John Ames, Native Commissioner Part 12

"Big policeman, 'Nkose; him name Nanzicele. Him come up from barracks now."

The men's quarters--which, by the way, were not barracks but native huts--lay about three hundred yards below those occupied by their officer.

"Then tell 'him' to go back to them again, and wait until I've done dinner," replied Inglefield, briskly; for he was of an obstinate turn, besides instinctively resenting anything like interference on the part of his brother official.

The small boy retired, and for a moment voices were heard outside. Then there entered--Nanzicele.

"Great Caesar!" cried Inglefield, reddening. "What the devil do you mean, sir, by disobeying orders? Go back to the barracks at once!

Here, _Puma! Hambasuka_! Footsack!"

But ignoring the pointing finger of his irate superior, Nanzicele took one step to the side--leaving the door clear--and, standing at attention, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed in loud and sonorous tones--

"_Baba--'Nkose_!"

Was it a signal? Crosse, who was seated opposite the door, lurched forward, falling with his face on the table, simultaneously with the crash of two shots fired from outside. John Ames, pinned to his chair by a grip as powerful as steel, was impotent to do more than ineffectually struggle. Half a dozen stalwart savages rushed into the hut, and, dividing their forces, four of them threw themselves upon Inglefield, the remaining two turning their attention to the latter's wife. It was all done in a moment. The suddenness of it, the total, utter unpreparedness of those who, but two seconds ago, had been unsuspectingly dining, left not the smallest chance of resistance.

Inglefield, starting up, instinctively to seize the carving-knife, was stabbed again and again with sword-bayonets before he could raise a hand, and fell to the floor. The wretched woman, too petrified with the suddenness and terror of it all even to shriek, was promptly despatched; one savage drawing his weapon across her throat with a slash that nearly severed the head. It was all over in a moment. Yet one victim remained:

John Ames, now bound fast to his chair with straps, felt himself grow dizzy and sick with the horror of this appalling butchery. Blood dripped to the floor, then splashed in bright red drops on the garments of the murderers. And those garments were the uniform of the Native Police.

All seemed to heave in misty dimness before his eyes. In a moment he would faint. Then, with a vast effort of will, he recovered himself.

Why had _he_ been spared? In a moment the whole situation flashed through his brain. This was the beginning of a general rising. The Native Police had no grudge against their officers, let alone against Inglefield, who was, if anything, too easy-going. If _they_ were in open revolt, then the rising was general, even as he and one or two others had feared might one day be the case. The fiercely sullen demeanour of Madula and his people at the destruction of their cattle now a.s.sumed an aspect of deadly significance. The destruction of their cattle! Ah, there was the last straw! But--why had he been spared?

Then amid this scene of horror hope came uppermost. His administration had always been signalled by strict and impartial justice to the natives, even when white interests were concerned--a line, be it whispered, not invariably the rule in those days, when the policy known as "supporting the white man against the black" at any cost, was deemed wise and necessary. He was known to several of the chiefs, and by chiefs and people alike respected. It might well be that he was marked out for exemption from a general ma.s.sacre.

But now a voice, lifted up, seemed to shatter to fragments any such hopes--a great jeering voice, vengeful, triumphant, menacing. It was the voice of Nanzicele, addressing him in voluble Sindabele.

"Ho, Jonemi! Where are you now? And these? 'Let the people have patience. Let the people have patience,' Your words, Jonemi. Great words, Jonemi! Well, the people have had patience, and now their day is come. By this time to-morrow all the whites in the land will be dead."

"Will be dead," echoed those around, with an emphatic hum.

"Why have you--have you all done this thing, Nanzicele?" said John Ames, striving to repress the shudder of loathing and disgust which shook his voice. "Have you not been treated well--treated with every consideration and justice by your officer? And yet--"

"Justice!" growled the savage. "Justice! Now nay, Jonemi; now nay. I was a chief in the Amapolise, now I am a common man again. Who made me so? Not this"--pushing with his foot the bleeding corpse of Inglefield.

"But for thy counsels he would not have brought me down. It was thou, Jonemi--thou. Now shall thy blood pour over my hand."

Nanzicele all this while had been working himself up to a state of fury, as he talked into the face of his helpless prisoner, or victim, the others standing around emphatically applauding. Now he seized a poultry knife from the table, and, jerking back John Ames' head, held the edge against his throat.

It was a horrible moment, that expectation of an agonising death, and an ignominious one to boot--one of those moments which could concentrate a lifetime of horror. The helpless man could do nothing. Every second he thought to feel the keen blade slashing through vein and muscle, carotid and windpipe. But the barbarian seemed in no hurry. He threw down the knife again.

"I have a better way with thee than that, Jonemi. When we have finished we will burn down this hut, leaving thee here. Ah--ah!" Then he turned his attention to the table, where the other murderers were promptly demolishing the remnants of the feast.

But for the tragedy just perpetrated the sight would have been comic.

Two had got hold of a roast fowl and were quarrelling over it like a couple of dogs over a bone. A third had cut a huge chunk out of a leg of sable antelope, and having plastered it thickly with mustard, was devouring it in great bites, the tears streaming down his face the while. Pepper, too, had discomfited another; and yet another, trying to use it, had driven a fork nearly through his cheek, all talking and spluttering the while. Yet all were foul with the blood which had just been shed; even the white cloth was splashed and smeared with it. Among them John Ames recognised his own body-servant, Pukele. The latter had taken no active part in the murders, having, with two other men, come in later. Still, there he was among them, the man whose faithfulness, to himself at any rate, he had always deemed beyond suspicion; the man with whom he would have entrusted his life, even as poor Inglefield had said but an hour or two ago with regard to Nanzicele. Yet that fiend had been the first to murder him in cold blood. In truth, one could trust n.o.body. Little, therefore, was he surprised now when Pukele, turning to him, joined the others in abusing and threatening him.

A bottle of whisky, half emptied, stood on the table, and another, unopened, on the sideboard, together with two of "squareface." Most of those present understood the corkscrew of civilisation, and in a few moments were choking and gasping with the effects of their fiery libations. As this unwonted indulgence began to take effect, the uproar created by the murderous crew became simply indescribable. Plates and dishes were smashed, gla.s.ses thrown at each other, and one of the bottles with its precious contents was smashed. And foremost of all, amid the madness of the riot, was Pukele--the quiet Pukele, the faithful Pukele.

Already two of the murderers had rolled under the table dead drunk, falling upon and clutching the gashed bodies of their victims. Others, s.n.a.t.c.hing up knives from the table, with reeling step and blood-l.u.s.t in their drunken faces, staggered towards their victim. But between the latter and them, somehow, was always interposed the form of the faithful Pukele, of the riotous Pukele, of the treacherous, murdering Pukele.

To John Ames it seemed that death's bitterness should already be past, for whatever the method of it, death itself was sure. He knew he would never leave that hut alive, and could almost have prayed that all were over. Then his thoughts reverted to Nidia Commerell. How thankful he was that she was in safety twelve hundred miles away. Would she feel more than a transient sorrow or regret when she heard of his end? He would have died at his post anyhow. And then he recalled the words of flattering approval she had more than once uttered when expressing an interest in his career. And that last long golden day they had pa.s.sed together. Well, even at this terrible moment he felt thankful he had lived to go through that experience. But--what was this?

The strap which bound his right arm to that of the chair had snapped.

Snapped? No; it had been cut. The large form of Pukele stood in front of him, was standing with his hands behind his back, and one of those hands held a sword-bayonet such as was used by the Native Police, its haft _towards_ John Ames. Now he saw who had cut the strap.

He reached forth cautiously, and gently withdrew the weapon from Pukele's grasp; then, having cut the strap confining his other arm, bent down, and in a moment his legs were free. Pukele the while was discoursing volubly with the other Police rebels, fanning a heated discussion and egging them on to drink. But ever between them and the prisoner he stood. A horrible sight they presented, their once smart uniforms filthy with blood and grease, their faces lolling with intoxicated imbecility, their speech thick and their legs tottering.

But the treacherous Pukele, the riotous, drunken, abusive Pukele, now seemed, strange to say, as sober as the proverbial judge. He stood firm, unless perhaps a gradual swaying of his body to the left were perceptible; and the door of the hut was behind him--a little to the left.

John Ames, between him and the door aforesaid, watched every move. The savage roysterers were becoming alternately more and more riotous and maudlin. Then the faithful Pukele made a movement with his hand behind him. It was unmistakable. John Ames slid from the chair, and in a moment was through the door, and round behind the hut just in time to avoid running right into the arms of a new--and sober--body of the now revolted police, who had come up to join in the fun and to loot their murdered officer's quarters. He had escaped with his life. After all, there was some fidelity left among these barbarians, he thought, as he stepped briskly, yet cautiously, through the darkness. He had escaped with his life, yet here he was, in the heart of a rebel country--every one of whose white settlers had probably by this time fallen in savage ma.s.sacre--without food or means of procuring any, and with no other weapon than a sword-bayonet. The outlook was far from rea.s.suring.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

HOLLINGWORTH'S FARM.

"Roll out, Dibs. Roll out, you lazy beggar. It'll take us at least three hours."

Thus Moseley, surveyor, to Tarrant, ditto. The campfire had gone out during the small hours, and the line of action enjoined upon the latter by his chum was not a congenial one, for the atmosphere half an hour before sunrise was chill and shivery. Yet, early as it was, the horses and pack-donkeys had already been turned out of the "scherm," or extemporised enclosure, in which they had spent the night, and were cropping the gra.s.s with an enjoyment born of the night's abstinence.

"No hurry," returned he thus unceremoniously disturbed, rolling his rugs closer around him.

"But there is hurry, Dibs, if we want to get to Hollingworth's by breakfast-time."

"But _I_ don't want to get to Hollingworth's by breakfast-time, or any other time for the matter of that."

"Oh yes, you do, once you're up. Come now, old man. Roll out."

The two were old schoolfellows--hence the nickname which still stuck to one of them--and had met up-country by the merest chance, Moseley we have already seen, in the capacity of newly landed pa.s.senger from the English mail-steamer. Tarrant was a lean, dark man, with a pointed beard and a dry expression of countenance. He was inclined to take things easily, declaring that everything was bound to come right if only it were left alone. Moseley, on the other hand, was one of those painfully energetic persons, bursting with an all-pervading and utterly superfluous vitality. They had been out surveying claims, and were now on their return to Bulawayo.

The night's camp had been pitched in a romantic glen, with nothing between the sleepers and the starry heaven but the spreading branches of a wild fig, nothing between them and Mother Earth but some cut gra.s.s and a rug. Stiff and cold, Tarrant rose from amid his blankets, and stood rubbing his eyes.

"I'll never come out on survey with you again, Moseley," he declared.

"You're a bore of the first water."

"Won't you, old chap? I seem to have heard something of that sort before--often before."

"I mean it this time. Er--Mafuta. _Tshetsha_ with that fire.

_Tshetsha umlilo, Umfaan_. You savvy? _Tshetsha_!"

Whether the native boy understood this adjuration in the dialect known as "kitchen Kafir" or not, he continued stolidly striving to blow into flame some ends of stick still smouldering from last night's blaze, it not seeming to occur to him that a couple of handfuls of dry gra.s.s would do the trick in as many seconds. The while the dialogue between his white masters continued.

"Who the devil is Hollingworth when he's at home, Moseley?"

"Down-country man, up here trying to farm. Served in the war against Lo Ben, and had ground given him. Rattling good chap. By the way, he's got rather a pretty wife."

"Kids?"

"Yes; three or four. I forget which."