Chapter Fifteen.
Two of a Trade.
When Dolf Norbury learned that another white man was coming to Majendwa’s country on trading intent, his first remark was that he was damned if he should. This statement he followed up with the use of absolutely unprintable language for the space of many minutes. His first act was to shy a bottle at the head of his informant, who ducked in time to avoid disastrous contact with the same, and then to make him exceedingly drunk with the contents of another bottle, not yet reduced to its last use—as a missile to wit. This by way of compensation.
The process had another effect, that of making the injured man talk. He for his part was a young Zulu of no particular account, and what he stated was perfectly true, he went on to declare. The white man was a trader known as Iqalaqala, and with him was another white man, a great fighter, who could knock men senseless with his fists even as one might do with a large and heavy stick. He who spoke knew, for he had seen it done—not once only, either. At this Dolf Norbury’s language grew vehement and sultry again, and was interlarded by many aspirations after just one glimpse of the man who could knock him senseless or knock him anything else. Only just one glimpse, that was all. The next thing he did, by way of relieving his feelings was to start in and thrash the nearest of his native wives—of which he had several—she, unfortunately for her, being the one of least family standing, and therefore the least likely to raise resentment on the part of the relatives—or others, a thing which is bad for trade. Then he opened a bottle of “square face,” took a very big drink, and putting the bottle in a pocket or his leather coat went round to the chief’s hut.
“I have news, Mawendhlela,” he began, when he found himself inside. “But”—with a look at some others who were seated there—“it will keep.”
Not long was it before these took the hint, and stole out, one by one. The chief’s eyes twinkled as he noted the familiar bulge in the pocket of his visitor.
“Au! it is cold,” he said, pretending to shiver, “and I am getting on in years and need warmth.”
“This will give it you,” said the white man, producing the bottle.
The chief’s eyes sparkled as he watched the gurgling rush of the potent liquid into the calabash drinking vessel. Then he tossed off half of it with a gasp of contentment.
“That is indeed warm—yes, warm,” he said.
“And good. But there will soon be no more.”
“No more? Now why, Udolfu?”
“Because I am going—going away.”
“Going away? Now that cannot be.”
“It can and it is. There is no longer room for me here. There is a cow at hand who will give you more milk than I can, but not such milk as this—oh no!”
“Ha!”
“It is Iqalaqala who is the cow that lows at the gate. Iqalaqala does not trade in strong drink—neither will he bring you any guns or cartridges or powder and lead. His trade is the trade for women—beads, coloured cloth, and such.”
“M-m! Why then, Udolfu, there is still room for you here, for Iqalaqala can do the women’s trade and you can still do that for men—guns and cartridges—and drink like this—like this—which warms—ah, ah, which warms,” added the chief finishing his allowance of “square face” and pushing his calabash meaningly towards the other.
“But I will not. There is no room for two here. I will have all the trade or none.”
Mawendhlela’s face fell. He was a man who liked his comfort and the enjoyment of a daily modicum of “square face” gin, or Natal rum had become essential to this. As a chief he was not unmindful of certain plain hints on the part of those very high up indeed in the councils of the nation, to the effect that those under them were required to obtain the weapons of the white man as far as this could possibly be done. Yet here was the man who supplied him with both, threatening to withdraw. He saw the loss of his beloved drink with dismay, and with even greater dismay he contemplated the disfavour into which he would fall with those in high quarters, if his people showed but a poor muster in the way of firearms. The while Dolf Norbury was reading his thoughts, and could gauge their drift exactly. He knew, too, that personally Mawendhlela and many of his people would gladly see the last of him—but, the above considerations were potent.
“We cannot both trade here,” he repeated. “Iqalaqala must not be allowed to come. That’s all.”
“What can I do, Udolfu?” answered the chief helplessly. “Majendwa is a bull that roars louder than I, and he has the ear of the Great Great One himself. It is to Majendwa you must talk.”
“Majendwa?” repeated the white man, with a scowl as though the very name was unpalatable to him—and, indeed, it was—“Majendwa? Au! his kraal is far enough away. But here, you are chief, you, Mawendhlela. And for some days the people have been talking of the coming of Iqalaqala! Well, he must not come.”
They looked at each other for a little while in silence. Then the chief spoke.
“I can do nothing, Udolfu,” he repeated. “But you—au! you white people can do everything. And I do not want a white man who only brings trade for women.”
“Then you leave it to me?” said the trader, reaching over the square bottle and replenishing the calabash.
“It is nothing to me,” said Mawendhlela, carefully extracting a cockroach which had fallen from the thatch into his liquor, and throwing it into the fire. “No more than that—” as the insect crackled up.
Dolf Norbury chuckled, and took a big drink himself. The life of another man, a fellow countryman—or, it might be of two men—was no more to him than that of the burnt insect. They understood each other.
It may be asked how I am able to reproduce a dialogue between two persons sitting together alone in a hut—alone mind—and I many miles away at the time. Well, passing over the question as to whether anyone ever really is alone—especially in a Zulu kraal—rather than that the veracity of this my narrative be in any wise impugned, I would remind the reader that at an earlier stage thereof I took him into confidence so far as to explain that I was wont to derive a considerable amount of information from native sources, and that such information was surprisingly accurate. So—there it is, you see!
The while we were trekking by slow and easy stages. There was a restlessness among the people as to which there could be no mistake. They were moving about in bands of ten or twenty instead of singly or in pairs, and fully armed, and now and then two or three men would come up hurriedly to the waggon, and hardly troubling to drop their weapons as required by etiquette, would start on again after a few words of inquiry as to our destination. In short the country seemed about as settled as an ant’s nest the top of which has just been kicked off; and more than one rumour had it that armed collisions had occurred with the grazing Boers beyond the Luneburg and Utrecht borders. Towards ourselves the behaviour of the people was rather offhand and independent, the young men especially being inclined to treat us to quite an unnecessary display of swagger. This was a source of anxiety to me, in that it involved a continuous strain upon my moral influence to keep Falkner Sewin from his favourite pastime of head punching, and this was difficult.
So far too, trade prospects seemed but poor. Formerly from each group of kraals we passed, people would have come eagerly forth to do a deal—now for ordinary trade goods they seemed to have no hankering. More than one head-man would ask, talking “dark,” if I carried what they wanted, and on assuring themselves that I did not, soon showed no further desire to trade. Now “what they wanted,” done into plain English, meant firearms and ammunition, and this was a form of illicit trade from which I had always kept my hands clean. Not that the temptation was not great at that. The profits were ditto and the risk to one with my facilities, hardly worth considering, and the same held good of liquor selling, though as to this latter perhaps considerations of self interest lay behind my scruples, for it was in no wise to my interest to bear part in ruining this fine race among whom I lived, and from whom I drew a living.
For the rest, life was pleasant enough as we moved along easily—outspanning during the heat of the day for several hours—and then trekking on until dark. Then the night camp under the stars, when the savoury game stew—or if we couldn’t get any game, the fried rashers of bacon, had been discussed, and pipes were in full blast—this constituted not the least pleasant moment of the day, as we sat and swapped yarns, to the accompaniment of the monotonous crunch-crunch of ruminating oxen tied to the yokes; or the occasional howl of a hyena, or the cry of some mysterious night bird coming up out of the surrounding blackness. All this my companion enjoyed immensely, as well he might. He did not so much enjoy the reverse side of the medal though, when a sudden thunderburst and a night of chilly, pelting downpour—which precluded all thoughts of a fire, or anything hot—drove us to huddle within the tent waggon, and browse upon biscuit and tinned stuff. However I had broken him in fairly well by that time, and he was disposed to take things as they came. Now and again he would try my patience by some outbreak of mulish cussedness, but I remembered his character and training, and had no difficulty in keeping myself in hand. Added to which I believe I entertained a sneaking softness towards the fellow if only that he constituted a connecting link with those I had left behind. Those? Well, to be candid, but—never mind.
We were approaching the mountainous regions of the north, and the bushy valleys and slopes of the lower country had been left behind. The air grew clear and sharp, and the nights had become downright chilly. Around, the hills rose in abrupt slopes, their sweep broken up into great terraces as it were, by tiers of smooth grey cliffs. To all appearance the country might have been uninhabited, but I knew better: knew that the great clefts which fell abruptly from the track contained teeming kraals, whose presence might easily remain unsuspected by the casual wayfarer: knew, too, that not a mile of our advance but was carefully watched and duly reported. In the Zululand of those days the passage of a white man’s waggons was an event, and that from more than one point of view.