Chapter Eighteen.
The End of a Savage Despot.
As the ship passed over the village and held on her way toward the place of punishment, it became evident to the watchers on her deck that her rapid approach was being viewed with great anxiety and perturbation by the guards who had been ordered by M’Bongwele to surround the prisoner and see that none of his friends interfered to shorten the period of his sufferings with a kindly spear-stroke. They could be seen pointing at the ship, and excitedly conferring together; and when at length it became quite clear that the Flying Fish was making for the precise earth upon which they stood, their superstitious fears so completely overmastered every other feeling and consideration that, casting away their weapons, they incontinently took to their heels and fled, howling with terror. A moment later the Flying Fish came gently to earth upon the spot which they had just vacated.
As she did so, the professor, closely followed by Lobelalatutu, made a dash for the gangway-ladder, down which they hastily descended, and, dropping the rope ladder over the side, rapidly scrambled down to the ground. A few yards away lay the object for which they were making, and a dozen rapid strides took them to it. Prepared as von Schalckenberg was for the sight that met his eyes, he yet sickened with a deadly nausea as he gazed down upon the dreadful object that lay stretched out at his feet. At the first glance an uninstructed observer would have found it somewhat difficult to say precisely what it was that he was looking upon; but the professor, compelling himself to look closely, saw that it was the naked body of a tall and finely-built savage stretched at full length upon the ground, the upstretched arms and outspread legs being firmly secured by many turns of stout thongs to four long stakes driven so deeply into the earth that by no possible exertion of strength could the victim free himself. Merely to lie exposed in this fashion, immovably fixed to the earth, until death from starvation and thirst came to the relief of the sufferer would, one might suppose, be considered a sufficiently severe punishment to satisfy every demand of justice—to say nothing of the exactions of revenge; but such a death was much too easy to be acceptable to a man whose lust of cruelty was so insatiable as that of M’Bongwele. This monster’s chief delight was to gloat over the sufferings of others, and much of his time was very agreeably passed in meditating upon and devising schemes of elaborate cruelty for the punishment of those unhappy individuals who were so unfortunate as to offend him, or incur the suspicion that they were his enemies. Siswani, however, the present victim, was not undergoing any experimental form of torture of M’Bongwele’s own invention; he was simply suffering a form of death that, from the protracted and exquisitely excruciating character of its agonies, enjoys a very wide popularity among African savages. It consists in the eyelids of the victim being cut off, to expose the unprotected eyeballs to the fierce glare of the sun—and, later, to other and even worse torments—after which he is led out to some selected spot where an ants’ nest of suitable size is known to exist. Arrived there, four stout stakes are driven deeply into the ground at a proper distance apart round the nest, stout raw-hide thongs are attached to the victim’s wrists and ankles, and the whole of his naked body is then carefully anointed with honey, after which he is thrown to the ground and stretched out on his back on the top of the ants’ nest, and there immovably bound to the four stakes. Then the nest is broken under him and the fiercely exasperated little insects are left to work their savage will upon his unprotected body, to which they are strongly attracted by the odour of the honey.
The unhappy Siswani had thus been exposed for fully five hours, when von Schalckenberg at length stood beside him, and his body was completely hidden beneath a swarming mass of ants, the collective movements of which suggested a horrible wave-like creeping movement to the surface of the body. Apart from this, however, an occasional writhing of the frightfully swollen form and limbs showed that life and feeling still remained. But it was, perhaps, the mouth of the sufferer that bore most eloquent testimony to the extremity of the tortured body’s anguish: it had been forced wide open by the introduction of a thick gag of hard wood, and into this the strong teeth had bitten until they were ground to fragments, while the lips were drawn back in a fearful grin.
Upon this awful object Lobelalatutu cast a single glance, and then made a dart at the nearest of the spears that had been flung away by the flying guard, with which he quickly cut the thongs that bound the victim, and those that secured the gag, removing the latter from the sufferer’s mouth. Then, raising the quivering body in his arms, he bent down and murmured a few words in his friend’s ear. There was no reply; and, looking closer, the chief saw enough to convince him that the unhappy Siswani’s hearing was already completely destroyed. Lobelalatutu had been reared in a school in which stoical indifference to suffering, whether personal or in another, is esteemed a cardinal virtue; yet even he could not wholly conceal the emotion which possessed him as he turned to von Schalckenberg and drew the attention of the professor to the ghastly injuries already inflicted by the terrible ants.
“Great Spirit,” said he, “you are very powerful, I know, for I have seen you do many wonderful things. Can you give Siswani new eyes and ears, new flesh in place of that which has disappeared? Can you extract the poison from his body, and make him whole again, even as he was when the dawn came into this morning’s sky?”
“No,” answered the professor, sorrowfully. “We can do many wonderful things, as you say, Lobelalatutu, but we cannot create a man anew. We can cure many diseases; we can heal many kinds of wounds; but our power as yet stops short of repairing such frightful injuries as those. The utmost that we can do is to ease Siswani of his pain so that he may die in peace.”
“You cannot save his life?” demanded the chief; and there was a note of keen anguish and fierce sorrow in his accents as he asked the question.
“I do not say that,” answered von Schalckenberg. “It may be possible. But blind, deaf, dumb, as he is, what will life be worth to him, even if I can preserve it?”
“True, O Spirit,” answered Lobelalatutu. “It would be worthless to him, nay, worse, it would be a torment to him; for memory would remain to him to remind him constantly of what he was, as compared with what he now is. And he could do nothing for himself; he would be dependent upon others for every morsel of food, every drop of water that went to sustain a worthless and miserable life. There is but one act of kindness that can now avail him, and I, Lobelalatutu, will do it for him, even as I would pray him to do the like for me, were I as he is!”
And ere von Schalckenberg could intervene, the savage, with a quick movement, raised the spear he held in his hand and, with unerring aim, drove it deep through the heart of his friend! Siswani’s disfigured body responded to the stroke with a scarcely perceptible shudder; a faint sigh escaped the distorted lips; and the victim’s sufferings were at an end.
“The coup-de-grâce! the stroke of mercy; the act of a friend indeed,” remarked von Schalckenberg, as he rose to his feet and turned to meet Sir Reginald, whose exclamation of horror was the first intimation of his contiguity to the other two. “Look at that poor mutilated and disfigured remnant of what, a few hours ago, was a man, in the prime of life, and in the full enjoyment of perfect health and strength; consider what the future must have been to such a man, so mutilated—even had it been possible to retain the life in him, which I gravely doubt—and then say whether this man, his friend, has not done the best that it was possible to do. Yet, would you, my friend, hampered with the sentimentality of your civilisation, have had the moral courage to do the like?”
“How long do you think he would have lived, but for that stroke of the spear?” asked Sir Reginald.
Von Schalckenberg shrugged his shoulders.
“Who can say?” he retorted. “Had he been left alone, he would perhaps have lingered in indescribable agony until sunset, when the poison in his system would have done its work, and he would have died. On the other hand, had I employed my utmost skill, and been free to give my undivided attention to him for, say, a month, I might, perhaps, have been so far successful as to have prolonged his life to the extent of two or three years; during which—deaf, dumb, blind, utterly helpless, and every movement a torture to him—he would have been dependent upon others for the necessities of life.”
“Then,” said Sir Reginald, “if I could know that the condition which you have described was the best that the future held in store for him, I would have put my sentimentality in my pocket and—”
“Quite so,” assented the professor, with a nod; “and, in my opinion, your act would have been a meritorious one. Well, we were hours too late to be of any use to the poor fellow; but it may be that we shall still be in time to punish his murderer and the murderer of those fourteen unhappy white people who died to gratify the ferocious instincts of a savage despot. Let us be going. Come,” he added, laying his hand upon Lobelalatutu’s naked shoulder, “we shall need you while doing the work that lies before us. After we have finished you can send out men to do what is necessary here.”
And, with a very grim expression of face, he turned and led the way to the Flying Fish.
Ten minutes later the ship came gently to earth in the Great Place before M’Bongwele’s palace. The village appeared at first sight to be deserted, for not a soul was to be seen in any direction; but the low wail of an infant, suddenly breaking in upon the silence, and issuing from one of the huts, betrayed the fact that at least one small atom of humanity still lingered about the place; and where so small a baby was, the mother would probably be not far off.
The five white men—each with his rifle in his hand, as a safeguard against possible accident—stared about them in perplexity.
“What has happened, Lobelalatutu; what has become of your people?” demanded the professor.
“They are hiding in their huts,” answered the chief. “They remember what happened when the Four Spirits last visited us, and they are afraid!”
“So!” ejaculated the professor. “Well, call to them, Lobelalatutu, and bid them come forth; we have somewhat to say to them.”
The chief advanced to the gangway, where he could be clearly seen, and in a loud voice called upon every man to come forth into the open to listen to what the Four Spirits of the Winds had to say to them. And, in reply, first one, then another came creeping reluctantly out of the huts, until at length the Great Place was full of people, all standing with their eyes fixed upon the figures of the four well-remembered “spirits,” and the fifth who now stood beside them. A low hum of subdued conversation arose from the densely massed crowd, for a minute or two, but it presently subsided; and all waited breathlessly for the communication to which they had been summoned to listen.
Von Schalckenberg permitted the silence to last long enough to become almost oppressive; then he advanced to the gangway and, waving his hand, demanded—
“Children of the Makolo, how many of your number are absent?”
For a full minute dead silence followed upon this question; then a man, whose dress and weapons proclaimed him a chief, strode forward and replied—
“We are all present, O most potent Spirit, save fifty of the king’s guards, who went forth this morning to execute the king’s sentence upon Siswani.”
“Say you so?” retorted the professor. “Where, then, is M’Bongwele? How is it that I do not see him?”
“Au!” exclaimed the chief, “the king abides in his palace. He comes not forth at the bidding of strangers.”
“Does he not?” retorted von Schalckenberg. “Yet shall he come forth at my bidding. Go, now, Lobelalatutu; descend the ladder to your people; take as many men as may be needful, and bring forth M’Bongwele, that we, the Four Spirits, may judge him, and punish him for his crimes. Go, and fear not,”—for Lobelalatutu rather hung back, as though somewhat uncertain in regard to the matter of his safety—“you are under our protection; and the man who foolishly dares to raise hand against you incurs our displeasure, and will instantly fall dead!”
Thus assured, Lobelalatutu hesitated no longer, but, calling to certain friends of his to support him, boldly descended the ladder—which Mildmay took the precaution to draw up instantly—and, accompanied by some eight or ten other chiefs, proceeded to push his way through the throng toward the king’s palace, while a confused hum and murmur of excited conversation arose from the crowd.
Suddenly, the chief who had replied to von Schalckenberg’s questions, sprang forward, and raising his right hand, with a sheaf of spears in its grasp, above his head, shouted—
“Warriors of the Makolo, what is this? Why stand ye, silent, before these strangers, as cattle stand before a hungry lion? Who are they, that they dare come hither to dictate to us and our king? Once before have they been here, and—”
As though unexpectedly pushed by some one behind, he suddenly fell forward on his face, dead! while von Schalckenberg composedly lowered his rifle from his shoulder.
“It had to be done,” he explained to his companions, meanwhile keeping his gaze steadily fixed upon the crowd of savages beneath him. “In another second or two those fellows down there would have been divided into two parties, and we should have had a pitched battle raging at our feet, with a loss of hundreds of lives. Evidently, the fellow was one of the king’s friends, and can, therefore, very well be spared.”
“Quite right, Professor,” answered Lethbridge. “You forestalled me by a second or two only. If you had not fired, I should have done so, for I saw that the fellow meant mischief.”
As the chief fell prone before them, the excited crowd of savages became suddenly silent and rigid. Then von Schalckenberg waved his hand toward the motionless figure, and said in solemn and impressive tones—
“So perish those who presume to dispute the will of the Four Spirits! Let no one touch him, but let him lie there as a warning to other rebellious natures—if such, perchance, should be among you.”
At this moment, Lobelalatutu and his band reappeared, with M’Bongwele in their midst. The king’s heavy features wore a sullen, savage expression as he was led forward through the narrow lane that the assembled warriors opened out for his passage; and he threw upward a single glance of mingled fear and defiance at the little group of white men as he advanced. As he reached the open space that intervened between the ship and the thickly massed crowd of his people, and came to a halt, he looked quickly about him, and suddenly demanded, in a loud, harsh tone of voice—
“Where is Malatambu? Let him stand forth!”
“Behold, he lies there, dead, slain by the mighty magic of the Great Spirits!” answered a chief, pointing to the prostrate body of the man who had fallen before the professor’s rifle.
The king threw a single keen glance at the dead man, grunted inarticulately, and was silent.
“Listen, M’Bongwele!” said von Schalckenberg. “How is it that, having banished you for your former evil deeds, we find you here again upon our return?”
“I was unhappy away from my people, and therefore I returned,” answered the king, sullenly.
“And, having returned, your first act was to slay Seketulo. Is it not so?” demanded the professor.
“Why should I not slay him?” retorted M’Bongwele. “The Makolo need not two kings; and Seketulo knew not how to govern them.”
“Therefore you slew him?” persisted the professor.
“Therefore I slew him,” assented M’Bongwele.
“Also you slew twelve white men and two white women who were found in distress by your people, although you knew that such acts were displeasing to us, and that we had forbidden them,” asserted the professor.
“Nay,” said M’Bongwele; “I slew but the twelve white men. Of the two women, the elder slew the younger, and then slew herself. But what matters it how they died? Am not I the king; and may I not do as I will in mine own country?”
“And how died the white men?” demanded von Schalckenberg.
“Some died on ants’ nests; some were crucified; some were—nay, how can I say? It is long ago, and I have forgotten,” answered the king, sullenly.
“And they are not the only people who have died in torment since your return. Many of your own people have suffered at your word. Is it not so?”
“It is so,” answered the king. “They were rebellious subjects; so they perished.”
“How knew you that they were rebellious?” demanded von Schalckenberg.
“My witch-doctors told me so. Is that not enough?” retorted M’Bongwele.
“And how knew the witch-doctors that they were rebellious?” inquired the professor.
“They found it out through their magic; even as you, through your magic, found out that I had returned to my people,” answered the king.
“Are those witch-doctors present? If so, let them stand forth,” exclaimed the professor.
For a space of two or three minutes there was no direct reply to this challenge, but merely a subdued commotion among the assembled multitude of warriors. Then the professor, growing impatient, called to Lobelalatutu.
“Are the witch-doctors present, Lobelalatutu?”
“Nay, Great Spirit, they are not present. Doubtless they are to be found in their huts,” answered the chief, saluting.
“Then, take men with you to those huts, find the witch-doctors, bind them with thongs, and bring them forth to judgment,” commanded von Schalckenberg.
A few minutes of dead silence now followed, at the end of which there arose, among the more distant huts, outcries and sounds of commotion, and presently the chief and his party reappeared, leading forth ten old and grizzled men of most villainously cunning and repulsive appearance, whose hands were bound behind them. These were brought to the front and ranged in line by the side of the king.
The professor looked at them intently for a full minute, they returning his look with an insolent glare of defiance. Then he said—
“Which of you is the chief of the witch-doctors?”
“I, even I, M’Pusa, am the chief witch-doctor. What want ye with me, white man?” answered the most hideously repulsive-looking individual of the party, sending a look of concentrated hatred and vindictiveness upward at the professor.
“It is charged against you that you have cruelly and maliciously incited the man M’Bongwele—who falsely calls himself ‘king’—to condemn many people to suffer death by torture, under the pretence that they were conspiring against him, knowing all the while that your accusations were false. What explanation or excuse have you to offer for your wickedness?” demanded the professor, sternly.
The man pondered for a moment, as though considering what answer he should make. At length he looked up, and said—
“Why should I make excuse? The men were my enemies, and I used such power as I possessed to destroy them.”
“It is enough,” said von Schalckenberg.
Then, addressing the great assemblage before him, he continued—
“Men of the Makolo, ye have heard the questions that I have put to these two men, and the answers that they have given to those questions. They have acknowledged that the charges brought against them are true. They have taken many lives, doomed many to die in lingering torment for the mere gratification of their own personal enmity and their love of cruelty. Out of their own mouths are they judged and condemned; they have misused their power, and therefore is it taken from them. They have wantonly taken the lives of others, therefore are their own lives forfeit. The sentence passed upon them is that they die a shameful and ignominious death. Take them, therefore, fasten strong ropes about their necks, and hang them both from the great branch of yonder tree until they be dead.”
Dead! The word touched M’Bongwele and stirred him as could no other word in his own or any other language. He? Dead? And by the hands of others? How many of his unresisting subjects had he condemned to suffer death—the death of acute lingering, long-drawn-out, seemingly interminable suffering? And how he had laughed with ferocious glee when he had succeeded in making some of them—not many, only one or two occasionally—quail at the prospect of what lay before them! But he had never dreamed of a day when he himself should be doomed to suffer the ignominy of public execution. How should he? Was he not the king? and was his word not the law? Who should dare to raise a hand against him? The idea seemed to him preposterous, grotesque, an absurdity, until he glanced upward and saw those set, stern white faces gazing down upon him with eyes in which he read the truth that his doom was fixed, immutable, inexorable. Involuntarily he shuddered, and glanced wildly about him as though looking for a way of escape. Would his own people stand tamely by and see him, their king, perish at the word of these mysterious, terrible strangers? Or would a single one of them dare to lay sacrilegious hands upon him in obedience to the order of these strangers? With the half-formed hope that generations of iron discipline and unquestioning obedience to the king’s will might yet avail to protect him in the moment of his utmost need, his glance searched face after face. In vain! He had allowed his tyranny to carry him so far that at length there was scarce a man among those present who could say with certainty that his own life would not be the next demanded to satisfy some savage whim of the king. There were not twenty among all those hundreds who would raise a hand to save him! Too late he saw the full depth of his rash, headstrong, criminal folly, and to what straits it had led him; and, suddenly snatching a spear from the hand of one of his astonished and unwary guards, he strove to drive its point into his own heart. But the owner of the spear recovered himself in a flash, and, seizing the blade of the weapon in his bare hand, he twisted it upward with such strength that the slender wooden shaft snapped, leaving the head in his hand and the innocuous shaft in that of M’Bongwele. At the same instant half a dozen men flung themselves upon the king, and in a trice his hands were drawn behind him, and securely bound. Then, from somewhere, two long thongs or ropes of twisted raw-hide were produced and quickly knotted round the necks of the two condemned men, and in a tense, breathless silence they were led away to the fatal tree.