Chapter Eighteen.
The Refugees of the Ngome.
At first I liked it not, for strange tagati beings are about in the darkness—half-man, half-beast—who rend those that wander alone at night. But even of such I felt no fear then, wherefore I went straight to the spot whence the sound came; and, ready to use my spear if need be, called out to know who it was that spoke.
The answer came almost beneath my feet, and in the darkness I could make out a form lying there. I bent down and touched it. It was the form of a woman.
“Remain by me till dawn,” gasped a voice hoarse with pain and fear. “Those horrible beasts. They will rend me again. Oh, kill me, for I suffer agonies!”
“Who art thou?” I said, not liking this encounter.
“Nomshasa, the wife of Untúswa,” came the feeble answer.
Whau, Nkose! Then, indeed, did I well-nigh leap for amazement. For the name was that of one of my Swazi wives—that one who had mysteriously disappeared, and whom I had never expected to behold again. Bending over her, I strove, to raise her head; but as I moved her, though ever so gently, she shrieked.
“Ah—touch me not! I am torn in pieces. Those horrible beasts! Put me out of my pain. One blow at the back of the head will do it.”
Now the first streak of dawn had begun to lighten the earth, and by it I could see that what she said was so indeed. The hyenas which I had disturbed had indeed begun to devour her, and her body was hideously torn. But how had she come into that helpless plight? Then, by the fast increasing light, she knew me, and called me by name.
And I, Nkose, gazing at her, I was filled with horror. The whole of her scalp was one mass of blood, and it seemed as though her skull had been battered in. Her elbow joints were smashed and swollen; so too, were her wrists, and there were marks of frightful burns upon her body. The marvel was she was alive at all. I was full of pity for her, for she had been a handsome and pleasing girl, and during the short time since the King had given her to me to wife she had always done well by me.
Now, making a great effort, she told me her tale. During my absence against, the Amabuna she had been seized by order of Umhlela, and questioned as to my doings, but could tell nothing that would go against me in an accusation of witchcraft. She was kept a close prisoner in a hut until the return of Tambusa, when she had been put to the torture to force her to confess. They had burned her with fire, had broken her joints with heavy knob-sticks, and that not on one day, but on many; but she would say nothing, till at last, losing patience, Tambusa had ordered her to be thrown outside and knobkerried. But the slayers had done their work in bungling fashion, and so she had waited until night and dragged herself away in the darkness to die alone. Then, when faint and too weak to move, the hyenas had fallen upon her.
No, the King could not have known, for it was in order to condemn me before him that they had tortured her, she said. But when I asked why they should have selected her rather than the other two, then, Nkose, came in the old, old tale, the mischief that can be wrought by a woman’s tongue. That vision which Nomshasa had beheld while asleep at my side she could not keep to herself. She had chattered about it, and this coming to the ears of the two principal indunas who, in their jealous hatred, were watching my every movement, had put it into their minds to use her as a means of substantiating a charge of witchcraft against me, such a charge as Dingane himself would hardly venture to shield me from the penalty of. But the poor girl had been heavily punished indeed for giving way to the weakness of women—the wagging of too long a tongue; though in her constancy under the torments they heaped upon her she had shown no weakness at all, but rather the strength and bravery of the most valiant of warriors; and this I told her.
She was greatly pleased, and a drawn smile came over her face in the midst of her pain.
“I loved thee, Untúswa,” she said, “and I rejoiced when the King gave me, a captive girl who might have been made a slave, to wife to such a noted warrior as thou. And I think thou didst prefer me a little to the other two, but thou wert ever kind to me, and the torturers might have torn me into small pieces before I would have let fall one word to harm thee. And now I think I were better dead, for there might in time be others whom thou might prefer to me; yet for a little while I have been first.”
All this was said, not as I have told it to you, Nkose, but slowly and in gasps, and I, well, thinking of Lalusini, it seemed that her words were those of wisdom, for I had known experience of the jealousy of women. Yet I said:
“Thou wouldst ever have lived in great honour, Nomshasa, and have been counted great among my wives.”
“But not greatest—” she said, attempting to smile. “Yet hearken, Untúswa, and be warned. Return not to Nkunkundhlovu, for death awaits thee there. There is another great bull of the House of Senzangakona who would fain roar in this kraal. Mpande would welcome such a fighter as thee.”
The dawn had now spread, and soon the sun would come forth from behind the rim of the world. And now, in the full daylight, the terrible injuries that poor Nomshasa had received, both from the torturers and the teeth and claws of the beasts, looked so awful that every living moment must be to her a moment of intense agony. She could not live. She must have seen into my thoughts, for she said:
“It is time to give me rest, Untúswa. Yet return not to Dingane. They who were appointed to slay me jeered me beneath their blows, saying that before another sun or two set thy shade should join mine. Wherefore, flee. And now—Strike!”
I looked at her, and my heart was heavy with pity and wrath. Then I said:
“I will strike indeed, Nomshasa, for thy pain is too great. Yet let this lighten it. When the day of my power comes, be assured that the pangs of Tambusa and all who bore part in this matter shall be greater than thine. Now—art thou ready?”
“I am. No death could I have preferred to death at thy hand, Untúswa. Yet, hold my hand in thine unarmed one as the blow falls.”
I turned her gently over upon her side, but she groaned with the agony of it. Then with my left hand I held hers. For a moment I looked at her. Her eyes were closed, and something like a smile was upon her face. I raised my right arm aloft, then with one quick crashing blow brought the heavy knob-stick down. It fell, fair—just where the base of the skull joins the back of the neck. Her agony was over. No shudder even ran through her, so completely, so suddenly had death overtaken her.
Notwithstanding the warning of Nomshasa, I still took my way in the direction of Nkunkundhlovu, for I thought I might perhaps gather from those I should meet whether the danger threatening was very near or not; whereas by taking a contrary direction it might overtake me suddenly and unawares, as peril springs out upon one who is blind. Yet I proceeded with great caution, so that presently, seeing several men approach, armed with spears and shields, I dropped out of sight to let them pass.
But soon after them came another—a tall man and ringed. Him I surveyed a moment, and recognised Silwane. But, to my surprise, when I would have accosted him he turned away, as though not aware of my presence. This looked strange, but while I was pondering as to what it could mean, I heard Silwane begin to sing softly to himself. I listened as the words grew louder and louder, yet not so as they could have been heard from afar. And the words were strange, for he sang of a buffalo-bull for whom hunters lay in wait, whom their circle had well-nigh closed around; that the Ngome mountains were wild and broken, full of great forests and impenetrable hiding-places; and that there, and there only, had the hunted buffalo fled, that there, and there only, might he be safe. So he kept on singing. To any who heard, he might have been muttering an ordinary hunting-song, but to me, listening, ah! I saw his meaning. He had not really failed to observe me, but the last thing he desired was to do so in fact; and now he raised that song in urgent warning. Ah! he was a man, indeed, Nkose, was that same Silwane; a valiant fighter when we met in battle in opposite ranks; a true and faithful brother of the spear now that we had fought side by side.
So I saw through his warning and the advice it conveyed, yet before acting upon it I would take counsel with Lalusini. To this end I turned back, and travelling with great caution, at length I gained the strange earth cave where she dwelt.
She was surprised when she saw me, and somewhat disturbed. I told her all that had occurred—the death of poor Nomshasa and her warning; the meeting and warning of Silwane. But when I came to Nomshasa’s idea that I should join in the plots of Mpande she shook her head.
“That will not do, Untúswa. That will not further my plans at all. Au! It seems that our places are reversed,” she went on, with a laugh; “but it will not be always so. I know this people better than thou dost, and am in a better position to watch and wait, and, if need be, act. Now the only way by which Mpande can sit in the seat of Dingane is with the aid of the Amabuna, and we have no need of these white invaders. Here is my counsel, Untúswa. Flee hence to the Ngome forests beyond the Black Umfolosi, and lie hidden awhile. There dwell a number of men who have sought refuge, and who will welcome thee among them.”
“A wanderer again! Well, if it must be. But how is it that these people, if refugees, are allowed to dwell in the heart of the land unsought for?”
“Because the King does not really desire their death. They are made up of men who have been smelt out by the izanusi, and have managed to escape; others whom the King has doomed, not really meaning that they should be slain, or the izinduna have plotted to destroy, and who having been warned in time, fled; also the relatives of these men, dreading lest the doom should fall upon them also. Now these men are so numerous as almost to constitute a tribe in themselves; they are wild and fierce, but will welcome such another fighter. That is the only plan, Untúswa; thou must flee to the Bapongqolo. Did not even the warning of Silwane convey that? Was it not about a hunted buffalo who found safety in the Ngome forests?”
“That is so, Lalusini,” I answered. “Yet it seems that I have found thee after all this time of sorrow, only that we must lose sight of each other immediately.” And I looked at her sadly.
“Patience, Untúswa,” she said. “I am planning to make thee great, that thou and I together may rule the world. Say, are we not of the sort who are born to that end?” And, coming over to me, she placed both hands upon my shoulders, looking up into my face; nor had she to look up very much, for, tall as I was, she, for a woman, was of splendid stature.
“I think, indeed, we are well fitted to rule it,” I answered, with pride.
“Then go now, a wanderer once more, Untúswa, but only for a short while. Besides, it may be that I will find thee but, even among the fierce Bapongqolo, from time to time,” she added.
“Why, then, go I forth with joy,” I answered. “Farewell, Lalusini. Delay not to find me out.”
She gave me a few things which I might need, food, and a casting-spear or two, and a large new war-shield—I having come forth with but a small dancing shield—and thus once more fared I forth a wanderer, a fugitive from the parent nation, even as from its offshoot. Verily it seemed as though I were to find no rest.
Now the undertaking before me was, to a man of my experience and familiarity with peril, no very great one, for by using ordinary caution I could always travel unobserved. I avoided the kraals of men, moving mostly at night. Twice I saw in the distance bodies of armed warriors who might or might not have been in search of me; but these I easily eluded, though delayed thereby; and the third evening after parting with Lalusini I was well in among the wildest solitudes of the Ngome forest.
And they were solitudes, Nkose. The great slopes and spurs of the mountains were covered with dense forest surging up in seas of foliage against the immense rock walls of the Lebombo mountains. Below, chasms and deep ravines through which the mountain streams whimpered, half hidden beneath the decaying vegetation and rotting tree-trunks of ages. And of animal life, of bird life, of insect life—whau! the air was never still. By day the black chasms boomed with the hoarse bark of the dog-snouted baboons, and at night thundered from cliff to cliff the roar of the lion. Birds chattered and piped, and the buzz of insects hung ever upon the air, but of man and his habitations never a sign.
“Now,” thought I, “where are these people of whom Lalusini spoke? for these solitudes are not altogether to my mind. I like better not to dwell alone,” But still I wandered through unpeopled forests, seeing no sign of man, I grew uneasy. There was abundance of game, easily slain, too. Still I desired converse.
This, however, came my way at last, and in right startling manner did it come. I had turned the corner of a great rock, where the track I had been following opened into a grassy glade. Suddenly there sprang up right at my feet several men fully armed, who, with a loud shout, called on me to halt.