A Frontier Mystery Part 1

A Frontier Mystery.

by Bertram Mitford.

CHAPTER ONE.

"WHERE I COME IN."

"White dogs!"

"Ha! Calves of Matyana, the least of the Great One's cattle."

"Pups of Tyingoza, the white man's dog! _Au_!"

"Sweepings of the Abe Sutu!"

"Amakafula!" [Kafirs.]

Such were but few of the opprobrious phrases, rolled forth alternately, in the clear sonorous Zulu, from alternate sides of the river, which flowed laughing and bubbling on in the sunlight, between its high banks of tree-shaded rocks. Yet in spite of the imputation of "whiteness"

made by the one, they of the other party were in no shade of bronze duskiness removed from those who made it. Each party numbered about a dozen: young men all, with the same lithe straight forms dest.i.tute of all clothing but a skin _mutya_; armed with the same two or three a.s.segais and a k.n.o.bstick apiece, eke small hide shields. There was no outward visible difference between them, as how indeed, should there be, since both were sprung from absolutely the same stock? But the difference was essential for all that, for whereas one party dwelt upon the Natal side of the river, the other was composed of warriors of the king, the limits of whose territory they dared not overstep.

"Come over and fight!" challenged the latter, waving their shields.

"Ha! Come over to us," was the answer.

Here was an _impa.s.se_. Br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with fight as they were, the first hesitated to embark on what would amount to nothing less than a raid upon English territory; for did the news of it reach the ears of the King--as it almost certainly would--why death to the whole lot of them was the least they could expect. On the other hand if the Natal party could be induced to cross why they would make such an example of these Amakafula--as they contemptuously called them--that the latter, for very shame's sake, would be only too careful to say nothing at all of the affair.

"We leave not our land," came the answer to this after a hesitating pause. "Cross ye hither, cowards. Ye are more than us by two."

"Ah--ah! But we shall be less by more than two when we reach the bank.

You will strike us in the water."

"We will not," called out the spokesman on the Zulu side. "You shall even have time to recover breath. Is it not so, brothers?"

"_Eh-he_!" chorussed his followers in loud a.s.sent.

"Swear it."

"U' Tshaka!"

The awful name rolled forth sonorously from every throat. An oath ratified on the name of the greatest king their world had ever known was ratified indeed. Hardly had it sounded than a joyful whoop rent the air. A dozen bronze bodies flashed in the sunlight and amid a mighty splash a dozen dark heads bobbed up above the surface of the long deeply flowing reach. A moment later, and their owners had ploughed their way to the other side, and emerged streaming from the river, their shields and weapons still held aloft in the left hand, as they had been during the crossing in order to keep them dry.

"We will drop our weapons, and fight only with sticks, brothers,"

proposed the Zulu leader. "Is that to be?"

"As you will," returned the Natal party, and immediately all a.s.segais were cast to the ground.

The place was an open glade which sloped down to the water, between high, tree-fringed rocks. Both sides stood looking at each other, every chest panting somewhat with suppressed excitement. Then a quick, shrill whistle from the Zulu leader, and they met in full shock.

It was something of a Homeric strife, as these young heroes came together. There was no sound but the slap of shield meeting shield; the clash and quiver of hard wood; the quick, throaty panting of the combatants. Then the heavy crunch of skull or joint, and half a dozen are down quivering or motionless, while their conquerors continue to batter them without mercy.

Leaping, whirling--gradually drawing away from the rest, two of the combatants are striving; each devoting every nerve, every energy, to the overthrow of the other. But each feint is met by counter feint, each terrible swinging stroke by the crash of equally hard wood or the dull slap of tough hide shield opposed in parry. Already more are down, still about even numbers on each side, and still these two combatants strive on. Both are tall, supple youths, perfect models of proportion and sinewy grace and strength. Then a sudden crunching sound, and the blood is pouring from the head of one of them.

"One to thee, son of Tyingoza!" cries the wielder of the successful stroke, nimbly swerving to avoid the return one.

"It was 'white dog' but now," snarls the other, savagely, and with a deft underswing of his k.n.o.bstick delivering a numbing blow on the side of his adversary's leg. It is a good blow, yet he is beginning to stagger, half stunned, and blinded with his own blood.

"Ha! Give up, and run to the river, while there is time," jeers his opponent, who is the leader of the Zulu party.

For answer, he who is apostrophised as the son of Tyingoza, rushes upon the speaker with such a sudden access of apparently resistless ferocity, that the latter is forced backward somewhat by the very fury of the onslaught; but--such are the fortunes of war. Already the bulk of those who have crossed from the Natal side are down, two of them stone dead-- and the rest, demoralised already, are plunging into the river and striking out for their own sh.o.r.e. They cannot get to the aid of their leader because of the foes who are pressing them hard, and barring their way. The said foes, now victors, thus freed, turn to spring to the aid of their own leader, and the whole group, uttering a loud bloodthirsty shout hurls itself upon the son of Tyingoza. He, though he has given up all hope, still battles valorously, when a stick, deftly hurled, strikes him hard and full upon one shin, snapping the bone, and vanquished he sinks to the earth, still instinctively holding up his shield to avert the rain of blows showered upon him, and which, in a moment or so will batter his skull to a pulp; for they see red now, those blood-frenzied combatants, and no considerations of mercy will avail to stay their murderous arms.

But that moment or so is destined to bring forth weighty results. There has been a spectator of the whole affray unseen by the combatants, and now he steps forth.

"Stand back!" he shouts, coming right between the slayers and their prey. "Back, I say! He is down and ye are many. Let him live."

"No, he shall die. Out of our way, white man!"

None but a white man--or their own chief--could have restrained these hot bloods at such a moment, yet this one was determined to do it, although the process was not much safer than that of attempting to s.n.a.t.c.h a bone from a hungry mastiff.

"You are boys, therefore foolish," he cried. "If you slay the son of a chief how long will it be before the English carry the word to the Great Great One's ears? Then--good-night!"

This told--as no other argument would have told. They held their hands, though some muttered that both should be slain to make things all the safer. And the white man so far had displayed no weapon. In fact he had none.

"Get up, son of Tyingoza," he said, "and get back to thine own side of the river, which it was foolish to leave."

The wounded youth managed to stagger to his feet, the white man aiding him. Several of those who had fallen did likewise, the conquerors sullenly drawing off, to help their own stricken comrades. And what a scene the place presented. Broken k.n.o.bkerries and broken heads, battered shields and twisted limbs, and red, nauseous, sticky pools glittering among the gra.s.s. Three of those fallen would never rise again. And what was it all about? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"_Au_! it is Iqalaqala," muttered the young Zulus, as the white man a.s.sisted the chief's son to cross the river. "Fare thee well, Iqalaqala. We have but played at a fight. _Au_! It was only play."

And that is how I come into the story.

CHAPTER TWO.

G.o.dFREY GLANTON--TRADER.

It was hot. Away on the skyline the jagged peaks of Kahlamba rose in a shimmer of haze. In front and below, the same shimmer was upon the great sweep of green and gold bush. The far winding of the Tugela shone here and there through the billowy undulations of the same, and above, a gleam of silver where Umzinyati's waters babbled on to join it. So, too, over the far expanse of warrior Zululand--peaceful enough now to outward aspect in all conscience--the slumbrous yet far from enervating heat of mid-afternoon still brooded.

Yes, it was hot, decidedly hot, and I remarked thereupon to Tyingoza, who agreed with me of course. Every well-bred native agrees with you-- that is to say pretty well every native--and Tyingoza was a well-bred native, being of Umtetwa breed--the royal clan what time Tshaka the Usurper, Tshaka the Great, Tshaka the Genius, Tshaka the Terrible, shook up the dry bones and made the nation of Zulu to live. Incidentally Tyingoza was the chief of a very large native location situated right on the border--and in this connection I have often wondered how it is that with the fear of that awful and bloodthirsty tyrant Cetywayo (see the Blue Books) before their eyes, such a congested native population could have been found to plant itself, of its own free will, right bang within a.s.segai throw of his "manslaying machine" (see again the Blue Books), that is to say, with only the division afforded by an easily fordable river between it and them. Tyingoza's father had migrated from Zululand what time the Dutch and Mpande fought Dingane, and Dingane fought both; for, like a wise man, he held that he could not _konza_ to three kings, and now Tyingoza would have returned to his fatherland, with which all his sympathies--sentimental--lay, but for the material fact that he--and incidentally, his followers--were exceedingly comfortable where they were.

"M-m!" hummed Tyingoza. "In truth it is hot here, but--not over there, Iqalaqala."

There was a quizzical twinkle in Tyingoza's eyes, as he pointed down into the valley beneath--and I understood him. The above, by the way, was my native name, meaning one who is wide awake at a deal; bestowed presumably because when I had bought out the former owner of the trading store at Isipanga the guileless native had discovered rather a more difficult subject to get round than that worthy dealer; who was all too frequently in his cups, and easy to "best" while in that halcyonic condition. I did not resent the use of the sobriquet on this or any other occasion: in the first place because it was not an unflattering one; in the next because I liked Tyingoza, who was a gentleman every inch of him, and--shrug not in horror, oh ye n.o.ble white brethren--in my heart of hearts I could not but recognise that this aristocratic scion of a splendid race was, taking him all round, every whit as good a man, albeit dusky, as a certain happy-go-lucky inconsequent and knockabout trader in the Zulu.

I understood his meaning. "Over there"--_la pa_--referred to the abode of my nearest neighbour, a retired British officer, who had lived to no better experience than to imagine himself expressly cut out for a second and farming career, entered on late in life--and, I suspected, on little beyond a commuted pension, here on the Natal border. He owned a comfortable homestead, and a grown-up family, including a brace of exceedingly good-looking daughters. Here then was a bright and wholesome British home circle to which I, a lonely, knockabout sort of semi-barbarian, had found a welcome; and indeed, while not outwearing this, I believe I did not underrate it; for the bush path between my trading store and Major Sewin's farm had become far more worn and easier to be found by the unskilled stranger since its former occupant, a bankrupt and stertorous Dutchman, had been obliged to evacuate it in favour of its present owner.

Now, as Tyingoza spoke, I looked longingly down into the valley on the other side. Away, where it wound beneath a towering cone, I could make out a film of smoke, and was wondering whether it was too soon after my last visit to send my horse down along the ten miles of rugged bush path between it and where we sat--in something over the hour. I could get back at midnight, or soon after, and time was no object to me in those days. I had spent enough of it among savages to have acquired something of their indifference to it. It mattered nothing what time I slept or woke. If I felt sleepy I slept, if I felt hungry I ate--if I felt neither I did neither--and that about summed up my rule of life, as, in those days, it did that of many another circ.u.mstanced like myself. But of making a point of turning in or turning out at a given time--no. I had long parted with anything of the kind; indeed the fact that there was such a thing as a watch or a clock on the place was the merest accident.