In the Whirl of the Rising

“Here then is the plan,” went on the one he had identified as Zwabeka, after a little general discussion which the barking of the dog and his own excitement had prevented him from adequately grasping. “When these Amakiwa are gathered at Gandela, on the next day but one, Qubani, who is known to some of them, will be in their midst. The place where they race their horses is outside the town, and it is overhung by a bush-covered mountain-side. Good! On that mountain-side, in the bushes, a strong impi will muster – and watch. When the sign is given —Ou! in no time will there be any Amakiwa left alive. Tell it again, my father.”

“This is it, Amakosi,” took up the voice, which the listener recognised as that of the famous witch-doctor who had spoken before, “Zwabeka has said I am known to some of the Amakiwa. To-morrow I shall be known to another of them, this Lamonti, whom I will talk to before he goes his way. Now see how more useful he is to us alive than dead – for the present. I will go in and talk with them pleasantly and look at their horse races. But it is afterwards, when they all collect to receive rewards for those who have won in races – then it is that our time will have come. They will all be collected together, having no thought but for who is to receive rewards. And they will all be looking one way, and shouting, and – all throwing up their hats. Whau! All throwing up their hats!”

A hum of expectant eagerness ran through the listeners. Could the – never so justified – eavesdropper have seen through that wall of grass and rough plaster he would have seen a tense, a bloodthirsty look on each set, thrust-forward face, hanging on what was to follow.

“Ha! All throwing up their hats. And I, Qubani, will be throwing up mine.”

“’M – ’m!” hummed the listeners.

“Yet, how shall we see that, when so many hats are being thrown up?” asked Zwabeka’s voice.

“This way. I have a red cap, given me by one of them when last I was at Buluwayo. It will I throw up. The Amakiwa do not wear red caps.”

“But – if the time is not ripe?” struck in a voice which the listener thought not to have heard yet. “If, by chance, the Amakiwa are suspicious and are all armed – what then?”

“Au! That is not likely. But I will wear two caps – a white one under the red. If the time is ripe, the red one goes into the air – then those who are elsewhere will receive news by swift signal that all the Amakiwa in their part of the country be at once and immediately slain. If I see that the time is not yet, then I throw the white signal in the air. So must we sit still and deliberate further. It is the red signal or the white.”

“The red signal or the white!” echoed his hearers. “Ah! ah! The red signal or the white!”

“That is understood,” said Qubani. “The red signal or the white.”

“Eh! hé! Siyavuma!” hummed the others.

Now the listener thought to detect signs that the deliberations had come to an end, and if so, some, at any rate, of those within would be coming forth. Two courses suggested themselves to him. He lay between the hut and the outer stockade. The chances were that anyone coming out would take the other side, between the huts, to make their way to their respective quarters. But chances, unless one is driven to take them, are uncertain props, wherefore he decided to beat a retreat while there was yet time. Accordingly he crawled backwards a little, then stood upright, and, keeping against the dark background of the outer stockade, was lounging at unconcerned pace back in the direction of his hut, when —

“Sleep well, brother. Au! I think we need it.”

He had nearly cannoned against a tall figure which appeared round the side of a hut. The deep tones he recognised as those of Zwabeka. Clearly the chief mistook him in the darkness for one of those who had taken part in the indaba. He drawled an assent in a sleepy voice, and fervently blessed the unknown influence which had caused him to leave his large-brimmed hat in the hut when he had come forth on his midnight wandering, and now, with his blanket over his head, he might pass very well in the darkness for one of themselves, and, indeed, had so passed. But his trial was not over yet.

As the chief passed on there stepped forth two more figures, lazily chatting; this time behind him. The thing was too risky. In front of him yawned the black hole of the doorway of one of the huts, left open, perhaps, on account of the heat – only it was not hot. Through this he crept, without a moment’s hesitation, as though it were his own dwelling. Hardly was he within than the two who had been behind him likewise entered.

He stretched himself on the ground, emitting a forced yawn – very forced. The others, on their side of the tenement, followed his example. He could determine, by sounds of light snoring, that the tenement already contained others before these late arrivals. Soon the latter were likewise in the Land of Nod.

Lying there in the pitchy darkness Lamont realised that his position was exciting, to put it mildly. Here he was, in the same hut with two of the conspirators, and how many others he could, of course, not determine. The next thing was to get out again. But for that he must take his time. Hurry would be fatal.

If ever minutes had seemed to him hours, assuredly they did so now. And with this idea a new source of peril struck him. In the dead silence he thought to hear the ticking of his watch. What if other ears should hear it too. He thought to stop it – but how so much as get it open in the darkness without breaking the glass; and then just one fragment on the floor of the hut would betray him in the morning. Still, with his blanket tightly round him, the ticking might not be heard. At last he reckoned it time to make a move.

It is a mistake to imagine that savages are necessarily light sleepers. When no particular reason for watchfulness exists, your South African native is anything but that. Rolled up in his blanket, head and all, he will sleep as soundly as the dead, and will require little short of violence to awaken him; wherefore the other inhabitants of the hut, being utterly unsuspicious of the presence of a stranger in their midst, had attained to exactly that stage of somnolence; consequently, when the said stranger crept through the door, no one was aware of it. Again his nerves thrilled as he found himself once more in the chilly night air. He had still a little way to go. What if the dogs should wind him as he crossed the open space, and raise a clamour? But they did not, and with a sigh of infinite relief he found himself safe within his own hut. He could hear his travelling companion mildly snoring. What an extraordinary piece of luck that they should have met when they did, for, by the light of what he had heard, he had no doubt but that his treacherous entertainers would have murdered him. Had he spent the night alone in that kraal, such would have been his fate, but the superstitious dread in which, for some reason or other, they seemed to hold the priest, had saved him, and in the result would save a good many more.

Then the grisly agency of his awakening occurred to him, and indeed no more effective means could have been employed not merely to do so but to keep him awake. His fellow traveller would, he supposed, have called it the hand of Providence, and he thought it looked very much as if such were the case, for Lamont was no scoffer.

“I suppose I ought to make a vow never again to kill a tarantula,” he said to himself; “for what would have been the result had I slept as hard and long as our good friend over there, well, Heaven only knows.”

Sitting there in the darkness, waiting for dawn, he was thinking, and thinking hard. There had been warning rumours here and there that the natives were not so content under the white man’s rule as was supposed – nor that they deemed themselves anything like so roundly squashed and beaten less than three years earlier as they should have. Such rumours, however, were not acceptable to the “powers that were,” and their originators discouraged; and bearing this in mind, what was seemingly the most obvious course – to lose no time in warning the proper authorities, to wit – was the very last thing that Lamont had determined to follow. If he started warning people, nobody would believe him. They would simply laugh and say he had got the funks, meanwhile it would be sure to leak out to the natives that such warning had been given. They would put two and two together, and, connecting it in some way with his presence at their kraal that night, would entirely change their plan, probably with disastrous result to the white population. On the other hand, if the massacre at Gandela were averted, it would show, as they had agreed, that the time for rising was not yet ripe – which would afford him time to turn his warning to proper account, a thing he could not possibly do in one day.

That the massacre at Gandela should be averted he was fully determined, and that he himself should be the means of averting it – he alone, working to his own hand.

Chapter Ten.

What Lamont did

“That is a very great isanusi in there, umfane,” said Lamont, as he splashed his head and face in a large calabash bowl. His travelling companion the while was engaged in his devotions inside the hut.

“A very great isanusi?” echoed the youth, who was Gudhlusa’s son, the same who had attended to their wants the night before. “Ha! Is he as great as Qubani?”

“Yes.”

“Ou!”

Lamont knew perfectly well that the other didn’t believe him, but he was talking with an object. “Can he foretell things?” went on the youth. The while two or three more had sauntered up and were listening interestedly.

Lamont was on the point of answering in the affirmative, when it occurred to him that to do so would be to make a fatal slip in view of what the next day was to bring forth. So he replied —

“He cannot foretell things. He can do them.”

“Hau!” burst forth from the group, and hands were brought to mouths and heads turned aside, expressive of indescribable incredulity. “An isanusi who cannot foretell things! Now, Nkose, what sort of isanusi is that?”

“Nevertheless his múti is great – greater than that of Qubani – in its way.”

“In its way – ah! ah! in its way,” they hummed.

“Talking of Qubani,” replied Lamont. “Now that is an isanusi. I would fain see one like that. But – I suppose he does not live here, son of Gudhlusa.”

“But he is here, Nkose.”

“That is good news, and I have a gift for him. When we have eaten, I will talk with him. When we have eaten, I say.”

The youth grinned, and, taking the hint, walked off, presently to return with some more roasted mealies and tywala.

“You had a good night of it, Father,” said Lamont as they sat discussing this fare. “By Jove! you slept through it all like a humming-top.”

“I believe I did. I was very tired. And you – did you sleep well?”

“Until a whacking big tarantula woke me up by promenading over my ear. I couldn’t get to sleep again all at once after that.”

“That was very unpleasant. Did you kill it?”

“No. It got away into a crack. Daresay it’s there yet.”

“Ah well, I am glad we are not going to sleep in the same hut again to-night.”

Lamont chuckled to himself as he thought of what momentous issues of life and death would hang – were hanging – upon the incident. Looking round upon the great kraal, its dark inhabitants going about their peaceful avocations in the newly risen sun, he could hardly realise that the events of the night had been other than a bad dream. The first thing he had done on coming forth had been to glance eagerly at the ground. No. The hard and parched soil showed no footprints. He had grumbled the previous evening because the storm had brought no rain, but since then he had had abundant reason to be thankful for the fact; otherwise the marks of shod footprints, leading to and from the place of conspiracy, would tell their own tale. He had mentioned nothing to his travelling companion of what had happened – judging it better not. Then, as time wore on, Lamont was getting anxious. They would have to saddle up directly, and the witch-doctor had not appeared. It was absolutely essential that he should be able to identify him; and as yet he was unfamiliar with his outward aspect.

“Nkose!”

He turned at the salute. An elderly, thick-set native had approached, and as he stood, with hand uplifted, Lamont supposed it was one of the plotting chiefs. His head, too, was surmounted by the small Matabele ring.

“I see you, father,” he answered. “Am I speaking to a chief?”

A flash of mirth shot into the other’s eyes, and he simply bubbled with glee.

“A chief! Ha! I am Qubani, Nkose.”

“The great isanusi! Then you are indeed a chief, my father – the chief of all izanusi.”

The other beamed. Then putting forth his hand, he asked for tobacco, which was given him.

The while Lamont was wondering. He had expected to see a lean, crafty, evil-faced Makalaka, instead of which the famed witch-doctor turned out a stout, comfortable, and well-bred looking Matabele; a ringed man withal, and overflowing with good-nature and geniality. And this was the man who was to give the signal for the massacre of a whole township full of Europeans on the morrow. Yes, on the morrow.

It was puzzling. The Abantwana Mlimo – or children of the mystery – its hierarchy to wit, were all, so far as he knew, of the subject race of Makalaka; yet here was a man obviously of pure Zulu descent, and carrying himself with all the natural dignity of that kingly race. Could he be the genuine Qubani? There was absolutely nothing suggestive of the witch-doctor about him.

“This, too, is Umtwana Mlimo?” said the sorcerer, with a good-humouredly quizzical look at Father Mathias.

“Of the Great Great One above – yes,” answered the latter.

“Ou! The Great Great One above! I am a child beside such,” rejoined Qubani. “My father, u’gwai (tobacco) is scarce among us at present,” reaching out his hand.

Laughing, the priest gave him some. Then, as they chatted further, Lamont became impatient, though he did not show it. He had got at all he wanted. He had seen Qubani, and now he wanted to start, and it was with unmitigated relief that he hailed the arrival of Gudhlusa, who came to tell them that Zwabeka was no longer sick and hoped they would not depart without coming to bid him farewell. The chief’s quarters were in a little enclosure apart, right on the opposite side of the kraal. Leading their horses, which they had already saddled up, they accompanied Gudhlusa; the isanusi also falling in with them. Zwabeka was a tall, elderly, rather morose-looking savage; and his tone as he talked with them was dashed with melancholy. The times were bad, he said – yes, very bad. Their cattle were all dying of the pestilence, and such as did not die, the Government had killed. “Where was U’ Dokotela?” (Dr Jameson.)

Now Lamont became wary. It was impossible to suppose that the news of the Raid had not reached these people – for natives have a way of obtaining news, at almost whatever distance, rather quicker than Europeans with all their telegraphic facilities. So he answered that he was away, but would soon be back.

“He should not have gone,” was the chief’s rejoinder. “While U’ Dokotela was in the country it was well. He was our father, but now – whom! Well, the Government is our father instead.”

This, uttered with an air of beautiful resignation, was tickling Lamont to the last degree. But he answered gravely that that was so indeed. Then he announced that they must resume their way, but first he had a gift for the chief – producing a half-sovereign.

“Nkose! Baba!” cried Zwabeka with alacrity, receiving it in both hands, as the way is with natives. “And the white isanusi– is he not my father too?”

“I am a poor man, chief,” answered the priest, mustering his best Sindabele. “Yet – here is something.”

Zwabeka looked at the silver without great enthusiasm, while the bystanders muttered —

“A poor man? Yau! An isanusi a poor man! Mamoi was ever such a thing heard of?”

“It is true amadoda,” said Lamont. “The white isanusi give away all the gifts they receive – and more.”

A ripple of undisguised laughter ran through the group. An isanusi give away all he received, and more! No, that was too much. Lamonti was trying to amuse them.

They bade farewell to the chief, and those present. Outside the enclosure Lamont picked up his gun, which in accordance with native etiquette he had left there, taking care, however, that there were no cartridges in it, in case of accidents. As they mounted their horses at the farther gate, the witch-doctor came running up.

They had forgotten something, he declared. These great ones had forgotten him.

“That is true,” said Lamont, with a laugh, “yet not altogether. I did not want the chief of this kraal to know that I thought the chief of izanusi equal to him by giving him an equal gift. Here it is.”

“Baba, Nkose!” sung out Qubani, turning inquiringly to the other. But Lamont laughed.

“Now nay, Qubani – now nay. Two brethren of the same craft do not take gifts from one another. They take them from those outside.”

The old man chuckled at this, and with sonorous farewells he dropped back.

“I’m afraid that has been rather an expensive visit – for you, Mr Lamont,” said Father Mathias, as they rode along.

“Yes. But I had a reason for it, which may or may not hereinafter appear,” was the somewhat enigmatical reply. And soon they came to the point where their roads separated, Lamont no longer pressing his companion to come on and visit him. In fact he would have been seriously embarrassed had his former invitation been accepted – now in the light of subsequent events. He wanted to act unhampered, and to do that he must be alone. But as they parted he said —

“I don’t want to set up a general scare, but if you were to warn the people at Skrine’s Store, or any other whites you come across, that if they keep their eyes open for the next few weeks, and take care not to run short of cartridges – why, they won’t be doing the wrong thing. You know I’ve always said we should have more trouble up here, and have been jeered at as a funkstick. But I’ve just learnt something that tells me that that trouble is a great deal nearer than we think; in fact, right on us.”

“What? Here – at this kraal we’ve just left?” said the priest, astonished and startled.

“Perhaps. But you’d better not give me as your authority or the silly fools will take no notice of it, and get all their silly throats slit. You can give out that you’ve every reason to know that mischiefs brewing – and by Jove, you have! you may take it from me, Father. Well, good-bye. I’ve been very glad of your company.”

“Indeed, and I have been very glad of yours. I will bear in mind your warning, Mr Lamont, and I hope we may meet again.”

They were to meet again, but under what circumstances either of them little dreamed.

No man living owned a cooler brain and less excitable nature than Piers Lamont, yet as he rode leisurely on he was conscious of an element of excitement entering into his scheme. He alone would avert the impending horror, and the means he had already determined on. That he might fail never entered into his calculations.

But on arrival at his farm, he met with the first check. His spare horse, which he had lent Ancram to ride into Gandela with, was not there. He had sent Zingela in for it before starting on his recent trip. Both should have been back the day before yesterday, but there was no sign of either. This did not look promising. The boy might have taken the horse and gone over to the enemy. There came out to receive him an elderly Matabele, whose business it was to look after the cattle and whom he reckoned trustworthy.

“Zingela should have been back by now, Ujojo,” he said.

The man agreed, suggesting however that perhaps the strange Inkosi might have wanted to use the horse longer. Lamont frowned.

“I want to go into Gandela for the races to-morrow,” he said. “And there isn’t a horse on the place, and this one I’ve just brought in is beginning to go lame. Well, take the saddle off him and give him a good feed, Ujojo. I shall have to ride him, lame and all, if the other doesn’t turn up by this evening.”

Ujojo led the animal away, wondering. Lamont was fidgety about his horses beyond the ordinary, and yet here he was proposing to ride one of them that was lame, and just off a fair journey into the bargain, a distance that would take him the best part of the night to cover. Yet he was totally unsuspicious as to the real motive for such insane behaviour. He concluded his master must be in love with some girl, and would go to any trouble, and make any sacrifice to get to her; as he had seen others do before him. These Amakiwa were an extraordinary race, so clever and so sensible about most things, and yet such very complete fools where their women were concerned; making themselves their servants, and carrying loads for them, and indeed doing konza to them in the most abject way. Whau! he had seen it, he, Ujojo, many times, else had he refused to believe a tale so incredible. And now his master, whom he had reckoned quite above that sort of madness, and had respected accordingly, was going to prove himself after all just as foolish as the rest. Ujojo clicked disgustedly, and spat.

His said master the while had opened the gun-chest – a strong and solid structure, secured in addition by a patent lock – and was loading a magazine rifle to its fullest carrying capacity, slipping several additional cartridges into a coat pocket. Peters was away at Buluwayo, and he had the place to himself. Then, having refreshed the inner man, he lay down for an hour’s snooze – and in truth he needed it, for he had got but little sleep last night, and would get none at all this.

And – the night after?

Chapter Eleven.

The Race Meeting

The race-course at Gandela lay just outside the township, and between it and the bushy ridge Ehlatini.

It was a large, circular space, surrounded by a not particularly strong bush-fence, and now on the day of the race meeting and gymkhana it presented a very lively scene indeed; for not only was practically the whole population of Gandela there gathered, but that of the surrounding district. Settlers from outlying farms, prospectors from remote camps, storekeepers and others, had all come in to see or join in the fun. And in contrast to the swarm of bronzed and belted men – coatless, and wearing for the most part the broad-brimmed American hat – a flutter of bright colour here and there of blouse and sunshade showed that the ornamental sex, as represented in fa-away Matabeleland, was quite as ambitious of being up to date as anywhere else. Taking it altogether they were having a good time of it, as was bound to be the case in a locality where man was largely in preponderance, and where, in consequence, there were not enough women to go round, as we heard Clare Vidal remark.

She herself was looking altogether winsome and delightful, as she flashed forth jest and repartee among the group surrounding her, for she was holding quite a little court. Men – among them fine gallant-looking fellows who had served with some distinction in the former war – seemed to hang upon her words, or was it her tones, her smiles? – laying up for themselves, perchance, store of future heartache. Her brother-in-law, who was one of the stewards, declared she was causing a positive obstruction. A hoot of good-humoured derision arose from the group.

“Oh, go away, Fullerton, you jolly old policeman,” cried one man.

“Send him off, Mrs Fullerton, do,” said another.

But before Lucy had time to reply, two bronzed giants had seized the offender one by each arm, and gently but firmly marched him across the course to where an impromptu bar under a canvas awning was doing a roaring trade.

“That’s better for you, old man,” said one, as three glasses were set down empty.

“And unless you give us your word not to bother Miss Vidal any more we’ll keep you here all day,” said the other.