The Triumph of Hilary Blachland

“I think you are tired of it,” she flashed. “I suppose you have a lot of black wives over yonder, like that disgusting old Pemberton and Young. That’s why you’re so fond of going into the Matabele country, and leaving me all alone for weeks.”

“Apparently you know more about Pemberton’s and Young’s conjugal arrangements than I do, but let me assure you you’re utterly wrong in your estimate of mine.”

“I don’t believe it. You are all of you alike, once you take to going among those beastly natives.”

“You don’t believe it? That I can’t help, so there it stays. And now I’ve lazed long enough, I must rustle about and see to things.”

Left there, Hermia watched his tall form, like a pillar of white, wending up the low kopje at the back of the stockade. He had become very reserved, very self-contained and inscrutable of late; so much so indeed, that it was almost impossible to gauge how much he knew or suspected. Now she felt uneasy, uncomfortable with a dim consciousness of having come off second best in the recent cut and thrust. Well, perhaps he was right. She was tired of the existing state of affairs – perhaps a trifle tired of him.

And he? The kopje up which he had taken his way, ascended by an easy acclivity to a point which commanded an immense view to the south and westward. Range upon range of rolling slope and wooded ridge lay there outspread – vast and scarcely inhabited country, a land given over to wild game and a few shrinking, starving remnants of tribes living in daily fear of the sweep of the terrible Matabele besom. The evening was still, and golden, and beautiful, and, seated under a mahobo-hobo tree, Blachland lit his pipe, and began to think out the position.

So Hermia was tired of their life together! He had seen it coming on, and at first the knowledge had caused him some concern. He contrasted the lives of other pioneers, living all alone, or in native fashion, with two or three dusky-hued daughters of the land, in rough, uncivilised manner, growing more and more into the happy-go-lucky, soulless simplicity of life of the barbarous aborigines themselves, – contrasted them with the life he himself led, its comfort, and refined companionship, and, until lately, love, – and, doing so, a qualm of regret tinged his mind. It was evanescent however. For he himself was growing tired of this mode of life. He had embarked on it when he and Hermia had reckoned the world well lost for each other’s sake. Now, neither of them so reckoned any more; nay, further, to be perfectly candid with themselves, they wondered how they ever could have. Why not leave it then, move to some more cheerful and civilised quarter of the globe? To do so would be tantamount to leaving each other.

Hermia had taxed him with being jealous, and he had replied, and rightly, that he was past the capacity for any such foolishness. But he had no intention of remaining her dupe. That he had ample cause for jealousy in the matter just under discussion, he was well aware; but that was nothing to what he would meet with should they return to civilisation together. She could no more cleave to one, and one only, than she could fly over the moon. They had better part.

Over the vast roll of country beneath, stretching away into misty dimness, his glance swept. How would he take to civilisation again? The old restlessness would come upon him. The wandering up-country life had got into his system. The other kind, too, was not so very great as to lure him back to it either. He supposed he had made a mess of things. Well, most people did one way and another, and it couldn’t be helped.

Up the slope, through the sparse bushes, a herd of cattle was threading – his cattle; and in the tall dark form of their driver he recognised Hlangulu, the Matabele. Mechanically, however, he took in this while his thoughts reverted to their former train. Would they miss each other? he wondered; or, rather, would he miss Hermia? That she would hardly waste a regret on him he knew, for he had long since discovered the shallow emptiness of her nature, and that what he had at one time taken for depth was the mere frenzied abandonment of a passing passion, wholly unrestrained and absorbing for the time being; but now, and indeed long since, burnt out. Turning, he looked back on the group of primitive buildings within the protecting stockade, his home. A stillness and peace seemed to brood over it in the evening light. He could make out Hermia’s form crossing a section of the enclosure. He thought of the years they had been together. Had those years been happy? Well, hardly. Disillusionment had not been long in coming, and with its growth their brief and spurious happiness had faded. They did not quarrel, but it was a case of mutual toleration. And now, at last, he had returned one fine day to recognise that his place was filled by another. Decidedly the time had come for them to part.

“Nkose!”

Blachland looked up. His meditations must have run on, for the utterer of this sonorous salutation was he who, but a moment ago it seemed, was right away down there driving the cattle, yet he had had time to take them borne and return here himself.

“What is it, Hlangulu?”

The man dropped down into a squatting attitude, and began to talk. Blachland, who understood natives, let him run on about nothing in particular – the state of the country, the new settlements of the pioneers, the King, the decreasing of the game, and so forth, – for he knew something was coming. Presently it came.

“Nkose is even as Umlimo. The dark mysteries of the Great bold no terrors for him?”

“Not any,” was the laconic reply.

“Yet it is certain death to look into such.”

“Death is certain, but the time of death, never. I have looked at ‘certain death’ before, yet here I am.”

“Au, Nkose! What you desire is not possible, save by one way.”

“And that way?”

“Is known to me alone.”

“And you are going to make it known to me. Now, Hlangulu, men are men, and men have motives. Why are you going to do this?”

“What is that which is most desired by all white men, Nkose?”

“Gold.”

“Yeh-bo, Nkose, and by black ones, too, if with it they can buy cattle and wives. Hau! In the abode of the mighty dead there is much of it.”

Blachland didn’t start, but his nerves were all a thrill. The man’s words were plain enough. A quantity of treasure had been buried with the dead King. That was the interpretation.

“Is the gold like this, Hlangulu?” he said, producing a sovereign.

“Eh-hé, Nkose!” assented the Matabele. “It is in a bag, so high,” – holding his hand about a couple of feet from the ground.

Then they talked, the white man and the savage, – talked long and earnestly. The superstitions of the latter precluded him from going near the dreaded sepulchre, let alone entering it. But for the former no such barrier existed. Hlangulu knew a way of getting him through the pickets: then he could accomplish a double purpose, explore the interior of the King’s grave, and bring away the concealed wealth which lay there; and this they would share equally.

It was quite dark when they separated: Blachland all braced up by the prospect of a new and interesting adventure, which, coming when it did, was peculiarly welcome; Hlangulu to dream of an idyllic existence, in some far-away land where Lo Bengula’s arm could not reach, where he could sit in his kraal and count his vast herds of cattle, and buy wives, young and new, whenever inclined.

Chapter Nine.

A Weird Quest

Away among the masses of the wonderful Matopo range.

Huge granite piles rearing up skyward in every varied form of bizarre delineation, like the mighty waves of an angry sea suddenly petrified, the great flow of fallen stones covering the entire slope like the inflow of surf upon a slanting shore; the scanty trees, and tall, knife-edged tambuti grass in the valley bottoms, like seaweed in the rainy moisture of the dusking evening. Then a blue gleam of lightning along the grim granite faces; and a dull boom, re-echoed again and again as the thunder-peal is tossed from crag to crag in a hundred deep-toned reverberations.

Standing just within their ample shelter – which is formed by the overhang of a great boulder – Blachland gazes forth upon the weird and awe-inspiring solitude. Opposite, a huge castellated rock, many hundreds of feet in height, balances on its summit a mighty slab, which it seems would need but the touch of a finger to send crashing into the valley beneath; then a ridge of tumbled boulders; further down another titanic pile, reft clean through the centre by a chasm, in whose jaws is gripped tight the enormous wedge of stone which seems to have split it: and so on, till the eye is tired and the mind overawed by the stupendous grimness of these Dante-esque heights and valleys.

The adventure is in full swing now. Blachland and his strange guide have been out several days, travelling when possible only at night, and then keeping to the hills as much as practicable. And now they are nearing their goal.

And, looking at it calmly, it is a strange adventure indeed, almost an aimless one. The story of the buried gold Blachland is inclined to scout utterly. But no amount of questioning will shake the faith of his guide, and so, at last, he has come to believe in it himself. Indeed, otherwise, what motive would Hlangulu have for aiding and abetting that which, in his eyes, was nothing more nor less than a monstrous piece of sacrilege? He knew that savages are the most practical of mortals, and that it is entirely outside their code of ethics to go to a vast deal of trouble and risk without the prospect of adequate and substantial advantage to be gained thereby.

It had occurred to him that there might be another motive, and a sinister one. Hlangulu might be decoying him into the most out-of-the-way recesses of Matabeleland in order to make away with him treacherously; and the idea was not a pleasant one, in that, however on the alert he might be, there must always be times when a crafty and determined foe could strike him down when off his guard. But here, again, motive counted for something, and here, again, motive utterly failed, as we have said. He could not call to mind that Hlangulu had the faintest occasion to owe him any sort of a grudge, and, even if it were so, he would not go to work in any such roundabout fashion to pay it. There was nothing for it but to set the whole thing down to its real motive, cupidity to wit.

To this had succeeded another idea. What if this concealed gold were really there, and be succeeded in obtaining it? It was then that he would have to watch his guide and companion with a jealous eye. For the whole is greater than the half, and would this covetous savage remain content with the half? He resolved to keep his eyes very wide open indeed, during the return journey.

The return journey! It was rather early to think about that, for the perils of the enterprise were only about to begin. Turning back within their shelter now, he proceeded to question Hlangulu, who was squatting against a rock, smoking a pipe – to question him once more as to the surroundings of the King’s grave.

But the man’s answers were mere reiterations of all that he had said before. They would soon be within touch of the guards whom, in the ordinary way, it would be impossible to pass. The snake? Yes, there was no doubt but that it was the itongo, or ghost of the Great Great One who sat there. Many had seen it. He, Hlangulu, had seen it twice, and had retreated, covering his face, and calling out the sibonga of the dead King. It was an immense black mamba, and had been seen to go in and out of the grave. It was as long and again half as long as Isipau himself, he declared, looking Blachland up and down.

The latter, remembering Sybrandt’s narrative, concluded that there was something decidedly creepy in bearding a particularly vicious and deadly species of serpent within a narrow cleft of rock, the beast being about nine feet long at that – which is what Hlangulu’s estimate would make it. Under any circumstances it would be bad enough, but now with all the grim and eerie adjuncts thrown in, why the whole scheme seemed to bristle with peril. And what was there to gain by it? Well, the gold.

It must not be supposed, however, that the idea of obtaining this was cherished without a qualm. Did not the whole thing look uncommonly like an act of robbery, and the meanest kind of robbery too – the robbery of a grave? The gold was not his. It had been put there by those to whom it belonged. What right to it had he? As against this he set the fact that it was lying there utterly useless to any living soul; that if he did not take it, somebody else would; that the transfer of the whole of the Matabeleland to the British flag was only a question of time, and that, during the war which should be necessary to bring about this process, others would come to hear of this buried wealth, or light on it by chance, and then, would they be more scrupulous? Not one whit.

It will be remembered that he was all eagerness to effect this weird exploration even before he had the faintest inkling that the place concealed, or might conceal, anything more valuable than a few mouldering relics – a few trumpery articles of adornment, perhaps, which might be worth bringing away as curios. Yet, strange as it may seem, his later knowledge scarcely added to that eagerness.

A curious trait in Hilary Blachland’s character was a secret horror of one day failing in nerve. He could recall at least one experience in his life when this had happened to him, and that at a critical juncture, and it had left an impression on him which he had never forgotten. There were times when it haunted him with a ghostlike horror, and under its influence he would embark in some mad and dare-devil undertaking, utterly inconsequent because utterly without rhyme, reason, or necessity. It was as though he were consumed with a feverish desire to cultivate a reputation for intrepidity, though, as a matter of actual fact, his real motive was to satisfy himself on the point. As a matter of actual fact, too, he was as courageous as the average, and possessed of more than the average amount of resolution.

“We should be starting,” said Hlangulu, coming to the entrance of their shelter, and sending a scrutinising look at the sky. “The rain has stopped, and the clouds will all blow apart. Then there will be a moon. We shall arrive there before daybreak.” And, without waiting for the other’s consent or comment, he dived within again, and began putting together the few things they carried.

One can travel light on such a march, provided the wayfarer makes up his mind, and that rigidly, to take nothing along that is not strictly and absolutely necessary. To this rule the strangely assorted pair had adhered, so that the time taken to get under way was no longer than that required to saddle Blachland’s horse.

Hlangulu’s prediction was verified, for in less than half an hour the clouds had parted in all directions, revealing the depths of the blue-black vault all spangled with gushing stars – and lo, a silver crescent moon flooded the sombre valleys and fantastic crags with her soft light. It was a strange and eerie march through that grim wilderness in the hush of the silent night – a silence, broken now and again by mysterious cries as of bird or beast – the effect heightened by the varying echo from cave or crag. An ant-bear, looking like a great bald pig in the magnifying moonlight, scuttled across their path. A strange variety of nightjar flitted overhead, looking something between a butterfly and a paper kite; or a troop of baboons, startled suddenly from their feast of roots, would skip hurriedly out of the way, their dark, gnome-like shapes glancing through the long grass as they sought refuge among the granite crags, there to bark loud and excited defiance after the disturbers.

These, however, took no notice, intent only on getting forward. They were safe here from the one great object of their apprehension, their fellow-man – as yet: the point was to cover all the ground possible while such immunity was still theirs. The Matabele led the way in long wiry strides – the horseman following. As a matter of precaution, the horse’s shoes had been removed; for the clink of a shod hoof travels far, at night, in uninhabited solitudes, or, for the matter of that, even by day.

During the long night march, Blachland’s thoughts were busy, and they were mainly concerned with the events of the three or four days during which he had been making up his mind to this undertaking; with the parting with Hermia, and with the future. She had not accepted the position quietly, and, a rare thing with her, had treated him to rather a stormy scene.

He had only just returned after a long absence, she declared, and now was anxious to start off again. Assuredly he was tired of her – or was it that her suspicions were correct, and that he had a kraal of his own in Matabeleland, like that horrid old Pemberton and other traders? Ah well, if he was tired of her, there might be other people who were not perhaps. If he did not appreciate her, there might be other people who did.

“Meaning, for present purposes, Spence,” he had rejoined, but without heat. “Well, you are old enough and experienced enough to know where your own interests lie, and so it is superfluous for me to remind you,” he had added. And so they had parted with but scant affection; and it might well be, remembering the perilous nature of his present undertaking, never to behold each other again.

A short off-saddle, about midnight, relieved the march. At length, in the black hour succeeding the setting of the moon, Hlangulu called a halt.

“We must leave the horse here,” he said. “We can hide him in yonder cleft until to-morrow night. It will not be safe to ride him any further, Isipau. Look!”

The other had already beheld that to which his attention was now directed. For a dull glow arose upon the night, and that at no great distance ahead: a glow as of fires. And, in fact, such it was; for it was the glow of the watch-fires of one of the armed pickets, guarding, day and night, the approaches to the sacred neighbourhood of the King’s grave.

Chapter Ten.

Umzilicazi’s Grave

The huge granite pile loomed forth overhead, grim, frowning, indistinct. Then, as the faint streak in the blackness of the eastern horizon banded into red width, the outlines of the great natural mausoleum stood forth clearer and clearer.

Blachland’s pulses beat hard, as he stood gazing. At last he had reached the goal of his undertaking – at last he stood upon the forbidden ground. The uneasy consciousness that discovery meant Death – death, moreover, in some barbarous and lingering form – was hardly calculated to still his bounding pulses. He stood there alone. Hlangulu had come as near as he dared, and, with the minutest instructions as to the nearest and safest approach, had hidden to await his return.

How they had eluded the vigilance of the pickets our explorer hardly knew. He called to mind, however, a moment which, if not the most exciting moment of his life, at any rate brought him within as grim a handshaking proximity to certain death as he had ever yet attained. For, at the said moment, Hlangulu had drawn him within a rock cleft – and that with a quick muscular movement which there was neither time nor opportunity to resist, but which, a second later, there was no inclination to, as he beheld – they both beheld – a body of Matabele warriors, fully armed, and seeming to rise out of nowhere, pass right over the very spot just occupied by themselves. He could see the markings of the hide shields, could even make out the whites of rolling eyeballs in the starlight, as the savages flitted by and were gone.

But would they return? Had the sound of strange footsteps reached their ears, and started them in search? Assuredly, if Hilary Blachland stood in need of a new and intense excitement, he had got it now. But a barely breathed inquiry met for some time with no response from his guide, who at length rose up and declared that they must push on.

And now here he stood alone. Before him two massive granite faces arose, leaning forward, as it were, until their overhanging brows nearly met the topmost boughs of a solitary Kafferboen which grew out of the ground fronting the entrance at a distance of some yards. Over the angle formed by these an immense boulder was balanced, in such wise as to form a huge natural porch; but in continuation of the angle was a deft, a tall narrow deft, the entrance to which was roughly built up with stones. This, then, was the King’s grave.

The dawn was rapidly lightening. There was no time to lose. He must enter at once, and there remain throughout the entire day. Only in the darkness could he enter, only in the darkness could he leave it.

As he climbed up on the embankment of stones, one, loosened by his tread, dislodged another. Heavens! what a clatter they made, or seemed to make, in the dead stillness. Then he set his teeth hard, stifling a groan. The falling stone had struck his ankle, bruising it sharply and causing intense pain. For a moment he paused. Could he climb any further? It seemed to have lamed him. Then somehow there came back to him old Pemberton’s words: “There’s no luck meddling with such places – no, none.” Well, there seemed something in it, and if his ill-luck began here what was awaiting him when he should have effected his purpose? But he had professed himself above such puerile superstitions, and now was the time to make good his professions. Besides, it was too late to draw back. If he were not under concealment within a moment or so, his peril would be of a more real and material order. So, summoning all his coolness and resolution, exercising the greatest care, he climbed over the remaining stones and dropped down within the cleft.

And now he forgot the pain of his contused ankle, as, full of interest he stood within this wonderful tomb. But for a very slight trend the cleft ran inward straight to a depth of some forty or fifty feet, its sides, straight and smooth, rising to nearly the same height; and at the further end, which narrowed somewhat, ere terminating abruptly in the meeting of the two Titanic boulders which caused it, he could make out something which looked like a heap, an indefinable heap, of old clothes.

Blachland paused. Here, then, was the object of his exploration. Here, then, lay the mouldering remains of the dead King, and here lay the buried gold. Drawing his flask from his pocket, he took a nip to steady his nerves before beginning his search. Before beginning it, however, some impulse moved him to glance forth once more upon the outside world.

The sun had not yet risen, but the land lay revealed in the pearly dawn. There was the rough, long, boulder-strewn ridge, continuing away from this great natural tumulus which dominated it. Away over the valley, the bushy outline of the Intaba Inyoka stood humped against the suffusing sky; but what drew and held his gaze was a kind of natural platform, immediately below, part rock, part soil. This, however, lay black amid the surrounding green – black as though through the action of fire; but its blackness was strangely relieved, chequered, by patches of white. He recognised it for the spot described by Sybrandt and also by Hlangulu – the place where cattle were sacrificed at intervals to the shades of the departed King.

Something else caught his eye, something moving overhead. Heavens! the great boulder, overhanging like a penthouse, was falling – falling over! In a moment he would be shut in, buried alive in this ghastly tomb. Appalled, he gazed upwards, his eyes straining on it, and then he could have laughed aloud, for the solution was simple. A light breeze had sprung and up, the topmost boughs of the Kafferboen, swaying to its movement, were meeting the boulder, then swinging away again, producing just that curious and eerie effect to one in a state of nervous tension. He stood watching this optical delusion, and laughed again. Decidedly his nerves were overstrung. Well, this would not do. Facing once more within the cave, he concluded to start upon his research without further delay.

It was lighter now – indeed, but for the chastened gloom of the interior, nearly as light as it ever would be. He approached the farther end. Mouldering old blankets crumbled under his tread. He could see the whole of the interior, and again he laughed to himself – recalling the legend of the King’s Snake. There was no recess that would hide so much as a mouse. He scattered the fragments of old clothing with the stock of his rifle, laying bare layers of crumbling matting. More eagerly still he parted these when he came to the central heap. Layer by layer, he tore away the stuff-ancient hide wrappings, ornamented with worn bead-work – beneath the mats of woven grass; then something white appeared – white, and smooth, and round. Eagerly, yet carefully, he parted the wrappings; and lo, protruding from them – not lying, but in a bolt-upright position – a great grinning skull!