“He is dumb,” said Babatyana, “so far.”
Sapazani did not immediately reply. He was pondering. This was the first time he had seen Babatyana, and he was not impressed by him. There was an irresponsible frothiness about his manner which did not appeal. Moreover, as a Zulu of the old stock—and a very conservative one at that—Sapazani could not for the life of him quite throw off the traditional contempt for a “Kafula,” i.e. a Natal native. And the latter wore European clothes.
“So far it is like a broken chain,” he said; “like the white man’s chain. If one link is broken, of what use is the chain?”
“And that link?” asked Babatyana.
“Sigananda and Mehlo-ka-zulu,” returned Sapazani.
“Those links can be forged,” said the white man. “There are others, too, which will render the chain a double one.”
The plotting went on, till a whole scheme for a simultaneous rising was most carefully elaborated. It was curious with what solicitude this white man threw himself into the plan for the slaughter of his own countrymen. The cruel face grew more hard and cruel as he arranged or disposed of each detail. Its cold ruthlessness struck even the Zulus, as he went on elucidating the scheme; would have struck them with astonishment, but that they knew his history. And yet the presence of this man in the country at all was barely suspected by those who administered the said country.
By linking up all the tribes from central Natal right to the north of Zululand, a sweep downward could be made. The wavering ones would join, and then—no more officialdom or pass-laws or taxes. They would be free again, not as the white arch-plotter was careful to explain, by their force of arms alone, but because those who ruled them from across the sea were divided among themselves. It was difficult to understand, but Opondo, (The Horns) for that was his native name, knew everything. He had been known among them formerly by another name, but that for good reasons was hlonipa, i.e. hidden, now, and the present substitute was, darkly, near enough to it.
For upwards of an hour they sat listening, hanging on his words, showing their assent by emphatic exclamations when he made a special point. And no one was more emphatic than a man who had said very little during the indaba. He was not a chief, but a follower of Babatyana, and his name was Pandulu; and he had not said much—had only listened.
Now tywala was brought in and distributed. The white man lighted a pipe, so, too, did Babatyana, a proceeding which brought an ill-concealed sneer to Sapazani’s face, for that conservative chief and his induna confined themselves to the good old custom of taking snuff. Pipe smoking and clothes wearing went together, they decided, contemptuously. With a white man, of course, it was different. Such things were his custom. But it affected them even further. What about joining forces with such a decadent as this? A Kafula! who wore clothes—dirty clothes at that—and smoked a pipe!