The White Hecatomb, and Other Stories

by W. C. Scully

Four

Sobèdè, after his sentence, was drafted with other convicted prisoners to the convict station at Port Saint John’s, on the coast of Pondoland and at the mouth of the Umzimvubu river. Here, every working day, he trundled a wheel-barrow filled with gravel at the bluff that was being broken down for the purpose, and tipped it into the lagoon which, before it was thus filled up, wound sinuously through the little village. When each day’s work was done, he was marched with the other convicts to the prison, which was built of galvanised iron on the flattened top of a sand-hill overlooking the deep blue wonder of the Indian Ocean, and the lovely river-mouth with its beetling cliffs and steep forest-fringed slopes. He was well fed and comfortably housed; the work was not heavy, nor were the working hours distressingly long. The only things that troubled him much, after the first wild, desperate feeling of being trapped had passed away, were the monotony of the life, the restraint, always so specially irksome to uncivilised man, and the longing to obtain news of his wife and child, of his father and his cattle.

The climate of Port Saint John’s, the gentle haze that seems to steal into the soul and allay every irritation, the health-giving breath and the commiserating murmur of the great ocean, all brought him peace. Thus the time passed more quickly and less painfully than he had expected. Moreover, he obtained the remission of six weeks for each year of his sentence, such as is allowed to all well-conducted convicts whose sentences exceed a certain limit. Of the regulation authorising this he and his family had been unaware.

At length he one day found himself a free man, with a clear conscience and in perfect health. In spite of having herded with evil-doers he came out of prison a better man than he had entered it. He had endured heavy tribulation without losing hope; he had never lost hold of his past and his future; he had instinctively and insensibly acquired a healthy philosophy under the stress of his unmerited misfortune.

Now he looked forward to meeting, within a few days, the wife, child, and father whom, in spite of his black skin and his uncivilised nature, he dearly loved. Conscious of his innocence and buoyant with hope, Sobèdè, as he walked down the hill from the convict station after his release, held his head erect and looked every man he met straight in the face. He was probably a better man than most of those who would have felt themselves contaminated by touching him.

It is a long day’s walk from Port Saint John’s to Sidotè’s location, and the whole course lies up-hill. Sobèdè was, however, in perfect condition, and although he hurried on, walking all day long and half the night, he felt less and less fatigue the farther he went. The cold was severe in the higher altitudes, and he felt it considerably after his nearly three years spent at sea-level, but this he did not mind. His warm hearth, with Mampitizili and the child, who, he thought, must now be big and old enough to run about and talk, was waiting for him, and once there his troubles would all be forgotten.

Upon taking his discharge, a few shillings wherewith to buy food on his homeward journey had been given to him by the superintendent of the convict station. Of this money he spent hardly any. Natives are extremely hospitable to strangers, and all through Pondoland and the Xesibè country Sobèdè never lacked food to eat.

The last day of Sobèdè’s journey dawned at last. His course now lay along a main road running over farms occupied by Europeans, so he met with hardly any people, nor did he see a single one whom he knew. Just before sundown he came to a wagon outspanned, the owner of which had just slaughtered a goat. Thinking it probable that there would be no fresh meat at his kraal, Sobèdè invested a shilling of his maintenance-money in goat-flesh. He cut a hole in the lump of meat, stuck his stick through it, and carried it over his shoulder.

Sobèdè’s kraal was situated almost on the verge of the Hlangweni location, and the footpath leading to it from the main road passed no other dwellings of men. It was sundown when he reached the point at which the footpath diverged, leading up the valley at the upper end of which the huts were built. His feet were worn and sore from the long walk, but he hurried along the steep, rugged course with firm nervous steps. It was almost dark when he began to ascend the short, steep lip of the ledge. It struck him as being strange that he had seen no signs of cattle or other animals, nor had he even heard the bark of a dog. Perhaps, he thought, those at the kraal had gone to sleep, and the dogs crept in under shelter from the cold. Of course, he was not expected for another four months, as his family knew nothing of the good-conduct remission.

He reached the top of the ledge; there sure enough, he could see the outline of each hut in the shadow of the dark hill-side, beneath the faintly-gleaming western sky.—But what was the matter? Not only was there no sign of life, but he was surrounded by indications of desolation and decay. The weeds were growing thickly all around him. Sobèdè stepped forward with faltering steps and a sinking heart and made for the largest hut. He saw that the wall had partly fallen in on one side, the door had disappeared, and a gleam of stars showed through a ragged gap in the roof. Sobèdè flung himself to the ground before the threshold, and sobbed like a tired and despairing child.