Chapter Twenty.
The Traitor.
The Commandant was nothing if not thorough, and as it came home to him what a marvellous escape the ammunition escort had had, and the direful effects that would have resulted from the carrying out of the attempt—not only to the force under his command, but in consequence to many lives along the frontier—his first impulse was to order the traitor to be shot, right out of hand. Two considerations, however, moved him from his purpose, or at any rate to the postponement of it. One was that he was a man of judicial mind, and deemed it only fair that the culprit should have an opportunity of making what defence he could; the other a secret appreciation of the latter’s calm courage. For Jacob Snyman had uttered no prayer for mercy, nor had he put on the swagger of bravado. To one of the Commandant’s temperament this appealed powerfully. In fact, on thinking further, he was by no means eager to order the Kafir’s execution, and probably he was the only man in the camp wearing the Police uniform of whom this could be said. So Jacob Snyman—otherwise Manyelo—was brought before a sort of court-martial consisting of the Commandant and the commissioned officers, and was asked what he had to say.
He had nothing to say—what could he have? Then Harley Greenoak came forward, and told how he had found the fuse and the tinder in among the ammunition boxes, all ready fired. Told, too, how he had known the prisoner before and—well, had thought it right to keep an eye on his doings, and in the result had defeated his daring attempt to desert to the enemy with one of the ammunition waggons.
The Kafir smiled slightly at this, and shook his head.
“That would have been great,” he muttered in his own tongue. “But who shall perform anything if Kulondeka is there, and is determined he shall not?”
When Dick Selmes was asked to give his version of the prisoner’s attempt to murder him, he said at once that he’d rather not.
“Is it absolutely necessary, Commandant? It seems as if the wretched devil had got more on his back than he can throw off as it is,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to help drive nails into his coffin.”
“Still, you’d better tell us what you know,” was the uncompromising answer. And Dick did so.
The proceedings were as short as they were informal. No interpreting was necessary, as the prisoner spoke English glibly and well. He was asked once more if he had anything to say.