Then the first of the ten indunas stepped out. He raised his shield and knob-kerrie above his head and saluted the dead king. Immediately came the "thunder of the shields." Every warrior in the entire crowd began striking his shield with his knob-kerrie. There was no staccato to the blows—rather a rubbing, pulling stroke that brought each blow out with repeated vibrations. In a few moments a cadence was set up and the strokes came all together at equal intervals. The effect was terrific; the air seemed to pulsate with the vibrations and it seemed to catch me right in the pit of the stomach.
The steady drumming slowly rose in a crescendo, and then the induna turned from the king's body and with one far-flung motion threw his shield and arms into the fire. Next he turned, threw his head back, and faced the body. Slowly and firmly he stepped forward until he stood beside his dead king.
The chief witch-doctor stood a pace or two from him, his right hand holding a great curved knife which gleamed and shimmered in the bright light of the fire. There was a tense moment, made doubly painful by the steady roar of the beaten shields. I was fascinated. I knew what was coming and dreaded to see it. Yet I found myself powerless to look away; my eyes were riveted on that murderous knife!
Slowly the witch-doctor raised the knife above his head. Then one step forward, a lightning thrust, and the induna came down like a falling tree! He did not stir; there was no convulsive death struggle. The doctor was an efficient butcher.
Each of the others went to his death in exactly the same way. There was no flinching, no hesitation; open-eyed and unafraid these savages went like stoics to their death. The witch-doctor did not bungle; each stroke brought death and there was no need for the services of his assistants who stood ready with stabbing spears.
The next to the last man to die was the brother of the fiercest of my two bodyguards. This was evident from the new energy with which my man beat his shield. If I had not noticed this, his remark after the knife went home would have enlightened me.
"A man! A brave man! A warrior!" he said to his companion in a hoarse, dust-choked voice. "My brother is a brave induna. He is a true son of my mother!"
When the last man was sacrificed, the witch-doctor made another speech. It was about what heroes the ten indunas had been and what a great king they had lost. One sentence I remember.
"So long as warriors are willing to die for Swaziland," he shouted, "our country is safe! So long as our best face death without fear, we need not fear the Zulus, Boers, or British. The white men fear death. They can never stand against our impis if our warriors are led by such men as those who died to-night!"
The thought came to me that it was rather foolish to kill indunas, leaders of warriors, in this fashion, but it was the ancient custom and their brave death made for heroism among those who lived. Each kraal to which one of the sacrificed indunas belonged gloried in his death and it became a tradition for the younger warriors to live up to.