In the Whirl of the Rising Part 10

"I see you, Lamonti. _Au_! Zwabeka? He is asleep."

"No matter. It will do when he wakes. Meanwhile we will go into a hut, for the rain will be great."

"'M--'m!" a.s.sented the bystanders in a guttural hum. "The rain will be great. Ah! ah! The rain will be great!"

There was a significance in the repet.i.tion hardly observed at the time by the new arrivals. One of them, at any rate, was to appreciate it later. To one of them, also, the utter absence of geniality on the part of the people supplied food for thought, combined too as it was with the use of his native name--in this instance a corruption of his own-- instead of the more respectful '_Nkose_.' But then Zwabeka's people were mostly Abezantsi--or those of the old, pure-blooded Zulu stock, and therefore proud.

"Come this way, _Amakosi_," said the man he had addressed as Gudhlusa, pointing to a small enclosure. "We will put your horses there, and give them grain. Yonder is a new hut with the thatch but just on. There will ye rest."

"That is good, Gudhlusa," said Lamont, giving him some tobacco. "Later, when the chief is awake we will talk with him."

The new hut proved to be a very new one, which was a huge advantage in that it ensured immunity from the swarming c.o.c.kroaches inseparable from old ones, and even worse. On the other hand, the thatch 'just put on,'

was not as complete as it might be, for a glint of sky visible through a hole or two in the roof did not give encouraging promise of a water-tight protection from the average thunder-shower. The saddlery and luggage was accordingly disposed in what looked likely to prove the driest side of the hut.

"Well, Father, I'm inclined to think we can see our quarters for to-night," said Lamont cheerfully, as he filled his pipe and pa.s.sed on his pouch to his companion.

"Thanks. I think so too. Well, we might do worse."

"Oh yes. A dry camp is better than a wet one. Do you talk the Sindabele?"

"A little. Enough to make myself understood for the ordinary purposes.

But I am learning it. You seem to have got it well, though."

"I wish I had it better. You see I am a bit interested in these people.

They--and their history--appeal to me. Poor devils! I can't help sympathising with them to a certain extent. It must be rotten hard luck for a lot of these older ones, like Zwabeka for instance, who have been big-wigs in their time, having to knuckle down to a new and strange form of government in which they come out very under-dog indeed. Still, it's the universal law and there's no help for it. But--I'm sorry for them for all that."

Could he have seen what was in Zwabeka's mind,--Zwabeka, nominally asleep in one of the huts a few yards away,--could he have heard what was on Zwabeka's tongue, yea, at that very moment, where would his sympathy have been? The course of but a few days was destined to change it, like that of many another who desired to treat the conquered race with fairness and consideration, and who like himself were sitting on the brink of the hitherto quiescent vent of a raging volcano.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

ZWABEKA'S KRAAL.

"Isn't that a perfect picture of savage life, set in a savage surrounding?" said Lamont, as he stood with his travelling companion before the door of the hut allotted to them. "It is artistically complete."

"It is indeed," was the answer.

And it was. The circle of the kraal, with its great open s.p.a.ce and the conical huts, four deep, ringing it in: the dark, lithe forms of its occupants, unclothed save for a _mutya_ of dangling monkey skins; or in the case of the women a greasy hide ap.r.o.n: the sinuous movements as the young men and boys ran in and out among the multi-coloured cattle: the reek of smoke and kine: the wild background of wooded ridge and craggy rock, and the swirling streamers of the storm-cloud above, pouring forth jetty beams of steely blue light and reverberating roll against the bushy spurs and darksome recesses. All this in the fast-gathering dusk made up a picture of sombre, impressive grandeur, the very soul of which seemed to permeate the minds of its two civilised spectators.

Then the full force of the storm broke overhead, and it was as though the whole world were on fire, and split in twain; what with the unintermittent electric glare, and the ear-splitting crashes, hardly more intermittent. But, with it all, not a drop of rain.

"It's grand; but I've a notion it's beastly dangerous," said Lamont.

"We'd better get inside. There's more electricity in us than in a roof.

They say," he went on, as they gained their shelter, "that dry storms are more dangerous than when it rains, but that may be a popular superst.i.tion. Anyway everyone doesn't share it, for here's somebody coming."

Even as he spoke, there crept through the low doorway, which had been left open, a young man followed by two girls, one bearing a basket of green mealies roasted on the ashes, the other a large bowl of _tywala_.

The youth explained that they were sent by Gudhlusa, who was sorry he could not send meat, but the people were poor, since Government and the pestilence had killed all their cattle, and they had no meat.

"We shall do famously," said Lamont. Then to the young man: "We thank Gudhlusa. And thou, _umfane_, make ready and broil these birds for us.

Here is of the white man's money; for thyself."

"_Nkose_!" cried the youth delightedly, taking up the two francolins.

"It shall be done. My father, Gudhlusa, also said that the chief, Zwabeka, is not able to see and talk with the _Amakosi_ this night. He is sick."

Lamont expressed his concern for the chief's health, not believing a word of the above statement, and the messenger withdrew.

Half an hour or so later they were reclining snugly in their blankets, beginning on the broiled birds and roast mealies by the light of an old waggon lantern the boy had rummaged out. "The only thing wanting is salt," p.r.o.nounced Lamont. "However, just a grain of this makes a sort of subst.i.tute. Try it."

He cut open one of his cartridges, which were made with black powder, and poured some of the latter out on to a piece of paper.

"But it does. Why, what a perfect travelling companion you are, Mr Lamont. You provide us with the salt--with the poultry--with everything."

Lamont laughed.

"Oh, as to the last," aiming a whack at a native dog, which was skulking in at the open door with an eye to plunder, "I always carry a shot-gun when travelling across country. It is an easily portable larder. The whole land swarms with birds, and you need only get off and shoot if you want skoff. Once, when I first came up here, I was travelling, and my horse went lame when I was about three hours from anywhere. I was in a great state of starve. Then it suddenly occurred to me that the bush was full of clucking pheasants--why the deuce didn't I shoot one, light a fire and broil him? Well, I did, then and there. Ever since then I've always travelled with a shot-gun."

"I, for one, am very glad of it, to-day especially," laughed the priest.

"These birds are delicious."

They did ample justice to the bowl of _tywala_ too, then lit their pipes, and lay chatting, at ease, the hollow roaring of the receding storm--or was it another approaching?--enhancing the sense of comfort within, under the influence of which conversation soon became disjointed. Father Mathias started as his half-smoked pipe dropped from his mouth, while his companion was already nodding. Both laughed.

"I think we had better say good-night," said the latter. "For my part, I feel as if I could sleep till the crack of doom."

The kraal was wrapped in silence, save for an indistinct hum here and there, where some of its occupants still carried on a lingering conversation. At last even it died away, and as hour followed hour the midnight silence was unbroken and profound.

Lamont was rather a light sleeper than otherwise, consequently it is not surprising that, the burden of his last waking words notwithstanding, a feeling of something half-scratching, half-tickling his ear, then his cheek, should start him wide awake. Following a natural impulse, though not perhaps a wise one, he brushed the thing off, and as he did so a shudder of loathing and repulsion ran through him, for it had a sort of feathery, leggy feel that made him guess its ident.i.ty. Quickly he struck a light. Sprawling over the floor of the hut was a huge tarantula, looking more like an animal than an insect in the dim light of the burning vesta. Then, alarmed, it moved across the floor at a springy run, and before the spectator had decided how to put an end to its loathly existence it disappeared within a crevice in the side of the hut.

"Phew! what an awful-looking beast!" said Lamont to himself, with a natural shudder at the thought of how the hairy monster had been actually about to walk over his face in the darkness, and further, of what a narrow escape he must have had from its venomous nippers as he brushed it off. "They grow them large here, for that's the biggest I've ever seen--by Jove it is!"

He struck another match. His companion was sleeping peacefully, but as for himself all desire for sleep had fled. With his large experience of sleeping in all sorts of places, it would have been odd if a similar disturbing incident had not come his way before, and that not once only: yet the feeling of repulsion was none the less real, none the less unpleasant, now. He would get through the remainder of the night outside. The ground was open, and there was no thatch overhead to drop hairy horrors upon him in his sleep. Taking his blanket, he crept out through the hole which did duty for a doorway.

All traces of the storm had disappeared, and overhead the stars shone forth in the blue-black vault in a myriad blaze unknown to cold northern skies. By their light he could just see the time. It was half-past one.

The night air was fresh, not to say chilly, and he shivered. No question was there of further sleep, at any rate not for some time.

Wrapping his blanket around him he decided to walk about a little.

On one side of the hut which had been allotted to them was open ground, by reason of it being the site of several old habitations which had been removed to make way for new ones. This would supply him with excellent s.p.a.ce for his sentry-like walk.

So still was the great kraal that it might have been the abode of the dead--the cl.u.s.tering huts so many mausoleums. Not even a dog was astir, which might be accounted for by the fact that there were but few in the place, and they probably away on the farther side. And then it occurred to Lamont that nocturnal perambulation with no external, and therefore legitimate, object, especially during the small hours, was an unpopular form of exercise among natives. Only _abatagati_, or evil-disposed wizards, prowled about at night, they held, wherefore his present wandering was injudicious--might even prove dangerous. He had better go in.

Now, as he arrived at this conclusion, his perambulations had brought him to the other side of the open s.p.a.ce above described--that farthest removed from his own hut, and as he turned to carry it into effect he stopped short--a thrill of astonishment tingling through his frame. For his ear had caught the low murmur of voices and--in among them--the native version of his own name.

Yes, there it was again, distinctly--'U' Lamonti.' What did it mean?

The whole kraal should by rights have been plunged in slumber, yet here was quite a conclave of its inhabitants, not only very wide awake, but engaged in some apparently earnest discussion--in which his own name seemed to hold no unimportant a place. A curious warning prescience took possession of his mind, and moved him to adopt a course from which he would, by every natural instinct, have recoiled with loathing. He was going to play eavesdropper.

The hut from which the sounds proceeded was an outer one just within the main circle, standing almost against the thorn stockade. By creeping up on this side, the shadows of both would be in his favour, and, lying flat, with his ear as close to the doorway as he dared venture, it would be hard if he could not catch at any rate the gist of their discussion.