The Ruined Cities of Zululand

by Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley

“We are lost, Hughes,” said the missionary, in low, hoarse tones.

“The chief may save us,” replied his comrade. “There is yet hope.”

Inside the women were chaunting, in loud drawling tone, the good qualities of the deceased, telling of his virtues in peace, his wisdom in the council, and his great deeds of war. The body itself lay stretched at full length in one corner, lying on some panther skins.

“There is hope there,” whispered the missionary. “Look at the dead man’s face, the pinched-up features, that small dark stream flowing from the lips, the tongue hard, black, and dry, hanging from the mouth, and the limbs drawn up with cramp. He has been poisoned.”

“By whom?” asked Hughes, as the two stood, their hands bound behind them, gazing on the sickening spectacle.

“By Umhleswa. It was his interest to do this, and if so, he is watching the result.”

A rush of people into the hut now separated the two, while outside the shouting of the men, the jabbering of the baboon, and from time to time a yell from Luji, who was evidently the most suspected, was heard.

The two white captives, separated from each other, were now forced into a sitting position, one on each side of the corpse, while the women, ever chaunting the praises of Sgalam, proceeded to lay the body out. It was quite nude, and though cold, had not yet stiffened. The tongue which, thickly coated with yellow, had been protruded, was now forced back into the mouth. A rope of palmyra fibre was brought, and the women then proceeded to swathe it round with the cord, giving the body a sitting position. This operation lasted a couple of hours, during which the prisoners were kept apart, as spectators, the noise outside never ceasing. Hughes, who now had the notion that both were to be sacrificed on the dead chief’s grave, attempted to speak across the hut to the missionary, but a heavy blow was the reward. Wyzinski’s calm face and thin features relaxed into a smile, as the soldier returned the blow by means of a violent kick, and found himself the next moment powerless lying on his back, and a stout rope of palmyra round his legs. Strangely situated as they were, it was a curious sight. The busy women, singing their monotonous song; the sitting corpse stiffening into the position that had been given it. Outside, shouting and wild excitement, and every now and then some Amatonga brave dashing into the hut, yelling out half a dozen phrases in praise of the dead Sgalam, and dashing away, to be followed in turn by others. In one corner the soldier firmly bound, in another the missionary, his hands only tied. At length a litter of branches was brought, the sitting corpse placed upon it, the hut became filled with savages, the rope which confined the soldier’s legs was unfastened, and the two were ordered to follow the bier, which was conveyed outside. A circle of dark braves swept round the captives, their glittering knives in their hands, as the procession moved off, the leading men of the tribe grouping themselves round the corpse shouting and yelling. They had not far to go, for the journey ended at an enclosure a few hundred yards from the dead warrior’s hut. The bright sun streamed over them as they entered this enclosure, which was in fact the place where the chief’s cattle had been penned. There, right in the centre, a deep hole had been dug, and into this, ever preserving his sitting position, the body was lowered, the songs, screams, and shouts increasing in intensity, as the broad hoes threw back the light earth into the grave. Slowly but surely the body disappeared, for a hundred hoes were at work dragging the sand back. The face of the dead was gradually covered, the hole was filled, and there, in the centre of his cattle shed, sat the dead Sgalam concealed from all eyes. The men with the hoes threw them aside, and commenced a strange slow dance round the grave; then, pausing, with wild yells, the savages threw themselves on the captives, and in a moment they were on the ground struggling vainly for their lives, with a hundred bright blades gleaming in the sunshine around them. Their tribe imperilled by the white man’s foolish curiosity, one of their best warriors and most noted chiefs killed by them,—for they firmly believed it,—the two delinquents were about to moisten with their blood the grave of the Amatonga brave. The moment was a critical one, when suddenly the wily Umhleswa appeared among them, his Spanish gun in his hand, the ostrich plume in his hair, and the panther skin round his waist. His glittering eyes ran over the group, as with a few deep guttural words, he bore back the crowd of savages.

“Would you kill the innocent, and spare the guilty?” he shouted, waving his hand toward the white men, who now rose covered with sand, but unhurt. “The Amatonga have a custom; would you break that custom, and defile the grave of our brother with the blood of the innocent? Let the far-seeing Koomalayoo be consulted; let the sorcerer of the tribe speak out, and let those who have done this deed die.”

“To Koomalayoo, to Koomalayoo,” yelled the Amatonga, and the well-planned purpose of the wily savage was accomplished. Moving along among the huts, the groups of excited savages, their numbers ever increasing, bore with them the dirt-begrimed white men, and the frightened Luji. An ox was driven out of an enclosure and placed at the head of the procession, the whole moving on slowly under one of the conical hills, and taking its way towards the neighbouring forest. Bound with palmyra rope, and the baboon firmly tied in its usual position on his shoulders, Luji’s face seemed the very picture of abject terror, while the ape, fairly cowed, jibbered and moaned.