The Fire Trumpet Part 87

Grasping instinctively the capabilities of the place, Claverton saw that he was on a kind of plateau, shut in on three sides by high, wooded slopes and rugged krantzes, while on the fourth, which was open, he could just make out a wide stretch of country far away beneath. The cunning old Gaika chieftain had well chosen his eyrie of a hiding-place.

On every side, however, the bush grew thickly right up to the huts, which were built in a circle. Claverton noted, moreover, that, save for a few very indifferent cows, there was no cattle anywhere about, and that the people themselves were looking lean and starved, and drew his own conclusions accordingly.

With many a shrill laugh, and chattering like magpies, the women crowded round to look at the prisoner as he sat in the midst of his captors and guards, stoically indifferent to his fate. Hideous, toothless crones, whose wrinkled hides hung about them in a succession of disgusting flaps; crushed-looking middle-aged women and plump, well-made girls, all in different stages of undress. One of the latter slily put out her hand and gave Claverton a sharp pinch on the arm, amid screams of laughter from her fellows as they watched its effect upon the countenance of the captive.

"Yaow!" they cried. "The white man cannot feel. See, he does not move!"

Then a frightful hag stepped in front of the prisoner, and, amid a torrent of invective, began brandishing a butcher-knife within an inch of his nose.

"Ah--wolf--white snake--vulture's sp.a.w.n!" she yelled. "We will spoil your handsome face for you. Our young men are lying about the land in thousands, and the jackals are devouring their carcases, and it is your work. For every one of their lives you shall undergo a pang that will make you pray for death. Do you hear, tiger-cat; do you hear?" screamed the hag in a frenzy of rage.

Again a grim smile was upon Claverton's face. The idea of him, who had made himself felt in sober earnest, who had escaped peril and death so narrowly and so often, coming to this--that it was in the power of such a thing as this to cut his throat like a fowl.

"He dares to laugh!" yelled the she-devil, brandishing her knife and clawing him by the hair. Just then one of the warriors took her by the shoulders and sent her spinning a dozen yards off, where she lay on the ground foaming with rage.

"_Hamba-ke_! Leave the prisoner alone. He belongs to the chief!"

At a sign from the speaker a girl came forward rather timidly and held a bowl to the captive's lips. It contained curdled milk, with some mealie-paste thrown in. It was cool and refreshing, and Claverton drank deeply.

"Thanks," he said, with a nod and a pleasant smile. "That's good."

The rest of the contents of the bowl were drained by his guards; and the girl, retiring amongst her companions with many a sidelong glance at the prisoner, remarked, in a half whisper, what a handsome fellow the white man was, and she was sure he must be a very great chief, and it was a shame to kill such a man as this.

And now a commotion arose on the other side of the kraal. All eyes were turned, and so grotesque was the sight that met his glance that Claverton could hardly keep from laughing outright. In the centre of a group of women and children, who were hustling him along, was a man--a white man. On his head was a tall black hat, the puggaree had been impounded by one of his captors. His arms were bound to his sides, while his long-tailed coat, now in a woeful and tattered condition, hung about his legs. Some brat, more mischievous than the rest, would every now and then swing on to its tails, or bestow a severe pinch underneath, while buffets of every description seemed the sufferer's momentary portion. His eyes were starting out of his head with fear, and his countenance was more abject than ever. In this miserable-looking specimen of British humanity Claverton recognised his companion in adversity--the missionary, Swaysland.

"Yaow--man of peace--get on!" yelled the rabble, hustling the poor wretch forward. One urchin leaped upon his back, and nearly made his teeth meet in the tip of his ear, while another playfully flicked him on the cheek with the lash of a toy-whip. Altogether the unfortunate missionary seemed to be having a bad time of it.

"Is there too much light, _Umfundisi_?" mocked a young woman, as he blinked his eyes, partly to dodge an expected blow, partly because the sudden glare of the sun tried them. "There, now it is dark. Is that better?" and she banged the tall hat down over the luckless man's eyes, head and face, thereby performing the operation known to the uncivilised Briton as "bonneting." A scream of laughter from the barbarous mob greeted this performance, which increased as, with the "chimney-pot"

sticking over his head and face, their victim stumbled forward, completely blinded. Scattering the women, two of the warriors roughly removed this visual obstruction, and marched him up to where Claverton was sitting.

"Hallo, Mr Swaysland, I never expected to see you again in this terrestrial orb!"

There was something almost cheerful in this greeting, and the poor missionary felt hopeful.

"How did you escape? I am so glad!" he began in a tone of breathless relief. "Now you will be able to interpret for me. I am sure they would not have ill-treated me if I could have made them understand who I am. And they have ill-treated me shockingly--shockingly."

"Why! Can't you talk their lingo?"

"No. I have only been in this country a few months. Ah, why did I leave Islington! I was President of the Young Men's Christian a.s.sociation there, and I must needs come to convert the heathen in this benighted country. I was afternoon preacher at--"

"Yes, yes," interrupted his companion in adversity. "But I'm afraid that won't inspire John Kafir with either respect or compunction. What do you want me to tell them?"

"Tell them that I am the Rev Josiah Swaysland, and that I belong to the Mount Ararat Mission Station. Tell them that I am the Kafir's friend, and that I gave up a comfortable place in a high-cla.s.s drapery establi--er--ah--er--I mean in a--er--in easy circ.u.mstances at home, in order to come and be their friend. Tell them to let me go. I am not a fighting man. I am a man of peace, and never did them any harm. Tell them--"

"That's enough for one sitting," said Claverton, with a sneer of profound contempt for the other's egotism and cowardice. It was all "I--I," "Let _me_ go." A brutal laugh was the only answer which the savages vouchsafed.

"Ha!" they mocked. "A man of peace! What are men of peace doing here in war-time? This is not the land for a man of peace!"

Nevertheless, Claverton did his best to obtain the other's release, and disinterestedly, too, for he knew that long before his own position could be made known he himself would be a dead man. He represented to the Kafirs--very contemptuously, it must be admitted--that the missionary was a pitiful devil, not worth the trouble of killing; that they could gain no good by it; but might by releasing him, as he would be only too ready to trumpet their generosity far and wide. They only shook their heads in response to all his arguments. They had no voice in the matter; it was a question for the chief to decide.

"What do they say?" anxiously inquired Swaysland.

"They can do nothing. It all depends upon Sandili. He will be back this evening, and then our fate will be settled."

The other shuddered.

"You seem to take things very calmly, Mr Claverton," said he, at length.

"Well, yes. What on earth's the good of kicking up a row? It won't mend matters."

"Oh! G.o.d help us!" wailed the missionary, in mortal fear.

"That's about our only chance. But you don't seem to calculate over much on the contingency," rejoined his companion, with a very visible sneer.

"Don't talk like that--don't, I beg you. Remember our awful position."

"'The devil was ill, the devil a monk would be,'" quoted the other, with a bitter laugh. "I've been in 'awful positions' before now, on more than one occasion, but this time I verily believe it's all UP. My G.o.d has quarrelled with me, as that long devil over yonder graciously informed me last night."

Swaysland stared at him in amazement. Here was a man with torture and death before him in a few hours, talking as calmly and as cynically as if he was having his evening pipe. He had never even heard of anything like this before, and, if he had, would not have believed it.

"Now, look here," continued Claverton. "I don't want to raise any false hopes, mind that; but I think it's just possible that they may let you go. You see, the chiefs always like to stand well with the missionaries, not because they believe in them, but because Exeter Hall is a power in the land, worse luck. Now, you represent that you're no end of a swell in that connection, and that you'll do great things for them if they let you go. But, whatever you do, don't promise to leave the country by way of an inducement."

"But if they ask me?"

"They won't. On the contrary. If you leave the country, you can be of no further service to them, and they know it. It is only by remaining here and saying what fine, generous fellows they are, that you can do them any good. In fact, I think you stand a very fair chance; but, as I say, I don't want to raise any false hopes."

"Really, I declare I am quite hopeful already. If I get away, never again will I set foot in these frightful wilds," vehemently replied this preacher of the Gospel. "But, about yourself?" he added, ashamed of his egotism, a consciousness of which had just begun to dawn upon him.

"Oh, I? Well, I'm a gone c.o.o.n. There isn't a chance for me. They know me too well." Then, as if moved by a sudden impulse, he added: "If you escape you might do me a service. It isn't a very big thing."

"I pledge you my word that I will. What is it?"

"Find out a man named Payne--George Payne. He's from Kaffraria, but at present he's living in Grahamstown, and--tell him--tell them--all--that you saw the last of me."

"I will--I will. But--"

"Do you know this, Lenzimbi?" and Mopela stood confronting him, with a diabolical grin upon his face. As he spoke he removed an old rag from over something he carried, disclosing to view a hideous object. It was a human head, and in the swollen, distorted lineaments, the glazed eyes, and the sandy beard all matted with gore, Claverton recognised the features of the unhappy Boer, Cornelius Oppermann. At this ghastly sight Swaysland started back, his face livid with terror, and trembling in every limb.

"Look at it, Lenzimbi. Look at it. One of your countrymen," went on the savage, thrusting the frightful object within an inch of the prisoner's nose. It had begun to decompose, for the weather was hot, and it was all that Claverton could do to restrain his repugnance.

"I see it," he replied, self-possessedly. "Any one but a fool would know that that article of furniture had belonged to a Dutchman, whom every one but a fool would know was _not_ 'one of my countrymen.'"

"Hey, Mopela, take it away!" cried the bystanders, disgustedly. "We don't want to be killed by the carcase of a stinking Boer," and, with a grin of malice, the barbarian chucked the hideous trophy at a small boy who was pa.s.sing, and who bolted with a panic-stricken yell.

"Here, _Umfundisi_, you have talked long enough; you must go back to your hut," said Nxabahlana. The poor missionary's heart sank within him. Claverton's conversation, though sadly profane, had cheered him up, and now he was to be alone again.

"Good-bye, in case we do not meet again," he said, with more feeling than he had hitherto displayed--on other account than his own, that is.

"Good-bye. Keep your spirits up, and don't forget to make the most of yourself," replied Claverton. "And remember Payne--George Payne."