Chapter Fourteen.
Dark Days.
Leaving poor Grenville in his dismal prison, we must now return for the time being to our friends at the plateau.
Despite the awful storm which followed Grenville’s departure, Leigh and Myzukulwa kept diligent guard, for both were determined that they would never again be caught napping. One of Grenville’s last instructions to Leigh had been to keep a double watch every night, and to at once get an enormous pile of thorn-bushes up to the plateau, “when,” said he, “you can make a chevaux de frise at the top of the path, which will keep the whole Mormon nation fully employed whilst you shoot them.”
In the very height of the storm the watchers, by a flash of lightning, saw a figure approaching their position, and Leigh at once challenged, but received no reply. The next flash, however, showed him that the nocturnal wanderer was Amaxosa. The chief stalked up the path, shook himself like a great dog, and then, without saying a single word, entered the cave, deposited Grenville’s weapons on the floor, and lay down by the fire.
Now, however, this extraordinary and unexplained return penetrated the reserve of even the well-trained Myzukulwa, who, after waiting in a state of suppressed excitement for some moments to give his brother time to speak, at length burst out with a torrent of questions.
“Since when has a child of the Undi learned to desert his chief? Thou didst go out into the dark night but a few short hours ago with my father, the great and mighty warrior; where is my father now? Myzukulwa asks thee. Is he perchance dead? Then will I, Myzukulwa, the son of Isanusi, follow on after the spirit of my father, and cry, ‘Behold, my father, thy faithful war-dog of the race of Undi. Turn thine eyes, my father, towards Zululand, and wait for thy son Myzukulwa, who follows after thee, and is thy man to the death, ay, and ever after.’”
And the splendid fellow sprang to his feet, took his spears in hand as if ready to set out, and fixed his eyes, glowing with inquiry and fierce determination, full upon his brother.
For a short space Amaxosa answered not, then his words came low and sadly:—
“The great white chief my father has chased away from his side his faithful dog, and the heart of Amaxosa is sad, my brother, and his breast heavy with fear that the evil men, the witch-finders, being so many, will overcome my father and prevail against him.”
Then he broke out into a sort of funereal wail which made Leigh’s blood run cold, it sounded so like ill-omened prophecy.
“Ow, my father, why hast thou left me? The stormy night is wet and cold, but the hand of death is colder—colder, and the mists of the grave are still more wet and deadly. Let my father call his sons to him, and they will follow along the dark and fearsome path that leads to the hereafter. Inkoos, the heart of Amaxosa is split in twain, and he fears the unknown evil which will befall the mighty chief he loves.”
Leigh was about to answer the Zulu, when all of a sudden the heavens and earth seemed to meet in one vivid blinding sheet of flame, and as the astonished watchers held their breath, the very, mountains were shaken to their pro-Adamite foundations, by the explosion of the magazines in East Utah.
For a moment the countenance of Amaxosa brightened, and turning to Myzukulwa, as the flames in the Mormon town shot up towards the sky, “See, my brother,” he cried, “the great chief our father has destroyed the wicked witch-finders, and set fire to their kraals. Oh that we, his sons, might be at his side to slay the evil ones who yet are left alive! Great is the chief, our father; let us also die the deaths of mighty warriors, and let our last end be even as his.”
The girls now rushed in, affrighted by the explosion, and asked if the thunder had torn the mountain in two.
Leigh briefly explained the position, when his betrothed, who saw his anxious face, looked very grave, and poor Rose burst into tears and threw herself into Dora’s arms, crying, to Leigh’s astonishment, “Oh! my darling, my darling, I have indeed lost you for ever!”
The grim Zulu Amaxosa turned to Leigh as Rose was led away by Dora, saying, “It is even so, Inkoos; the Flower of East Utah is laid low, for she loved my father, even as his sons loved him, and my heart is very sad for her.” And then changing his manner to the old warlike tones, “And now let the Inkoos, my master, say what he wishes the sons of Undi to do. The storm is breaking, and if perchance my father has escaped from the evil men he will be here by daybreak; but whether he be here or no, the remnant of yon witch-finders will attempt to take our kraal before the sun is again at rest. Let my master open his ears that he may hear my words. With these bushes we will build a wall of thorns, which no living man can force—it must be placed below the rock, not upon it—and it shall be that when the whole army of devils are gathered in one place to uproot the bushes, then will the Inkoos my master command the sons of Undi, who will cast upon these low people the lightning-boxes—surely they are bewitched—which will tear them in pieces, even as they would have destroyed ourselves when last they came; and if any shall yet be left alive after the lightning of the thunder, then the spears in the right hands of my master’s servants shall slay them; so will the faithful sons of my father, the great and mighty lion-hearted chief, revenge his death and make smooth his path to the shades as he views the bleeding, senseless bodies of his evil-minded foes.”
After some little discussion Leigh accepted this cunning scheme in its entirety, subject, of course, to the approval of his cousin should he return.
The night wore on, and the grey dawn broke upon East Utah smiling and lovely as ever, but the poor watchers upon the rock sat haggard and anxious, for he whom they loved and waited for came not.
Almost broken-hearted, Leigh at last laid himself down and slept an uneasy and troubled sleep, from which he was awakened by the welcome news that the enemy was close at hand and advancing in considerable force. Welcome the news indeed was, for every man and woman upon that rocky shelf felt that at that moment they had but one object in life—vengeance of the most awful character for the death of him they loved beyond all earthly considerations.
Disregarding the deadly fire of the Winchesters, which thinned their numbers in every direction, the Mormons marched on, a solemn silent mass. At one hundred yards they began to fire their guns, but did no execution of any kind; and now the party above fairly hailed bullets upon them from rifles, revolvers, and from the Mormons’ own captured guns, and the ground was thickly strewn with dead and dying men.
Volley after volley the attacking party fired, till at last their salvoes dwindled down to a few sputtering shots, and then ceased entirely. The Mormons had exhausted their last kernel of powder, and now prepared to storm the plateau, sword in hand.
The matter fell out exactly as Amaxosa had foreseen, and when a full hundred of the enemy were busy with their swords trying to cut into the zareba, the Zulus plunged the two shells into the mass of living men, which was promptly transformed into an awful heap of bleeding, groaning, human pulp. A few wounded men tried to limp away, but the Zulus were down the rock almost as soon as the shells, and of one hundred and fifty men who had left the Mormon town that morning, not one returned to tell the awful tale of shame and woe.
The wounded were soon put out of pain by the unconcerned Zulus, who then brought up to the plateau a perfect mountain of weapons in the shape of guns, spears, swords, and knives, all the time chanting victorious notes over their fallen enemies, and adjuring their father, the mighty chief, to smile upon his children.
As Leigh had supposed, the Mormons had entirely exhausted their powder before they made the final charge which proved so fatal to themselves—not a single grain of powder could be found in any of their flasks. Thus ended another attempt of the Mormons upon the plateau; they had, as Grenville had foreseen, no more stomach for such desperate work as this, at present.
As soon as night fell, Amaxosa set out for East Utah, armed with Grenville’s revolvers, and determined if possible to discover what had happened to his beloved chief.
Obtaining access to the town, as before, by the river, which was now reduced to its normal state, he prowled about in the shade, running awful risks, but hearing and seeing nothing, and was just about to leave the place in despair, when observing a number of Mormons approaching, he shrank back into a dark alley between two houses.
The band he sought to avoid was met at this point—in fact, directly opposite to his hiding-place—by a detachment travelling in the opposite direction, both parties stopping and entering into conversation.
The Zulu watched them like a lynx, but what was his astonishment and even delight to behold the master whom he had believed to be dead, standing amongst his enemies; with great chains upon his hands and feet, it is true, yet still alive and well, and preserving upon his face the impress of that habitual coolness and determined bravery which had so won upon the heart of this untutored savage.
With longing eyes Amaxosa gazed upon his friend, but he was a shrewd man as well as a courageous one, and he foresaw that any attempt at a rescue could at this moment have no good result, but rather the reverse.
Just as the two bands parted, Grenville was forced up against the wall, and quick as lightning the Zulu shot out his hand and dropped a small pistol into his friend’s coat-pocket. So neatly was the action performed that our hero, who had been roused out of his sleep, and led away to be interviewed, he was told, by the Holy Three, did not know what had happened, thinking he had only knocked his side against a corner; but on moving his hand directly after, his forearm struck something heavy, and carefully feeling in his pocket, his fingers closed like a vice on his own favourite Derringer, and in an instant he realised that he had stood within a foot or two of his devoted Zulu friend without knowing it. Cautiously hiding the pistol in his breast, where his chained hands could more easily reach it, he found himself once more ushered into the presence of the Mormon Trinity.
As soon as the guards had retired, which they did at a sign from the Mormon prophet, the triumvirate commenced to question Grenville upon the number of his friends, the quantity of their ammunition, the range of their weapons, and so forth.
To all these reiterated inquiries he made no answer save an amused smile.
Then Brother Ishmael Warden, as usual, lost his temper.
“Dog of an Englishman!” he thundered, “answer or you die.”
“Death,” was the cutting reply, “is the home which welcomes brave men, the shadow which frightens cowards. Our rifles are more than sufficient to sweep from the face of the earth the few men your nation has left.”
The Prophet now interposed, and, to Grenville’s amused disgust, offered him life and magnificent terms if he would throw in his lot with them and conform to their laws, bringing his party and his weapons with them.
To all these offers he had but one answer:—
“I am the conqueror, you the conquered—it is for me to offer terms, not for you; and if I must die, why the sooner the better; but merely to save my life I will never consent to herd with murderers, thieves, and vagabonds. Listen, you three misguided men. Here are the terms Richard Grenville dictates, and think well ere you refuse them:—This country is now the property of her Most Gracious Majesty Victoria, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India. You, the so-called Holy Three, will at once abdicate and give up your power to the young girl known as the Rose of Sharon, Queen of the Mormon people by hereditary right, returning to her all her moneys, lands, and property feloniously retained by you. To me, and to my party, as your conquerors, you will pay twenty thousand ounces of gold, and provide us with bearers for same, and guides out of the country forthwith. I have spoken.”
Suddenly Warden sprang to his feet, fairly foaming at the mouth—
“Here!” he yelled, “is your passport out of the country and direct to hell!” and levelling a pistol at Grenville’s head, he fired. The bullet missed our hero by a hair’s breadth—indeed, it grazed the side of his face—but the very next second Brother Ishmael Warden, the most universally-hated member of the Mormon Trinity, fell to the ground with a bullet through his heart, and Grenville coolly threw his pistol down, saying as he did so—
“The fellow was a dog, and like a dog he died;” then he quietly looked his remaining judges in the face, and waited their action.
Father and son had sprung to their feet in fear upon seeing Grenville in possession of a weapon, but they now quietly sat down again, and his keen eye noted that upon the face of the old man there sat an expression of indifference, whilst the younger man obviously eyed the corpse of his late colleague with unconcealed relief, and looked at our hero with absolute approbation. Another circumstance, however, was significant to Grenville, and he had not failed to notice it; this was the fact that the guards could be heard pacing up and down outside the room, never seeming the least disturbed by the pistol-shots. It was, therefore, clear that murder in the presence of the Holy Three was far from being uncommon; indeed, when some minutes later the men entered, by order, to take him away, even before they observed the body of their late tyrant, Grenville saw looks of astonishment cast upon him.
And now an honour as unexpected as it was unsought was offered to the young Englishman, for father and son, having held a private conference, the elder man turned to Grenville, and in brief but distinct language offered him the seat of the man he had just killed, together with all its emoluments.
“Nay, my son,” said he, as our friend was about to speak, “take time to think before you give your answer. I much wish to save you alive, but our laws are as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and by them the Holy Three, who have power of life and death, are obliged to condemn you, and you are too young to die. In the one way indicated we can save you. Live, then, and become the prop of our Holy State.”
“Sir,” replied Grenville, moved by the kindly manner of the patriarch as no threats would ever have moved him, “I appreciate your kind wishes, and God forbid I should insult the beard of a man old enough to be my grandsire, but I regard your faith and your own exalted office here with utter abhorrence and loathing. I have a most healthy contempt for your laws and your nation, and having the courage of my opinions I prefer to die for them.”
The old prophet eyed him sadly for a moment; then his face grew stem, and drawing himself up proudly, “’Tis well,” he said, “ere long, foolish headstrong youth, thou wilt regret thine impetuosity. At sundown, three days hence, you die by the rifle—farewell.” Then touching a small gong, “Guards, remove the prisoner;” and as he noted the looks of the officer directed at Warden’s corpse lying in a pool of blood, “Brother Harper, remove this body, and see that the Saints are notified of the decease of a member of the Holy Trinity, and the necessity of choosing out one of the elect to supply his place.”
The officer merely bowed, and the guard then removed Grenville; but as soon as they got outside the officer turned to his prisoner, asking eagerly, “Did you kill yonder fiend?”
“I did,” replied our hero coolly, “and I’m sure I never killed a greater scoundrel in all my life.”
In reply the officer seized Grenville’s hand and shook it heartily. “You are a plucky fellow,” he said; “if you have killed about half our people, you’ve prevented that scoundrel from making away with the other half. Tell me, did you shoot Radford Custance?”
“I did,” was the stern reply; “the coward struck a man who had his hands tied.”
“Well,” rejoined the other, “taken all through we owe you a debt of gratitude. It’s a shame to shoot you; but what must be—must be, you know.”
“Quite so,” responded Grenville, cheerfully, “don’t let us fall out over that; I see the necessity, I have done my work, and I am ready to go. But look here, my friend; your prophet—very nice old chap he is, too—told me I was to die by the rifle. Now as you’ve no powder, how will you work it? Shall I give you a line to my people asking them to let you have a flask of your own powder for the occasion?”
“See here,” replied the officer, “I owe you some information, and as you are to die I don’t mind telling you we have just twelve charges of powder left in the whole community, and as you’ve used up all the rest we’ve decided to give you the benefit of what little we have left—it’s a great compliment, let me tell you.”
Thus laughing and talking they drew near the prison; but though Grenville had engaged in conversation with the Mormon, he had nevertheless been straining every faculty to try and discover the whereabouts of his Zulu friend. Nowhere, however, could he see him or detect any sign of his presence.
On seeing the prisoner into his cell, the officer again shook hands, and Grenville, with the intention of giving information to his friend if he were lying hidden close by, called out, “You’ll come and see me to-morrow, won’t you? I’m to be shot at sundown on Friday, you know; so you’ll have to entertain me until then.”
“With pleasure,” was the laughing rejoinder. “Good-night!”
Grenville’s precaution was well taken, for it so happened that Amaxosa had at that instant arrived within earshot of his friend’s words, which he heard with a grunt of satisfaction, as he had feared that after causing the death of Warden—of which act he had been an unseen and exultant witness—his chief would have been executed at daybreak.
The audacity and self-abandonment of the Zulu on this night had been simply magnificent. He had fearlessly climbed to the window of the room in which he believed Grenville to be, and had watched every movement of friend and enemy with eyes like coals of fire; and ill would it have fared with the two remaining members of the Mormon Trinity had they attempted any further violence against their prisoner.
As it was, Amaxosa had watched the movements of the patriarch, and having seen him, after the departure of his colleague, open a strong box and take out a lot of papers similar to that which his friend, the Rose of Sharon, had recognised as her own, he had quietly slipped in, brained the venerable “witch-finder,” and walked off with his possessions, coolly setting the house on fire before he departed, as silently as he had come. And now his fingers itched to slay the man who held the key to his friend’s prison, but knowing that in a few minutes the whole place would be agog with the fire, and the death of the prophet, he decided to postpone his operations until the following night. “His father” knew he had been at his side, and Amaxosa was content.
Hardly had Grenville laid himself down to sleep than his prison door was torn open, and he found himself the centre of a raging mob of human beings, all clamouring for his life; and had his friend the officer not been at his side, our hero would have been lynched forthwith. Finding out at last that he was in some way accused of causing the death of the Mormon Patriarch, Grenville asked to be permitted to speak; and when silence had been obtained he briefly and succinctly related the night’s events to the crowd—omitting of course the presence of the Zulu—and added meaningly, “You say your prophet has been murdered and the treasures of the Holy Three stolen. Believe me, I would never lift my hand against an old man who could not defend himself—I murder not, nor do I rob. With whomsoever you find the treasure, let him die; but do not attempt to sully my good name, which is all that is left to me now.”
Finally, after the officer had harangued the crowd, he succeeded in getting rid of them; and congratulating Grenville on his escape, he again took his leave, when our friend once more laid himself down—not, however, to sleep at once, but to reflect on the events of the night.
Truth to tell, he was inclined to ascribe the murder and robbery of the Patriarch to one of the Mormon’s own people, for though he knew Amaxosa hated the triumvirate with a bitter hatred, yet he, strange to say, was not given to “looting” in any shape or form; and Grenville was wholly at a loss to understand, moreover, how the Zulu could possibly have obtained access to the treasure chamber of the Mormon leader. In any case, he felt that whether Amaxosa was or was not responsible for the affair, he personally had lost a friend at Court, but that the Mormon community had at the same time been deprived of their best and wisest head.
Clearly there was nothing for the prisoner to do but to watch and wait. He had made up his mind to die, but with sublime confidence in his friends he felt certain that some effort would be made to save him, and he was fully determined that when the attempt came off, it should at least not fail from lack of readiness on his part.