Chapter Thirty Two.
Defending the Passage.
Unmistakably the sounds of battle. The small Zulu force of marauders must have come into collision with the people of the valley. It had happened as Hume had said, up to a certain point; but that point left them very far short of the possibility of taking advantage of the fight. Whether the Zulus conquered or were defeated, the result could matter little to the prisoners in the ruined chamber.
They heard, without hope as without fear, the roar of the distant fighting, but what affected them keenly was the wailing of the native music, which all along continued to send forth its monotonous cry. They could not understand what was meant by this persistent sound, having in it a wild note of appeal, but they felt it had a closer bearing on their lives than the din of battle.
Presently, however, they became aware that the fight was coming nearer. They heard shrill whistling, the occasional sharp crack of a rifle, the deep shouts of individual warriors, and the loud, continuous roar of conflict.
It was evident that one party must be in retreat, but fighting stubbornly.
“The Zulus are getting the worst of it,” muttered Hume.
“If we were only free!” growled Webster, and he made a violent struggle to release his hands.
“The shouts of victory,” said Sirayo, “are from the Zulus.”
“The fight is coming this way rapidly. The retreating party will surely make a stand in these ruins, and then—”
“And then we’ll be put out of our misery.”
Louder and fiercer grew the shouts; but through it all pierced the thin music, and it, too, came nearer, shrill and despairing—now nearer, until the musician himself appeared at the door—a wild figure tricked out with bones and teeth, feathers, and whisps of hair. He stood there glaring at them a minute like a wild beast; then dashing his reed instrument to the ground with a yell of rage, he grasped a small battle-axe that hung from his waist, and flourishing it about, poured out a flood of denunciation, exactly as the old woman had done.
“Good heavens above,” growled Webster, “to be sworn at by a thing like that.”
There came a wild yell of terror from beyond the walls, a cry several times repeated, there was a rush of many feet, and the triumphant shout of victory from the pursuers.
“Yoh!” said Sirayo, while a sudden light leapt to his eyes.
The musician was also affected. His eyes rolled, his lips foamed, and with a scream he rushed forward.
“Hold!” shouted Sirayo in Zulu.
The man stood with his axe poised and glared at the chief.
“You have lost your familiar, your protecting spirit, the great snake!”
The native gnashed his teeth and howled in his fury: “Killed! They have slain it, and now our nation is doomed; but you who caused this shall not escape.”
“Fool! Would you destroy your friends? The snake itself fled, though we were bound, because our fetish is more powerful.”
The native dropped his arm, and looked half terrified at the eyes that were fixed upon him by the silent and helpless group.
There was a sound of men climbing the wall, of metal striking against the rocks, of the Zulu war-shout, ringing loud above the despairing cries of their defeated foes.
“Release us, dog, before it is too late!” cried Sirayo hoarsely, while the blood, rushing to his eyes, gave them an awful appearance, as he glared at the now cowed native.
A man appeared at the door panting, streaming with blood, a broken feather drooping from his hair. He staggered into the room, and, as he advanced, the first native grovelled at his feet, sobbing.
Sirayo thrust out his hands, calling out: “Cut these; the Zulus are our enemies.”
The new-comer brushed his hand across his brow and flicked the blood from his fingers.
“Who are you?”
“A chief, like you. Quick—cut; we can save you.”
There was a fall of stones, the Zulu cry rose within the walls. The wounded man, stooping, severed the tough rheims with the sharp blade of his stabbing assegai, then drew it across the thongs about the ankles.
Sirayo paused a moment to rub his arms, then, rising up, snatched the battle-axe from the still grovelling native and reached the door. A moment later the blade descended with a crashing blow upon the head of a Zulu who was rushing in. Stooping, he snatched the shield from the dead man, and forced his wounded arm through the band. Up the narrow passage, with eyes gleaming, with a low moaning noise, came a second Zulu. Without a pause he rushed forward, stepped, unheeding, on the quivering body, then bounded at Sirayo. The fierce onset drove the giant warrior back a few feet, but his shield received the thrust, then he struck so fiercely that the blade remained fixed in the skull, and the handle was torn from his grasp by the fall of the stricken man.
“Mawoh, oh chief, a stroke for an ox!” came from behind, and Sirayo saw the Gaika at his side.
“There is not room for two,” said the chief, as with his toes he grasped the haft of an assegai and lifted it to his hand. “See to the others.”
“They are free, but they cannot yet stand, their flesh being too soft, and not of iron, like yours.” The Gaika stooped and pulled the battle-axe from the skull.
“Give me room,” growled Sirayo, and Klaas, looking under the chief’s arm, saw three Zulus standing in the passage. He drew back a step, and rubbing his hand in the sand, took a firmer grip of the handle.
The Zulus stood awhile, with their nostrils quivering at the scent of blood, and their eyes gleaming with satisfaction to think that one of the fugitives had courage to face them. They did not know it was a warrior from the famous fighting stock of their own nation; but they feared nothing now.
“To the good death!” cried the first man, and advanced alone, pausing to roll the dead body against the wall. Then he balanced a throwing assegai, and launched it. The narrow blade struck Sirayo’s shield full, passed through the tough hide, pierced the forearm of the chief, and struck against his ribs.
“A good throw,” said the chief, and bounding forward, drove in his assegai under his opponent’s arm before he could raise his shield. The warrior reeled—then sunk to the ground.
“To the good death!” cried the second Zulu, bounding forward at once, and hurling himself on Sirayo; he grasped the haft of the assegai that still protruded from the shield, and pushed fiercely at it. The chief slipped and fell backwards, and with a hoarse shout of triumph the enemy lifted his arm to plunge his weapon into the broad and naked breast. With an answering shout the Gaika hurled his battle-axe. It struck the Zulu on the temple and flew high into the air. The man himself fell with his hands outspread upon Sirayo, and before the chief could struggle to his feet the third Zulu, whirling a heavy knob-kerrie, rushed to avenge the death of his comrades. Sirayo, by a herculean effort, raised the dead body as a shield, warding off the furious blow, then, seizing his assailant by the leg, he hurled him against the wall, when the warrior, shaken by the grim and blood-stained figure that rose to confront him, turned and fled with a cry of “Sirayo.” Each separate duel had followed with breathless rapidity, and the chief, exhausted by his morning’s fast and suffering from the second wound in his left arm, leant dizzy and faint against the wall, his lips still curling from his white teeth.
The desperate struggle could not be renewed by him if the Zulus returned, and at any moment a fresh string of them might appear. Already there were eager shouts as the escaped warrior spread the news of the presence of Sirayo. Well they knew him from the fight at the waggon; and they would esteem it an honour to vanquish him. Mingled, too, with the cries of his name were the names of his white companions and of the white lady. What would be her fate when they triumphed, as in the end they must?
“By the Lord, has a single man done this?” It was Webster who spoke. He had heard the conflict, had seen the first blow given by Sirayo, and had rubbed fiercely to bring back the blood to his numbed limbs.
“They will come,” said Sirayo, speaking slowly; “I will hold them for a time. When I fall be ready to take my place. The inkosikasi, does she live?”
“Yes,” said Webster, with his eyes brightening at the unyielding courage of the savage warrior.
“Give her an assegai,” he said, and put the point of his blood-stained blade to his throat.
Webster shuddered at the fearful significance of the gesture, then picked up an assegai, and stood waiting with the Gaika to bar the passage.
There was a cry from Laura. “Come,” she said, “quick!”
Webster turned with a roar, expecting to face the foe; but he stood amazed to see the native who had so opportunely arrived to cut their bands disappearing through a hole in the wall. Laura stood by, holding Hume by the hand, while with the disengaged hand she pointed at the hole.
“A refuge,” she whispered; “a hiding-place.”
“Hold the passage a minute, Sirayo,” he cried, then ran to her, and looked through into a dark cavern. “Is it safe?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Hume; “but I have lost half my perception with the loss of sight; there is some sort of cave here, I think. The man told me he had run here for shelter.”
There was a shout from beyond.
Laura struggled through; then Webster lifted Hume, and almost shot him in. “Klaas, come!”
The Gaika looked along the passage and hesitated. Webster ran, caught him by the neck, and jammed his head in the hole, then shoved him through by main force.
“Jim, come in!” cried Laura.
He was already advancing to the passage, but he turned. “I cannot, Laura. Sirayo must come too;” and he rushed away to join the chief, who stood astride the passage eyeing a fresh body of the enemy, whose glaring eyes and quivering nostrils met the view above the striped shields.
Two men stood shoulder to shoulder, their shields before them, and two behind held their bucklers above the heads of those in advance.
“Now!” they cried, “together!” and advancing in a solid mass, by their sheer weight pushed back their two opponents into the open room; but beyond the opening the two would not budge.
Webster drove his fist full in the face of the foremost native, who fell, stunned, against the men behind, and in the opening made Sirayo plunged his assegai. Then the two of them struck and thrust furiously, while the Zulus in front, who could not use their hands, cried to those behind to give them room, but the latter, scenting blood, pressed on the more fiercely, till at last they forced their way and, by their impetus, fell headlong into the room. Webster and the chief sprang aside a moment, and then dashed among their foes before they could rally; and the desperate rush they made, and their great strength exerted to the utmost in each swift blow, combined with the fierce war-shout and terrible vigour of the great Zulu, produced a panic. The injured men at first ran crying out, and then the survivors fled, leaving the two alone with a few writhing figures. Then they struggled, all blood-stained and panting, through the hole to the hiding-place, and the stone was replaced.