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Chapter Four.
The Magistracy at Kwabulazi
The magistracy buildings at Kwabulazi, consisted of a roughly built thatched bungalow, a red brick oblong which was the Court house, and various groups of native huts which served to house the other Court officials – white and coloured – and the handful of mounted Police permanently quartered there. Another red brick structure represented the Post and Telegraph Office. The place was situated at the foot of a great mountain whose wooded slopes made, scenically, a fine background. In front the veldt rolled gently away; quite open, and sparsely dotted with mimosa; and for miles around, at intervals, rose the smoke of native kraals; for this was an important location.
Within the red brick oblong mentioned above Elvesdon sat, administering justice. There was not much to administer that day, for the cases before him involved the settlement of a series of the most petty and trivial disputes relating to cattle or other property, protracted beyond about five times their due length, as the way is with natives once they get to law. Beyond the parties concerned there was no audience to speak of. Three or four old ringed men, squatted in a corner on the floor, drowsed and blinked through the proceedings; while now and again two or three natives would enter noiselessly, listen for a few minutes and then as noiselessly depart.
The morning was drawing to an end, for which Elvesdon was not sorry. It was very hot, and the Court room was becoming unpleasantly redolent of native humanity. He was about to adjourn, when he became aware of the entrance of somebody. Looking up he beheld Thornhill.
The latter stood leaning against the wall just inside the door. Elvesdon, while putting three or four final questions to a voluble and perspiring witness, found himself wondering whether Thornhill was alone, or whether his daughter, preferring the shade and open air to the heat and stuffiness of the Court room, was waiting for him outside. So he sent down the witness and adjourned the Court straight away.
Thornhill crossed the room to shake hands with the clerk, whom he knew, and who was gathering up his papers, then he adjourned to the magistrate’s office.
Thither Elvesdon had gone straight on leaving the bench. If he had one little weakness it was – well, a very adequate sense of his official position, but only when not off duty – and this weakness suggested to him that it might impress the other more if he received him there, instead of going forward to greet him in the emptying Court room. As a matter of fact Elvesdon did show to advantage to the accompaniment of a tinge of officialdom, but, we are careful to emphasise, only at the proper time and place.
“Come in,” he called out in response to a knock. “Ah, Mr Thornhill, I’m so glad to see you,” and there was no official stiffness now about his tone or his handshake. “Anything I can do for you? But unless it’s of first-rate importance it’ll keep till after lunch, which you are going to take with me. So let’s go and get it.”
They went out into the fierce noontide glare, but even it was an improvement after the stuffiness within. Elvesdon called to a native constable to take Thornhill’s horse, and wondered if he felt a twinge of disappointment as he saw there was only one horse to be taken care of. Groups of natives squatting about in the shade, fighting all the points of evidence over again, saluted as they passed.
The clerk joined them at table. He was a thick-set stolid youth, with a shock of light hair, and a countenance wooden and mask-like; without much conversational ability, but a first-rate man at his work. For living purposes, he inhabited a couple of native huts, but messed with his official chief: which in many cases was a bore, as the latter subsequently explained to Thornhill; but Prior had had the same arrangement with the former man, and he couldn’t turn the poor devil out to feed by himself, which in that eventuality he would have had to do. Besides, he was a very decent fellow even if a bit heavy on hand.
During lunch they talked about sport, and the state of the country, and ordinary things. Immediately afterwards the clerk went out.
“Well, I’m getting firm into the saddle here, you see,” said Elvesdon, as they lit their pipes. “And I’m not sure that the situation isn’t going to turn out interesting.”
“Think so? Look here, I haven’t exactly come to look you up officially, still as my round took me rather near Kwabulazi, I thought I’d give you a look in and mention a little matter.”
“Well whatever the ‘little matter’ may be, I’m glad it had that effect. And now what is it?”
Thornhill told him about the meeting with Tongwana and his people, and the mysterious stranger who was in their company. Told him too of the outrageous impudence of the man in refusing to get out of the way for him.
“It was all I could do to keep my hands off him,” he said. “Nothing but the thought that he’d certainly use his assegais and I should have to shoot him dead in self defence kept me from pounding him between the shoulders with the butt of the gun as he swaggered along.”
“And this was quite near your house, you say?”
“Yes. Right bang on the spot where you so pluckily saved my girl’s life, Elvesdon. I’ve heard all full details now.”
Elvesdon reddened slightly, but he was secretly pleased.
“Oh, come now,” he protested. “I don’t know that it requires much pluck to crack a whip at a snake. And if it comes to that, I think it was your daughter who showed the pluck. I told her to cut and run while I drew the brute off. D’you think she would? Not a bit of it. She had picked up a whacking big stone and was standing there ready to heave it. I tell you it was a magnificent sight. Suggested a sort of classical heroine up-to-date. But – I say. Do you think it’s altogether safe for a girl to go about so much alone round here?”
“Round here I do. The people have known her since she was a little thing and take a sort of proprietary interest in her. For the rest, she can use a six shooter – and that quickly and straight. I taught her.”
Elvesdon was on the point of observing that she was not provided with that opportune weapon at the critical moment of a few days previous, but an instinctive warning that it might seem a little too much like taking the other to task caused him to refrain. But he said:
“What of that swaggering impudent swine we were talking about? Supposing he were to pay your place a visit in your absence?”
“There are four great kwai dogs who’d pull down the devil himself at a word from either of us – you saw them, Elvesdon. As an alternative Edala would drill him through and through – with no toy pistol, mind you, but real business-like lead, if he made the slightest act of aggression. Besides, a Zulu from beyond the river, and a head-ringed one at that, wouldn’t. So, you see, she’s pretty safe.”
“Oh, he’s a Zulu from beyond the river, is he?”
“So Tongwana said. And he looked like one.”
“And he was carrying assegais?”
“Rather. Two small ones and a big umkonto. I chaffed him, gave him royal sibongo, and it made him mad. You know, Elvesdon, how these chaps hate being chaffed.”
“Of course. But I think I’ll have this one looked after. Anyway he’s no business cutting about with assegais. I don’t want to arrest him though, if it can possibly be avoided. That sort of thing only irritates the others, and does no good, unless of course you can prove anything distinctly against them; which, just now, you hardly ever can.” Then, raising his voice, “Wa, Teliso!”
In obedience to the shout a man came forward, emerging from behind the Court house. He was a native detective attached to the magistracy. Saluting, he stood and awaited orders.
Then those three – the two white men seated on the steps of the stoep – held a quarter of an hour’s conference, speaking rapidly, and in the vernacular. Teliso thought he knew the stranger. His name? No, that he could not say – as a matter of fact he knew it perfectly. He might be able to find it out – given every facility. Was he from beyond the border, and if so who was his chief? Of this too, Teliso professed ignorance, though he could find out, given time and every facility. Here likewise, he was in a position to give perfectly correct answers then and there, but Teliso was in his humble way a Government official, and thoroughly understood the art of “magnifying his office.” He was not going to adopt any such undignified course of procedure as to give a direct answer. He looked forward to being sent on a secret mission, with many days of pleasant sojourn among the kraals of his countrymen, well regaled with plenty of beef and beer, and – other things. So he reiterated his ability to find out all about the stranger if entrusted with that delicate errand. At that, for the time, he was dismissed.
“What sort of chap’s that, Elvesdon?” said Thornhill re-lighting his pipe.
“Haven’t tried him yet. Why?”
“You may have to ‘try’ him yet, in another sense,” returned Thornhill, drily, shading the third match with his hand. “Look here. I don’t want to seem to run your show for you, but I’ve been here a goodish while, and I hear things. If you’ll take a tip from me – you’re not obliged to, you know – you won’t trust everything to Teliso. Don’t mind my saying that?”
“Certainly not. In fact, I’m obliged to you. To my mind if there’s anything idiotic in the world it’s making light of the experience of men of experience.”
“Well, you can always command mine – on the quiet of course – and I shan’t be in the least put out if you don’t agree with it. Now I can see you’re longing to get back to your job, so I’ll saddle up.”
“Er – the fact is, I’ve got a lot of these tin-pot cases to worry through – so I’ll get you to excuse me. By the way, Thornhill, I’m going to take you at your word, and invade you on Sunday. I’m beastly all-by-myself here when there’s no work. How does that pan out?”
“Any number of ounces to the ton. Come as early as you like, and, there’s a bed for you, if you don’t want to get back here till next morning. Good Lord, Elvesdon, when I think of – ”
“But, don’t ‘think of’,” interrupted the other, hurriedly. “Very well. So long – till Sunday.”
Thornhill’s horse had been brought round, and as he got into the saddle Elvesdon turned away to the Court house. And the latter as he got there, felt as if he was treading on air. Yet why should he – why the devil should he? – he kept unconsciously asking himself.
Thornhill, passing the clerk’s quarters, saw the latter just coming out.
“Hallo, Prior!” he hailed. “Good-bye, I’m off.”
The young man came over to him.
“Good-bye, Mr Thornhill,” he said. “You don’t often look us up in these days.”
“You don’t often look me up, Prior, for the matter of that.”
“Oh well, Mr Thornhill,” said the other shamefacedly. “I should like to, you know. Er – may I come and try for a bushbuck someday?”
“Why of course you may, man, any mortal time you feel inclined, or can. By the way, how do you like your new chief?”
“No end. He’s – er – he’s such a gentleman.”
There was a world of admiration – of hero worship in the young man’s tone, and colonial youth is by no means prone to such.
“Ah,” replied Thornhill. “Well, I agree with you, Prior. Good-bye.”
Chapter Five.
The Ethiopian Emissary
The kraals of the chief, Babatyana, lay sleeping. So brilliant was this starlight, however, that the yellow domes of the thatch huts could be distinguished from the ridge – even counted. The latter operation would have resulted in the discovery that the collection of kraals, dotted along the wide, bushy valley, numbered among them some three hundred huts; but these, of course, represented only a section of the tribe over which Babatyana was chief.
It is a strange sight that of a large, sleeping kraal – or a number of them, in the wizard hush and calm beauty of an African night. It is so in harmony with setting and surrounding; the starlight showing up the ghostly loom of mountain, or suggesting the weird mystery of dark wilderness lying beneath, where deadly things creep and lurk. And then, these human habitations, themselves constructed of the grass which springs up around them, of the very thorns which impede the progress of their denizens, they stand, in primitive symmetry – not rude, because that which is circular is nothing if not symmetrical – lying there in their pathetic insignificance under the vast height of Heaven’s vault. And the said denizens sleeping there! Hopes and fears, virtues and vices; capacity for intrigue, cupidity; redeeming traits, human weaknesses – all the same, whether sleeping within the kraal of the savage to the lullaby of the voices of prowling creatures of the night, or in stately mansion amid the roar and rattle of the metropolis of the world. All the same – all, all!
The air is fresh and sweet with the fragrance of flowering shrubs, is faintly melodious with the ghostly whistle of circling plover invisible overhead. The cry of a jackal rings out from the hillside, receding further and further, to be answered again from another point in the misty gloom – then the bark of a restless dog in some slumbering kraal beneath. Or the hoot of a night bird hawking above the silent expanse, and the droning boom of a great beetle mingling with the shrill, whistling voice of tree frogs. Man is silent, but Nature never.
Along the ridge overlooking Babatyana’s kraals a dusty waggon road winds like a riband, distinguishable from the darker veldt in the starlight. It follows the apex of the ridge, and is just the place to avoid during those dry thunder-storms which in Natal seem to hunt in couples nearly every day during the hot months. Then the wayfarer may well leave the highway, and dive down into one of the bushy kloofs on either side, and wait until the turmoil passes; for the lightning will strike down upon that high, exposed pathway, every sheeting flash not much less dangerous than a shell from hostile artillery.
To-night, however, the elements are at peace, but man is represented by a single unit.
Natives, as a rule, are not given to wandering about alone at night, but this one is obviously here with a purpose. Like a statue he stands, gazing down the road as though on the look-out for something or somebody. He is a tall man, and ringed: and as he wraps his blanket closer around him – for there is a tinge of chill in the night air – and takes a few paces, it might be seen that he walks with a slight limp.
Another hour goes by, and still he stands, ever watchful, and suffering nothing to escape him, for the patience of the savage is inexhaustible. And now a glow suffuses the far horizon, widening and brightening; then the broad disc of a full moon soars redly aloft, and lo, the land is steeped in subdued unearthly light – plain, and ridge, and distant mountain, all stand revealed; and the clusters of domed huts in the broad valley beneath show out sharply defined. But these are no longer silent. First a low, long-drawn wail, then another and another from different points, culminating in still more drawn out howls, and the dismal sounds echo through the silence in weird cadence. Half the curs in the slumbering kraals are baying the newly risen moon.
Her light falls full upon the watcher, throwing out his tall form into statuesque relief, and glinting on the polished shine of his head-ring. But for the limp his gait as he slowly paces up and down would be a stately one. Even then there is an unconscious dignity about the man, as with head held proudly aloft, he gazes out over the moonlit expanse, and it is the dignity of a natural ruler of men.
Suddenly he stops short in his walk, and stands, listening intently. You or I could have heard nothing, but he can, and what he hears is the sound of hoof-strokes.
Down the road now he takes his way, walking rapidly, and soon the hoof-strokes draw very near indeed. Then he stops, and starts singing to himself in a low, melodious croon.
The horseman appears in sight, advancing at a pace that is half jog-trot, half canter. The moonlight reveals a thick-set, burly figure, encased in a suit of clerical black. But the face which now shows between the bow of the white “choker” and the wide-awake hat is not many shades lighter than the whole get-up.
“Saku bona, Mfundisi,” is the greeting of the watcher, whose singing, purposely turned on to guard against the horse shying or stampeding at the sudden appearance of anything living, has had that effect.
“Yeh-bo,” answered the other. “Do I see Manamandhla, the Zulu?”
“Of the People of the Heavens am I, Umfundisi,” was the reply, but the tone in which the speaker enunciates the word “Umfundisi” – which means “teacher” or “missionary” – contains a very thinly veiled sneer. “The people down there have been awaiting you long.”
“In the Cause, brother, in our holy Cause, no man’s time is his own,” answered the horseman, sanctimoniously. “Whau! have not I been inoculating its sacred principles into the people at Ncapele’s kraal – or striving to, for Ncapele is old, and when a man is old enthusiasm is dead within him. It is the young whom we have to teach. Wherefore I could not turn my back upon him too soon.”
The speaker did not think it necessary to explain that the undue time it had taken to roast the succulent young goat which Ncapele had caused to be slaughtered for his refection had had anything to do with the lateness of his arrival. For that chief, although “a heathen man,” was not unmindful of the duties of hospitality. Which definition applied equally to Manamandhla the Zulu; wherefore the attitude of that fine savage towards the smug preacher to whom he had undertaken the office of guide, was one of ill-concealed contempt.
“And the people – the people of Babatyana,” went on the latter, “are they ready to hear the good news – the glorious gospel of light and freedom?”
“They are ready,” answered Manamandhla, who was striding beside the other, easily keeping pace with the horse. “They are ready – ah-ah – very ready.”
“That is well – very well.”
Here was an edifying picture, was it not, this zealous missionary, labouring day and night to spread the good news among the benighted heathen, and he one of their own colour? They, too, waiting to welcome him, to give up their night’s rest even, in order to hang upon his words – truly a heart-stirring picture, was it not?
We shall see.
Guided by Manamandhla by short cuts across the veldt, the traveller was not long in reaching his destination. His arrival had been momentarily expected, and with the first distant sounds of his horse’s hoofs, the carcase of a recently slaughtered goat had been quartered up and placed upon a fire of glowing embers. The preacher rubbed his fat hands together with anticipatory delight as his broad nostrils snuffed from afar the savoury odour of the roast.
“Ah brother, the people are ever hospitable to those who bring them tidings of the Cause,” he remarked, complacently.
“And to those who do not,” rejoined the Zulu.
Assuredly the emissary had no reason to complain of the substantial nature of his reception, and so decided that worthy himself, as he sat within the chief’s hut, tearing the juicy meat from the ribs with his teeth, and washing it down with huge draughts from the bowls of tywala which had been brought in. Ah, it was good to live like this. Meat – everywhere – plenty of it, wherever he went – meat – fresh, and succulent and juicy, as different as day from night to the dried up, tasteless, insipid stuff to which he sat down when in civilisation. Tywala too – newly brewed, humming, and, above all, plentiful. Yes, it was good! He had taken off his black coat and waistcoat, mainly with the object of preserving them from grease. Indeed had he followed his own inclination it is far from certain that he would not have taken off everything else. It was a disgusting spectacle, this fat, smug, black preacher, sitting there in his shirt, his white choker all awry, tearing at the steaming bones like a dog, his face and hands smeared with grease; a revolting sight, immeasurably more so than that of the ring of unclothed savages who were his entertainers and fellow feasters.
Nothing was heard but the champ of hungry jaws. Such a serious matter as eating must not be interfered with by conversation. At last there was very little left of the carcase of the goat but the bones, and one by one the feasters dropped out and leaned back against the walls of the hut.
The latter was lighted by two candles stuck in bottle necks, a device learned from the white man. Babatyana and several others started pipes, also an institution learned from the white man. But Manamandhla, the conservative Zulu, confined himself to the contents of his snuff-horn. Secretly, in his heart of hearts, he held his entertainers in some degree of contempt, as became one of the royal race. Babatyana was an influential chief, but only so by favour of the whites. What was he but a Kafula (term of contempt used by Zulus for Natal natives)? But Manamandhla was far too shrewd to impair the success of his mission by suffering any of his secret feelings to appear.
All the same, although he lived on the wrong side of the river from the other’s point of view, there was very little admixture of baser blood in Babatyana’s system. His father had been a Zulu of pure blood and his mother very nearly so. They had crossed into Natal as refugees, after Nongalaza defeated Dingane, and had there remained. Seen in the dim light of the candles, Babatyana was an elderly man, with a shrewd, lined face; in fact there was no perceptible difference in his aspect or bearing from that of those who affected to despise him. Now he turned to his guest.
“The news, brother, what is it?”
“The news? Au! it is great. Everywhere we have our emissaries; everywhere the people are listening. They are tired of being dogs to the whites: tired of having to send their children away to work, so as to find money to pay the whites. Soon our plan of deliverance will be complete, soon when we have brought home universal brotherhood to those of one colour – and, brothers, the time is now very near.”
“And that time – when it comes – who will lead the people, Umfundisi?” asked an old head-ringed man who was seated next to the chief.
“The leader will be found,” was the ready answer. “It may be that he is found – already found.”
“Is he found on this side of the river or on the other?” went on the old man, who was inclined to “heckle” the visitor.
“That, as yet, is dark. But – he is found.”
A murmur went round the group. They were becoming interested. Only Manamandhla remained perfectly impassive. He made no remarks and asked no questions.
The conversation ran on in subdued tones, which however grew more and more animated. The emissary was glib of tongue and knew how to hold his audience. At last Babatyana said:
“It sounds well, Jobo. Now is the time to tell it – or some of it – to the people outside. They wait to hear.”
The Rev. Job Magwegwe – by the way the name by which the chief had addressed him was a corruption of his “Christiana” name – was an educated Fingo, hailing from the Cape Colony, where he had been trained for a missionary, and finally became a qualified minister in one of the more important sects whose activity lay in that direction. But he promptly saw that in the capacity of missionary he was going to prove a failure. Those of his own colour openly scoffed at him. What could he teach them, they asked? He was one of themselves, his father was So-and-So – and no better than any of them. The whites could teach them things, but a black man could not teach a black man anything. And so on.
But luck befriended the Rev. Job. The Ethiopian movement had just come into being, and here he saw his chance. There was more to be made by going about among distant races where his origin was not known, living on the fat of the land, and preaching a visionary deliverance from imaginary evils to those well attuned to listen, than staying at home, striving to drill into a contemptuous audience the “tenets” of a dry-as-dust and very defective form of Christianity. So he promptly migrated to Natal, and being a plausible, smooth-tongued rogue soon found himself in clover, in the official capacity of an accredited emissary of the “Ethiopian Church,” whose mission it was to instil in the native mind the high-sounding doctrine of “Africa for its natives.”
