The White Hand and the Black: A Story of the Natal Rising

by Bertram Mitford

A small fire burned in the bowl-like hollow in the centre of the hut. Into this Zavula was gazing. Perhaps he was dreaming dreams of the past—when he had been somebody, when he was looked up to and respected by thousands of tribesmen; when, too, he had gallantly led in person these same tribesmen, at the call of the white man’s Government, against the hosts of Cetywayo the Great King, on the red plain of Isandhlwana—only to retire, in helter-skelter rout, together with such of the whites who had it in their power to do likewise, before the on-sweeping wave of the might of Zulu. Then, in those days, his word was law. He had been called upon to assist the Government, and he and his fighting men had done so loyally. It was not their fault if the white leader had been out-generalled by Tyingwayo, who had learned the art of war under Tshaka the Terrible. They had done their best, and had been thanked for it and remembered, when Cetywayo’s power had melted into air, and the horns of that Bull, which had gored where they would, had been blunted and rendered harmless for ever.

And now here were his people engaged in running their heads against a rock. Whau! was ever such foolishness known? His people! He had no sons living. The two he had—both were slain in the waters of Umzinyati while striving to escape from the pursuing spears of the Great King—after Isandhlwana. His people, to whom his word had been law, had now turned to Babatyana. He himself was a chief no more.

Babatyana was his brother’s son, and Babatyana was not old. Since the teaching of the white people had found footing in the land, and, worse still, since the teaching of certain black people from a far off country beyond the salt water, had come among them the old were no longer respected, no longer listened to. He, Zavula, was old, but Babatyana was not; wherefore the people turned to listen to the words of Babatyana. And Babatyana was plotting against the whites—against the Government. Whau! was ever such foolishness known?

What did Babatyana, and the fools who were listening to him, think they would gain—think they would do? The whites, who overthrew for ever the House of Senzangakona and the might of Zulu at the very zenith of its power and glory—were they to be overthrown in their turn by a few unorganised tribes all unskilled and unpractised in the art of war? The whites, who could bring guns to bear, each of which could fire a hundred bullets in every direction while a man could count scarce half that number—why Baba-tyana and his fools might as well run their heads hard against the nearest cliff and strive to beat that down as attempt such a thing as this. Whau! was ever such foolishness known?

They reckoned on help from the Amazulu? Well, what then? Even if they got it, where were the Amazulu now? They were no longer a nation. The power of the House of Senzangakona was gone for ever; and even if the splendid army of the last of those Elephants were here to fight on their side—what then? Even more now—ten times more—were the whites able to disperse such, like smoke; for their weapons were ten times better than any they had possessed at the time of the breaking up of the great House.

Whau! was ever such foolishness known!

And for what were the people plotting, these fools? Because they had to pay a little more in taxes than formerly, to pay for their own protection? Their own protection, for how would it have been with them had the Amabuna (Boer) come out best in the late struggle? The rule of the Amangisi (English), when the very worst had been said against it, was mild and merciful compared with what that of the Amabuna would be, were these masters of the land. Under this every man could enjoy his own and be free. And he was free, no man freer. But—under that? Again. Even if these strange preachers who had come among them with this poison under their tongues spoke truly; that the tribes were to combine and drive out the white man—whether Amabuna or Amangisi—what then? Somebody must be chief. There was no such thing as all men, all tribes and nations, being equal. The very idea was foolishness. Who then would be chief. Who then would be king? There was still a son of the House of Senzangakona alive. And the thinker, for his part, preferred the rule of the white man to that of the House of Senzangakona.

All of the above he had put before his people, and that not once only. But they had turned a deaf ear, or had listened but coldly. The spirit of unrest coursed high through their blood. The strange preachers were promising them a great and glorious future—and Babatyana had turned towards them a favourable ear. Zavula was old, they said among themselves; Babatyana was in his prime. He knew. He could walk with the times. The time had come for Zavula to go to sleep. Which sense may have accounted for the fact that Zavula now sat in his hut alone.

So the old chief sat there, gazing blinkingly into his dying fire, wondering why he should not be allowed to lay down his old bones in peace, instead of being hustled by a great crowd of idiots bent on seeking their own death. Had either or both of his two sons been alive how different things would have turned. He had taught them sound commonsense, at any rate, and would have been willing that the leadership of the tribe should devolve upon them. But Babatyana? Whau, Babatyana!

Now he was roused from his musings by a sound outside. It was the voice of someone singing—calling to him the tribal sibongo, or praise. The door of the hut was pushed open and a youth crept in, saying that a stranger craved leave to speak with the chief.