The death sentence in the case of all but three was subsequently commuted to various terms of imprisonment. Those three were Ukozi, Ivondwe and Ivuzamanzi. As for the latter, Tyingoza had got up a large deputation to the Governor, begging that his son’s life should be spared, but without avail. Ivuzamanzi had taken an active part in this new outlet of a destructive superstition, and it was felt that as the son of an influential chief, he of all others should be made an example of.
I don’t know how it was—call it morbid curiosity if you like—but anyhow I was there when these three paid the last penalty. I had visited them in the gaol once. Ivondwe had talked as if nothing had happened, about old times and what not. The witch doctor was cowering and piteous. Could I do nothing to save him. He would remember it to the end of his days, and would tell me many things that would be useful to me. I told him plainly I could do nothing, but in consideration did not add that I would not if I could, for if ever miscreant deserved his fate he did. I gave them some tobacco however, poor wretches, and that was all I could do for them. Ivuzamanzi was stormily abusive, so I did not waste time over him. Yet for him, I felt pity, as one led away, and—was not he the son of my old friend?
It had been decided that the execution should, contrary to custom, be a public one. It was reckoned that the opportunity would be a good one for striking terror among the natives, as an example of the fate that would certainly overtake, sooner or later, all who should indulge in similar practices. Rightly it was argued that a terrible superstition of this nature, fostered by a secret society and finding its logical outcome in barbarous and abominable forms of murder, needed to be sternly stamped out.
On a grey and cloudy morning Ukozi, Ivondwe and Ivuzamanzi were led forth to die. There had been rain in the night, which had left a raw chill in the air; while the wind sang mournfully as it drove the low clouds along the hill tops. A pit had been dug in front of the gaol, to serve as a drop, and over this the gallows had been erected. From an early hour natives had been coming in by twos and threes, and now a crowd of several hundreds of them had assembled. Their demeanour however was neither turbulent nor defiant, on the contrary it was remarkably subdued, and they conversed in awed undertones. With a view to any possible demonstration a full troop of Mounted Police was disposed around the scaffold, with bandoliers filled, and all ready for action, but the precaution was unnecessary. The temper of the dark crowd was one of subdued awe as it contemplated the preparations for this grim and unaccustomed method of exit from life; in short just the very effect intended to be produced by making the execution a public one.
A hollow murmur ran over the crowd like a wave as the gaol doors swung open and the prisoners appeared, pinioned. Their demeanour was varied. That of Ukozi showed, unmistakably, fear—shrinking fear. At sight of the scaffold something like a tremor ran through the frame of the witch doctor, and he half stopped instinctively, while his lips moved in piteous protest. Ivondwe was as impassive as a statue; but the chief’s son walked with his head thrown back, his tall form erect, and a bitter scowl of hate and defiance upon his face. Then his glance met mine.
“That is the man through whom I am here,” he roared. “Are there none present to whom I may bequeath my vengeance?” And he glared around.
“Yet I saved thy life once, son of Tyingoza,” I answered, speaking so that all could hear, and this I did with a purpose.
“Walk on, Ivuzamanzi, and die like the son of a chief,” said the sheriff to him in a low tone. And he obeyed.
The Indian hangman and his assistant did their work quickly and well, and the three disappeared from view, hardly a quiver in the ropes showing that they had met death instantaneously, and in infinitely more merciful fashion than the lingering and horrible manner in which they had meted it out to so many unsuspecting victims sacrificed to their abominable and devilish superstition; and as I thought of one who came within an ace of adding to the number of such victims I could feel no pity for them now, which may have been wrong, but if it is I can’t help it.