“Whatever happened,” he remarked sagely, “we should scarcely be welcome in their country afterwards, so I think we had better do nothing unless we are obliged.”
I nodded, for it was obvious that we could not fight hundreds of men, and told Sammy, who was perfectly livid with fear, to bring the breakfast. No wonder he was afraid, poor fellow, for we were in great danger. These Mazitu had a bad name, and if they chose to attack us we should all be dead in a few minutes.
The coffee and some cold buck’s flesh were put upon our little camp-table in front of the tent which we had pitched because of the rain, and we began to eat. The Zulu hunters also ate from a bowl of mealie porridge which they had cooked on the previous night, each of them with his loaded rifle upon his knees. Our proceedings appeared to puzzle the Mazitu very much indeed. They drew quite near to us, to within about forty yards, and halted there in a dead circle, staring at us with their great round eyes. It was like a scene in a dream; I shall never forget it.
Everything about us appeared to astonish them, our indifference, the colour of Stephen and myself (as a matter of fact at that date Brother John was the only white man they had ever seen), our tent and our two remaining donkeys. Indeed, when one of these beasts broke into a bray, they showed signs of fright, looking at each other and even retreating a few paces.
At length the position got upon my nerves, especially as I saw that some of them were beginning to fiddle with their bows, and that their General, a tall, one-eyed old fellow, was making up his mind to do something. I called to one of the two Mazitus, whom I forgot to say we had named Tom and Jerry, and gave him a pannikin of coffee.
“Take that to the captain there with my good wishes, Jerry, and ask him if he will drink with us,” I said.
Jerry, who was a plucky fellow, obeyed. Advancing with the steaming coffee, he held it under the Captain’s nose. Evidently he knew the man’s name, for I heard him say:
“O Babemba, the white lords, Macumazana and Wazela, ask if you will share their holy drink with them?”
I could perfectly understand the words, for these people spoke a dialect so akin to Zulu that by now it had no difficulty for me.
“Their holy drink!” exclaimed the old fellow, starting back. “Man, it is hot red-water. Would these white wizards poison me with mwavi?”