Mozelkatse’s protection, and demanded their safety, threatening a dire revenge if anything happened to them. The anger of so powerful and fierce a chief as Mozelkatse was to be dreaded. Umhleswa, too, was an ambitious man, and was not contented with his position as chief of a petty tribe. He coveted firearms, and these he could only obtain from the whites. Without those arms he could do nothing, and the way to procure them was certainly not by putting to death the first white men who came among them. Umhleswa was cruel, vindictive, and unscrupulous, and he had, without hesitation, told the white men a deliberate untruth to hinder their seeking for the sacred ruins. His chance wound and subsequent insensibility upset his calculations; still he was very much averse to shedding their blood.

There was, however, a warrior of the tribe second only to himself in power—a man of another stamp, and famed for personal courage and deeds of daring. Between Sgalam and Umhleswa there had always been rivalry, and, on this occasion, the Amatonga brave took an entirely different view of the whole matter, openly blaming Umhleswa’s conduct, and demanding the death of the white men as the only means of securing the safety of the tribe.

The result was long doubtful, and what between the chief’s arguments and Masheesh’s threats, the balance seemed in favour of clemency. The council was noisy, and divided in opinion. Umhleswa had just been showing in eloquent words the injustice of dooming to death men who had acted from ignorance, pointing out that they could not have known the sacred nature of the place they had invaded; and he seemed to be carrying with him the feelings of the tribe as they all squatted round in the inclosure on the hill-top, when Sgalam, roused to a last effort, strode straight up to Luji, who was listening open-mouthed, and laying his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Here is one of their head-men,” he said, with violence; “ask him if the white chiefs were not warned, ay, even in Mozelkatse’s camp. Should they go free, Sgalam himself will denounce the folly in the council inclosure of Manica.”

The baboon, seeing a hand laid on Luji, and doubtless thinking harm was meant him, at once flew at the orator, making his teeth meet in the man’s arm, and chattering wildly.

The powerful savage, with one blow, dashed the animal to the ground, Luji, who was fairly roused, being in a great rage, threatening the chief with the white men’s vengeance. A scene of confusion ensued, but Sgalam’s eloquence decided the matter, and the verdict was death; the council breaking up without fixing when and in what manner the punishment was to be inflicted.

In the interior of the hut assigned to the Europeans that night, all was quiet, and the two occupants were sound asleep. There was no door, but only a narrow entrance, across which a naked savage was sleeping, several others being thrown here and there outside, also fast asleep. Midnight was long passed, when a noise was heard near the opening, and the moonlight was for a moment obscured by two bodies passing. Calling to Wyzinski, the soldier, who slept lightly, seized his pistols, but the voice of Masheesh was heard, speaking in low tones, as he stepped over the body of the sleeping sentry, followed by the second figure. It was not dark, the moon shining brightly outside, and Umhleswa’s face and form was not one to be easily mistaken. He was naked save at the waist, his body smeared with oil, but wearing no distinctive mark of any kind, while his broad, flat nose, high cheek-bones, receding forehead, sharp filed teeth, and shining body, gave him even a more repulsive look than usual in the faint moonlight. Outside all was quiet save the usual cries of the jackals and hyenas hovering round the kraal, and the heavy breathing of the sleeping guard.

Seating himself on some skins, while Masheesh squatted down near the entrance, Umhleswa spoke.

“Have the white chiefs no fear of death,” he asked, “that they sleep soundly?”

“No,” replied the missionary, using the Zulu dialect; “we do not believe in it at your hands. We were travelling through the land, our safety insured by Mozelkatse’s word. You sent for us and we came, consequently besides the safeguard of the king of the Matabele we have yours.”

“If Mozelkatse’s word be scorned,” added the Matabele brave, “the land between the Suave and the Zambesi shall be dyed red with Amatonga blood, and the assegai of Masheesh shall find the heart of their chief. The country shall be desert, and the tribe live only in the remembrance of the past.”

“I have not come to the dwelling of the white men to hear this,” replied Umhleswa, scornfully. “Will they promise, by their God, not to go near the fallen huts if set free?”

Both hesitated, for the desire to explore those ruins was strong in their minds, and both were willing to risk life to do so.

“We will make Umhleswa rich with presents, we will hunt for him the elephant and the rhinoceros, if he will not only allow us to see the ruined huts, but aid us with his men to lay them bare.”

The dark eyes of the savage glistened at the thought of the presents, and he mused for several minutes, the silence being so deep that the breathing of the sleeping men could be distinctly heard outside. He spoke at last, but slowly—

“It may not be; send Umhleswa arms for his tribe; make him powerful enough not to heed the anger of the chief of Manica, and the fallen huts are the white men’s. Do they know that death has been pronounced against them, and do they know the kind of death they must meet?”

“It matters not what,” replied the missionary; “we have faced it too often to fear it in any form.”

“Death!” hissed out the savage, his eyes gleaming, and his white teeth shown in the half light, “by fire,—slow, but sure death. Will the white chiefs promise?”

“We promise,” replied the missionary.

“Will they pay a ransom?” continued the savage.

“We have nothing to give; but we will return with presents.”

The chief pointed to the rifles and pistols.

“Umhleswa would gladly have these, and when the white men return with more, he will take them also.”

“They shall be yours, chief, when we cross the frontier, not before.”

“Will the God of the white man send rain when his children ask for it?” he inquired.

“If in his great power and infinite knowledge he thinks it is necessary,” replied the missionary, a little jesuitically.

“Then,” continued Umhleswa, “it is agreed. The white men promise not to hanker after the fallen houses, but to cross the frontier near the Zambesi, to give each a rifle, also that when they return they will bring a rich present for Umhleswa, giving him the means to resist the chief of Manica, and to laugh at his anger.”

“It is agreed,” replied the missionary.

“The white man speaking our language answers for his brother?” asked the savage.

“He shall answer for himself,” replied the missionary.

Turning to the soldier, Wyzinski explained the terms of the bargain, pointing out that they were completely in the chief’s power, and that he himself was fully determined to organise a party, and return to the ruins, in which case the protection of the savage would be valuable.

At the other end of the hut a violent discussion was going on between the Matabele brave and the Amatonga warrior, the former declaring that the white men must be brought back to Mozelkatse’s country, the other remaining quite unmoved.

Hughes at once saw the truth of Wyzinski’s explanation, and though he did not like to part with an old friend, made up his mind to do so, the more readily because he saw that Umhleswa could equally be in possession of the rifles by killing the whole party. He therefore rose, crossed to where the chief sat, and gave his hand in token of ratification.

“Good,” said Umhleswa, rising; “and now let the white men sleep in peace.” Stepping over the figures of his recumbent braves, the chief took his way in the moonlight, through the huts, even the dogs remaining silent as he passed.

It was nearly dawn, and Masheesh having thrown himself down on the ground to sleep, the two white men, greatly relieved, sat discussing their future prospects. The freshness of the coming day had made itself felt already, the moonlight was growing more and more feeble, and still they sat talking of many things.

“We shall have plenty left to send the Matabele back a rich man,” said the missionary.

“And as for Luji, I left his full pay and a handsome ‘Bucksheesh’ with my relative on the Umvoti,” answered Hughes.

“We shall be certain of a good reception from the Portuguese at Tête or Senna on the Zambesi, and are sure to find some coasting vessel at Quillimane, bound for Table Bay.”

“And we shall have traversed Eastern Africa from the Limpopo northwards to the Zambesi; but, see, day is breaking; I long for the fresh air of morning after stilling all night here.”

Taking up his rifle, Hughes walked to the entrance, stooped, and went out, stepping over the prostrate bodies of the guard. Day was just breaking, and with it the Amatonga kraal was waking into life. Luji was fast asleep under the tree, and on a branch above him, sat the baboon, looking upwards, and making hideous faces. It was evident there was something concealed in the tree, which wanted to pass the monkey, and which the latter would not allow. Watching them, Hughes soon saw a head, garnished with two great eyes, peeping out of the foliage. Waiting an opportunity, he fired, the village ringing with the report which sounded very loud on the quiet morning air. The guards at the entrance of the hut, startled out of all propriety, jumped to their feet, forgetting their duty, and scuttled off. A howl of terror from Luji rang out, the caracal, dropping from branch to branch, plumped heavily on the half-awakened Hottentot, while the baboon dashed after it, chattering with delight. The animal was a large one, and resembled a very big and beautifully marked cat, striped like a small tiger, the ears being black, pointed, and tipped with tufts of hair.

Taking it by the tail, and laughing at the alarm he had caused, Hughes walked towards the entrance of the hut, where, attracted by the report, the missionary and Masheesh stood.

Just as he reached it, a long, loud, wailing cry rang out from the very centre of the kraal. For a moment all was silent, and then once more it was heard. There was an unusual bustle, the savages, male and female, seeming much excited. Soon many other voices chimed in, and it became evident that something had happened to cause sorrow and lamentation in the tribe. Masheesh had already gone, and breakfast was to the two white men of more importance than anything that could affect their hosts, the Amatongas.

The Dead Chief

The sun had risen in all its splendour, the smoke from the many fires curling spirally up into the air, for there was hardly the faintest breeze. Every thing betokened the heat of an African day. Under the shadow of their tree sat the two Europeans, their rifles leaning against its trunk. Luji was near, playing with the baboon, which was chattering and making hideous faces; the missionary busily employed taking notes of the journey, and Hughes skinning carefully the caracal he had that morning shot. Things seemed to have quieted down in the kraal, and the excitement to have partially at least died away. Not knowing whether they were to consider themselves prisoners or not, though the guard had not resumed their post, and thinking if they left the camp the act might be wrongly construed by Umhleswa, the white men remained where they were.

“What is the matter with the Matabele?” asked Hughes, as he raised his eyes and saw Masheesh coming down among the huts in a manner very different from his usual stately pace.

“We shall soon know the cause; see how the muscles of his black face are working, and listen to the shouts of the Amatongas behind him. Well, Masheesh, what’s wrong?” asked Wyzinski, looking at him, with his pencil and note book in his hand.

“Sgalam is dead!” replied the Matabele, in an excited tone.

“And who the deuce is Sgalam?” asked the missionary, calmly bending his head once more over his work.

“The chief who spoke so bitterly against the white men; he who threatened to denounce Umhleswa if they were not put to death; refusing to hear the words of Mozelkatse, and who was threatened by Luji with death.”

“Well, a chief has departed from among his people, and the Amatonga have lost a brave; but what then?”

“The evil eye has done it. The white men have bewitched their enemy, and he is dead.”

The full danger of the situation dawned on the missionary’s mind as Masheesh said this, and turning to Hughes, he told what had passed. The latter only laughed.

“Since we have been in Africa,” he replied, “I have not seen one instance of violence or bloodthirstiness. A more gentle race I never met with. Why it is the custom even among the warriors who have shed blood in battle, to consider themselves unclean, and a native who has so much as touched a dead body is thought so. What is there to fear?”

“The whole native population of South Africa is superstitious, and these Amatongas are a low caste tribe, more superstitious than most. You heard Umhleswa ask about the rain?”

“Yes, I know he did.”

“Well, not only have they their rain makers, but their sorcerers; and they believe firmly in witches, ghouls, the evil eye, and vampires. They will kill all their cattle on the order of one of these sorcerers, and starve by hundreds.”

“Well, if that is the case, it certainly is enough to excite them, that the very man who was the most bitter against us should die thus suddenly. It is a very strange circumstance that Luji should have denounced him.”

While they were talking the shouting and yelling seemed to approach rapidly, and now a band of Amatonga, their naked bodies smeared with paint, came rushing down from among the huts. In a moment more than a hundred yelling savages surrounded the tree, shouting, screaming, and brandishing their assegais. The rifles could do nothing against such a number.

“Our only hope is in Umhleswa,” whispered the missionary, as he bent his calm face over his note book, apparently unconcerned. They were a terrible looking set, those dark-skinned Amatongas, and the two Europeans felt themselves completely in their power.

Hideously ugly, with their enormous mouths, woolly hair, and receding foreheads, they had still further disfigured themselves with paint Masheesh did all a man could do to quiet them, but it was no use; the white men were seized, separated, and their rifles taken from them, their hands being firmly tied together. Luji shared their fate, and the monkey very much frightened, jumped to his usual place on his shoulders, jabbering and grimacing. Several blows with the wood of the assegais were given, and thus ill-treated, with the whole band of yelling savages around them, the captives were driven up the centre of the Amatonga village.

The change in their situation had indeed been a sudden and dangerous one. Relying on the promise of the chief, all anxiety had been dismissed from their minds, and the future had seemed bright and fair before them. A few minutes later, they found themselves bound prisoners, and on their way to the hut of the dead man.

They reached the entrance, where on the threshold sat the wife of the dead chief, rocking herself to and fro, and uttering a succession of wailing cries. Suddenly starting up as the captives approached, she spoke quickly to the braves around her, gesticulating and screaming.

She was urging her people to sacrifice the murderers of her husband, as an expiatory offering on the chief’s grave. This much the missionary could understand, as he bent his calm, clear eye on the excited countenance of the frantic woman. The quiet glance seemed only to enrage her more, as shaking her long skinny fingers in his face, she turned and dashed into the death-chamber.

Jostled violently along, the two prisoners found themselves standing in the hut close together.

“We are lost, Hughes,” said the missionary, in low, hoarse tones.

“The chief may save us,” replied his comrade. “There is yet hope.”

Inside the women were chaunting, in loud drawling tone, the good qualities of the deceased, telling of his virtues in peace, his wisdom in the council, and his great deeds of war. The body itself lay stretched at full length in one corner, lying on some panther skins.

“There is hope there,” whispered the missionary. “Look at the dead man’s face, the pinched-up features, that small dark stream flowing from the lips, the tongue hard, black, and dry, hanging from the mouth, and the limbs drawn up with cramp. He has been poisoned.”

“By whom?” asked Hughes, as the two stood, their hands bound behind them, gazing on the sickening spectacle.

“By Umhleswa. It was his interest to do this, and if so, he is watching the result.”

A rush of people into the hut now separated the two, while outside the shouting of the men, the jabbering of the baboon, and from time to time a yell from Luji, who was evidently the most suspected, was heard.

The two white captives, separated from each other, were now forced into a sitting position, one on each side of the corpse, while the women, ever chaunting the praises of Sgalam, proceeded to lay the body out. It was quite nude, and though cold, had not yet stiffened. The tongue which, thickly coated with yellow, had been protruded, was now forced back into the mouth. A rope of palmyra fibre was brought, and the women then proceeded to swathe it round with the cord, giving the body a sitting position. This operation lasted a couple of hours, during which the prisoners were kept apart, as spectators, the noise outside never ceasing. Hughes, who now had the notion that both were to be sacrificed on the dead chief’s grave, attempted to speak across the hut to the missionary, but a heavy blow was the reward. Wyzinski’s calm face and thin features relaxed into a smile, as the soldier returned the blow by means of a violent kick, and found himself the next moment powerless lying on his back, and a stout rope of palmyra round his legs. Strangely situated as they were, it was a curious sight. The busy women, singing their monotonous song; the sitting corpse stiffening into the position that had been given it. Outside, shouting and wild excitement, and every now and then some Amatonga brave dashing into the hut, yelling out half a dozen phrases in praise of the dead Sgalam, and dashing away, to be followed in turn by others. In one corner the soldier firmly bound, in another the missionary, his hands only tied. At length a litter of branches was brought, the sitting corpse placed upon it, the hut became filled with savages, the rope which confined the soldier’s legs was unfastened, and the two were ordered to follow the bier, which was conveyed outside. A circle of dark braves swept round the captives, their glittering knives in their hands, as the procession moved off, the leading men of the tribe grouping themselves round the corpse shouting and yelling. They had not far to go, for the journey ended at an enclosure a few hundred yards from the dead warrior’s hut. The bright sun streamed over them as they entered this enclosure, which was in fact the place where the chief’s cattle had been penned. There, right in the centre, a deep hole had been dug, and into this, ever preserving his sitting position, the body was lowered, the songs, screams, and shouts increasing in intensity, as the broad hoes threw back the light earth into the grave. Slowly but surely the body disappeared, for a hundred hoes were at work dragging the sand back. The face of the dead was gradually covered, the hole was filled, and there, in the centre of his cattle shed, sat the dead Sgalam concealed from all eyes. The men with the hoes threw them aside, and commenced a strange slow dance round the grave; then, pausing, with wild yells, the savages threw themselves on the captives, and in a moment they were on the ground struggling vainly for their lives, with a hundred bright blades gleaming in the sunshine around them. Their tribe imperilled by the white man’s foolish curiosity, one of their best warriors and most noted chiefs killed by them,—for they firmly believed it,—the two delinquents were about to moisten with their blood the grave of the Amatonga brave. The moment was a critical one, when suddenly the wily Umhleswa appeared among them, his Spanish gun in his hand, the ostrich plume in his hair, and the panther skin round his waist. His glittering eyes ran over the group, as with a few deep guttural words, he bore back the crowd of savages.

“Would you kill the innocent, and spare the guilty?” he shouted, waving his hand toward the white men, who now rose covered with sand, but unhurt. “The Amatonga have a custom; would you break that custom, and defile the grave of our brother with the blood of the innocent? Let the far-seeing Koomalayoo be consulted; let the sorcerer of the tribe speak out, and let those who have done this deed die.”

“To Koomalayoo, to Koomalayoo,” yelled the Amatonga, and the well-planned purpose of the wily savage was accomplished. Moving along among the huts, the groups of excited savages, their numbers ever increasing, bore with them the dirt-begrimed white men, and the frightened Luji. An ox was driven out of an enclosure and placed at the head of the procession, the whole moving on slowly under one of the conical hills, and taking its way towards the neighbouring forest. Bound with palmyra rope, and the baboon firmly tied in its usual position on his shoulders, Luji’s face seemed the very picture of abject terror, while the ape, fairly cowed, jibbered and moaned.

The missionary as usual looked calm, resigned, and confident, but a heavy scowl sat on the soldier’s face. The escort kept on their way, shouting, screaming, and clattering their spears against their shields. About half a mile outside the Amatonga kraal, under a grove of trees, stood a solitary hut. Near it rose a mass of rocks, and the plain around was thick brush. This was the dwelling of Koomalayoo, the dreaded sorcerer of the tribe. It was he who had told of the coming of the white men, and it was his now to decide their fate. The ox was driven into the cattle enclosure belonging to the hut, as a present to Koomalayoo, who at once made his appearance.

This man was an Amatonga, and possessed to a rare degree the distinctive ugliness of the race. His flat nose, monkey-like forehead, and huge slit of a mouth, surmounted a body literally a skeleton. The face was that of the living dead, so emaciated was it; the body seemed a framework, with a black skin drawn tightly over it. The eyes alone were bright and restless. A collar and waist-belt of human bones, with anklets and wristbands of the same material, made a clatter as he walked, while in his hand he held a short wand, apparently of pure gold. Such was the noted Koomalayoo, who now glanced over the group of captives, his restless eyes fixing themselves on Luji’s face, with an expression which boded him no good. A circle was formed, the captives being inside it at one end, Umhleswa and the sorcerer at the other.

Umhleswa now made a long speech, telling of the coming of the strangers, and of their having by chance stumbled upon the sacred ruins, profaning them by their presence. The history of the council was given fairly enough, and of Sgalam’s hatred to the Europeans.

The incident of the monkey and of Luji’s threats was largely dwelt on, and Koomalayoo’s eyes grew intensely bright as he fixed them on the unlucky Hottentot, whose face turned a yellow livid colour with fear. The Umhleswa then proceeded to point out that the white chiefs were not present at the council, again referred to the threats used by Luji, and to the mysterious character of the baboon, winding up artfully with a defence of his policy, because of the benefits which would result from trade with the white men.

Calico, beads, guns, knives, he spoke of as falling to the lot of the poorest Amatonga, and having thus worked on their cupidity, the wily savage ceased speaking.

Koomalayoo rose, and without a word stalked out of the circle, which opening to let him pass, closed again. All kept silence—a deep dead silence—as the diviner entered his hut; and so great was the stillness that his monotonous voice could be heard reciting incantations, as the sorcerer mixed the potion which was to give him clairvoyance. About a quarter of an hour passed—not a soul moving—before he again appeared, holding a gourd in his hand. Whatever were its contents, he drank the whole at a draught, threw the gourd from him, and once more entered the circle, where, seating himself on the ground, he remained silent, his eyes bent downwards, apparently waiting for the coming inspiration. All looks were fixed upon him, and not a word was spoken. At last he suddenly started to his feet and began speaking rapidly, following out the tale from beginning to the end, winding up with the death of the warrior Sgalam. “Sorcery has done this,” he continued. “The strong man does not die in an hour; the warrior’s soul does not start for another land like that of the weakly infant. Is it the men of the Batonga who have done this deed? No. Is it the braves of Manica? No. The Matabele are among us. Does the blow come from them? Mozelkatse’s warrior would scorn the deed. Is it from the Madanda, or the strange tribes of Gorongoza, death has come, or has the evil eye been used by the dwellers on the Maxe, who love us not? No. To none of these does the far-seeing eye of Koomalayoo trace the deed. But white men are with us, white men who are not traders. Have they worked the evil?”

Koomalayoo paused. A subdued murmur ran through the circle. Wyzinski’s face looked calm and natural as usual; but the soldier’s, though unconscious of the meaning of the words, was flushed, and he himself nervous and excited. The murmur died away, and again the sorcerer spoke. A sigh of relief burst from the missionary’s lips as Koomalayoo continued. “I tell you, no. It is not the white men whose blood must atone for that of the dead chief—No.” All at once, whirling round as on a pivot, the arm and hand holding the gold rod fully extended, the diviner span round; then as suddenly stopping, the rod pointed right between Luji’s eyes. “It is the black skin who has come among us, with his familiar demon on his shoulders. Behold the worker of the charm! When the black imp leaped upon our brother among the warriors in council, he spit the venom into his ear. That night our brother died.”

Koomalayoo’s eyes fairly blazed with fury as he looked full at Luji’s quivering, shrinking frame. The man seemed fascinated, and his terror-stricken face turned into bronze as the sorcerer yelled forth the terrible words, “Let fire drive out the demon from among us,” and fell to the ground apparently exhausted.

For a moment there was a deep, dead silence; the rustle of the leaves could be heard as the light wind played through the trees; the next, the circle was broken, the whole mass of the Amatonga precipitating themselves on the doomed Hottentot, throwing down the two white men as they pressed on, and trampling them under foot, while the air, a moment before silent, became filled with yells and discordant shouts, the shrill scream of terror distinctly heard above all.

Hughes, not knowing what was to happen next, had seized the nearest Amatonga brave and was busy throttling him, shouting as he did so as loudly as the rest in his excitement. The man’s eyes were starting out of his head, his tongue was protruding, when a dozen strong hands dragged the soldier from his victim, and thrust him bruised and breathless into the hut. The missionary was there before him, and there too stood the wily Umhleswa, showing his sharply-filed teeth, while his little cunning eyes danced with triumph.

“Umhleswa is a chief,” he said, slowly moving to the entrance of the hut, and looking back on the astonished prisoners as he stood in the bright sunshine. “He has not lied to his white brother.” He waved his arm and disappeared.