“I wonder he didn’t leave the country,” remarked Ernest Baylen.
“He was advised to do so,” said Hardy, “but he was a brave man, and said he had done no wrong, and that he put his trust in the God he had newly learned. Nothing was heard about him for some time. But one morning, quite early, I was roused by a number of Zulus living in an adjoining kraal, who told me that the king had sent an Impi to eat up Usumanzi. His house had already been surrounded, and himself, and every one belonging to him, even to the infants in arms, assegayed. The cattle were being driven off at that moment. In an hour or two Usumanzi’s kraal had been entirely destroyed by fire, and the ashes scattered in all directions. In a short time not a trace was left of his habitation.”
“And was no complaint made of such an outrage?” asked Margetts.
“Who was there to make it?” inquired Hardy. “Usumanzi’s relatives, if there were any of them left, were too thankful to have escaped notice, and were little likely to do anything that might cause them to share his fate. Perhaps you think that I might have made some representations to the Governor of Natal; but I had already incurred suspicion, and received a hint to keep quiet. The Government were unwilling at that time to come to a rupture with Cetewayo. I knew, too, that I should be required to produce witnesses; and not one of the Zulus, who knew the facts, could have been induced, by love or money, to say a word on the subject. Most probably they would have said, if they had been brought into a court of justice, that Usumanzi’s kraal had caught fire accidentally. No. He knew in this instance that he was safe, and you may be assured that, let him profess what he will, there is no possibility of inducing Cetewayo to respect the rights of his own subjects, or those of other nations, except by putting him down by force of arms. And as for that—” He appeared to be about to add something more, but checked himself, and addressed his host. “It must be time for us to go to bed, Mr Bilderjik,” he said. “We have a long day’s work before us to-morrow, and must start early. I suppose you mean to set off for Helpmakaar the first thing in the morning?”
“Helpmakaar?” repeated the farmer. “No, I shall not set out for that in the morning, if I do it at all to-morrow. You have forgotten that we have left one of our waggons in a damaged condition on the other side of the Mooi.”
“To be sure, so I had. How stupid of me! But if we are not going to be fellow-travellers to-morrow, I should like to have a little talk with you, Baylen, before we turn in for the night. Will you walk with me to the hotel in the village; I can say what I want while we are on the way there.”
Mr Baylen assented. They said good-night to their host, and stepped out into the porch, and thence passed through the little garden into the wide street of the picturesque little town, with its white houses—each shaded by its green verandah—and its double row of fruit trees already beginning to spread a pleasant shade. At that hour it was quite deserted, and Hardy presently began,—
“I thought it better not to tell you my reason for riding over from Umvalosa to meet you. I did not want to alarm the ladies.”
“What has happened?” asked Baylen anxiously.
“No injury has been done to your property or your servants,” said Hardy. “But beyond Umvalosa, from a little distance outside the town, as far as Utrecht, or nearly as far, there is nothing but ruin and destruction.”