Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Snake-Doctor.
Baffled in their search for Bully Rawson the disappointed savages surged round their two captives like a swarm of devouring ants; and, in fact, it was to the awful, torturing death by this instrumentality that they clamoured the two should be given.
The impi was made up almost entirely of young bloods. There were few head-ringed men among them, and even Laliswayo, though a chief was young for that dignity. His sympathies, too, lay far more with them than with the older and wiser indunas of the nation. In common with young bloods of whatever nationality demoralised by a generality of public disturbance, and collected together under arms by reason of the same, there was a strong element of irresponsible rowdiness among them which is apt to find its outlet in cruelty; and these were savages. Many hands fastened upon the bound and helpless white men, and they were dragged roughly towards one point where the bush line began.
“Ha! The black ants are hungry. The good black ants,” was jeered at them. “Now they shall be fed, fed with white meat Ah-ah—with fresh white meat.”
“But this is how you treat your abatagati,” (Persons condemned for witchcraft) Fleetwood managed to get out. “We are not such. Therefore if we are to die let it be the death of the spear.”
But a howl, wrathful and derisive was the only response. They were not going to be done out of their fun. It would be a novel sight to see how the black ants would appreciate white meat. An appeal to Laliswayo on the part of the victims proved equally fruitless, for the simple reason that the chief had purposely withdrawn into the background of his followers. He did not want to hear any such appeal.
The full horror of the fate in store for them was equally patent to both victims. They would be stripped and bound down upon an ants’ nest, to be literally devoured alive by countless thousands of the swarming insects. It was a mode of torture frequently resorted to by all the native tribes of Southern Africa in former times, but usually only as the penalty of supposed witchcraft, and even then rarely among the Zulus. It spelt hours of indescribable torment and raving madness, before death brought a merciful relief.
“But ye are abatagati,” roared the crowd. “It is through your witchcraft that Inxele has escaped. He was to have fed the ants. He has gone, therefore you must take his place.”
“We are not abatagati. We are men,” urged Fleetwood. “Let us then die fighting. Bring any two of your best fighters against each of us—or three if you will. Then you shall see a far more warrior-like sight.”
Derisive jeers were the only reply to this appeal, and now their tormentors flung them down on the ground. They had found an ants’ nest, and the black, vicious insects, stirred up with a stick, were swarming to and fro, their venomous nippers open and extended. An animated discussion was going on among the savages as to which should be the first victim, and whether he should be hung by the heels to a tree with his face just touching the nest, or fastened down straight across it.
“Are they doing this just to scare us?” said Wyvern, through whose mind the bitterest of thoughts were surging. It was hard to die now just as that which they had sought was within their reach. But what a death! Would Lalanté ever come to hear of it, he wondered and would she, in time, when his memory became dim, console herself? And the bitterness of the idea well-nigh served to blunt the anticipation of the ghastly torture that awaited. But as though to remind him of it some sportive savage, not minding a few bites, grabbed a handful of the stuff of which the nest was made, and incidentally many ants, and dashed the lot into Wyvern’s face. A howl of glee went up as, stung by the venomous bites of the insects, the victim instinctively started, and his powerful convulsive efforts to burst his bonds produced a perfectly exquisite degree of amusement. In fact it suggested a new form of preliminary fun. Handfuls of the ants, and dust, were gathered, and placed within the clothing of the sufferers.
Their position was undignified, ignominious. To both of them this consideration occurred.
“Keep it up, Joe,” said Wyvern, with an effort refraining from wincing under the abominable pain of the stings. “Here we are trussed up like a pair of damned fowls, but we needn’t howl out just yet. Suppose that’ll come later.”
Their fortitude seemed to impress the savages. They stared in wonder, reduced to a temporary silence. Then as the clamour broke out afresh, that it was time to begin on the real horror, an interruption occurred.
At first it took the form of a weird, long-drawn sort of chant, drawing nearer and nearer. The Zulus, whose attention had been concentrated on the two captives now turned it in this direction.
“Whau!” they cried. “It is the Snake-Doctor!”
In silence now they stood, as the sound approached, then divided, giving way to a tall and terrible figure which strode down the lane thus opened. For the limbs and body of this weird being were alive with hissing snakes, whose horrible heads and waving necks started forth from him in every attitude and at every angle, while scarcely anything could be seen of him for the moving, glistening coils but his face. And that face! The fell ferocity of it no description could adequately convey, and to complete its horror it was deeply pitted with small pox.
In awed silence the warriors stood while this dreadful being moved between their ranks. Of them however it took no notice but advanced straight to the two helpless white men. And Wyvern, for all the strain of the peril he was in, was lost in wonder at the sight, for this was the third time he had gazed on this apparition. The first was on the occasion of the slaughter of the sheep, the second in the moonlit wildness of the Third Kloof, and now—here. What did it mean? Could it be that these people had real powers of witchcraft, or, as some believed, held real communication with the demon world? It really began to look as if such might be the case. How had this one escaped what seemed certain death, and not only that but had obtained power over the venomous reptiles, one of which ought by all physical laws to have been his destroyer on that first occasion? Could he have discovered some wonderful remedy known only to the natives, which had not only cured him but had rendered him thenceforward immune from their venom? It might be so; and being so the man might have turned the circumstance to account by setting up as a magician, and so have wandered up here.
“These are mine!” he mouthed, pointing to the luckless pair. “I claim them. Now shall my serpents rejoice.”
A murmur of respectful assent went up at this, of eager assent. This would be a new and original mode of amusement, in fact an improvement on the ants’ nest plan.
“This one first,” said the Snake-Doctor, designating Wyvern, who in obedience to another signal was seized and dragged a little further off to a spot where the ground was quite smooth and open. Those who had thus dragged him withdrew, not without some alacrity, to a respectful distance, to watch the fun.
The Snake-Doctor advanced and drawing forth a long reptile, of the yellow-snake variety, held it by its middle, and, standing over his victim allowed it to make a vicious dart, which just stopped short of the latter’s face. This was repeated again and again, the while from the crowd which ringed them around, now in respectful silence, a deep-chested gasp arose with every strike.
The said victim lay, looking upward at his tormentor. He had first intended awaiting the death stroke with closed eyes, but a sort of unaccountable fascination held them open. The black, cruel face, hideously pock-marked, the wool standing out in fantastic plaits from the head, like so many horns, made a satanic picture which the writhings of the satanic reptiles completed. A cold perspiration stood forth upon his face, as he expected every stroke of the deadly reptile to be the last. Then the Snake-Doctor desisted, gathering back the thing again.
Now the next act in this drama of torture by anticipation was to begin. All the loathsome glistening coils which enveloped the person of the Snake-Doctor like clothing, were in motion as he cast forth some half dozen of the reptiles. These crawled around the helpless victim, heads erect and hissing horribly. It was clear that some marvellous magic controlled them as they moved to and fro, obedient to a scarcely perceptible hissing chirrup on his part. Then, in obedience to the same mysterious signal, they approached him, even gliding over his body, but making no attempt to strike him. The hush of the silence was tense. The awed spectators, some of whom had seen instances of the Snake-Doctor’s marvellous skill before, watched, still as death, wondering how soon the white man’s nerve would break down, and he would become a raving madman, such as his tormentor-in-chief they knew to be at intervals.
There is a period beyond which a state of tense apprehension cannot be kept up. Until this was reached Wyvern underwent the tensest of its torments. Instinctively he turned from side to side with every movement of the horrible reptiles, then, when he found himself staring into the countenance of a great black mamba within a yard of his own the point of indifference was reached. He felt capable of no further agony. The sooner the fatal stroke was dealt the better.
Then the Snake-Doctor began to call in his horrible myrmidons. One by one they came, and, in silent glide, each once more hung its glistening coils about the body and limbs of its repulsive master. Again an awestruck gasp went up from the entranced crowd. What would be the next trial in store for the victim? Something fearful beyond words, for, had not the Snake-Doctor claimed him?
But like the movements of the crawling serpents, a very writhe of panic ran through the riveted spectators. The weird death-hiss broke upon the silence and down they went in scores before the assegais of the advancing enemy; who, in the all entrancing abandonment of the novel spectacle had noiselessly rushed them on all sides, and now was right in among them, stabbing in every direction. They had been surprised by an impi of the rival faction, as strong, if not stronger than their own, now considerably stronger, if only that many, in their fancied security, and the absorbing interest of their cruel entertainment had thrown down their weapons and shields, and so were massacred in an absolutely defenceless state. The din and horror was indescribable as the surprise became manifest. In among them were the destroyers, stabbing, hacking; and the death-hiss vibrated upon the air, then the war-shout “Usútu,” and the flap of shields in counter strife, as the assailed managed to effect some sort of rally. The chief, Laliswayo, was among the earliest slain, and the demoralised Usutus, now without a recognised head, were still making a desperate effort to regain the day.
Wyvern, lying there, expecting immediate death, though now in a different form, suddenly became aware that his bonds had been cut. Stiff and bewildered he strove to rise, and found himself staring stupidly into the face of Mtezani, who was bending over him.
“Take this, Kulisani,” said the latter, in the excitement of the moment levelling down into the use of his native sobriquet, and thrusting a heavy, short-handled knob-kerrie into his hand. “Get away, quick, now—into the bush—while there is time. I can do no more for you.”
They were almost alone. The roll of battle had carried the contending ranks, like a wave, beyond them. Amid the general confusion none had any thought to spare for any consideration beyond that of repelling the attack.
“But—what of U’ Joe?” answered Wyvern. “Where is he? I cannot desert him.”
“U’ Joe? He is gone,” rejoined the young Zulu, impatiently. “Are you tired of life, Kulisani? If not, go too—while there is time.”
Wyvern hesitated no longer. Gripping his rude weapon he jumped up and made for the nearest cover, just as, his escape being discovered, several of his late tormentors sprang with shouts in his pursuit.