“I had other children,” continued Ghamba, quite unmoved, “but we ate them when food was scarce.”
“Have you always lived, all these years, on human flesh?” asked Whitson.
“No, not always; but whenever we could obtain it we did so. There is other food in these mountains—honey, ants’ eggs, roots, and fruit; besides game, which is, however, not very easy to catch. But we have often all had to go away and work when times have been bad. Besides, I have a herd of cattle at a Basuto kraal, and I have been in the habit of taking some of these now and then, and exchanging them for corn, which the women then went to fetch. But we have always tried to get people to eat, because we could enjoy no other kind of food. Sometimes we got them easily; and when we were very fortunate we used to dry part of the meat by hanging it up and lighting a fire underneath, with green wood, so as to make plenty of smoke.”
“Have you killed many white people?” asked Whitson.
“Yes, a good number; but not, of course, as many as black. Lately we have always tried to catch whites, because when you have eaten white flesh for some time, the flesh of a native no longer satisfies you.”
“Why not?”
“The flavour is not so strong.”
“Did you induce the other two policemen to come up by means of the story about Umhlonhlo?”
“Yes, they came up just as you did, and my sons caught them with the thongs. Umhlonhlo has brought us plenty of food.”
“Were you able to take the cartridges out of their revolvers as you did out of mine?”