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.
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.
The Auto Da Fé.With the dark smile on his face, and triumph beaming from his sinister-looking eyes, Umhleswa had left the hut. Koomalayoo, its owner, was busy hounding on the too willing savages to kill his supposed rival, for it was by using the suggestion that he and his familiar had come among them to take the sorcerer’s place in the tribe that the cunning chief had secured Koomalayoo’s co-operation. Masheesh now entered, his first impulse being to pass his sharp knife over the palmyra rope which yet bound the white men’s hands as he did so.Their first emotion over, the two exchanged a hearty shake of the hand, looking into each other’s eyes, the soldier speaking first.“The black scoundrel,” at last said Hughes, drawing a deep breath, and shaking himself like a dog. “Wyzinski, we must save poor Luji. Speak to Masheesh—will you?”Turning to the Matabele, the missionary spoke long and earnestly; but the chief kept a dogged silence, shaking his head from time to time, then looking up into the speaker’s face.“The Amatonga must have blood,” he said, slowly. “Shall it be the white man’s? Masheesh can do nothing.”“Will the chief try?” asked Wyzinski; but again he was met by the slow shake of the head, which told more than words could convey the hopelessness of the case.“But if you will not, at all events we will,” said the missionary. “It is a terrible thing to push superstition to such a point.”“Does the white chief disbelieve in the charm cast on the dead Amatonga?” asked Masheesh, as though such disbelief were monstrous.“Can the Matabele warrior assert it as his own faith? Is he credulous, like an Amatonga?” asked Wyzinski in reply.“How does the white man account for Sgalam’s death?”“The chief Umhleswa knows the use and the value of the English rifle; he sees the great power it would give him and his tribe. By our death he would have gained nothing, save two or three rifles. No white traders would have come near him, and his end and aim would have been frustrated.”“Mozelkatse’s vengeance would have found him out,” interpolated the Matabele.“True; but Sgalam took another view of the matter, and threatened the anger of the chief of Manica. Hence the midnight meeting in our hut, and the death of Sgalam, hence the decision of the sorcerer Koomalayoo and Luji’s persecution. Some one killed Sgalam, and some one must answer for it.”“So the white chief thinks Umhleswa cast the spell?”“No, Matabele, no,” answered the missionary, “it was a potent poison which did the work; and Umhleswa had everything to gain by the death, Luji had nothing.”Masheesh turned away incredulous, not even taking the trouble to reply.“It will be impossible, I fear, to save the poor fellow; but we must make the effort, Hughes. You see even this man, belonging to a tribe far superior in education to these Amatongas, perfectly believes that Luji by sorcery caused the chief’s death.”“Let us try, at least,” replied Hughes, as both took their way to the entrance of the hut.All had been comparatively quiet, since the Amatonga chief had left the place, a council having been held outside to determine on the best mode of punishing the Hottentot sorcerer. The sun was shining brightly, and a light breeze waving the branches of a group of mashunga trees, under which the men of the tribe had assembled. Umhleswa had been speaking rapidly, and doubtless eloquently, to the circle of braves around him. Near by, stood the unfortunate Hottentot, closely guarded, and if it had not been a pitiful, it would have been a laughable sight, for, tied in his usual position, on the prisoner’s shoulders, sat the baboon. Naturally ugly, the brute was rendered still more so from the effects of the gunpowder explosion, which had scorched its skin, and there it sat, peeping from side to side of Luji’s head, moaning, grimacing, stroking the Hottentot’s face, and showing his teeth to all who came near. The large tears were streaming down the captive’s cheeks, mixing with the blood and dirt with which they were begrimed.The chief concluded his speech just as the two white men emerged into the open air, pointing as he did so to the crouching captive, and the whole band started up, shouting and yelling, to dash past Luji into the bush. One loud scream of anguish burst from the man’s chest, for he had heard his fate, and knew that it was death by fire.Rudely thrust back by the men who had been left to guard them, Wyzinski and the soldier were powerless, but felt their blood boil within them as they noted the preparations made. The savages seemed to be holding high festival in the bush and in the tall, parched-up reeds, and then one after another appeared bearing bundles of branches and inflammable grass, throwing them down only to return for more, and thus, laughing, singing, and yelling, they collected a large pile.A mass of bare, splintered rock rose in the plain, and towards this Umhleswa and his subordinate chiefs took their way, while several of the half-maddened savages laid hold of the Hottentot, the rest dancing wildly around him. Shriek after shriek rose from the captive as he resisted, and the points of the assegais, urging him on in rear, drew blood, the baboon nearly strangling him in his fearful efforts to escape.Turning, the poor fellow caught sight of his late masters, and as he held out his fettered hands, they marked the big tears of agony rolling down his yellow-black cheeks.Again Hughes made an effort to escape.“By heavens, they are going to kill Luji! Oh! for my rifle. At all events he shall not go alone,” he shouted, as he dashed from the entrance of the hut, and was rudely repulsed by the Amatonga guard.Wyzinski’s eyes were closed, and his thin, finely-cut lips moving as if in prayer. It was, indeed, a terrible sight.Two strong stakes had been driven into the ground against the smooth face of the rock, and the prisoner was now bound firmly to them, in the fashion of a spread eagle, while all round, in a semicircle, were piled heaps of dried reeds, branches, and grass, near enough to roast the man gradually, but not to burn at once, poor Luji’s shrieks for mercy ringing out even above the joyous yells of the Amatongas. Two of the tribe were engaged in procuring a light by rubbing together pieces of dry wood, while leaning on his assegai, lazily contemplating the whole with an air of great satisfaction, stood Umhleswa, showing his filed teeth and grinning with delight. “And these are the men I thought so gentle, whom I believed incapable of bloodshed. Fiend, scoundrel, Umhleswa,” shouted Hughes, in his excitement, once more rushing on the guards at the entrance, and being again roughly thrown back.The missionary still prayed.A bright, red glare shot up in the sunshine, as the air, heavily laden with the sweet scent of the mashunga and the acacia trees, fanned the burning branches; a cry of human agony and terror, mixed with loud yells of vengeance and of delight, rang out. Shriek after shriek followed, as the poor wretch felt the increasing heat, and the flame burned fiercer and more fiercely, while the horrible baboon, in his terror, dug his sharp nails into the Hottentot’s face, the blood streaming, and the Amatongas fairly screaming with laughter.More and more intense grew the fire, and, as the scorching heat became unendurable, the agony experienced by the baboon increased in intensity. This he revenged on the unfortunate man. The Amatongas seemed to revel in the horrible scene, as they filled the pure, afternoon air with their laughter. Throwing fresh wood on the blaze, they made the fire leap and roar, while they dashed sharp pieces of rock at the captive, cutting and bruising his flesh, but avoiding death, as, blinded with his own blood, and one eye torn from its socket by the mad efforts of the baboon, the unfortunate Hottentot now moaned feebly. Umhleswa stood by watching the scene, as he leaned on his long assegai, the ostrich feather floating over his head, and the panther skin round his waist, from time to time urging his men to further cruelties, or stirring the fire with the spearhead.Fearfully excited, and unable longer to bear the sickening spectacle, the white men in desperation and rage threw themselves on the guard, and a fierce hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Not wishing to use their arms, and less powerful than they, it required all the superiority of their numbers to resist the shock, for they both fought like madmen, with hand and foot, only at last to be cast back, stunned and bleeding, into the hut.Louder and louder grew the shrieks outside, madder and madder the dance, round the death-fire. The blaze had died away, and over the embers dashed the Amatongas, using their long knives, cutting strips out of the quivering flesh, but craftily avoiding vital parts, they threw them in the fire. The baboon was dead. A lump of rock had dashed out his brains, which were bespattered over the half-roasted Hottentot’s face and breast, the shattered head and ungainly body dangling about a ghastly sight. The man himself hardly presented a vestige of the human form. One eye hanging out, his limbs smashed by the lumps of rock hurled at him, the blood pouring from his many wounds, and a long, feeble, continuous moaning coming from his fire-blistered lips. And now a fresh batch of reeds and boughs were thrown on the flagging fire, this time within the former circle. The breeze, laden with the perfume of the mashunga, fanned it into flame, and it leaped up high in the last rays of the setting sun, which was tipping the tops of the trees, and the far-away mountains of the Matopo, with a golden hue. The Kaffir’s hair caught fire, and the horrible smell of the burning flesh overpowered the scent of the flowers Umhleswa stirred the blaze with his steel-headed assegai. It was the only merciful deed he had done, for the fire leaped up more quickly, and the stakes, burned through, gave way, the mutilated remains of what had been a human body falling heavily and helplessly forward.Fresh reeds and branches were heaped on, the flame roared with fury, and the yells and shouts became louder. Once the mass of blazing wood moved, a charred hand was thrust forth, and then all was still. The fire had done its work, and the Amatongas seemed appeased. Noti slept beneath the shadow of the ruins of Sofala, the restless surf moaning over his grave. The lions had killed him, but Luji’s ashes, reduced to fine dust, were blowing over the plains before the night breeze, when the moon shone forth over the sorcerer’s hut and the smoke-begrimed rock.The Amatonga nature had proved more relentless than the lions, the man more savage than the beast.
With the dark smile on his face, and triumph beaming from his sinister-looking eyes, Umhleswa had left the hut. Koomalayoo, its owner, was busy hounding on the too willing savages to kill his supposed rival, for it was by using the suggestion that he and his familiar had come among them to take the sorcerer’s place in the tribe that the cunning chief had secured Koomalayoo’s co-operation. Masheesh now entered, his first impulse being to pass his sharp knife over the palmyra rope which yet bound the white men’s hands as he did so.
Their first emotion over, the two exchanged a hearty shake of the hand, looking into each other’s eyes, the soldier speaking first.
“The black scoundrel,” at last said Hughes, drawing a deep breath, and shaking himself like a dog. “Wyzinski, we must save poor Luji. Speak to Masheesh—will you?”
Turning to the Matabele, the missionary spoke long and earnestly; but the chief kept a dogged silence, shaking his head from time to time, then looking up into the speaker’s face.
“The Amatonga must have blood,” he said, slowly. “Shall it be the white man’s? Masheesh can do nothing.”
“Will the chief try?” asked Wyzinski; but again he was met by the slow shake of the head, which told more than words could convey the hopelessness of the case.
“But if you will not, at all events we will,” said the missionary. “It is a terrible thing to push superstition to such a point.”
“Does the white chief disbelieve in the charm cast on the dead Amatonga?” asked Masheesh, as though such disbelief were monstrous.
“Can the Matabele warrior assert it as his own faith? Is he credulous, like an Amatonga?” asked Wyzinski in reply.
“How does the white man account for Sgalam’s death?”
“The chief Umhleswa knows the use and the value of the English rifle; he sees the great power it would give him and his tribe. By our death he would have gained nothing, save two or three rifles. No white traders would have come near him, and his end and aim would have been frustrated.”
“Mozelkatse’s vengeance would have found him out,” interpolated the Matabele.
“True; but Sgalam took another view of the matter, and threatened the anger of the chief of Manica. Hence the midnight meeting in our hut, and the death of Sgalam, hence the decision of the sorcerer Koomalayoo and Luji’s persecution. Some one killed Sgalam, and some one must answer for it.”
“So the white chief thinks Umhleswa cast the spell?”
“No, Matabele, no,” answered the missionary, “it was a potent poison which did the work; and Umhleswa had everything to gain by the death, Luji had nothing.”
Masheesh turned away incredulous, not even taking the trouble to reply.
“It will be impossible, I fear, to save the poor fellow; but we must make the effort, Hughes. You see even this man, belonging to a tribe far superior in education to these Amatongas, perfectly believes that Luji by sorcery caused the chief’s death.”
“Let us try, at least,” replied Hughes, as both took their way to the entrance of the hut.
All had been comparatively quiet, since the Amatonga chief had left the place, a council having been held outside to determine on the best mode of punishing the Hottentot sorcerer. The sun was shining brightly, and a light breeze waving the branches of a group of mashunga trees, under which the men of the tribe had assembled. Umhleswa had been speaking rapidly, and doubtless eloquently, to the circle of braves around him. Near by, stood the unfortunate Hottentot, closely guarded, and if it had not been a pitiful, it would have been a laughable sight, for, tied in his usual position, on the prisoner’s shoulders, sat the baboon. Naturally ugly, the brute was rendered still more so from the effects of the gunpowder explosion, which had scorched its skin, and there it sat, peeping from side to side of Luji’s head, moaning, grimacing, stroking the Hottentot’s face, and showing his teeth to all who came near. The large tears were streaming down the captive’s cheeks, mixing with the blood and dirt with which they were begrimed.
The chief concluded his speech just as the two white men emerged into the open air, pointing as he did so to the crouching captive, and the whole band started up, shouting and yelling, to dash past Luji into the bush. One loud scream of anguish burst from the man’s chest, for he had heard his fate, and knew that it was death by fire.
Rudely thrust back by the men who had been left to guard them, Wyzinski and the soldier were powerless, but felt their blood boil within them as they noted the preparations made. The savages seemed to be holding high festival in the bush and in the tall, parched-up reeds, and then one after another appeared bearing bundles of branches and inflammable grass, throwing them down only to return for more, and thus, laughing, singing, and yelling, they collected a large pile.
A mass of bare, splintered rock rose in the plain, and towards this Umhleswa and his subordinate chiefs took their way, while several of the half-maddened savages laid hold of the Hottentot, the rest dancing wildly around him. Shriek after shriek rose from the captive as he resisted, and the points of the assegais, urging him on in rear, drew blood, the baboon nearly strangling him in his fearful efforts to escape.
Turning, the poor fellow caught sight of his late masters, and as he held out his fettered hands, they marked the big tears of agony rolling down his yellow-black cheeks.
Again Hughes made an effort to escape.
“By heavens, they are going to kill Luji! Oh! for my rifle. At all events he shall not go alone,” he shouted, as he dashed from the entrance of the hut, and was rudely repulsed by the Amatonga guard.
Wyzinski’s eyes were closed, and his thin, finely-cut lips moving as if in prayer. It was, indeed, a terrible sight.
Two strong stakes had been driven into the ground against the smooth face of the rock, and the prisoner was now bound firmly to them, in the fashion of a spread eagle, while all round, in a semicircle, were piled heaps of dried reeds, branches, and grass, near enough to roast the man gradually, but not to burn at once, poor Luji’s shrieks for mercy ringing out even above the joyous yells of the Amatongas. Two of the tribe were engaged in procuring a light by rubbing together pieces of dry wood, while leaning on his assegai, lazily contemplating the whole with an air of great satisfaction, stood Umhleswa, showing his filed teeth and grinning with delight. “And these are the men I thought so gentle, whom I believed incapable of bloodshed. Fiend, scoundrel, Umhleswa,” shouted Hughes, in his excitement, once more rushing on the guards at the entrance, and being again roughly thrown back.
The missionary still prayed.
A bright, red glare shot up in the sunshine, as the air, heavily laden with the sweet scent of the mashunga and the acacia trees, fanned the burning branches; a cry of human agony and terror, mixed with loud yells of vengeance and of delight, rang out. Shriek after shriek followed, as the poor wretch felt the increasing heat, and the flame burned fiercer and more fiercely, while the horrible baboon, in his terror, dug his sharp nails into the Hottentot’s face, the blood streaming, and the Amatongas fairly screaming with laughter.
More and more intense grew the fire, and, as the scorching heat became unendurable, the agony experienced by the baboon increased in intensity. This he revenged on the unfortunate man. The Amatongas seemed to revel in the horrible scene, as they filled the pure, afternoon air with their laughter. Throwing fresh wood on the blaze, they made the fire leap and roar, while they dashed sharp pieces of rock at the captive, cutting and bruising his flesh, but avoiding death, as, blinded with his own blood, and one eye torn from its socket by the mad efforts of the baboon, the unfortunate Hottentot now moaned feebly. Umhleswa stood by watching the scene, as he leaned on his long assegai, the ostrich feather floating over his head, and the panther skin round his waist, from time to time urging his men to further cruelties, or stirring the fire with the spearhead.
Fearfully excited, and unable longer to bear the sickening spectacle, the white men in desperation and rage threw themselves on the guard, and a fierce hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Not wishing to use their arms, and less powerful than they, it required all the superiority of their numbers to resist the shock, for they both fought like madmen, with hand and foot, only at last to be cast back, stunned and bleeding, into the hut.
Louder and louder grew the shrieks outside, madder and madder the dance, round the death-fire. The blaze had died away, and over the embers dashed the Amatongas, using their long knives, cutting strips out of the quivering flesh, but craftily avoiding vital parts, they threw them in the fire. The baboon was dead. A lump of rock had dashed out his brains, which were bespattered over the half-roasted Hottentot’s face and breast, the shattered head and ungainly body dangling about a ghastly sight. The man himself hardly presented a vestige of the human form. One eye hanging out, his limbs smashed by the lumps of rock hurled at him, the blood pouring from his many wounds, and a long, feeble, continuous moaning coming from his fire-blistered lips. And now a fresh batch of reeds and boughs were thrown on the flagging fire, this time within the former circle. The breeze, laden with the perfume of the mashunga, fanned it into flame, and it leaped up high in the last rays of the setting sun, which was tipping the tops of the trees, and the far-away mountains of the Matopo, with a golden hue. The Kaffir’s hair caught fire, and the horrible smell of the burning flesh overpowered the scent of the flowers Umhleswa stirred the blaze with his steel-headed assegai. It was the only merciful deed he had done, for the fire leaped up more quickly, and the stakes, burned through, gave way, the mutilated remains of what had been a human body falling heavily and helplessly forward.
Fresh reeds and branches were heaped on, the flame roared with fury, and the yells and shouts became louder. Once the mass of blazing wood moved, a charred hand was thrust forth, and then all was still. The fire had done its work, and the Amatongas seemed appeased. Noti slept beneath the shadow of the ruins of Sofala, the restless surf moaning over his grave. The lions had killed him, but Luji’s ashes, reduced to fine dust, were blowing over the plains before the night breeze, when the moon shone forth over the sorcerer’s hut and the smoke-begrimed rock.
The Amatonga nature had proved more relentless than the lions, the man more savage than the beast.
The Wife’s Revenge.More than a week had elapsed since the events related had taken place, and the two Europeans still remained, half free, half prisoners. From the day when Masheesh had witnessed the Hottentot’s cruel death, up to the present, he had not been seen, either by the white men or by the Amatongas. The rest of their followers had made their escape, finding their way back as they could, and their position, perfectly alone among the savage tribe, their safety hanging only on the cupidity of the treacherous Umhleswa, was most critical. For two days after Luji’s death, all had seemed quiet in the kraal, but then a party had sprung up among the men, some of whom had been urged on by the dead chief’s wife to avenge on the two white men his death. This party had gradually grown stronger, and its members never lost an opportunity of showing their hate; indeed it was on more than one occasion only the fear of the deadly rifles which kept them from open violence.There they sat before their hut, under the shade of the tree, feeling and looking disconsolate enough. It was the eighth day since they had again taken possession of it, and not once had they seen Umhleswa during that period. A good provision of manioc flour had been conveyed to them. Their shot guns had supplied them with small game, for they dared not venture far from the kraal, for fear of awakening suspicion, and even as it was, found themselves closely watched.The two had just finished a supper they had cooked themselves. They were both fully armed, and near them, within reach of their hands, lay their rifles. The sun had set, the air was warm, and the breeze scarcely moved the leaves of the tree overhead. Before them lay stretched the plain with its belt of forest-land, and in the distance the faint line of the Matopo hills. Close by, the densely populated kraal, the blue smoke from many fires curling up into the air. The hum of the bees was heard as they winged their way homewards towards the forest, and above them in the tree the cries of the parrots, as they quarrelled before composing themselves to sleep. Rising and shading his face with his hand, Hughes gazed in the direction of the kraal. A solitary figure was wending his way through the huts, coming towards them.“It’s weary work this,” he remarked, as he sat down again with a sigh, “keeping watch and watch all day, and dividing the night between us, too. It’s a weary life. What can have become of Masheesh?”“The Matabele brave has cared for his own skin, and has fled to the mountains, like the rest of them,” replied the missionary.“I thought better of him,” said Hughes, absently, “and I am sorry I was wrong.”“Look, is not that Umhleswa coming towards us,” said Wyzinski. “God grant he may have made arrangements for our journey.”“It is he, indeed,” replied the other, as he rose to heap fresh branches on the fire.Slowly the chief stalked along, apparently not caring where he went, stopped opposite the two, and then, as if perceiving them for the first time, approached and squatted by the fire.Umhleswa’s evil nature was now too well-known, for this seeming carelessness to dupe them.“Have my white brethren all they can want?” he asked.“No, chief, we ask the fulfilment of our contract, namely, an escort as far as the Zambesi.”“My braves are badly armed, and may be unable to protect you. Will the white men give their rifles now?”The treacherous nature of the request was too evident for the veriest tyro to fall into the trap. To give up their means of protection, and at the same time the only ransom they had to offer, would have been an act of folly, “No, chief, we will not,” replied Wyzinski, a silence following on his words. Suddenly an idea struck him. What if he were to utilise Masheesh’s absence? It could not possibly do any harm, and it might do good.“Will Umhleswa wait until the Matabele chief comes with Mozelkatse’s warriors to serve us as an escort. He has been gone many days and should be on his return?” he asked.The wily savage started, fidgeting as he sat. “It is a long journey across the Tati,” he replied.“The Tati, chief?” asked Wyzinski, remembering at once that Masheesh had spoken of that river.“Yes, the Tati, where the yellow gold is found, which the Bamangwato now claim,” replied the savage, pointing with his hand. “It lies yonder, between those hills of the Matopo and the more distant Zouga mountains.”“And who owns the land?” inquired Wyzinski.“The great chief Machin calls it his,” was the answer, “and Mozelkatse claims it as his, too.”“You see, Hughes, how all tallies. Beyond those mountain somewhere near the sources of the Limpopo, there exist gold fields, and these rivers which Umhleswa names run into the Limpopo. Here, between those gold fields and the coast, were built the cities of the gold seekers of Solomon. We have trod their streets, and yonder stream, which Masheesh truly named Auro, took their riches to the port.”“The deuce take your ruins, Wyzinski!” said Hughes. “Do try to get us out of the scrape we are in. Humour the scoundrel.”Umhleswa seemed uneasy at this by-play, not understanding one word of English.“Will the white men keep their promise if Masheesh comes?”“Certainly not. He will then be our deliverer, not you, and the rifles must be his.”“Umhleswa saved you when the knives of his people were about to drink your blood?” sententiously remarked the savage.Wyzinski shuddered. “Come, chief,” he replied, taking from his belt a revolver, “send us on our journey, and this shall be yours.” Raising his arm, he fired barrel after barrel into the air, pausing between each ere he drew the trigger to enhance the effect.The savage’s eyes glistened, and he showed his filed teeth. He doubted not that Masheesh had been sent to bring down the Matabele warriors upon him, in which case he should lose the promised reward.The thought swayed him; the sight of the revolver finished the matter.Slowly rising, he walked away several paces, and the missionary’s heart beat quickly, for all seemed lost. Turning, he pointed to the sky. “When the moon rises yonder, and my people are buried in sleep, let the white men be ready. Umhleswa does not lie,” he said, moving away.Hardly had he gone a dozen paces, when he again paused, hesitated, and once more returned.“The rifles are for my braves,” he said, again speaking slowly; “the small gun,” pointing to the revolver, “is for Umhleswa. Will the chief give it now?”Wyzinski hesitated, and for a few moments seemed plunged in thought.“Take it,” he said at length frankly, as he placed the coveted weapon in the hands of the savage. “Take it, but remember that at a chief’s belt two such weapons should hang; the second will be yours when we reach the Zambesi.”Umhleswa looked the speaker full in the face, slowly nodding his head three times, then once more pointing to the sky.“Let my white brethren be ready when the moon rises,” he said, as he stalked away proudly; perhaps the only native in that part of the country possessed of a revolver.“Do you think he will keep his word, Wyzinski?” asked Hughes, when the conversation was translated to him.“He is sure to do so,” replied the missionary, “simply because it is his interest.”“Then the best thing we can do is to be in readiness. There are many things we must leave behind,” returned Hughes. “The moon will rise in two hours.”Entering the hut once more, and as they fervently hoped for the last time, they set about their preparations, no easy task, when out of the scanty materials, all of which had been deemed necessary a short time since, the greater part were to be left behind. They were still busy, when a body of men gliding out from among the huts by twos and by threes, assembled at the entrance, one of their number signing to its tenants to follow. Carrying their rifles in the hollow of the arm, their pistols at their belts, they cast one look round the interior of the hut which had served them so long as a home, and stepped out into the night.The moon was just rising over the mountain range, the night was quite still, save when from time to time the cry of the jackal could be heard from the plain. In the native kraal all slept, and the party, consisting of fifteen men armed with assegais, and commanded by the same brave who had conducted them from their camp at Gorongoza, moved silently away the moment the white men joined them. Avoiding the kraal, they shaped their course to the north, travelling as swiftly as they could through a country densely covered with forest. Game seemed to grow more scarce as they neared the end of their journey; and, except for necessary purposes, it was little sought after, the object of all being identical, namely, to strike the Zambesi as soon as possible. This they at length did, though the forest growth impeded their progress so much, that it was only on the evening of the ninth day after leaving the country of the Amatonga that they reached its banks. Under the shade of the high hill of Baramuana a small tent was pitched, not larger than that used by the French soldier, and known by the name of tente d’abri. A fire burned fiercely in front of it, and close by ran the Zambesi, a fine broad stream flowing towards the sea, between banks covered with reeds of luxuriant growth. Beyond the river a level plain, broken by forest-land, and in the distance the blue outline of a high mountain range.Near the fire were seated the two Europeans, and in a semicircle round them the fifteen Amatonga warriors who had been their guides. Further down the stream, at a bend of the river, the walls of a brick building were visible, some ten miles away.A perfect jungle of forest swept up almost to the spot where the group were seated, the tamarind and acacia trees growing to the river bank, covered with creeping plants, such as the convolvulus, the jasmine, the deadly nightshade, all festooned from tree to tree, while the wild guava, the pomegranate, and many a sweet-scented bush pushed upwards their luxuriant undergrowth. The bees were humming among the sweetly-scented flowers of the dholicos, and the rushing sound of the river, as it took its way to the sea past the fort of Senna, was music to the ears of the two travellers.“Give them their due, Wyzinski, and let us be rid of them; I hate the very look of an Amatonga,” exclaimed Hughes.The group of savages sat round, staring at the two with a steady, concentrated gaze, their long assegais raised in the air, “Matumba,” said the powerful, but stunted brave, who had been in command of the party, speaking with difficulty the Zulu tongue, “Matumba has done his duty, let the chiefs do theirs. Yonder are the walls of their brethren’s fort.”The missionary did not at once reply, but pushing the promised arms towards the speaker, took from his belt his revolver, discharging its barrels into the air, handed it to the Amatonga.“This is now Umhleswa’s property, and thus the white man fulfils his promise.”“We are left with our two rifles and one revolver between us,” remarked Hughes. “If ever I get the chance of paying off these thieves, won’t I?”Matumba took the arm, and, turning to his men, distributed the rifles among them. A sharp conversation followed, unintelligible to the Europeans, save that the Amatonga pointed several times to the two remaining rifles.“The white men,” resumed Matumba, once more turning to them, “are near their friends. They have no need of their guns, the Amatonga are far from their kraal. Let them give the two guns, which are now useless.”“Never, Matumba,” exclaimed Wyzinski, springing to his feet and cocking both barrels of his piece. “Look out, Hughes, they mean mischief. We have kept our word, Amatonga. Keep yours.”A sharp conversation ensued between the natives, all talking together, the chief, Matumba, evidently trying to keep them within bounds, while they as evidently wished to take the coveted rifles by force. Placing their backs against the rocks, their rifles ready, the two waited the result, but great was their relief when the whole party, after much talking, at last moved off in Indian file, and disappeared under the deepening forest shade.“We are well out of that, Wyzinski,” remarked Hughes, as he seated himself at the foot of the rock, “and now, what are we to do next?”“Break ground as soon and as speedily as possible. We have but to follow the stream, and we shall be within the walls of Senna in three hours.”The little tent was struck, the knapsacks strapped on, and their rifles at the trail, both moved rapidly away. But a deep cut they found ran between them and the Portuguese fort. It was filled with heavy timber and luxuriant undergrowth. Night came on, and there was no moon, so that the direction of the stream was soon lost, and they were brought to a stand still.“Let us halt here,” said Wyzinski, as they pushed their way through a clump of mimosa, and gained a small clearing, hemmed in on every side by the forest.“We can reach Senna by early morning, and I am half dead with hunger.”A fire was lit, some strips of venison cut from an eland killed the previous day, roasted on the embers, and they made a hearty meal.“It will be a relief to me to see the inside of the fort, Hughes,” said Wyzinski. “I misdoubt those Amatongas.”“They have done better by us than your favourite Matabele. I never thought Masheesh would have left us thus. If you will take the first turn, I’ll have a sleep,” replied Hughes.“Agreed,” returned the missionary, as his comrade placing his knapsack under his head, threw himself under a low bush, and was soon sleeping heavily. Hours went by, and still the missionary, with his rifle thrown across his knee, sat by the fire. He rose from time to time to collect and heap on it the dried branches. Once he heard distinctly above the noises incidental to an African night in the wilderness, the splintering of wood. He was in the act of throwing an armful of dry branches on the blaze. Stooping, he seized his rifle, and was just about to wake his companion, when the noise ceased. Stepping up to where the soldier lay, he looked at him. The starlight shone over the bronzed and travel-worn face. The cap had fallen off, and the long locks of dark hair touched the ground. “It would be a pity to wake him,” muttered the missionary. “I am not tired; the presentiment of evil is upon me, and I could not sleep even if I tried.”Turning, he again squatted down by the fire, the cocked rifle over his knee. Once, more than an hour after, the same sound, like to the breaking of wood, reached his ear.“It may be some heavy animal feeding,” he thought, “and my fears be groundless; the darkness of the night, the loneliness and fatigue, have unnerved me.”Soon his thoughts were away in other lands, and with friends, some of whom had been long since dead. Then they returned to the ruined cities of this wild land. Had they any affinity to those found in Mexico? he asked himself. No, they must be Egyptian.Suddenly a wild shout burst on his ear, a crashing blow, a whizzing in the ears, and all was darkness. The missionary lay stretched beside the embers of the fire.How long he remained insensible on the ground Wyzinski never knew, but the grey dawn was just breaking as he struggled back to consciousness, to find his arms tightly and painfully bound behind his back, his head splitting with pain, while the clearing seemed filled with the dark forms of the Amatongas, seated in a circle, and evidently debating on their prisoner’s fate. As he lay there on his back, barely able to turn his head, his open eyes gazing upwards at the stars, whose feeble light was just paling before the first grey streaks of dawn, a black mass intervened between him and the blue sky. It was a woman’s head, the long hair told him this much, but the face was that of a demon; the beadlike eyes which peered into his flashing with malicious hatred; the thick lips parted, showing the yellow teeth clenched with passion; the flat nostrils distended with rage, and the hair, matted with grease and dirt, sweeping his face as she bent over him.It was a face he knew, for it was that of the dead chief’s wife; and as the missionary closed his eyes to shut out the horrid vision, the hag, seeing he had again become conscious, uttered a piercing yell, and dashed into the middle of the council ring, chattering in a shrill and parrot-like voice. The missionary’s eyes remained closed, for he felt his position was hopeless, and what at this moment grieved him more was, that by his negligent watch he had sacrificed his friend. If he had been struck down and made prisoner with his rifle in his hand and wide awake, what chance was there for the sleeping soldier? He knew he should, after the fashion of this tribe, be tortured; he prayed for firmness to meet his doom, but he thought with agony of what had been his comrade’s fate during the hours he himself lay insensible and apparently dead.A rude stroke from the sharp point of an Amatonga spear roused him, and in obedience to the command he endeavoured to struggle to his feet. Unable to effect this, two of his captors roughly seized him, dragging him up. The dawn was just lighting up the scene, as he glanced round. There lay the embers of the fire scattered about the clearing; there lay the soldier’s knapsack, and there, near it, with an ox hide thrown over it, something which took, under its coverings, the shape of a human form. There was no mistaking it.The missionary’s eyes filled with tears, and a convulsive sob heaved his breast, as he looked on all that was left of the man who, in his dead sleep, had trusted to his friend’s vigilance.The Amatongas seemed to have no time to lose, for hardly giving their prisoner space to realise what was passing around, they hurried him along through the bush, retracing their path until the whole group reached the foot of the Baramuana hill, where the distribution of the rifles had taken place the day before.“My presentiment of evil did not deceive me,” muttered Wyzinski; “fool, triple fool as I was not to profit by it, and yonder,” thought he, as his eyes followed the course of the river, and the brick walls of the fort met his gaze, just tipped by the first rays of the sun, “yonder lay safety.”Grinning, laughing, and chattering, the circle of Amatonga braves drew round him. Their prisoner was thrown to the ground and his feet bound with the palmyra rope; the woman fiend, her passion lending her strength, hauling at one end of the rough cord until it literally cut into the flesh. A stake was driven into the ground at the foot of the rock, and then the missionary knew his doom was, like Luji’s, death by fire. Next the whole band dispersed, going into the forest, and returning by twos and threes, laden with brush as dry as tinder. Quickly the semicircle of boughs and long grass grew round the stake, while close to the prisoner’s head sat the fiend-like woman, spitting out her rage, heaping imprecations on his head, and occasionally breaking out into a slow chant or death song.The missionary’s eyes were again closed; his lips were moving in prayer. He was asking for strength to bear his fearful death, as a man should whose negligence has brought evil not only on himself, but on others. The belt of forest trees ran close to the spot where he lay, and while he prayed a dark face put aside cautiously the clusters of convolvuli which formed a flowery screen among the trees, as two black piercing eyes gazed out from among the flowers, seemed to take note of the scene, and then disappeared.And now four of the Amatongas emerged from the bush, bearing the nameless something, covered up with skins, but yet showing the outlines of the human form. Wyzinski shuddered as he opened his eyes and saw it. The pile of brushwood grew higher and higher, and the missionary felt himself rudely dragged along the ground, and fastened to the stake. The palmyra rope which cut into his flesh was removed, and his feet firmly tied apart to two small wooden pins driven into the ground. The hideous looking woman, who had been dancing and singing round him, waving her lean arms, and clashing together her long yellow teeth, now sat down right opposite the victim, her eyes intently fixed on his, to enjoy his agony. The last armful of brush was tossed upon the heap, fire was procured, and a long twisted wisp of dry grass lighted, and placed in the widow’s hands.Chanting out a monotonous song, the woman rose and came on. She reached the wall of dry brush, she waved the wisp of flame in her victim’s face, scorching his hair and whiskers; then, with a yell of vengeance, stooped to kindle the fire, when a flash of light seemed to quiver through the sunshine, and she fell forward, pierced through the heart by an assegai, the torch falling from her dying hands, kindling the dry grass and brushwood.In an instant the missionary was surrounded by a semicircle of flame, the reports of rifles rang in his ears, a loud shout of “Boarders, away!” came from among the trees, as half a dozen Portuguese soldiers, led on by Hughes, the Matabele chief, Masheesh, and Captain Weber of the “Halcyon,” dashed across the open, scattered the burning brush right and left, cut away his bonds, and dragged the half-choked missionary free of the flames.Three of the Amatongas had fallen by the first discharge, and without halting to reload, the Portuguese charged with the bayonet, led by an old seaman, whose scar-seamed face told of some recent fight. It was Captain Mason, late of the “Argonaut.” The savages, wholly surprised, at once fled, but halting as they reached the belt of forest, threw their assegais. “Forward, my lads; no quarter for the accursed scoundrels!” shouted the excited Mason. “For—,” the word was never spoken, for an assegai struck him in the left eye, piercing to the brain. He fell heavily on his face, his clubbed rifle tumbling to the ground; a deep groan, one or two spasmodic struggles, and the captain of the “Argonaut” was no more, the whole band of savages having disappeared in the bush.
More than a week had elapsed since the events related had taken place, and the two Europeans still remained, half free, half prisoners. From the day when Masheesh had witnessed the Hottentot’s cruel death, up to the present, he had not been seen, either by the white men or by the Amatongas. The rest of their followers had made their escape, finding their way back as they could, and their position, perfectly alone among the savage tribe, their safety hanging only on the cupidity of the treacherous Umhleswa, was most critical. For two days after Luji’s death, all had seemed quiet in the kraal, but then a party had sprung up among the men, some of whom had been urged on by the dead chief’s wife to avenge on the two white men his death. This party had gradually grown stronger, and its members never lost an opportunity of showing their hate; indeed it was on more than one occasion only the fear of the deadly rifles which kept them from open violence.
There they sat before their hut, under the shade of the tree, feeling and looking disconsolate enough. It was the eighth day since they had again taken possession of it, and not once had they seen Umhleswa during that period. A good provision of manioc flour had been conveyed to them. Their shot guns had supplied them with small game, for they dared not venture far from the kraal, for fear of awakening suspicion, and even as it was, found themselves closely watched.
The two had just finished a supper they had cooked themselves. They were both fully armed, and near them, within reach of their hands, lay their rifles. The sun had set, the air was warm, and the breeze scarcely moved the leaves of the tree overhead. Before them lay stretched the plain with its belt of forest-land, and in the distance the faint line of the Matopo hills. Close by, the densely populated kraal, the blue smoke from many fires curling up into the air. The hum of the bees was heard as they winged their way homewards towards the forest, and above them in the tree the cries of the parrots, as they quarrelled before composing themselves to sleep. Rising and shading his face with his hand, Hughes gazed in the direction of the kraal. A solitary figure was wending his way through the huts, coming towards them.
“It’s weary work this,” he remarked, as he sat down again with a sigh, “keeping watch and watch all day, and dividing the night between us, too. It’s a weary life. What can have become of Masheesh?”
“The Matabele brave has cared for his own skin, and has fled to the mountains, like the rest of them,” replied the missionary.
“I thought better of him,” said Hughes, absently, “and I am sorry I was wrong.”
“Look, is not that Umhleswa coming towards us,” said Wyzinski. “God grant he may have made arrangements for our journey.”
“It is he, indeed,” replied the other, as he rose to heap fresh branches on the fire.
Slowly the chief stalked along, apparently not caring where he went, stopped opposite the two, and then, as if perceiving them for the first time, approached and squatted by the fire.
Umhleswa’s evil nature was now too well-known, for this seeming carelessness to dupe them.
“Have my white brethren all they can want?” he asked.
“No, chief, we ask the fulfilment of our contract, namely, an escort as far as the Zambesi.”
“My braves are badly armed, and may be unable to protect you. Will the white men give their rifles now?”
The treacherous nature of the request was too evident for the veriest tyro to fall into the trap. To give up their means of protection, and at the same time the only ransom they had to offer, would have been an act of folly, “No, chief, we will not,” replied Wyzinski, a silence following on his words. Suddenly an idea struck him. What if he were to utilise Masheesh’s absence? It could not possibly do any harm, and it might do good.
“Will Umhleswa wait until the Matabele chief comes with Mozelkatse’s warriors to serve us as an escort. He has been gone many days and should be on his return?” he asked.
The wily savage started, fidgeting as he sat. “It is a long journey across the Tati,” he replied.
“The Tati, chief?” asked Wyzinski, remembering at once that Masheesh had spoken of that river.
“Yes, the Tati, where the yellow gold is found, which the Bamangwato now claim,” replied the savage, pointing with his hand. “It lies yonder, between those hills of the Matopo and the more distant Zouga mountains.”
“And who owns the land?” inquired Wyzinski.
“The great chief Machin calls it his,” was the answer, “and Mozelkatse claims it as his, too.”
“You see, Hughes, how all tallies. Beyond those mountain somewhere near the sources of the Limpopo, there exist gold fields, and these rivers which Umhleswa names run into the Limpopo. Here, between those gold fields and the coast, were built the cities of the gold seekers of Solomon. We have trod their streets, and yonder stream, which Masheesh truly named Auro, took their riches to the port.”
“The deuce take your ruins, Wyzinski!” said Hughes. “Do try to get us out of the scrape we are in. Humour the scoundrel.”
Umhleswa seemed uneasy at this by-play, not understanding one word of English.
“Will the white men keep their promise if Masheesh comes?”
“Certainly not. He will then be our deliverer, not you, and the rifles must be his.”
“Umhleswa saved you when the knives of his people were about to drink your blood?” sententiously remarked the savage.
Wyzinski shuddered. “Come, chief,” he replied, taking from his belt a revolver, “send us on our journey, and this shall be yours.” Raising his arm, he fired barrel after barrel into the air, pausing between each ere he drew the trigger to enhance the effect.
The savage’s eyes glistened, and he showed his filed teeth. He doubted not that Masheesh had been sent to bring down the Matabele warriors upon him, in which case he should lose the promised reward.
The thought swayed him; the sight of the revolver finished the matter.
Slowly rising, he walked away several paces, and the missionary’s heart beat quickly, for all seemed lost. Turning, he pointed to the sky. “When the moon rises yonder, and my people are buried in sleep, let the white men be ready. Umhleswa does not lie,” he said, moving away.
Hardly had he gone a dozen paces, when he again paused, hesitated, and once more returned.
“The rifles are for my braves,” he said, again speaking slowly; “the small gun,” pointing to the revolver, “is for Umhleswa. Will the chief give it now?”
Wyzinski hesitated, and for a few moments seemed plunged in thought.
“Take it,” he said at length frankly, as he placed the coveted weapon in the hands of the savage. “Take it, but remember that at a chief’s belt two such weapons should hang; the second will be yours when we reach the Zambesi.”
Umhleswa looked the speaker full in the face, slowly nodding his head three times, then once more pointing to the sky.
“Let my white brethren be ready when the moon rises,” he said, as he stalked away proudly; perhaps the only native in that part of the country possessed of a revolver.
“Do you think he will keep his word, Wyzinski?” asked Hughes, when the conversation was translated to him.
“He is sure to do so,” replied the missionary, “simply because it is his interest.”
“Then the best thing we can do is to be in readiness. There are many things we must leave behind,” returned Hughes. “The moon will rise in two hours.”
Entering the hut once more, and as they fervently hoped for the last time, they set about their preparations, no easy task, when out of the scanty materials, all of which had been deemed necessary a short time since, the greater part were to be left behind. They were still busy, when a body of men gliding out from among the huts by twos and by threes, assembled at the entrance, one of their number signing to its tenants to follow. Carrying their rifles in the hollow of the arm, their pistols at their belts, they cast one look round the interior of the hut which had served them so long as a home, and stepped out into the night.
The moon was just rising over the mountain range, the night was quite still, save when from time to time the cry of the jackal could be heard from the plain. In the native kraal all slept, and the party, consisting of fifteen men armed with assegais, and commanded by the same brave who had conducted them from their camp at Gorongoza, moved silently away the moment the white men joined them. Avoiding the kraal, they shaped their course to the north, travelling as swiftly as they could through a country densely covered with forest. Game seemed to grow more scarce as they neared the end of their journey; and, except for necessary purposes, it was little sought after, the object of all being identical, namely, to strike the Zambesi as soon as possible. This they at length did, though the forest growth impeded their progress so much, that it was only on the evening of the ninth day after leaving the country of the Amatonga that they reached its banks. Under the shade of the high hill of Baramuana a small tent was pitched, not larger than that used by the French soldier, and known by the name of tente d’abri. A fire burned fiercely in front of it, and close by ran the Zambesi, a fine broad stream flowing towards the sea, between banks covered with reeds of luxuriant growth. Beyond the river a level plain, broken by forest-land, and in the distance the blue outline of a high mountain range.
Near the fire were seated the two Europeans, and in a semicircle round them the fifteen Amatonga warriors who had been their guides. Further down the stream, at a bend of the river, the walls of a brick building were visible, some ten miles away.
A perfect jungle of forest swept up almost to the spot where the group were seated, the tamarind and acacia trees growing to the river bank, covered with creeping plants, such as the convolvulus, the jasmine, the deadly nightshade, all festooned from tree to tree, while the wild guava, the pomegranate, and many a sweet-scented bush pushed upwards their luxuriant undergrowth. The bees were humming among the sweetly-scented flowers of the dholicos, and the rushing sound of the river, as it took its way to the sea past the fort of Senna, was music to the ears of the two travellers.
“Give them their due, Wyzinski, and let us be rid of them; I hate the very look of an Amatonga,” exclaimed Hughes.
The group of savages sat round, staring at the two with a steady, concentrated gaze, their long assegais raised in the air, “Matumba,” said the powerful, but stunted brave, who had been in command of the party, speaking with difficulty the Zulu tongue, “Matumba has done his duty, let the chiefs do theirs. Yonder are the walls of their brethren’s fort.”
The missionary did not at once reply, but pushing the promised arms towards the speaker, took from his belt his revolver, discharging its barrels into the air, handed it to the Amatonga.
“This is now Umhleswa’s property, and thus the white man fulfils his promise.”
“We are left with our two rifles and one revolver between us,” remarked Hughes. “If ever I get the chance of paying off these thieves, won’t I?”
Matumba took the arm, and, turning to his men, distributed the rifles among them. A sharp conversation followed, unintelligible to the Europeans, save that the Amatonga pointed several times to the two remaining rifles.
“The white men,” resumed Matumba, once more turning to them, “are near their friends. They have no need of their guns, the Amatonga are far from their kraal. Let them give the two guns, which are now useless.”
“Never, Matumba,” exclaimed Wyzinski, springing to his feet and cocking both barrels of his piece. “Look out, Hughes, they mean mischief. We have kept our word, Amatonga. Keep yours.”
A sharp conversation ensued between the natives, all talking together, the chief, Matumba, evidently trying to keep them within bounds, while they as evidently wished to take the coveted rifles by force. Placing their backs against the rocks, their rifles ready, the two waited the result, but great was their relief when the whole party, after much talking, at last moved off in Indian file, and disappeared under the deepening forest shade.
“We are well out of that, Wyzinski,” remarked Hughes, as he seated himself at the foot of the rock, “and now, what are we to do next?”
“Break ground as soon and as speedily as possible. We have but to follow the stream, and we shall be within the walls of Senna in three hours.”
The little tent was struck, the knapsacks strapped on, and their rifles at the trail, both moved rapidly away. But a deep cut they found ran between them and the Portuguese fort. It was filled with heavy timber and luxuriant undergrowth. Night came on, and there was no moon, so that the direction of the stream was soon lost, and they were brought to a stand still.
“Let us halt here,” said Wyzinski, as they pushed their way through a clump of mimosa, and gained a small clearing, hemmed in on every side by the forest.
“We can reach Senna by early morning, and I am half dead with hunger.”
A fire was lit, some strips of venison cut from an eland killed the previous day, roasted on the embers, and they made a hearty meal.
“It will be a relief to me to see the inside of the fort, Hughes,” said Wyzinski. “I misdoubt those Amatongas.”
“They have done better by us than your favourite Matabele. I never thought Masheesh would have left us thus. If you will take the first turn, I’ll have a sleep,” replied Hughes.
“Agreed,” returned the missionary, as his comrade placing his knapsack under his head, threw himself under a low bush, and was soon sleeping heavily. Hours went by, and still the missionary, with his rifle thrown across his knee, sat by the fire. He rose from time to time to collect and heap on it the dried branches. Once he heard distinctly above the noises incidental to an African night in the wilderness, the splintering of wood. He was in the act of throwing an armful of dry branches on the blaze. Stooping, he seized his rifle, and was just about to wake his companion, when the noise ceased. Stepping up to where the soldier lay, he looked at him. The starlight shone over the bronzed and travel-worn face. The cap had fallen off, and the long locks of dark hair touched the ground. “It would be a pity to wake him,” muttered the missionary. “I am not tired; the presentiment of evil is upon me, and I could not sleep even if I tried.”
Turning, he again squatted down by the fire, the cocked rifle over his knee. Once, more than an hour after, the same sound, like to the breaking of wood, reached his ear.
“It may be some heavy animal feeding,” he thought, “and my fears be groundless; the darkness of the night, the loneliness and fatigue, have unnerved me.”
Soon his thoughts were away in other lands, and with friends, some of whom had been long since dead. Then they returned to the ruined cities of this wild land. Had they any affinity to those found in Mexico? he asked himself. No, they must be Egyptian.
Suddenly a wild shout burst on his ear, a crashing blow, a whizzing in the ears, and all was darkness. The missionary lay stretched beside the embers of the fire.
How long he remained insensible on the ground Wyzinski never knew, but the grey dawn was just breaking as he struggled back to consciousness, to find his arms tightly and painfully bound behind his back, his head splitting with pain, while the clearing seemed filled with the dark forms of the Amatongas, seated in a circle, and evidently debating on their prisoner’s fate. As he lay there on his back, barely able to turn his head, his open eyes gazing upwards at the stars, whose feeble light was just paling before the first grey streaks of dawn, a black mass intervened between him and the blue sky. It was a woman’s head, the long hair told him this much, but the face was that of a demon; the beadlike eyes which peered into his flashing with malicious hatred; the thick lips parted, showing the yellow teeth clenched with passion; the flat nostrils distended with rage, and the hair, matted with grease and dirt, sweeping his face as she bent over him.
It was a face he knew, for it was that of the dead chief’s wife; and as the missionary closed his eyes to shut out the horrid vision, the hag, seeing he had again become conscious, uttered a piercing yell, and dashed into the middle of the council ring, chattering in a shrill and parrot-like voice. The missionary’s eyes remained closed, for he felt his position was hopeless, and what at this moment grieved him more was, that by his negligent watch he had sacrificed his friend. If he had been struck down and made prisoner with his rifle in his hand and wide awake, what chance was there for the sleeping soldier? He knew he should, after the fashion of this tribe, be tortured; he prayed for firmness to meet his doom, but he thought with agony of what had been his comrade’s fate during the hours he himself lay insensible and apparently dead.
A rude stroke from the sharp point of an Amatonga spear roused him, and in obedience to the command he endeavoured to struggle to his feet. Unable to effect this, two of his captors roughly seized him, dragging him up. The dawn was just lighting up the scene, as he glanced round. There lay the embers of the fire scattered about the clearing; there lay the soldier’s knapsack, and there, near it, with an ox hide thrown over it, something which took, under its coverings, the shape of a human form. There was no mistaking it.
The missionary’s eyes filled with tears, and a convulsive sob heaved his breast, as he looked on all that was left of the man who, in his dead sleep, had trusted to his friend’s vigilance.
The Amatongas seemed to have no time to lose, for hardly giving their prisoner space to realise what was passing around, they hurried him along through the bush, retracing their path until the whole group reached the foot of the Baramuana hill, where the distribution of the rifles had taken place the day before.
“My presentiment of evil did not deceive me,” muttered Wyzinski; “fool, triple fool as I was not to profit by it, and yonder,” thought he, as his eyes followed the course of the river, and the brick walls of the fort met his gaze, just tipped by the first rays of the sun, “yonder lay safety.”
Grinning, laughing, and chattering, the circle of Amatonga braves drew round him. Their prisoner was thrown to the ground and his feet bound with the palmyra rope; the woman fiend, her passion lending her strength, hauling at one end of the rough cord until it literally cut into the flesh. A stake was driven into the ground at the foot of the rock, and then the missionary knew his doom was, like Luji’s, death by fire. Next the whole band dispersed, going into the forest, and returning by twos and threes, laden with brush as dry as tinder. Quickly the semicircle of boughs and long grass grew round the stake, while close to the prisoner’s head sat the fiend-like woman, spitting out her rage, heaping imprecations on his head, and occasionally breaking out into a slow chant or death song.
The missionary’s eyes were again closed; his lips were moving in prayer. He was asking for strength to bear his fearful death, as a man should whose negligence has brought evil not only on himself, but on others. The belt of forest trees ran close to the spot where he lay, and while he prayed a dark face put aside cautiously the clusters of convolvuli which formed a flowery screen among the trees, as two black piercing eyes gazed out from among the flowers, seemed to take note of the scene, and then disappeared.
And now four of the Amatongas emerged from the bush, bearing the nameless something, covered up with skins, but yet showing the outlines of the human form. Wyzinski shuddered as he opened his eyes and saw it. The pile of brushwood grew higher and higher, and the missionary felt himself rudely dragged along the ground, and fastened to the stake. The palmyra rope which cut into his flesh was removed, and his feet firmly tied apart to two small wooden pins driven into the ground. The hideous looking woman, who had been dancing and singing round him, waving her lean arms, and clashing together her long yellow teeth, now sat down right opposite the victim, her eyes intently fixed on his, to enjoy his agony. The last armful of brush was tossed upon the heap, fire was procured, and a long twisted wisp of dry grass lighted, and placed in the widow’s hands.
Chanting out a monotonous song, the woman rose and came on. She reached the wall of dry brush, she waved the wisp of flame in her victim’s face, scorching his hair and whiskers; then, with a yell of vengeance, stooped to kindle the fire, when a flash of light seemed to quiver through the sunshine, and she fell forward, pierced through the heart by an assegai, the torch falling from her dying hands, kindling the dry grass and brushwood.
In an instant the missionary was surrounded by a semicircle of flame, the reports of rifles rang in his ears, a loud shout of “Boarders, away!” came from among the trees, as half a dozen Portuguese soldiers, led on by Hughes, the Matabele chief, Masheesh, and Captain Weber of the “Halcyon,” dashed across the open, scattered the burning brush right and left, cut away his bonds, and dragged the half-choked missionary free of the flames.
Three of the Amatongas had fallen by the first discharge, and without halting to reload, the Portuguese charged with the bayonet, led by an old seaman, whose scar-seamed face told of some recent fight. It was Captain Mason, late of the “Argonaut.” The savages, wholly surprised, at once fled, but halting as they reached the belt of forest, threw their assegais. “Forward, my lads; no quarter for the accursed scoundrels!” shouted the excited Mason. “For—,” the word was never spoken, for an assegai struck him in the left eye, piercing to the brain. He fell heavily on his face, his clubbed rifle tumbling to the ground; a deep groan, one or two spasmodic struggles, and the captain of the “Argonaut” was no more, the whole band of savages having disappeared in the bush.