Chapter Sixteen.
The Refugee.
“Yes, I’m afraid there’s thunder in the air,” said Joe Fleetwood, lazily sharpening a well-worn sheath-knife upon the iron rim of a waggon wheel. “All these runners passing to and fro—bristling with assegais, too, and in too much almighty hurry to stop and talk—seem to point that way.”
“How’ll that affect our scheme?” said Wyvern lazily; he was lying on his back on the ground, his head on his hands and a pipe between his teeth, looking the picture of ease and content. A little way off the waggon boys—all Natal natives—were washing and scrubbing the enamelled metal plates on which their masters had not long ago been lunching, chatting among themselves in subdued tones; and, squatting apart, and throwing at them an occasional remark, was a head-ringed Zulu. Away in front stretched an amphitheatre of mountains, whose wall-like cliffs gleamed in the afternoon sun.
“It may affect us this way,” went on Fleetwood, “that if the rival parties come to blows we may be expected to take sides or be chawed up between the two.”
“The deuce! Well, we didn’t reckon on a second edition of ’79, as part of our plans, did we? It won’t forward what we came up for, either.”
“No, it won’t. Another bad sign is we’ve done next to no trade. When once it became patent we weren’t gun-runners, they’ve kept at a respectful distance.”
They had come into the Zulu country as ordinary traders, with two waggons. Fleetwood, of course, was well aware that under existing circumstances trade would be almost at a standstill, but the waggon loads were a pretext; a blind to cover their real intentions.
Now the Zulu before mentioned got up, stretched himself, and strolled leisurely over to them. He was an elderly man with a pleasing face, and, if anything, inclined to stoutness.
“There is thunder in the air,” he said, in a casual tone.
“I made that remark but now, Hlabulana,” answered Fleetwood. “Well?”
“While sitting over yonder my ears were open to other sounds than the chatter of these Amakafula,” went on the Zulu in the same low, matter-of-fact tones. “They heard sounds of war.”
“Of war?” repeated Joe, examining the edge of the knife. “Now what sounds were they, Hlabulana?”
“The rush of many feet—the rumble of hoofs. Men are striving, and it is for cattle.”
“I hear it again,” said Hlabulana, who had resumed his squatting attitude.
“So do I,” said the trader, who had seated himself on the ground, and who, while not seeming to, was listening intently.
“What are you two chaps yarning about?” said Wyvern, raising himself upon one elbow. He had mastered the Zulu tongue so far but indifferently. “Hallo! What the deuce is that? Did you hear it?”
Fleetwood nodded. The waggon boys had dropped their work and sprang to their feet, uttering quick exclamations as they stared forth over the veldt. Again that dull and distant roar boomed forth upon the lazy air.
“You and I have heard it before, Wyvern. At Hlobane, for instance. How about the King’s war-shout?”
Wyvern started, and looked grave.
“‘Usútu’?” he said, listening again. “Why, so it might be. Shall we be attacked then, because if so, I’m afraid our chances are slight.”
“I don’t think they’ll interfere with us. What do you think, Hlabulana?” relapsing into the vernacular. “What is being done yonder?”
He addressed, who had been listening intently, shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“I think that the Abesutu and the children of the white man’s chiefs have—met,” he answered, a comical crinkle coming round the corners of his eyes. “Whau! they are always meeting, only to-day there seem more of them than usual. See. They draw nearer.”
Now the sounds of the tumult, though faint, were audible without an effort. It was noticeable that the Natal boys edged very close indeed to their white masters. The Native Contingent at Isandhlwana had been made up largely of their kindred, and the tradition thereof was still fresh and green. A quick exclamation escaped them.
For, over the low ridge sparsely covered with bush, about a mile north-west of their outspan, figures had now come in sight—figures running—dark figures—and now and again something gleamed. More and more came over, and among them were more and more points that gleamed. Fleetwood and Wyvern exchanged a word, then dived into a waggon, to re-appear in a moment, each with a double gun and a very business-like revolver indeed. The native boys fished out a knob-kerrie apiece from somewhere—not that it would have been of much use, still it was some sort of a weapon. The only one who betrayed not the smallest sign of excitement was Hlabulana, the Zulu.
“They are running,” he said—“running away. They are not running to attack. Wou! Pakati!” he exclaimed, as one of the fugitives, overtaken by three pursuers, fell.
And now the rout drew very near. There was little noise and no shouting—presumably pursuers and pursued required all their wind. Then the spectators could see that of the latter there was only one left.
He was a young man, tall and long-legged, and with head down he covered the ground with great strides, just keeping his distance and never looking round. Clearly he was making for the white man’s protection as his only chance, but—would the white man have the power to afford it?
Eagerly and with deepening excitement did the spectators watch the progress of this straining chase. Ah! he is down! no, it is only a stumble, and as he recovers himself the exultant yell changes to accents of rage. One or two stop, and hurl assegais, but these fall short. A hundred yards more—fifty, forty, ten, and then—the fugitive staggers up and falls—almost into the fire—as we have seen.
The pursuit made no halt, but poured on as though to overwhelm the camp itself.
“We can’t have this, Wyvern,” muttered Fleetwood uneasily. Then, in the Zulu: “Halt. He who comes ten steps further—drops.”
The effect was magical. This white man was known to them, known to them too as one who in a matter of this kind might be relied upon to keep his word. Wherefore they halted with an alacrity that was wholly commendable. A murmur went up.
“It is Ujó!”
“That is right,” briskly answered Fleetwood. “And knowing that you know me. And knowing me, you know that any man who takes refuge in my camp is safe: safe from anybody, as long as I am safe, this is. Now—has anybody any inclination to try if I am safe?”
The opposing crowd consisted of young men; hot-headed, hot-blooded young savages, armed, and having already tasted blood. Not yet were they inclined to relax hold upon their prey. Vociferating, they waved their spears—many of them blood-stained—and their shields, roaring for their prize, their victim. And, by now others having come up to swell the tumult, there were about threescore of them.
“Give him to us!” they bellowed. “He is ours. But for your camp our spears would have drunk his blood ere this.”
Fleetwood stood facing them, and shook his head.
“No. I will not give him to you,” he answered, quietly decisive.
The uproar grew. Angry voices were raised in hubbub and spears waved. It looked as if a sudden impetuous charge, which would have overwhelmed all before it, was about to be made. But somehow those two double-barrels—for Wyvern had taken his cue from the other and, aiming low, had got his piece well upon the confronting mass—constituted a moral force there was no gainsaying. They made no aggressive move.
“This is our meat you have taken, Ujó,” called out one, who seemed the most prominent among the excited Usutus. “Meat for the teeth of our spears. Now, give it up, for we will have it.”
“You will not have it, Jolwana, not from here, at any rate,” answered Fleetwood, who knew the speaker. “Au! and how didst thou win thy head-ring? Was it not in company with a son of Majendwa? And what of him who lies here? He, too, is a son of Majendwa. Hamba gahlé! Yes—go carefully, for the sons of Majendwa are many.”
He thus addressed as Jolwana seemed beside himself with rage. He addressed a few furious words to the others in a ferocious undertone. A move forward was made and a threatening roar went up from the whole pack. But simultaneously with it, a shot rang out sharp. Jolwana’s shield, then flourished over his head, was pierced, and Jolwana’s fingers ached with the concussion.
“I was but playing with thee, Jolwana,” went on Fleetwood, slipping a fresh cartridge into his rifle barrel with lightning-like rapidity. “Stop now, or next time thou goest into the Great Unknown. Then—what of thy two young wives—thy new, pleasant young wives? Whose will they then become?”
At these words, another roar went up, but it was a roar of laughter. Fleetwood not only knew the other, but knew his circumstances thoroughly. A young man to be head-ringed, and one whom Cetywayo had allowed to tunga near the close of the war, and that for a special and secret service performed, he had the reputation of being intensely jealous. With this knowledge used with rare tact, Fleetwood had succeeded in turning the angry crowd into a laughing crowd, and it is a truism that a laughing crowd ceases to be dangerous. This crowd now roared with laughter again and again, for the Zulu has a keen sense of humour. So these heated combatants, themselves and their weapons bespattered with the blood of fleeing fugitives, forgot their blood-lust, and roared with genuine merriment again and again. But Jolwana, their leader, the only one head-ringed among them, did not seem to enter into the joke at all. However, he stopped, which was all Fleetwood—and, incidentally, Wyvern—wanted of him.
“A son of Majendwa!” he scoffed. “Au! but a son of Majendwa ceases to be such when he is found on that side. He has become a hunting dog of the Abelungu.”
“Who art thou?” asked Fleetwood of the fugitive, who had now recovered from his exhaustion. “I recall thy face but thy name escapes me.”
“Mtezani-ka-Majendwa,” was the answer. “It is right what he has said.”
“Ka-Majendwa? Yes?” rejoined Fleetwood, half questioningly. “Majendwa has many sons. Yet they—and all the Abaqulusi are on the side of the Abesutu?”
“As to that, my father, there is something of a tale to tell. Yet I have not done with these”—with a wave of the hand towards Jolwana and his followers. “Ah—ah—I have not done with these, but one man can do nothing against threescore. Still, my time will come.”
Fleetwood, whose sympathies were all with the King’s party, eyed him doubtfully, though, of course, as one who had thrown himself on his protection the young man’s safety was absolutely inviolable in so far as he was able to assure it. All of which Mtezani read.
“Something of a tale to tell, my father,” he repeated. “Wait till you have heard it. And rest assured that in keeping me breathing this day you and the Inkosi yonder”—designating Wyvern—“have not done the worst thing for yourselves you have ever done in your lives.”
Now a great shout arose from the armed crowd, which had been seated, taking snuff.
“Hlalani gahlé Abelungu! We return to the Branch—the Branch of the Royal Tree! Hlala gahlé, Mtezani-ka-Majendwa! Wou! Mtezani-ka-Majendwa!”
It was the same mocking roar which had greeted the mention of the names of the chiefs as they were cited during Dabulamanzi’s stimulating address to his impi. The refugee scowled savagely after the retreating warriors—those who would have taken his life—and muttered. Fleetwood and Wyvern were delighted to see their backs, and returned the farewell with great cordiality. The Natal boys breathed freely once more. But Hlabulana, the Zulu, had sat serenely taking snuff all this while as though no heated—and critical—difference of opinion were taking place within a thousand miles of him.