Chapter Twenty One.
In Durance vile—The Prisoners learn their fate—A fatal Dose.
For three days after Untsikana left the kraal, Tom Flinders and Frank Jamieson were kept in the closest confinement, not being allowed to take any exercise, nor even so much as show their noses outside their narrow prison. During this weary time our unfortunate friends—though they had sufficient both to eat and drink, and were not made to suffer actual personal violence—were forced to put up with the insolent taunts of their captors, and with the virulent abuse of the women and children, who evidently took a delight in congregating round the hut, and assailing its occupants with every insulting epithet they could think of; and, what was far worse, they lost no opportunity of flinging mud, mealie-husks, and other filth through the low doorway, “as though,” as Tom truly remarked, “the hut was not dirty enough already!”
This was, of course, exceedingly annoying, and Tom Flinders waxed very indignant; but his friend took things in a more philosophical spirit, remarking that, as they could not possibly put a stop to these unpleasant attentions, they had best “grin and bear them.” On the fourth morning after the friendly chief’s departure, the old Caffre who had been told off to attend on the prisoners and bring them their daily food, informed Frank Jamieson that he and his companion in misfortune were to be taken under escort to one of the principal Caffre strongholds beyond the Bashee River, and there to become the slaves of Untsikana’s father—a chief of no small importance.
“Never more shall you see your people,” said the old fellow with a malicious grin; for, true to the instincts of his savage nature, he felt a cruel pleasure in attempting to strike terror into the hearts of his prisoners. “Our brave and invincible warriors have eaten up the ‘red soldiers’ of the island-queen, and are now sweeping before them the hated white men. Not one shall be left alive in this land except you and this boy, and you will end your days in slavery!”
“What does the old rascal say?” asked Tom, to whom the Caffre tongue was quite unintelligible. “Something unpleasant, I’ll wager a dollar; he looks so precious satisfied with himself. Ugh, you hoary-headed, hardhearted old sinner!” he added, as the man left the hut.
“He says that Colonel Somerset’s troops have been totally defeated, and that the Caffre warriors are driving our countrymen into the sea,” Frank replied with a slight smile.
“Oh, hang it all! You must tell that to the marines!” exclaimed Tom; though at the same time a feeling of uneasiness came over him lest there should be a spice of truth in their jailer’s report. “I don’t believe a word of it! It cannot possibly be true, you know.”
“And you and I are destined for transportation beyond the Bashee River, where we shall become the bondmen of the great chief Umbodhla—my friend’s father,” continued Frank. “A bright look-out, truly!”
“Very,” ejaculated Tom. “But the beggars haven’t got us there yet, and if we get the chance of giving them the slip, why—”
“We’ll do so,” interrupted Frank. “But, my dear fellow, if we wish to succeed in making our escape we must keep quiet and submit to any affront they may put upon us. Our chief endeavour must be to throw them off their guard, and thus lead them to imagine that we are both thoroughly cowed. Now, do you remember this, Tom! for our success depends upon it. Don’t you show your teeth, old chap—unless you have a good chance of using them.”
“I understand,” growled Tom. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse!”
They had no time to say more to each other, for at that moment their jailer came back, and was followed into the hut by three brawny savages, who, seizing Frank roughly, proceeded to fasten his arms behind him, after which they placed a long “reim” with a running noose round his neck; they then served Tom in a similar fashion.
“Hamb’uye ngapandhle (Get outside),” said the Caffre who appeared to be the leader, striking Tom Flinders a pretty smart blow across the shoulders with the staff of his assegai.
“You uncivilised brute!” shouted Tom, the hot blood mounting to his face. “If my hands were only free—”
“But they’re not, old boy,” interrupted Frank; “so take it quietly, like a sensible fellow. It may be our turn by and by.” And without a murmur he followed the guards out of the hut.
The instant the white prisoners appeared outside the hut the entire population of the kraal—from the grey-headed “indoda” (indoda, man; inkwenkwee, boy; inkosikazi, chief’s wife; intombi, girl) to the woolly-pated, chubby “inkwenkwee;” from the lean and repulsive-looking “inkosikazi” to the plump little “intombi”—set up an awful and prolonged howling and caterwauling, such as would have done credit to an election mob engaged in the pleasing pastime of hooting an unpopular candidate. With this charming chorus ringing in their ears Tom and his friend were conducted by their sable guards through the midst of the kraal.
This was really the first time that Tom had seen the interior of an inhabited kraal (for it was dark when he was brought in after his capture), and in spite of his unpleasant position he cast curious glances round as he passed through. The kraal—which was but a small one—consisted of a number of beehive-shaped huts constructed of canes, wattled and filled in with clay, and thatched with reeds and long grass; the space upon which these huts were erected was inclosed by a wall or lofty hedge, formed of the branches of the “mimosa” strongly and tightly interlaced. The hut in which our friends had been kept in durance vile stood in the very centre of the inclosure, and was not above a quarter the size of the others. “About half as big, and twice as dirty as an English pig-sty, and as full of fleas as a gypsy’s van,” was Tom Flinders’ after description of his uncomfortable prison.
The party told off to escort the white prisoners to Umbodhla’s stronghold beyond the Bashee River consisted of five invalided warriors, who had received wounds during the attack on Campbell’s column on the 17th April; but although their injuries were of such a nature as to prevent their taking part in a “pitched battle” or a hard day’s bush warfare, these warriors were by no means in a weakly condition, and were perfectly capable of marching twenty or thirty miles between daylight and dark, and of resisting any attempt on the part of the prisoners to escape from their custody. The leader of the party—a most ferocious-looking savage, with a sinister and forbidding cast of countenance—was armed with an old-fashioned flint-lock “roer” of Dutch make; but his comrades carried only the usual bundle of assegais and their formidable knobkerries. The leader’s name was Waishlahla, and he, too, was a chief, but of much lower rank than Untsikana.
Quitting the kraal by a narrow opening in the inclosure wall, barely wide enough to allow of three persons passing abreast, the Caffres conducted their prisoners across some cultivated ground by which the kraal was surrounded, and ascended to the summit of the Amatolas. Traversing the range in a northeasterly direction, they presently hit upon a path that, passing down a rocky ravine, led over an extensive plain stretching far away from the base of the Amatolas to the banks of the Kei River.
Down this precipitous and dangerous path the escort proceeded at a rapid pace, forcing their prisoners to keep up with them by repeated blows, and even prods of their assegais, until they reached the mouth of the ravine; they then left the path and struck straight across country in the direction of the Kei River.
Through broken scrub and thorny mimosas, and over rough stony ground, Tom Flinders and Frank Jamieson were hurried at a pace that was well-nigh killing (for when on the march Caffres move over the ground at a sort of double stride or trot, which is terribly trying to those unaccustomed to such rapid travelling) until at length their guards came to a halt on the banks of a small stream. Worn out with heat and fatigue, and suffering intense pain from their bleeding and swollen feet, the weary prisoners—after a long refreshing draught of cool water—sank down on the veldt with a sigh of relief; but one of the escort immediately seized Frank by the collar and dragged him up again, and Waishlahla, severing the thongs that bound his arms, ordered him to strip. Frank hesitated for a moment, and was about to remonstrate, when a sharp blow over the shoulders reminded him that resistance was worse than useless; and so, gulping down his wrath, he threw off all his garments, his shirt excepted, and flung them on the ground.
“Now you may lie down,” said the chief with a savage grin. “You can have an hour’s rest, and then we go on again;” and picking up the clothes he distributed them amongst the escort, whilst Frank, with an exclamation of disgust, stretched himself beside his friend, who had been watching these proceedings with surprise and indignation.
“We’re in a pleasant fix, and no mistake,” whispered Tom as they lay side by side; “why are they treating you in this manner? I thought they intended to leave you your clothes, but now it appears we’re to fare alike!”
“I suppose it is the Caffres’ nature to maltreat those who fall into their power,” answered Frank in the same low tone. “You see as long as Untsikana was present this fellow Waishlahla dared not annoy us, but now—well, you ought to remember the good old nursery rhyme, ‘When the cat’s away the mice will play!’”
“Precious rough play,” growled the other. Then after a pause he said, “I’m afraid we shall not have much chance of getting away from these brutes; they’re a deal too wide-awake.”
“They were not wide-awake enough to fasten my arms again,” his friend rejoined, “and that is something in our favour! Never say die, old fellow! Remember the yarn John Richards spun us; he was in far greater straits than we are, nevertheless he managed to escape from two hundred Red-skins, every one of whom was eager to get his scalp. But turn your back, Tom,” he went on, “and let me see if I cannot loosen your bonds; you will be more at ease then.”
“But I say, Frank, did you take in all that yarn?” asked Tom, as the other cast loose the thongs round his arms. “I didn’t; at least I thought Richards was drawing on his imagination a good deal.”
“Not a bit of it; what he told us was true enough; Richards is not the sort of man to romance. I know him well, for he has acted as our agent at Graham’s Town for the last seven years—in fact ever since he came to South Africa.”
“Well, at all events,” yawned Tom, “I couldn’t escape at this moment if I had the chance; for I’m completely knocked up, and so are you, old fellow; and as we have only one hour—”
“We had better make the most of it,” Frank chimed in. “That is just what I was about to remark, Tom. We must manage to take rest whenever we can, for we shall require all our strength and vigour—mental and physical—if we want to give our guards the slip, and find our way back to the colony.”
It was about mid-day when our two friends lay down to snatch a hasty repose after their toilsome journey; but when Frank Jamieson awoke he found to his intense surprise that the sun had sunk below the horizon, and darkness was rapidly setting in. Tom Flinders was still asleep by his side, and round them were gathered the five Caffres, apparently also asleep—two of them face downwards, with their woolly heads buried in their arms, the other three stretched on the broad of their backs.
“Halloa!—why, it is nearly dark!” exclaimed Frank, sitting up and rubbing his eyes to make sure that he was quite awake. “We must have been sleeping considerably longer than an hour! Or is it possible that I have been dreaming?” was his mental question; but his bare limbs and swollen, bleeding feet were convincing proofs to the contrary. “Tom—Tom Flinders,” he then whispered, bending over his friend and gently shaking him.
“What’s the row?” cried Tom, waking up with a start.
“H’sh,” whispered Frank; “don’t make a noise! Waishlahla and his men have overslept themselves, and if we mean to make a dash for freedom, it must be now or never! We shall not get such a chance again.”
“I’m game,” Tom answered. “But we had better secure their weapons first, especially the chief’s gun.”
“Leave that to me,” said his companion, as he crept cautiously up to the recumbent figure of Waishlahla, with the intention of taking possession of his “roer.”
The savage chief lay flat on his back, with his brawny arms extended over his head; and when Frank leaned over him he saw that his jaw had dropped, and that his eyes were wide open and staring.
But there “was no speculation in those eyes”—for Waishlahla was stone dead!
In an instant it flashed across Frank’s mind what had happened.
“He must have taken the chloroform!” he exclaimed. “I left the bottle in the pocket of my blouse.”
“What?” cried Tom, looking over his shoulder, “you don’t mean that!”
“There cannot be a doubt about it,” said the other. “See, the man is quite stiff and cold; he must have been dead four or five hours.”
“Then, depend upon it, they’re all in the same boat!”
And such proved to be the case.
Waishlahla had found the bottle of chloroform in the pocket of Frank Jamieson’s blouse, and he and his comrades had drank the whole of the contents—about eight ounces—between them, with, of course, fatal results.
“Frank,” said Tom, as they stood over the chief’s stiffening corpse, “I’m very glad we never thought of giving the poor fellows that stuff! Still—well, it is a lucky thing for us that you didn’t pitch the bottle away!”