Chapter Twenty Five.
The King.
“Down, Amakosi,” whispered Kumbelwa again. “Down.”
The whole assembly had fallen flat, but our two friends drew the line at that. However, they compromised by dropping into a kind of squatting attitude, and at once the King’s gaze rested upon them.
It was a sufficiently terror-striking glance. They saw before them a magnificent specimen of a savage, very tall and broad, and of a rich red copper colour. He was clad in a mútya of leopard skin, and wore a short cloak of the same, dangling from one shoulder. His head was shaven, but it and the large thick ring were partly concealed by a towering head-dress of black ostrich plumes, a continuation of which fell on either side so as to cover his shoulders. But the face would have commanded attention anywhere, such an impression did it convey of relentless ferocity, of absolute pitilessness, and, at the same time, of indomitable courage. Yet it was the countenance of quite a young man.
For some time the King’s eyes rested on the two white men with a fierce and penetrating stare. Then, pointing at them with the broad-bladed assegai in his hand, he said:
“Who are these?”
A confused murmur arose among the crowd, a sort of deprecatory wail. Then the chiefs of the impi crawled to the King’s feet and began to make their report, a mere matter of ceremony, for of course swift runners had already been sent on ahead to tell what had happened. He listened in silence, gazing down upon them with a haughty stare.
“It is well,” he said at last. “Bring these people now before me.”
He strode forth, proceeding along the edge of the prostrate crowd. Three or four old indunas were with him, keeping just a pace in the rear. When he had passed, the whole impi sprang to its feet—and broke into shouts of praise:
“Fire-maker!”
“Mighty tree that crackleth into sparks!”
“Burner up of the sun at noon!”
“Thou, whose glance scorches up men!”
“Heat of two suns!”
“Scorcher up of the world!”
These and other extravagant attributes were thundered forth from the excited and adoring multitude, and Haviland, who understood a little about that sort of thing, was quick to observe that these attributes mostly referred to fire. A few others were uttered, such as “Swallower up of Rumaliza!” “Thou who makest dust of Mushâd!” and so forth, but the sibonga was always brought back again to the attribute of fire. It interested him, and he made up his mind to ask Kumbelwa about it by and by.
But now the King had reached his chair of state and was seated thereon. It was a genuine throne, of very old and quaint workmanship, beautifully carved, with couchant lions on the arms, and guarding the steps, and had probably been obtained from some slaver who traded in the north. This chair was placed on a kind of raised verandah with a wide grass roof, and was well sheltered from the sun. The indunas squatted on the floor of the verandah on either side of the throne.
“Come forward, ye white men,” said the King, and they noticed that his voice was extraordinarily full and deep.
Our two friends advanced to the throne, and as they did so it was not reassuring to notice ten or a dozen men standing rather conspicuously at hand, armed with wicked-looking scimitars, also thongs and raw-hide whips—all most uncomfortably suggestive of their grim vocation.
“You who speak with our tongue,” said the King, pointing at Haviland, “how know you it?”
“In the land of Cetywayo, Great Great One.”
“Now thou liest, for Cetywayo is there no more. Your people have upset his throne long since.”
Haviland wondered how on earth that news should have travelled to this remote, hardly heard-of tribe, but he answered:
“That is true, Ndabezita (A term of honour addressed to royalty). But his people still exist.”
“Ha! How came ye here, ye two?”
Then, beginning, Haviland narrated all that had befallen them up to their battle with and capture by Mushâd. The King and all within earshot listened attentively.
“Somala? Where is he?” said the King.
The Arab was pushed forward and stood before the throne. A fell and menacing scowl overclouded the royal countenance.
“Another of these dogs of Rumaliza’s,” said the King. “Take him, ye Black Ones.”
The executioners sprang forward to seize the Arab. But, before they could reach him, Haviland had stepped between.
“Spare him, Burner of the Sun,” he said. “He is not of Rumaliza’s tribe. He is no enemy to the people of Inswani.”
A great groan went up from the assembly. Men held their breath. Had such a thing ever before been known, that a man should stand before another that the King had doomed to die? As for the despot himself, he had risen from his seat. His towering form seemed to dilate, and the scowl on his enraged countenance was terrible to behold.
“Thou hast thy head in the lion’s mouth,” he said, “and dost still dare to tickle the lion’s jaws. Are all white men mad?”
“He is my tried and faithful servant, Ndabezita,” pleaded Haviland. “He is not the enemy of this people—indeed, very much the reverse, for who delivered him—delivered all of us—out of the hand of Mushâd?”
“Ha! Mushâd!” exclaimed the King, whom an idea seemed to strike—perhaps also a little impressed by the absolute fearlessness evinced by Haviland, and which decided him to spare Somala for the present. “Bring forward Mushâd and his other dogs.”
A ferocious murmur of delight hummed through the whole assembly. The hated slavers were about to suffer. Many willing hands dragged them forward into the presence of the King.
His iron frame wasted with exhaustion and ill-treatment, Mushâd’s spirit was still unbent.
He met the fierce scowl of the despot with a scowl every whit as savage and defiant.
“Ho! Mushâd!” cried the King, mockingly. “But a short while since thou didst swear to seize me and make a slave of me. How now? I think thou didst swear thine oath upside down.”
“God is God, and Mohammed is the Prophet of God. He shall turn the foul unbeliever into worse than a dog. It matters not who is his instrument in doing so,” answered the Arab, defiantly.
“Whau!” cried the King. “If Mohammed comes near the land of Inswani he shall taste what you are about to taste. But you—you have made slaves of certain of my people. Slaves of the people of Inswani! Hear you it, my children?”
Even our two friends, tried, intrepid adventurers as they were, could not help a sense of heart-failing as they heard the terrific roar of hate and vengeance which was hurled from every throat as these words of the King fell upon their ears: “Warriors of Inswani, slaves beneath the lash of this Arab dog!” Well, he was at their mercy at last.
“Let him taste the lash!” they roared.
The King nodded to the executioners. Mushâd was seized and the clothing rent from his back, revealing the weals of former scourgings. But no cry for mercy escaped him as the cruel whips of raw-hide fell upon his emaciated form, striping it until the blood spurted. The two white men felt perfectly sick, but to display signs of any such weakness would be as impolitic as any display of weakness in the presence of these fierce and truculent savages. Even the effort made to remind themselves of Mushâd’s own barbarities was not sufficient to reconcile them to the horrid sight. But with every cruel whistling blow, the Inswani roared with delight.
“Hold!” cried the King at last. “He has had enough. Take him away and give him plenty of food. He must be made quite strong for what he has to undergo. We have only begun upon thee as yet, Mushâd. And now, bring forward yon other dogs, and let them taste of what they have dared to inflict upon my children—the warriors of the Inswani. For them, too, it is only a foretaste of what is to come.”
The other slave-hunters, to the number of nearly three score, were then dragged forth. There were not enough of the regular lictors, but willing hands were only too ready to take their place, so intense and rancorous was the hatred borne towards them, and soon the whole ground in front of the King was converted into a hideous and writhing torture-chamber. Yet it was not that the Inswani held these people’s trade in especial abhorrence; far from it, for they took a hand at it themselves upon occasion. But what they could not pardon was the fact of the Arab raiders seizing and enslaving their own men, and towards Mushâd and his followers their vengeful hatred was now kindled to white heat, and they gloated over the anguish of these whose power had hitherto been able to rival their own.
“Hold!” cried the King at last. “They, too, have had enough. Take yonder ten,” designating those who looked the lowest in standing of the party, “and impale them on the stockade. The rest will follow in due time.”
A roar of delight greeted these words. The miserable wretches were seized and dragged off, and presently were writhing each on a hard stake, pointing outward from the stockade, crowds of the savages dancing round and taunting them. Indeed, it seemed as though the whole nation had gone mad in its lust for blood. The expression of even the King’s countenance had grown indescribably cruel and ferocious, and beholding it, our two friends felt that their peril was hardly less than it had been when they were in the hands of Mushâd.
“Go ye,” he said, pointing at them. “Go, lest my mind changes. Let them be given a house for the present. Hold! Who is this?”
He had for the first time remembered the presence of Kumbelwa, who sufficiently resembled the Inswani to escape notice.
“Inkose! Nkulu’nkulu, Inyoka ’mninimandhla!” began the Zulu, crouching low, and breaking forth into the sibonga of his race. “The servant of the Royal House of Inswani is a Zulu of the tribe of Umtetwa.”
“Of Umtetwa!” echoed the King. “That which the House of Senzangakona swallowed. Thou shouldst be a great fighter,” running his eyes appreciatively over Kumbelwa’s fine stature.
“I wielded a spear in the ranks of the Umbonambi, father, when we fought the English, although now we are friends.”
“Good,” said the King. “Thou hast the look of a warrior indeed, and thou shalt wield thy spear in the ranks of my army now. See now, Kumbelwa. Take charge of these two white men, whose servant thou wouldst seem to be. I will talk with thee later. Go.”
Thus dismissed, Haviland and Oakley breathed more freely. It was a respite at any rate. Yet with the scenes of horror and vengeance weighing heavy upon them, their minds were full of foreboding as to what was to come, as they took up their quarters in the large square hut assigned to them. And even yet, the stakes with their writhing victims seemed to haunt them, and in the mind of each was the unspoken thought that they themselves might be the next.