Chapter Fourteen.
A long interval had passed since the occurrence of the events recorded in the last chapter. It was now July, the depth of the southern winter. Although Zululand is on the border of the tropics, there is often at that season damp and chilly weather, which is extremely trying to Europeans. When our story re-opens, George, Vander Heyden, and Redgy were lying on some tiger-skin karosses, under the shelter of a Cape waggon, enjoying the warm beams of the sun, which in the forenoon had considerable power.
The scene was very different from that surrounding Rorke’s Drift, being extremely picturesque and beautiful. A rich undulating plain was spread out before them, terminating in woody heights. The green surface was varied by patches of mimosa scrub and groves of acacias and date palms. Under the hills to the right, which were mostly covered with thorns, the course of the noble Zulu river, the White Umvalosi, was distinctly to be traced, now lost between graceful masses of feathery foliage, now flashing out from behind its screen into the full sunlight.
“Do you know what that mound is yonder?” inquired Margetts, pointing to a vast green tumulus, conspicuous in the distance in the direction of the north-east. “Has a battle been fought there, or what?”
“That is King Panda’s tomb!” said Vander Heyden,—“Cetewayo’s father, you know. He was interred there in a sitting attitude, as is the custom of the country. The meaning of it, I suppose, is to signify that he is still ruling the land, as they have a sort of superstitious belief that he does. They are very particular about their funeral ceremonies. They have an idea that the spirits of the dead will punish severely any omission of them!”
“And they have an unpleasant custom of killing some hundreds of people to do honour to the dead, haven’t they?” inquired Redgy.
“Yes, they have,” assented Vander Heyden; “but to do your English Government justice, they would not allow that. One reason why I resolved to follow this out to the last, is because I know Cetewayo’s barbarity has only been kept within any bounds by the power of the English. Were he to be able to defy that, the horrors of the past would be revived.”
“Shall we pass Panda’s tomb on our way to attack Ulundi to-morrow?” asked Margetts. “I am not sure that even now I know the exact position of the royal kraal!”
“It is there,” said Vander Heyden, pointing with his hand, “in the centre of those masses of the mimosa scrub. It is as much as fifteen or sixteen miles from here. If we are to march to attack it to-morrow, as you say, Margetts, and as is generally believed in the camp, it will be a long day’s work over a country like this.”