Chapter Twenty Two.The Tragedy.The agony of Noquala now entered into its acute stage. The guards were posted around the vale of pestilence and mourning in a pitiless ring. Dozens of men were at work inside with pick and spade, digging pits for the interment of the carcases. Soon, however, the deaths became so many that the diggers could not keep pace with them, so the carcases were allowed to lie and rot in the sunshine. Later, as the animals fell sick, they were driven up towards the head of the valley, where the stench of the dead poisoned their dying breath, and thus added another pang to those the miserable creatures already suffered from. This cruelty was rendered necessary by the circumstances of the case. It was, above all, important to confine the infection within bounds, until the surrounding herds had been inoculated.Day by day, hour by hour, the mournful processions would wend, with the slowness of a funeral, to this ghastly spot, where the swollen carcases festered over the ground. Sometimes a doomed brute being goaded along would suddenly take fright at the stench, and, gathering a flicker of strength from its dismay, rush frantically backwards, until it tumbled in a heap to the ground. Foul carrion-birds roosted upon every stump and stone; others, gorged so that they could not fly, would hop ungainly away when disturbed, and fall into a sick sleep when they stopped at a few yards’ distance.The effluvium became so bad that it was found impossible to approach this bovine Golgotha except when the wind was favourable. When the breeze blew down the valley towards the kraal, the dwellers would be seized with violent sickness.Noquala, who had become quite prostrated when he found that the pest had attacked his main herd and that ’Ndakana had bolted, soon recovered his self-command, and bore himself with pathetic dignity. His hair and beard became rapidly greyer; his face grew drawn and haggard; his eyes took on the look of agony which he read, all day long, in the eyes of the beasts he loved so well, and the sufferings of which seemed to be mirrored in his consciousness. Some few—about a tenth of the herd—as yet showed no sign of infection. The noble, dun-coloured bull still stalked about majestically, breathing love and defiance in his low. Well, thought Noquala, surely all his cattle would not die; he would be left with a few with which to begin again with. Just the dun-coloured bull and a few cows. It would be a joy once more to build up wealth. No one ever heard of such a thing as that a multitude of cattle, such as his, should die out of any disease. Alas! no one with whom Noquala had foregathered had ever heard an adequate account of the fell effects of the rinderpest.But day by day the agony deepened, until at length the time came when the splendid herd of a couple of weeks back all had expired except a few sick and staggering creatures, the superior vitality of which had prolonged for them the agonies of inevitable death. The dun-coloured bull was one of the last to succumb, but he too vailed his lordly crest and sank his deep voice to a pitch as pitiful as that of the two-year-old heifer, his dying daughter, that lay moaning close to him. The guards came to drive the last survivors to the dreadful spot at the head of the valley, but Noquala seized his sticks and rushed at them so fiercely that they fled from before his face. Then Noquala mounted guard over the last dying remnants of his matchless herd, and none dared further to disturb their agonies.The sun went down and the pitiless stars gazed impassively on the valley of the shadow of death. Noquala remained at his post. Every now and then would he pass from one to the other of the suffering creatures, endeavouring distractedly to comfort them with words. The night was bitterly cold; a white frost thickly covered the grass and struck to the marrow of the tortured limbs. At the sharp pinch which came just before dawn, tardy Death finished his work. One by one, within a few fatal minutes, the remainder of Noquala’s cattle expired. The dun-coloured bull was the last to die. He lingered until a pallid flicker filled the east. Then he started as if about to rise. For an instant it seemed as though he would succeed, for he lifted his gaunt trunk upon his front legs, and swept a dazed and startled gaze from one to the other of the carcases of his dead companions which lay around him. But he could get no farther; his hind quarters were paralysed. He remained thus for a few seconds, then, with a roar that seemed to shake the hills, he sank back and died.Noquala was found at daybreak sitting on the ground close to the carcase of the bull. His head lay forward upon his bent knees; his grey hair was whitened by the frost. He was so stiff from the cold that he was unable to move, so had to be carried back to his hut, where they covered him with blankets and gave him a draught of hot broth, which he drank mechanically. It was long before he regained normal warmth.When next Noquala emerged from the hut into the sunlight he was a cripple. His lower limbs had become cramped and contracted, and it was found impossible to straighten them. His memory was asleep, and it is not likely that it will ever waken. One day, as he sat in the sunshine, a little boy came up and began to play with some clay oxen, close to him. A bright smile at once lit up Noquala’s face; he stretched forth his hand, seized a couple of the images, and began to fondle them.He is, apparently, quite happy. Makalipa tends him devotedly, and helps him to hobble back to the hearth when the sun goes down or a cold wind springs up, first assisting him to gather up the clay oxen and place them carefully in a fold of his blanket. She has not the least objection to digging up her hoards, as occasions arise, and spending the money freely upon her husband’s comfort. Elijah is still at the seminary, and has not yet heard of what has happened at his home.The children of the neighbourhood take a pleasure in making clay oxen for the one-time proud, masterful, and wealthy man who has become their playmate and companion; they even make expeditions to distant valleys for the purpose of obtaining various-hued ochres and earths, so as to manufacture cattle of different colours. Noquala has now quite a large number of these toys. His only trouble is when one breaks by accident, but as they are strongly made and afterwards baked in an old ant-heap which does duty for a kiln, this does not very often occur. He seldom speaks, except when he sees a stranger approaching. Then he says, in a high, thin voice, quite different to his former gruff, deep-chested tones—“Have you seen ’Ndakana?... He is a great doctor... He went to the bush for roots... I wonder why he does not come.”The End.
The agony of Noquala now entered into its acute stage. The guards were posted around the vale of pestilence and mourning in a pitiless ring. Dozens of men were at work inside with pick and spade, digging pits for the interment of the carcases. Soon, however, the deaths became so many that the diggers could not keep pace with them, so the carcases were allowed to lie and rot in the sunshine. Later, as the animals fell sick, they were driven up towards the head of the valley, where the stench of the dead poisoned their dying breath, and thus added another pang to those the miserable creatures already suffered from. This cruelty was rendered necessary by the circumstances of the case. It was, above all, important to confine the infection within bounds, until the surrounding herds had been inoculated.
Day by day, hour by hour, the mournful processions would wend, with the slowness of a funeral, to this ghastly spot, where the swollen carcases festered over the ground. Sometimes a doomed brute being goaded along would suddenly take fright at the stench, and, gathering a flicker of strength from its dismay, rush frantically backwards, until it tumbled in a heap to the ground. Foul carrion-birds roosted upon every stump and stone; others, gorged so that they could not fly, would hop ungainly away when disturbed, and fall into a sick sleep when they stopped at a few yards’ distance.
The effluvium became so bad that it was found impossible to approach this bovine Golgotha except when the wind was favourable. When the breeze blew down the valley towards the kraal, the dwellers would be seized with violent sickness.
Noquala, who had become quite prostrated when he found that the pest had attacked his main herd and that ’Ndakana had bolted, soon recovered his self-command, and bore himself with pathetic dignity. His hair and beard became rapidly greyer; his face grew drawn and haggard; his eyes took on the look of agony which he read, all day long, in the eyes of the beasts he loved so well, and the sufferings of which seemed to be mirrored in his consciousness. Some few—about a tenth of the herd—as yet showed no sign of infection. The noble, dun-coloured bull still stalked about majestically, breathing love and defiance in his low. Well, thought Noquala, surely all his cattle would not die; he would be left with a few with which to begin again with. Just the dun-coloured bull and a few cows. It would be a joy once more to build up wealth. No one ever heard of such a thing as that a multitude of cattle, such as his, should die out of any disease. Alas! no one with whom Noquala had foregathered had ever heard an adequate account of the fell effects of the rinderpest.
But day by day the agony deepened, until at length the time came when the splendid herd of a couple of weeks back all had expired except a few sick and staggering creatures, the superior vitality of which had prolonged for them the agonies of inevitable death. The dun-coloured bull was one of the last to succumb, but he too vailed his lordly crest and sank his deep voice to a pitch as pitiful as that of the two-year-old heifer, his dying daughter, that lay moaning close to him. The guards came to drive the last survivors to the dreadful spot at the head of the valley, but Noquala seized his sticks and rushed at them so fiercely that they fled from before his face. Then Noquala mounted guard over the last dying remnants of his matchless herd, and none dared further to disturb their agonies.
The sun went down and the pitiless stars gazed impassively on the valley of the shadow of death. Noquala remained at his post. Every now and then would he pass from one to the other of the suffering creatures, endeavouring distractedly to comfort them with words. The night was bitterly cold; a white frost thickly covered the grass and struck to the marrow of the tortured limbs. At the sharp pinch which came just before dawn, tardy Death finished his work. One by one, within a few fatal minutes, the remainder of Noquala’s cattle expired. The dun-coloured bull was the last to die. He lingered until a pallid flicker filled the east. Then he started as if about to rise. For an instant it seemed as though he would succeed, for he lifted his gaunt trunk upon his front legs, and swept a dazed and startled gaze from one to the other of the carcases of his dead companions which lay around him. But he could get no farther; his hind quarters were paralysed. He remained thus for a few seconds, then, with a roar that seemed to shake the hills, he sank back and died.
Noquala was found at daybreak sitting on the ground close to the carcase of the bull. His head lay forward upon his bent knees; his grey hair was whitened by the frost. He was so stiff from the cold that he was unable to move, so had to be carried back to his hut, where they covered him with blankets and gave him a draught of hot broth, which he drank mechanically. It was long before he regained normal warmth.
When next Noquala emerged from the hut into the sunlight he was a cripple. His lower limbs had become cramped and contracted, and it was found impossible to straighten them. His memory was asleep, and it is not likely that it will ever waken. One day, as he sat in the sunshine, a little boy came up and began to play with some clay oxen, close to him. A bright smile at once lit up Noquala’s face; he stretched forth his hand, seized a couple of the images, and began to fondle them.
He is, apparently, quite happy. Makalipa tends him devotedly, and helps him to hobble back to the hearth when the sun goes down or a cold wind springs up, first assisting him to gather up the clay oxen and place them carefully in a fold of his blanket. She has not the least objection to digging up her hoards, as occasions arise, and spending the money freely upon her husband’s comfort. Elijah is still at the seminary, and has not yet heard of what has happened at his home.
The children of the neighbourhood take a pleasure in making clay oxen for the one-time proud, masterful, and wealthy man who has become their playmate and companion; they even make expeditions to distant valleys for the purpose of obtaining various-hued ochres and earths, so as to manufacture cattle of different colours. Noquala has now quite a large number of these toys. His only trouble is when one breaks by accident, but as they are strongly made and afterwards baked in an old ant-heap which does duty for a kiln, this does not very often occur. He seldom speaks, except when he sees a stranger approaching. Then he says, in a high, thin voice, quite different to his former gruff, deep-chested tones—
“Have you seen ’Ndakana?... He is a great doctor... He went to the bush for roots... I wonder why he does not come.”
The End.
|Preface| |Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21| |Chapter 22|