Kitabı oku: «Haviland's Chum», sayfa 14
Chapter Twenty Seven.
A New Wonder
At the fatal signal the executioners threw themselves upon Haviland, so quickly that it became evident that no opportunity would be allowed him of repeating Mushâd’s device. His revolver and knife were taken from him, and, firmly held in the iron grasp of these muscular savages, he was forced to stand powerless, awaiting the will of the King. No chance, either, had Oakley of coming to his aid, separated as they were by an infuriated and armed crowd.
“First of all,” said the King, “those who allowed the Arab to escape must go. I have no use for such.”
Two of the executioners were immediately seized by the rest. No prayer for mercy escaped them; perhaps they knew the futility of it. The King made a sign. Both knelt down; there was a flash of two scimitars in the air, and in a second two spouting, headless trunks were deluging the earth. An awed silence rested momentarily upon the multitude; then broke forth into hideous clamour for the torture of the white wizards.
For such these were, they declared. All the insects and herbs they were collecting – what was all this for but for purposes of witchcraft? Only that morning they had captured a huge scorpion, and had been found distilling evil múti from its venomous carcase. With this they had enabled their enemy to escape them. With this they had even bewitched the Great Great One himself. Death to the wizards! Let them take the Arab’s place!
Haviland’s shirt was rent from his back, revealing a curious jagged scar, running from the left shoulder halfway to the elbow.
“Hold!” roared the King.
All eyes were raised, so startling was the tone. The Great Great One was indeed bewitched, was the one thought in the minds of the now silent multitude. And, indeed, there seemed some colour for the idea. Umnovunovu had half risen from his seat, and, both hands gripping the arms of the throne, he was staring wildly at the unfortunate prisoner.
“Loose him!” he cried. Then, in excellent English, “Come here, Haviland. I know you now.”
In after times Haviland used to say that he had met with some wild surprises in the course of a somewhat adventurous career, but none wilder, madder, more utterly dumb-striking than when the King of the Inswani broke out into good English, hailing him by name. He started, stared, rubbed his eyes, gasped – then stared again.
“Great Scott! Am I drunk or dreaming?” broke from him at last. “Why, it can’t be – . But it is – Cetchy – Anthony – Mpukuza?”
But with the last name a mighty groan broke forth from all who heard, then another and another. Even in the whirl of his amazement and relief, Haviland recognised that he had blundered terribly. He had actually named the King by his veiled name, and that in the presence of the whole nation.
“Not Mpukuza now, but Umnovunovu. The Stump has spread into the Fire-striking Tree,” said the King in a loud voice, speaking in Zulu. Then, dropping into English again:
“I have never forgotten you, Haviland, although you have forgotten me. When your friend there called you Haviland, I made him repeat it, so as to make sure. Then I remembered that bad scratch you gave yourself one day at Saint Kirwin’s, when we were scrambling through a wire fence. I knew the scar would be there still, so I arranged to make sure of that too.”
No wonder his people deemed Umnovunovu bewitched. Here he was, talking easily, fluently, in the tongue of these strangers; nor was that all, for his very countenance had changed, and the hardened savagery of the ferocious despot had given way to an expression that was bright and pleasing.
“No fear. I didn’t forget you, Cetchy,” answered Haviland, unconsciously reverting to the old nickname, which, however, didn’t matter, being English. “Why I was quite a long while in the Zulu country, and inquired for you everywhere. Ask Kumbelwa if I didn’t. I wanted no end to run against you again.”
“Well, and now you have, and in a mighty queer sort of way. And, do you know, Haviland, if you had been any one else, I’d have let them do what they liked with you. I hate white people. Nick and the others at Saint Kirwin’s taught me that. I wish I’d got Nick here. I’d put him through what Mushâd’s dogs underwent. Then I’d make him dance on that fire.”
The recollection of his school experiences and discipline revived all the savage in the young King. His face hardened vengefully.
“Oh, bosh, Cetchy,” replied Haviland, with a laugh. “You surely don’t bear a grudge against Nick for giving you a licking now and then; it’s all in the ordinary course of things when a fellow’s at school. Supposing every fellow I’d ever given a licking to wanted to burn me. Instead of that, we’d be shaking hands and talking over old times. Jarnley, for instance.”
Umnovunovu burst into a roar, his good humour quite restored.
“Jarnley!” he echoed, “I gave him such a licking before I left. You see, I was growing every day, and I felt strong enough to lick Jarnley. So we fought, and I licked him.”
It was a curious contrast, this easy and light-hearted school reminiscence, proceeding from the mouth of a blood-stained barbarian despot, clad in his savage panoply, and enthroned at the head of his astounded subjects. And on the ground, where they had fallen, the huge gory trunks of the decapitated executioners. Haviland saw the bizarre incongruity of the situation, and said as much, adding with something of a shudder as his glance fell upon the hideous corpses: —
“You’re a cruel young beggar, Cetchy, you know. Why are you?”
“Cruel? Look here, Haviland. When you did wrong, Nick gave you a thousand lines, or a thrashing. I can’t give my people lines because they can’t write, and a thrashed man does wrong again, but a killed man, never. If I stopped killing, I should stop being King, for it would mean that. But – who is he?” pointing towards Oakley.
“A friend I rescued in rather a strange manner. I’ll call him.” And he started towards Oakley, all making way before him now, so great was the general amazement. And he had a purpose in this move.
“Oakley,” he said hurriedly, and in an undertone. “For your very life, don’t let go you’re related to Nick, or that you ever so much as heard of him. Be careful. I’ll tell you after.”
Then to Oakley’s astonishment the King began to converse with him in fluent English, and he, listening, thought it was a lucky day for Haviland the day he punched Jarnley’s head for bullying the new boy at Saint Kirwin’s, whom the missionary’s well-intentioned zeal had placed at that seat of learning – a lucky day for himself, too. But quick to grasp Haviland’s warning, he was nothing if not non-committal.
“Ha!” chuckled Umnovunovu, erewhile Anthony. “They thought to make me Umfundisi (Missionary), but it suits me better to be a King.”
Later, he told Haviland of all his vicissitudes since the scheme for his education and civilisation had failed, also how he came to be installed on the Inswani throne in succession to his father, but it was a long and intricate history, full of strange and startling plottings and developments, and in no wise material to this narrative – later, we repeat, this was revealed, but not then. For then happened one of those very occurrences which the young despot claimed to justify him in the savage severities for which his white friend had been taking him to task, and the prime mover therein was Dumaliso.
Whether it was that the chief had really resolved upon a coup d’état or was acting upon one of those irresponsible impulses to which savages are so liable, he now rushed forward, waving his great assegai, and shouting in stentorian tones that the King was bewitched by these white people, and that it was time to make an end of them. A frantic uproar greeted his words, and blades flashed in ominous manner. But Umnovunovu hesitated not a moment. Drawing his towering stature to its full height, he gazed for one second with that terrible gaze of his upon the excited multitude, then there was a rush and a spring and he was upon Dumaliso, and the great spear was shearing through that ill-advised leader’s heart.
“Is the King bewitched?” he roared, flinging the great carcase from him, and rolling his eyes around. But the whole multitude cowered, shouting aloud the sibonga. Then he turned to the two white men, his equanimity quite restored.
“There you are, Haviland. Where would I be if I didn’t kill? Dumaliso has been getting too big for his boots, as we used to say, for some time past, so now I’ve killed him. It’s quite simple.”
“Well, Haviland, we’ve fallen into luck’s way, it seems,” was Oakley’s comment, as they found themselves alone again, now in one of the largest and roomiest huts the town could show, and with plenty of attendance and abundance of everything. “And now, I suppose, we can be trotting home again when we feel like it.”
“Well, I feel like it now, Oakley. It is, as you say, a piece of luck; and, apart from that, I’m awfully glad to see Cetchy again. But all this sanguinary business has got upon my nerves rather – and I think a change of climate will be good for us.”
So, a few days later, having made known their wishes to the King, he sent for them.
“You want to leave me, do you, Haviland?” he said. “Well, you can. But I trust to you both to say and do nothing that might bring a crowd of white people to my country. I don’t want them, I tell you, and if any do come I shall kill them – and so I warn you. You can leave whenever you feel inclined – you and the Arab, Somala. I am going to send an impi to look after you till you are safe beyond the reach of Rumaliza’s bands. I am also sending with you, as a parting present, fifty tusks of ivory. And, Haviland, if ever you feel like coming to see me again, you will be welcome, only don’t come with a number of people. You, Kumbelwa” relapsing into Zulu, “come hither.”
“See. Thou art a great fighting man,” he went on, when the Zulu had crept to his feet, “and I have need for such as thee. Wilt thou stay and wield a spear in my army?”
“Nkose! Baba! Great is the Lion of the Inswani! But what of my wives in my kraal beneath Babanango – father of the mighty?”
The King burst into a loud laugh.
“Thy wives! Au! I will give thee three new ones – six if thou wilt, and thou shalt have abundant choice. Say?”
The big Zulu thought a moment. His own country had been conquered by the English, and there was no more fighting. What should he do with himself for the rest of his life there? Here there would be plenty. And his wives? Well, the King had promised him six new ones here, and he had but two at home, and they were not new. His mind was made up.
“Great Great One. I will konza to the Black Elephant of the Inswani,” he replied. “But may I not go as far with my white chief as the King’s impi goeth? Then I return with the King’s lions.”
“That thou mayest do, Kumbelwa,” said the King.
So it came about that a few days later our two friends took leave of the King – and started on their return journey. They had plenty of bearers now, and a valuable load, and, moreover, travelled with a formidable escort of five hundred shields.
“I tell you what it is, Haviland,” Oakley observed, as they turned to take a last look at the great stockade with its array of ghastly and grinning heads, spiked on the stakes. “That chum of yours is a bloodthirsty young villain. But he’s jolly well worth being chummy with on an occasion like this.”
“Rather. The fellows at Saint Kirwin’s who used to call him ‘Haviland’s Chum’ to rag me, would stare if they only knew how I had run against him over here. In fact, they wouldn’t believe it.”
“Why don’t you put it into print?”
“Then they’d believe it still less.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Conclusion
Saint Kirwin’s was jubilant, and the reason for its jubilation lay in the fact that it had just obtained an unexpected and unlooked-for whole holiday, and that thanks to the request of a now famous explorer-naturalist, who had been invited to revisit his old school and to deliver a lecture in a scientific interest. So interesting and withal instructive, indeed, had he rendered this, that while cordially thanking him in the name of the whole school, the headmaster – not our old friend and sometime terror, Dr Bowen, otherwise Nick – had made him promise to continue it the following week. This he had agreed to do, but only to ask a favour in his turn, and that was to grant the school a whole holiday on the following day – and to an old Kirwinian who had greatly distinguished himself the headmaster had felt that much was due. So Haviland went to bed that night the most popular person within those classic walls; and until late, in more than one dormitory, traditions of his doughty deeds of a dozen years ago were repeated, and those in his whilom dormitory felt themselves of immeasurable importance by virtue of that purely fortuitous circumstance.
The while, in Mr Sefton’s snug rooms Haviland and the master were forgathering.
“Light your pipe, Haviland,” said the latter. “A wanderer like you can’t do without it, I expect. Well! well! I’m very glad to see you again, very. And you’ve done credit to the old place, too.”
“Oh, as to that, sir, I have only my good fortune to thank in having been able to take my own line. Round peg in a round hole, you know.”
Mr Sefton looked at the tall form and bronzed face of the young explorer with unmeasured approval. He himself had hardly changed at all – turning a little grey, perhaps, that was all.
“I say, sir, what were they about that they didn’t make you head when the Doctor left?” broke forth Haviland.
“Ha! That isn’t a sore point with me. I’m second now, and that’s good enough to go on with.” Then, leaning forward in his quaint way – “Other man – interest by marriage – see?” with a chuckle. “I say, though,” he went on, “fancy them making Nick a bishop, eh?”
“Yes, I’m glad he’s got a good thing, though,” said Haviland. “He had a ‘down’ on me, but he was so awfully good to me afterwards that it didn’t count.”
“I know he had, and I don’t mind telling you now that I thought so at the time, and, still more surprising, he came to recognise it himself. It’s the only time I’ve ever known Nick concede anything. You ought to go and see him one of these days. He’d be delighted.”
“I should like to. But, I say, Mr Sefton, I should burst out laughing in his face, because I should always be thinking of the day I marched up solemnly behind him in chapel.”
“We’ve often shouted over that. Williams never could forget it. By the way, Williams has taken orders now. Fancy, Williams a parson. He’s gone in for a parish and matrimony. He’d like to see you too. Who’s that?” he broke off. “Come in, can’t you! Oh, it’s you, Clay? Here. Sit down.”
“I thought I’d find Haviland here,” said the other master, who though of peppery habit in school could be genial enough outside.
And then they got on to all sorts of old reminiscences, of which the episode of the ghost in Hangman’s Wood was the one which caused the two masters to laugh until their sides ached.
“Fancy Cetchy turning out a king!” said Mr Clay, at last. “We ought to have a sort of Zulu royal arms stuck up over the gate here.”
“Tell him about how nearly Cetchy came to having your head chopped off, Haviland,” said Mr Sefton.
“He’d have done it, too, and worse, if I hadn’t been who I am. No, really, that was the most extraordinary thing that could have happened. We had given ourselves up, entirely, Oakley and I.”
“I should think so,” rapped out Mr Sefton. “They didn’t call Cetchy ‘Haviland’s Chum’ here to no purpose. Eh?”
“Well, you’ve had some rum experiences since you left us, Haviland,” said Clay. “And here I and Sefton have been planted, grinding the mill, year in year out – same old grind – all that time. What d’you suppose will be the end of a fellow like Cetchy?”
“A violent one any way. There are only two ends possible to a savage in his position – to be killed in battle or by a conspiracy of his own people. He is a thorough savage, and the people he has to rule – the Inswani – struck me as about as turbulent, ferocious, and bloodthirsty a crowd as this world can produce. There’s the whole situation, and it’s simple. Funny I should have tumbled in with Oakley, isn’t it? Nick’s nephew.”
Thus they yarned on, and at last Clay took his departure, for it was late.
“Well now, Haviland,” said Mr Sefton, the last thing. “What are your plans for the future? Going to start off again or settle down? But I suppose you’re too confirmed a wanderer for that.”
Haviland smiled.
“I shouldn’t be surprised, sir.”
Reader, no more should we.
