Kitabı oku: «A Frontier Mystery», sayfa 16
Chapter Thirty One.
The Brotherhood of the Dew
Aïda looked none the worse for her adventures as she came forth into the clear freshness of the morning. The lethargic effect of the drug seemed to have left her entirely, and she was quite her old self, bright, sunny, fascinating as ever. But scarcely had we begun to talk than we saw three persons approaching on horseback.
“They haven’t lost much time coming for you,” I said, as I made out the rest of the family. “And I wanted you all to myself a little longer.”
“You mustn’t say that, dear,” she answered, with a return pressure from the hand I was holding. “They are perhaps just a little bit fond of me too.”
“Hallo, Glanton,” sung out the Major, breathless with excitement, as he rode up. “What the dickens is this cock and bull yarn your fellow has been spinning us. I can’t make head or tail of it and I didn’t stop to try. Anyhow, there’s my little girl again all safe and sound. She is safe and sound? Eh?”
“Absolutely, father,” answered Aïda, for herself. And then there was a good deal of bugging and kissing all round, and some crying; by the way, it seems that the women, dear creatures, can’t be brought to consider any ceremony complete unless they turn on the hose; for they turn it on when they’re happy, just as readily as when they’re not. For instance – there we were, all jolly together again – what the deuce was there to cry about? Yet cry they did.
I had breakfast set out in the open on the shady side of the store, with the broad view of the Zulu country lying beneath in the distance, and they declared it reminded them of that memorable time when the contre temps as to Tyingoza’s head-ring had befallen. And then when Aïda had given her adventures once more in detail, through sheer reaction we were all intensely happy after the dreadful suspense and gloom of the last three days. At length it was I who proposed we should make a move down, for it would be as well to be on hand when the others returned with the police and the prisoners.
“By Jove, Glanton, but you were right when you advised me to have nothing to do with that rascally witch doctor,” said the Major, as we rode along. “One consolation. I suppose he’s bound to be hung. Eh?”
“That depends on how we work the case,” I said. “And it’ll take a great deal of working.”
Hardly had we returned than the others arrived, bringing the three prisoners, and two more in the shape of the women of whom Aïda had told us. These however were kept entirely separate from Ukozi and his companions. No conversation between them was allowed.
Ukozi was sullen and impassive, but the younger prisoners glared around with a savage scowl which deepened as it rested on Falkner. He for response only grinned.
“All right my bucks,” he said. “There’s a rope and a long drop sticking out for you. By George, but this has been a ripping bit of fun for one night.”
“That’s all right,” I said rather shortly. “But you might remember that the reason for it hasn’t been fun by any means.”
“No, not for you, that’s understood,” he sneered, turning away, for he was still more than a little sore over my success.
“Glanton, I’ve something devilish rum to tell you.”
The speaker was Kendrew. “Come out of the crowd,” he went on. “Yes, it just is rum, and it gave me a turn, I can tell you. First of all, that nest of murderers we tumbled into, is bang on the edge of – if not within – my own place. Yes, it is my own place now – beyond a shadow of doubt. For we’ve unearthed something there.”
“You don’t mean – ” I began, beginning to get an inkling.
He nodded.
“Yes, I do. The furthest of those two poor devils stuck up there against the rock – ugh! – was poor old Hensley – my old uncle.”
“Good lord!”
“Yes indeed. I was able to identify him by several things – ugh, but it wasn’t a nice job, you understand. But the mystery is not how he couldn’t be found at the time, but how the deuce such a neat little devil hole could exist on the place at all, unknown to any of us. Why, you can’t get in – or out of it – at all from the top, only through the hole we slipped in by. It’s like a false bottom to a box by Jove. Yes – it’s rum how such a place could exist.”
I thought so too. So now poor old Hensley’s disappearance stood explained; and the explanation was pitiable. He had been beguiled – or forcibly brought – to the hell pit of cruelty where these demons performed the dark rites of some secret superstition, and there horribly done to death by the water torture. When I thought of the one who had been destined to succeed him, and who by the mercy of Providence had been snatched from their fiendish hands just in the nick of time, a sort of “seeing red” feeling came over me, and had they been in my power, I could have massacred all four of the prisoners with my own hand.
“Let’s see if we can get anything out of them, Kendrew,” I said. “Manvers won’t mind.”
But Inspector Manvers did mind – at first. Then he agreed. They would be started off for the Police Camp that night; however, as they were here we could talk to them.
We might just as well have saved ourselves the trouble. Ivondwe, who had been kept apart from the others, smiled sweetly and wondered what all the bother was about. He could not imagine why he had been seized and tied up. However that would soon come right. Government was his father, but it had made a mistake. However he, as its child, could not complain even if his father had made a mistake. It would all come right.
The witch doctor simply refused to speak at all, but the young men jeered. One of these I seemed to recognise.
“Surely I have seen thee before?” I said. “Where?”
“Kwa ’Sipanga?”
“I remember. Atyisayo is thy name. ‘Hot water.’ And I warned thee not to get into any more hot water – as the whites say.”
He laughed at this – but evilly, and no further word could I get out of either of them.
But if they would reveal nothing there was another who would, and that was Jan Boom. Him I had refrained from questioning until we should be all quiet again.
The police, with the exception of three men, who had been detailed to remain on the spot and keep their eyes and ears open, started off that same evening with their prisoners. Later, Jan Boom came to the house and gave me to understand he had something to tell me. The family had just gone to bed, and Kendrew and I were sitting out on the stoep smoking a last pipe.
“Nkose, the time has now come,” he said, “to tell you what will sound strange to your ears. I would not tell it before, no, not till the Amapolise had gone. The Amapolise are too fond of asking many questions – foolish questions – asking them, too, as if they thought you were trying to throw sand in their eyes when all the time you are trying to help them. Now is that encouraging to one who would help them?”
I readily admitted that it was not.
“So now, Nkose, if you will come forth with me where we shall not be heard – yes, the nephew of Nyamaki may come, too – for my tale is not for all ears, you shall hear it.”
We needed no second invitation. As we followed him I could not but call to mind, in deep and thankful contrast, his revelation of two nights ago – made in the same way and on the same spot.
“You will have heard, Amakosi,” he began, “of the tribe called Amazolo, or the People of the Dew, which flourished in Natal before Tshaka’s impis drove the tribes of that land into the mountains or the sea.
“It was out of this tribe that the principal rainmakers came. So sure and successful were they in making rain that they were always in request. Even Tshaka, the Great, came to hear of them, and was never without some of them at his Great Place, Dukuza, but as to these, well – he was ever sending for a fresh supply. But he, that Elephant, and Dingane after him, protected the Amazolo, so that they became looked up to and respected among all peoples.
“Now Luluzela, the chief of that tribe, was jealous of the first rain-making doctor, Kukuleyo, for it had come to this – that Luluzela was chief of the Amazolo but Kukuleyo was chief of him. So Luluzela waited patiently and watched his chances, for he dare not strike the rain doctor openly because Dingane favoured him, and had anything happened to him would soon have demanded to know the reason why. One day accordingly, knowing some of the mysteries himself, he ordered Kukuleyo to bring rain. The cattle were dying for want of water, and the crops were parched. The people would soon be dying too. But Kukuleyo answered that the moment was not propitious; that anything he did then would anger the izituta instead of propitiating them, and that when the time was right a sacrifice must be offered; not of cattle but of something quite beyond the ordinary. The chief jeered at this, but said the rain doctors might offer any sacrifice they chose.”
“‘Any sacrifice they chose?’” echoed Kukuleyo with emphasis.
“Yes. Any sacrifice they chose,” repeated the chief, angry and sneering. But if rain did not come within a certain time why then Kukuleyo and all those who helped him should suffer the fate which had always been that of impostors.
“Soon after this, clouds began to gather in the heavens, and to spread and fly like vultures when they scent death afar. In a roaring thunder-rush they broke, and the land, all parched and cracked and gaping, ran off the water in floods. There was rejoicing, and yet not, for it had all come too quickly and violently, washing away and drowning the cattle which it should have restored to life, and covering the cornlands with thick layers of unfruitful sand. The people murmured against Kukuleyo and his rainmakers, the chief waxed fierce, and threatened. But his answer was firm and quiet. ‘Lo, I have brought you rain.’
“Still, good followed, for when the worst had passed the worst, and the water was run off, the land was green again, and all things grew and thrived and fattened. But – then followed consternation on other grounds. The chief’s son, Bacaza, had disappeared.
“He had disappeared, suddenly and in mystery. No trace was left. He might have gone into empty air. At first Luluzela was angry, then alarmed. He sent for Kukuleyo.
“But the rain doctor’s face was like rock. What had he to do with the disappearance of people? he said. He was a rainmaker. He was not trained in unfolding mysteries. The chief of the Amazolo had better send for an isanusi if he wanted this one unfolded.
“And then, Amakosi, a discovery was made. Bacaza, the son of the chief was found – what was left of him that is. He was spread out beneath the falling water above a lonely pool, and was so arranged that the constant flow of water falling upon the back of his head and neck, slowly wore him to death. But it took days of awful agony such as no words could tell.”
“How do you know that, Jan Boom?” I said, moved to an uneasiness of horror by the vivid way in which the Xosa was telling his story, for his eyes rolled and he passed his hand quickly over his face to wipe off the beads of perspiration. Clearly the recollection was a real and a terrible one to him.
“I know it, because I have been through it,” he answered. “For a whole night, and part of a day I have been through it. Hau! it is not a thing to look back to, Amakosi. But let me tell my tale. When Luluzela heard what had been done he sent for Kukuleyo, intending to put him and his rainmakers to a slow and lingering death by fire. But Kukuleyo was no fool. He appeared armed, and with a great force at his back, so that that plan could not be carried out. For some time they looked at each other like two bulls across a kraal fence, then Kukuleyo said: —
“‘Did not the chief of the Amazolo bid us offer any sacrifice we pleased, in order to obtain the desired rain?’
“‘Eh-hé, any sacrifice we pleased,’ echoed his followers, clamorously.
“‘Why then, have I not taken the chief at his word?’ went on Kukuleyo, defiantly. ‘Nothing less than his son would satisfy the izituta, and his son have we offered. And – has it not rained? Ah! Ah! “Any sacrifice we pleased,” was the word,’ he went on mockingly. ‘The word of the chief.’
“But Luluzela did not wait to hear more. With a roar of rage, he and those that were with him, hurled themselves upon the rainmakers. But these had come prepared, and had a goodly following too, all armed, many who were dissatisfied with Luluzela’s rule – where is there a chief without some dissatisfied adherents? – and who had benefited by the rain. Then there was a great fight, and in it the chief was slain, but Kukuleyo came out without a scratch. This led to other fighting, and the tribe was broken up, some wandering one way, some another. But ever since then the Amazolo have been in request. The scattered remnants thus drifted, but whenever a severe drought occurred some of them were sure to be found. With them they took the tradition of the sacrifice of Luluzela’s son.”
“But,” I said. “Do they sacrifice someone every time rain is wanted?”
“Not every time, Nkose. Still it is done, and that to a greater extent than you white people have any idea of. And it would have continued to be done if Ukozi had not conceived the idea of turning to white people for his victims. Hence the disappearance of Nyamaki. This time it was intended to seize Umsindo, but he is a great fighting bull, and would not only have injured others, but would most certainly have got injured himself; and it is essential that the victim who is put through ukuconsa as it is called, shall be entirely uninjured. So they chose the Inkosikazi instead.”
“But, Jan Boom,” put in Kendrew. “How on earth did they manage, in the case of my uncle, to spirit him away as they did – and leave no trace?”
“That I cannot tell you, Nkose. You must get that from Ukozi, if he will tell.”
“Here is another thing,” I said. “Even if Ukozi belongs to this tribe, Atyisayo and Ivondwe do not. They are of Tyingoza’s people.”
“That is true, Nkose. But the thing is no longer confined to the Amazolo. It has become a close and secret brotherhood, and all may belong. They are called Abangan ’ema zolweni, the Comrades – or Brotherhood – of the Dew. And – it is everywhere. You remember what we found in Majendwa’s country? Well that was a victim of ukuconsa and it surprised me, because I had not thought the custom had found its way into Zululand.”
“And what of the pool here, and the big serpent, and Ukozi feeding it with the kid?” I asked, for I had already told him about this.
“The snake embodies the Water Spirit,” he said. “It is customary to feed such with offerings.”
“Was there then a snake in the other pool which we found?” I asked, feeling a creepy, shuddering horror run through me at the thought of the indescribably ghastly fate which had hung over my darling and from which we had only just been in time to save her, thanks to the shrewd promptitude of this staunch fellow, whom I had begun by disliking and mistrusting.
“That I cannot say, Nkose. But I think not. The water torture goes on for days, and the victim is left just as he is until he falls off or room is made for a fresh one, as we saw them so make it there.”
“But you. How was it you were doomed to it, and how did you escape?” asked Kendrew.
“That is a long story, and it will I tell another time. I was living in Pondoland then, not far on the other side of the Umtavuna. Ukozi did that, but now I shall have revenge. Tell me, Amakosi, will not your people have him lashed before they hang him? If so I should like to see that.”
It was little wonder that this savage should give way to the intensity of his vindictive feeling. We white men both felt that mere hanging was too good for these fiends. But we were obliged to assure him that such was very unlikely.
“When we returned from the Zulu country,” he went on, “I began to put things together. I remembered what we had found up there, and what with Ukozi being in these parts and the sudden disappearance of Nyamaki, a little while before, I felt sure that the Brotherhood of the Dew was at work. I asked you to keep me with you, Nkose, because I saw my way now, by striking at it, to revenge myself upon Ukozi for the torture he had made me undergo. Whau! and it is torture! That of the fire cannot be worse. I knew that the Brotherhood would be strong, because among the people here there are so many names that have to do with water – from Tyingoza and his son downwards – ”
I started. Yes, it was even as he said. There were many names of just that description. But Tyingoza! Could that open-mannered, straightforward chief for whom I had always entertained the highest regard, really be one of that black, devilish murder society!
“Moreover,” he went on, “I knew whence they would draw their next victim. I, too, have eyes and ears, Nkose, as well as yourself,” he said, with a whimsical laugh, “and I used them. The Abangan ’ema zolweni were strong in numbers, but otherwise weak. Their brethren were too young and – they talked – ah – ah – they talked. Hence I was able to follow Atyisayo to where I guided you. The rest was easy.”
“Well, Jan Boom,” I said seeing he had finished his story. “You will find you have done the very best day’s work for yourself as well as for others that you ever did in your life.”
“Nkose is my father,” he answered with a smile. “I am in his hands.”
Neither Kendrew nor I said much as we returned to the house. This hideous tale of a deep and secret superstition, with its murderous results, existent right in our midst, was too strange, too startling, and yet, every word of it bore infinite evidence of truth. Well, it proved what I have more than once stated, that no white man ever gets to the bottom of a native’s innermost ways, however much he may think he does.
Chapter Thirty Two.
The Last Penalty
Inspector Manvers was a shrewd as well as a smart officer, and it was not long before he had obtained from the two frightened women who had been made prisoners, sufficient information to warrant him in making several additional arrests. These, which were effected cleverly and quietly, included no less a personage than Ivuzamanzi, the son of Tyingoza. This would have astonished me, I own, but for Jan Boom’s narrative; besides after the defection of Ivondwe I was prepared to be astonished at nothing.
An exhaustive search was made of the gruesome den of death, and in the result the identity of poor Hensley was established beyond a doubt, as his nephew had said. The police spared no pains. They dragged the bottom of the waterhole with grappling hooks, and brought up a quantity of human bones, and old tatters of rotted clothing. It was obvious that quite a number of persons had been done to death here.
“The Abangan ’ema zolweni were strong in numbers but otherwise weak. Their brethren were too young, and – they talked.” Such had been Jan Boom’s dictum, and now events combined to bear it out. Two of the younger prisoners, fearing for their lives, confessed. This example was followed by others, and soon ample evidence was available to draw the web tight round the witch doctor, Ivondwe, Ivuzamanzi and Atyisayo, as prime movers in the whole diabolical cult. And then, that there could be no further room for doubt, Ukozi himself confessed.
I own that I was somewhat astonished at this. But since his incarceration the witch doctor’s spirit seemed completely to fail him, which was strange; for a native, especially one of his age and standing, does not, as a rule, fear death. But fear, abject and unmistakable, had now taken hold of this one. He trembled and muttered, and at times it seemed as if his mind would give way. Then he declared his willingness to make a statement. Perhaps his life would be spared.
But he was given to understand he need entertain no hopes of that kind if he should be convicted at the trial. Even then he persisted. He wanted to throw off the load, he said, for it lay heavy on his heart.
His statement was consistent with that of all the others, moreover it tallied with all that Jan Boom had told me. The part of it that was peculiar was the manner in which they had been able to remove their victims so as to leave no trace. This had been done by means of muffled shoes. The drug administered had the effect of putting them into a kind of trance. They had all their faculties about them, save only that of volition, but afterwards they would remember nothing. Nyamaki had been easily removed because he lived alone. He, like Major Sewin, the witch doctor had gradually imbued with a taste for the occult. After that all was easy. It had at first been intended to entrap the Major, then his nephew, but for the reasons that Jan Boom had already given me, this plan was abandoned. Then it was decided to seize his eldest daughter. Such a sacrifice as that could not fail to move the Spirit of the Dew, and to bring abundant rain.
No, she had in no way been injured. To have injured her would have been to have rendered the whole rite invalid. As for Ivondwe, he had gone to the Major’s with the object of forwarding the plan when it was ripe. He was almost as great among the Brethren of the Dew as Ukozi himself. Ivuzamanzi? Yes, he, too, was among the foremost of them. Tyingoza belonged to the Brotherhood, but he had been enrolled unwillingly, and had never taken part in any of their deeper mysteries: nor indeed, did they come within his knowledge.
Thus ran Ukozi’s confession. When it was read out at the trial it created a profound sensation, as, indeed, did the whole case in the columns of the Colonial Press, which clamoured for a signal example to be made of the offenders. And the Court by which they were tried was of the same opinion.
When those who had turned Queen’s evidence had been sifted out – of course with the exception of Ukozi – there was still a round dozen for trial. The Court-house at Grey Town was crammed. Natives especially, had mustered in crowds, but so far from there being any turbulence, or tendency to rescue, these were, if anything, considerably awed by the very circumstances of the case itself. Most of them indeed had never heard of the Abangan ’ema zolweni, and a new and stimulating matter of discussion was thus supplied to them.
The confession of Ukozi, and of the others of course went far to simplify the trial. Still, the fairness and impartiality for which British jurisprudence is famous, was fully extended to the accused. I personally can bear witness to a good hour in the box, most of which was spent in cross-examination for the defence. The same held good of Kendrew and Falkner, the latter of whom by the way, drew down upon himself some very nasty remarks from the Bench, by reason of having stated in answer to a question as to whether he had not expressed a wish to see these men hanged – that he would cheerfully see every nigger in Natal hanged if he had his way, and they had their deserts. But he didn’t care. As he confided to me afterwards, what did it matter what an old fool in a gown said when he knew he couldn’t have his head punched for saying it.
Aïda, too, was called upon to go through the ordeal, and of course she did it well. In fact a murmur of appreciation ran through the native section of the audience when she emphatically agreed with the defending counsel’s suggestion, in cross-examination, that she had not been ill-treated in any way. There was, too, a great cloud of native witnesses. Jan Boom, in particular, had a long and trying time of it, but the Xosa was a man of parts, and a good bit of a lawyer himself in his way. There was no shaking his evidence on any one single point. Thus, as I have said, in spite of his confession, Ukozi and his fellow accused were given every chance.
The indictment, so far, was confined to the murder of Hensley. Had it broken down – which of course was inconceivable – the prisoners would have been re-indicted for the murder of the native victims, of two, at any rate, whose identity could have been easily established. Failing necessity, for the sake of their relatives, in view of possible danger involved to these, it was not deemed expedient to include them in the formal ground of indictment. The verdict of course, could only be “Guilty.” The four – viz. Ukozi, Ivuzamanzi, Ivondwe and Atyisayo – were brought in as principals – the others as accessories – some before, some after the fact.
Never shall I forget the scene in court, as they were asked whether they had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon them. It was just sundown, and an angry storm had been raging outside for fully an hour. Growling, cracking peals of thunder had interrupted the judge’s summing up, and now, during a lull, the glare of a wet sunset came in through the windows, and a few heavy drops of rain still fell like stones on the corrugated iron roof during the tense silence. They stood in the dock those twelve dark figures, some leaning eagerly forward over the rail, their eyeballs protruding in the climax of the moment’s excitement, others impassive and statuesque. Amid the public was a subdued, hush. The native public especially seemed turned to stone.
In answer to the appeal the bulk of the prisoners shook their heads. They had nothing to say, they declared, and then subsided into stolid silence. But when it came to the turn of Ivondwe, he harangued the Court at some length. The white man, he said, professed to be the protector and tolerator of all religions. Now this, for which they stood there, was part of the black man’s religion – or at any rate a section of it. Why then, was not that tolerated too? Ivuzamanzi, when it came to his turn, answered with heat, that he was the son of a chief – that he was a Zulu of the tribe of Umtetwa; that he cared nothing for a set of preaching whites and their stupid laws; that he only wished he had crossed the river long ago, and gone to konza to Cetywayo. There he would have been in a warrior land where the head-ring of his father and chief could not have been insulted with impunity by a swaggering igcwane like the one who sat yonder – pointing to Falkner – who, however, perhaps fortunately, didn’t understand what was being said until the interpreter had rendered it, and then it was too late to kick up a row. Then he might have joined one day in driving the whites into the sea, where sooner or later they would all be driven. He was the son of a chief and could die like one. He was not going to lie down and howl for mercy like a miserable cheat of an isanusi.
This with a savage glare at Ukozi.
The latter said not much. He had confessed. He had done what he could to put right what had been done. His life was in the hands of the Government.
The judge drew on the black cap, and proceeded to pass formal sentence.
The twelve prisoners before him, he said, after a long and painstaking trial extending over several days, had been convicted of the most heinous crime known to the law, that of murder, the penalty of which was death. They had only been indicted for, and found guilty of one murder, but there was ample evidence that many others had lain at their door. This murder then, was the outcome of one of the vilest, most benighted forms of superstition that had ever disgraced our common humanity, whether black or white. As for urging, as one of the prisoners had done, that such murder was part of the black man’s religion – or anybody’s religion – why he could only say that such a statement was a slander upon the honest, straightforward, native population of the Colony, of whose good and trustworthy qualities he personally had had many years of experience. It was a relic of the blackest and most benighted days of past heathenism, and it was clear that a bold attempt had been made on the part of the prisoner Ukozi, to revive and spread it in the midst of a peaceful and law-abiding native population living contentedly under the Queen’s rule and under the Queen’s laws. Once these terrible superstitions – and their outcome of foul and mysterious murder – took root, there was no seeing where they would end, therefore it was providential that this wicked and horrible conspiracy against the lives of their fellow subjects had been brought to light, and he would especially urge, and solemnly warn, his native hearers present in court to set their faces resolutely against anything of the kind in their midst. Not for one moment would it be tolerated, nor would any plea of custom, or such a travesty of the sacred name of religion, as had been brought forward by one of the prisoners, be even so much as considered in mitigation of the just doom meted out by the law to all who should be found guilty of such an offence.
Sentence of death was then formally passed upon the whole dozen.
There were many influential natives among the audience in court. These, I could see, were impressed, and in the right direction, moreover I gathered from their comments, which I overheard as they dispersed, that to many of them the existence of the Brotherhood of the Dew came as a revelation. And the comments were diverse and instructive.
“Au!” one man remarked. “There is but one among the twelve who wears the head-ring, and he is the one that shows fear.”
The death sentence in the case of all but three was subsequently commuted to various terms of imprisonment. Those three were Ukozi, Ivondwe and Ivuzamanzi. As for the latter, Tyingoza had got up a large deputation to the Governor, begging that his son’s life should be spared, but without avail. Ivuzamanzi had taken an active part in this new outlet of a destructive superstition, and it was felt that as the son of an influential chief, he of all others should be made an example of.
I don’t know how it was – call it morbid curiosity if you like – but anyhow I was there when these three paid the last penalty. I had visited them in the gaol once. Ivondwe had talked as if nothing had happened, about old times and what not. The witch doctor was cowering and piteous. Could I do nothing to save him. He would remember it to the end of his days, and would tell me many things that would be useful to me. I told him plainly I could do nothing, but in consideration did not add that I would not if I could, for if ever miscreant deserved his fate he did. I gave them some tobacco however, poor wretches, and that was all I could do for them. Ivuzamanzi was stormily abusive, so I did not waste time over him. Yet for him, I felt pity, as one led away, and – was not he the son of my old friend?
