The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 11

Ho, Inyoka 'mninimamdhla!

Bayete_!"

[See Note 1.]

With a flash of returning hope, Blachland peered forth, trusting to the combined effect of distance and shadow, to render his head invisible from below. Two men were standing on the flat place beneath--where lay the heaps of charred bones--two old men, with right hand uplifted and facing the tomb--and he recognised one as Umjane, a favourite and trusted councillor of Lo Bengula's, the other as Faku, the old induna who had intervened when the warriors were clamouring to be allowed to ma.s.sacre the four white men on the occasion of their last visit to the King. Now they were here to give the _nbonga_ at the grave of Umzilikazi, and the listener's heart sank again, for he had heard that this was a process which sometimes lasted for hours. But, as though in compensation, he noticed that the snake had abated its fury. It had dropped its hideous head, and lay there, in a shining, heaving coil as the sonorous chant proceeded:

"_Ho, Inyoka 'mnyama!

Nkos' inyoka!

Inyoka-ka-Matyobane!

Ho, Inyoka yise wezulu!

Bayete_!"

[See Note 2.]

Strophe by strophe, in a sort of antiphonal fashion, the two old indunas continued this weird litany of the Snake. Then they changed to every kind of other t.i.tle of _sibonga_, but always returning to the subject of the serpent. But the strange part of it to the human listener, was the calming effect it seemed to have upon the black horror, then but a few yards off--for the brute quieted down more and more as the voices outside were raised higher. What on earth could be the reason, thought Blachland? There was an idea abroad that reptiles were susceptible to music, but even if such were the case, this monotonous unvarying intonation, never exceeding three notes, was not music. Could it be that in reality the spirit of the dead King was transmigrated into that serpent form? and again he recalled old Pemberton's rough and ready words:--"There's mighty rum things happen you can't explain nor scare up any sort of reason for." What if this were one of them? And with the idea, and aided by time and place, a kind of superst.i.tious dread began to steal over him with paralysing effect. The white skull, staring at him in the semi-gloom, seemed to take on a fell and menacing expression, and the fleshless face to frown; and beyond it the gliding restless heave of the glistening coils, its terrible serpent guardian.

The chant continued--on and on--now falling, then rising, with renewed attributes to the spirit of the mighty dead. The two old indunas were walking to and fro now, and it seemed that each was striving to outdo the other in inventing fresh t.i.tles of praise. And what of the hidden gold? Not for all the wealth this world could produce would Blachland have meddled further with the mysteries of this gruesome tomb. His sole aspiration now was for an opportunity of getting outside of it, and slipping away in safety.

Of this, however, there seemed but small prospect. Hours seemed to have gone by, and yet these two indefatigable old men showed no sign of bringing their loyal, if posthumous, performance to a close. Then a change came over the aspect of affairs, but was it a change for the better?

A party of warriors had appeared a little way behind them. They advanced to the edge of the platform of rock and soil whereon the two indunas were walking up and down--then, at a sign from these, drew nearer. Their a.s.segais flashed in the sunlight: the shiny faces of their hide shields, too, caught the gleam. Then all weapons were let fall as with right hand upraised the new comers with one voice uttered aloud the salute royal:--

"k.u.malo!"

And now the watcher became aware of something else. In the midst of the new comers were three black heifers. These were dragged forward on to the sacrifice ground--and thrown down. They bellowed and struggled, but in vain. Like ants besetting the unwary beetle or cricket which has strayed into the disturbed nest, the savages threw themselves upon the luckless animals, and drawing off, revealed these securely bound. Then followed a scene which, his own peril notwithstanding, turned Blachland sick. The wretched beasts were not merely slaughtered, but were half flayed and cut to pieces alive. Quarters were torn off, amid the frenzied bellowings of the tortured victims, and held up towards the tomb of the great King amid roaring acclamations of _sibonga_, and finally a vast ma.s.s of dry brushwood and gra.s.s was collected, and being heaped over and around the moaning, agonised creatures, was set alight.

The red flames crackled, and roared aloft, and the smoke of the heathenish burnt offering, areek with the horrid smell of burning flesh, floated in great clouds right to the mouth of the cleft, and above and over all, now augmented to thunder tones by the voices of the later arrivals, the strophes of their fierce and gloomy devil-worship--the paeans in praise of the Snake, in whom now rested the spirit of the dead King--arose in weird and deafening chorus above this holocaust of agony and fire and blood.

Transfixed with horror and disgust, Blachland watched this demoniacal orgy, the more so that in it he saw his own fate in the event of detection. Suddenly the great serpent at the back of the cleft, which had been quiescent for some time, emitted a loud hiss--rearing its head in startling suddenness. Was the brute going to attack him? Then a desperate idea came into his head. Under cover of the smoke would it be practicable to slip out, and getting round the pile of boulders, lie hidden in some crevice or cranny until dark? Again the monster emitted a hiss, this time louder, more threatening. And now he thought he saw the reason. The smoke was creeping into the cleft, not thickly as yet, but enough of it to render the atmosphere unpleasant, and indeed he could hardly stifle a fit of coughing. This would bring the reptile out, perhaps even it was partly designed to do so--in order to satisfy the heathenish watchers that their tutelary deity, the serpent of Umzilikazi, was still there, was still watching over its votaries. In that ease, was he not in its way? It could only find egress by pa.s.sing over him--and in that case, would it fail to strike him with its venomous deadly fangs? Outside, the a.s.segais of the savages, the death by torture. Within, the horrible repulsive strike of the fearful reptile, the convulsions and agony attendant upon the victims of the bite of that species before death should claim them. It was a choice, but such a choice that the very moment of making might turn a man's hair white in the event of his surviving.

And now the smoke rolled in thicker, and, noonday as it was, those below were quite invisible. A heavy gliding sound from the far end of the cleft was audible. The horror was drawing its fearful coils clear of its covering. In a moment it would be upon him, mad, infuriated in its frenzied rush for the open air. It was now or never. A thick volume of smoke rolled up as Blachland scrambled over the piled stones, nearly choking him, even in the open air. A sharp, sickening pain shot through his bruised ankle. Was it the fangs of the deadly _mamba_? Two or three of the great stones, displaced, rattled loosely--but the thunderous Snake song raised below must have drowned the rattle.

Heavens! the smoke was parting! Only for a moment though, but in that moment the desperate man caught sight of that which encouraged him. The savages were cl.u.s.tering around the burning holocaust, heaping on piles of gra.s.s and brush. The concealing cloud closed in again thicker than ever, and under its friendly cover, he gained the rock at the foot of the _Kafferboen_; then, keeping his head comparatively clear, he crept round the upper side of the granite pile with the instinct of keeping it between himself and his enemies. This object once attained, he staggered blindly forward, the shouting and the song growing fainter behind him. Ha! This would do. A cranny between two boulders six or eight feet deep. He would lie here perfectly still until night. The awful strain he had undergone, and the anguish of his contused ankle, now stiff and sore, rendered such a rest absolutely essential. Lowering himself cautiously into the crevice he lay for a few moments unsteadily thinking. The pain of his ankle, intensified in its fierce throbbing-- was it the _mamba_ poison after all? Then everything seemed to whirl round, and he lost consciousness.

Note 1.

"Oh Great Serpent O, All powerful Serpent!"

_k.u.malo_ and _Bayete_ are both merely royal salutes.

Note 2.

"Black Serpent!

King Serpent!

Serpent of Matyobane!

Serpent, Father of the Zulus!"

CHAPTER TWELVE.

A TURN OF THE WHEEL.

"Oh, lucky Jim!

How I envy hi-im!

Oh-h, Lucky Jim--

"Get up, old sportsman! It's time for 'scoff.'" And the singer thus breaking off from song to prose, dives his head into the tent door, and apostrophises about six-foot-one of rec.u.mbent humanity.

"All right, Jack! A fellow isn't dead that it requires all that infernal row to wake him," retorts Justin Spence, rather testily, for his dreams in the heat of the blazing forenoon have been all of love and roses, and the brusque awakening from such to the rough delights of a prospector's camp in the wilds of sultry Mashunaland, is likely not to supply a soothing contrast.

His partner takes no notice of the pa.s.sing ill-humour save for a light laugh, as he returns to his former occupation, the superintending and part a.s.sisting at, a certain cooking process under the shade of a tree, effected by a native boy and now nearly completed. A tent and a small waggon supply the residential quarters, the latter for the "boys," who turn in on the ground underneath it--the former for their masters. A "scherm" of chopped boughs encloses the camp, and within this the donkeys are safeguarded at night: a case of learning wisdom by experience, for already two of these useful little animals have fallen a prey to lions through being left thus unprotected. Just outside this is a partially sunken shaft, surmounted by a rude windla.s.s.

"What have we got for 'scoff,' Jack?" says Justin Spence, yawning lazily as he withdraws his dripping hands from the calabash wash-basin, and saunters across to the scene of culinary operations. "Oh, Lord!" giving a sniff or two as a vile and carrion-like effluvium strikes upon his nostrils. "There's one of those beastly stink-ants around somewhere.

Here, Sixpence!" calling to one of a trio of Mashuna boys lounging beneath the shade of the waggon aforesaid. "_Hamba petula_ stink-ant-- what the deuce is the word, Jack? _'Iye_, yes, that's it _Bulal'iye_.

Comprenny? Well, clear then. _Hamba_. Scoot."

A splutter of ba.s.s laughter went up from the natives at this lucid direction, which, however, the other man soon made clear.

"Oh, never mind about the stink-ant," he said. "Why, man, it's all in the day's work. You must get used to these little trifles, or you'll never do any good at prospecting."

"Oh, d.a.m.n prospecting! I hate it," returned Justin, stretching his graceful length upon the ground. "Ladle out the scoff and let's fall to. I want to have another smoke."

"Oh, Lucky Jim!

How I envy him--"

resumed Jack Skelsey, while engaged in the above occupation.

"So do I, Jack, or anybody else to whom that word 'lucky' can be said to apply--and I'm afraid whoever that is it'll never be us."

"You never can tell, old man. Luck generally strikes a chap when least expected."

"Then now's the time for it to strike me; right now, Jack."

"Oh, I don't know we've much to grouse about, Spence. It's beastly hot up here, and we're sweating our souls out all for nothing. But after all, it's better than being stuck away all one's life in a musty old office, sometimes not even seeing the blessed light of day for a week at a time, if it happens to be foggy--a miserable jet of gas the only subst.i.tute for yonder jolly old sun. Rather! I've tried it and you haven't. See?"

n.o.body could have looked upon that simple camp without thoroughly agreeing with the speaker. It was hot certainly, but there were trees which afforded a cool and pleasant shade: while around for many a mile stretched a glorious roll of bush veldt--all green and golden in the unclouded sunlight--and the chatter of monkeys, the cackle of the wild guinea-fowl, the shrill crow of the bush pheasant together with the gleam of bright-winged birds glancing overhead, bespoke that this beautiful wilderness was redundant with life. The two men lounging there, with bronzed races and chests, their shirtsleeves turned up from equally bronzed wrists, looked the picture of rude health: surely if ever there was such a thing as a free life--open--untrammelled--this was it.

The day was Sunday, which may account for the lazy way in which we found one at any rate of the pair, spending the morning. For they had made it a rule to do no work on that day, not, we fear, from any particularly religious motive, but acting on the thoroughly sound and wholesome plan of taking one day in seven "off." A thoroughly sound and wholesome appet.i.te had they too. When they had done, Skelsey remarked:

"Shall we go and have a shoot?"

The other, who was tugging at a knot in the strings of his tobacco bag, looked up quickly.

"Er--no. At least I won't go," he said rather nervously. "Er--I think I'll ride over to Blachland's."

"All right, old chap. Let's go there instead."