Chapter Twenty Three.
A Hard Ordeal.
“Waken, Untúswa!”
The whisper was soft, so, too, was the touch, yet I sprang to my feet, grasping my spear. But at the same moment my grasp on it relaxed, for before me stood Lalusini.
Wearied with the hard fierce fighting of the day, I had crept into a secure hiding-place beneath a rock overhung with all manner of undergrowth, and had slept soundly. Yet my dreams had been full of warring and battle, and now my great assegai was clotted and foul with blood, and more than one deep gash on body or limb felt stiff and smarting.
But all thought of myself seemed at an end as I looked at Lalusini. There was a hard fierce look upon her face such as I had never seen there before, and in it I saw a strong likeness to Dingane.
“The time has come, Untúswa,” she said shortly. “Take thy spear, look well to its point, and follow me.”
“That I will gladly do, Lalusini,” I answered. “But, as we travel, tell me, what work is before me now?”
“One stroke of thy broad spear—the King’s Assegai—ha, ha! it is well named—it will be a royal weapon indeed! One stroke of thy broad spear and we shall be great together, great even as I have often predicted to thee. Come! Let us hasten.”
There was an eager fierceness in her tone and manner that kept me marvelling; however, I would see what her plan was.
She led the way—not speaking. We passed beneath spreading forest trees, where the thick undergrowth impeded our advance, and the silence of the shade was only broken by the call of birds. It seemed as though men’s feet had never trodden here; yet I knew the spot, for this was one of the very refuges I had at first thought of running for myself.
“There,” said Lalusini, in a quick, fierce whisper, pointing with her hand. “Strike hard and true. So shall we be great together.”
I went forward. In front was a low cliff, hanging over as though it had intended to form a cave, but was not quite sure of its own mind. Under the shelter thus formed, just screened from view in front by a dense growth of scrub lay the form of a man.
Cautiously I peered through the bushes, then put them aside. The form, which was turned away from me, did not stir. Noiselessly I stepped beside it, and then as I bent down to gaze into the face, I could hardly forbear a start. It was the face of Dingane—the face of the King.
Yes; it was the Great Great One himself. He was sound asleep, his head pillowed on one hand, interposed between it and the rock. But how came he here, he who moved armed men in their countless might—he before whom the nations trembled and hid their heads—how came he here, in hiding and alone?
But was he alone? It seemed so, for I could descry no sign—no sound of the presence of men. And while I thus gazed, again that soft whisper breathed into my ear, “Strike, and strike hard! So shall we be great together!”
Strike! Nothing could have been easier. The large form lay there without movement, the heave of the breast, above the heart, turned towards me as though inviting the stroke. Yet, as I gazed, the noble majesty on the countenance of the sleeping King seemed to paralyse my arm. One blow, and Lalusini, by her sorcery, aided by my own warrior prowess, might set me upon Dingane’s seat. Yet, I could not do it.
Then I thought the sleeper stirred.
“He wakes,” I whispered, withdrawing again behind the bushes. Lalusini followed me.
“And art thou so weak, Untúswa?” she said. “Au! For this have I laboured, for this have I plotted and exercised my magic until it was nearly too much forme. Yet not all for greatness, but for revenge. The blood of Tshaka the Mighty flowed over the spear of Dingane; now shall the blood of Dingane flow over thy spear!”
Still I moved not, and she went on:
“The blood of that Mighty One from whom I am sprang, and who caused me to learn my magic that through it vengeance might fall, shall it not be avenged? The time has come for which I have waited and striven. Now go, and make an end of it, Untúswa, so shall we be great together; else canst thou be great alone—or small—with no help from me.”
Now I nerved myself. That which she seemed to threaten looked too terrible, for in truth, by her I was as one bewitched.
“Go, Untúswa. My múti is upon him. He will not waken too readily,” she whispered, in her sweetest of tones, gently pushing me towards the cave once more.
Again I parted the bushes and peered through; again I stood over the sleeping King. A great white shield lay almost beneath him, and two broad assegais had slid from his relaxed grasp. I raised my spear—No, I could not do it.
Had he been awake, and standing up, the deed would be an easy one at that moment; but alone, deserted, and asleep—no, I could not thus slay him.
And then I thought of the favour he had shown me, even to allowing me the chance of escaping to the Bapongqolo, what time Tambusa and Umhlela had striven to compass my death. I thought how he had spared me, spared the Bapongqolo, and had raised me to honour when all men trembled at his frown; and now that he lay here, a deserted fugitive, I could not turn against him. His life lay within my hand, yet I could not take it. No, not to win greatness for myself; not even to retain Lalusini’s love.
“Farewell, Untúswa!” came that soft whisper behind me. “Farewell; we may meet no more.”
She stepped swiftly through the belt of bushes. For a moment I stood stupidly gazing after her, then I followed. But she had disappeared. I called her, I searched for her. All in vain.
Then I went back to the sleeping King. Him I would save at all events. I had helped in saving him during the battle yesterday, by holding back the impi of Nongalaza; to-day I would save him entirely by myself. Even now Lalusini might have gone to find those who would carry out her bidding readily enough.
“Awaken, Great Great One!” I said, not too loud, lest others ears might be about. “Thy servant knows of a better sleeping-place than this.”
At first Dingane seemed to arouse himself but slowly. Then he sprang up, gripping his shield and spears.
“Who art thou?” he cried, darting upon me his lion-like glance. “Ha! Untúswa, is it? Another traitor perhaps. How sayest thou, Untúswa? All, all are traitors.”
“No traitor am I, Black Elephant,” I answered. “It is safer, however, for the lion of Zulu to make his lair elsewhere.”
In the glance which Dingane bent upon me was distrust, suspicion, contempt by turns, but no sign of fear.
“What, Untúswa, and art thou faithful to me—thou, the wanderer—thou who art not of us, while they whom my hand has fed have deserted me—have turned their spears against me? Whau! It cannot be.”
“Who am I to fill the ears of the Great Great One with words,” I answered. “Yet, my father—wanderer or no wanderer—I know of no man whom the Lion of Zulu may more safely trust.”
“What, then, are thy counsels, Untúswa?” said the King.
“This, Lion. Hard by is a place known to none, where thou canst sit still in safety until the army is collected again. It was badly routed in the more open plain, yet here in these fastnesses none will dare venture—not even the Amabuna—until the trumpeting of the Elephant shall scatter the traitors and rebels once more. Such is my counsel, Ruler of the Great.”
“I will even trust thee, Untúswa,” said the King. “And now let us go forth.”
I picked up my shield and weapons, which, of course, I had let fall, being in the royal presence, and we took our way thence, I walking in advance and spying carefully around to guard against possible surprise.
For long we thus travelled, and when night came we sat and feasted upon the meat of a young impala which I had killed by a lucky spear-cast; but we slept away from any fire, and in a place of secure concealment. On the morrow we kept on our way once more, and by noon came to the resting-place I had designed for the King. This was a group of caves, somewhat high up among the rocks of the Lebombo range. Beneath, the slope fell away, bushy, but not too thickly so as to prevent us from descrying the approach of friend or foe, while on either side so strewn with rocks and boulders was the base of the cliff that retreat would be easy in the event of pursuit.
“Whau, Untúswa!” said the King, with a laugh in his eyes. “When Tambusa would have broken a nest of wasps around thy kraal, thou wert turning thy wanderings to good account!”
“That is so, Great Great One,” I answered, recalling to mind the words of Sifadu—“The day might come when Dingane himself would be glad to join us.” And strange it was that my enforced flight from the hate of the principal indunas should be the means of providing the King with a place of refuge and concealment in the day of his downfall.
So we rested there for many days, Dingane and I. Yes, this dreaded one, before whom all men and all nations had trembled, now treated me as a friend, so entirely does adversity draw the greater and the lesser together. Yet never for a moment did I forget who it was that I thus foregathered with; never was there aught that was unbecoming in word or tone or action of mine towards the King—the real and true ruler of the great Zulu nation.
Often would the thought of Lalusini return to me, of her purposed revenge, which she intended to seize through me. This, then, was that for which she had plotted—this the means by which I was to become great. Had I in refusing it acted the part of a fool? No, that could not be, for, Nkose, although I spared not such as would injure me or could not keep faith, yet never did I lift hand against any who did well by me. Wherefore now I rejoiced that I had not slain the King—had not slain a sleeping and helpless man at the bidding of a woman, even though that woman were Lalusini.
Sometimes a gloom would settle upon the mind of Dingane. His sun had set, he would declare. The power of Zulu was a thing of the past, now that the nation was divided. But at such times I would say what I could to cheer him, telling him portions of my own story, which, in truth, had been wonderful. The army was scattered. Time was needed to collect it, and that time, I thought, had now arrived. I saw that everything was at hand that the Great One might need, and then I prepared to depart.
“I know not, Untúswa,” he said, as I took leave of him. “But for thy faithfulness these many days I might bethink me that soon thou shouldst return at the head of an impi to earn the reward promised by Mpande and the Amabuna to him who should deliver to them the real King—”
But I interrupted; somewhat unbecomingly, I admit:
“If that is thy thought, father, slay me as I stand,” and dropping my weapons I advanced a pace or two.
“Nay, nay, Untúswa,” he said, “that is what I might have thought, not what I thought,” replied the King gently. “Fare-thee-well, Untúswa, and may success be thine. Fare-thee-well, Untúswa, my servant—Untúswa, my friend.”
“Bayéte!” I cried, with right hand aloft. Then I started upon my errand, and more than ever did I rejoice that my spear had remained bright in the face of the entreaties of Lalusini.