The White Hand and the Black Part 10

"Not Mehlo-ka-zulu?"

"He is my relative."

Elvesdon burst out laughing.

"Confound the fellow, he reminds one of the Irish witness in 'Handy Andy'," he said. Then to the Zulu: "Where is your kraal?"

"_La-pa_. Over there." And the speaker pointed with his stick in a direction which conveyed the idea that he resided anywhere between the further side of the valley and the North Pole.

Elvesdon did not press the point, knowing perfectly well that he could find out all he wanted from other sources. Then, too, the deft way in which the Zulu fenced all his questions appealed strongly to his sense of the ridiculous. There was, moreover, nothing to be gained in particular by continuing his catechism; and One of the secrets of his success in the handling of natives was that he knew when to humour them and when to draw a tight rein.

"Do you know who I am?" he said.

"_Inkose_ is the magistrate--the new magistrate--at Kwabulazi."

"That is so. But new only as regards Kwabulazi," returned Elvesdon meaningly. "So knowing who I am it is not surprising if I ask: 'What has a Zulu from beyond the border to do in Babatyana's location on this side?'"

"_Inkose_--I have always heard that under the King's rule all men are free, whether white or black, as long as they do no harm. And I am doing no harm."

"As long as they do no harm," repeated Elvesdon, with a touch of significance. "That is well, Manamandhla--that is well." And he turned away.

"Where are these crevices, Miss Thornhill? It's curious how they occur in some of these mountain ranges. I got into one myself once, but fortunately it wasn't particularly deep, or I should be there still."

"Where was that?"

"In the Cape Colony. I was there on leave, and put in a time with an old official pal of mine. We went reebok-shooting in the mountains, and I got into such a hole as one of these, stepped backwards into it.

Fortunately my pal was near enough to hear me sing out, or I might not have been able to pull myself up."

"This is a deep one," said Edala. "Come and look. If you drop a stone over, you hear it clanging against the sides ever so far down. Listen, now."

She dropped a stone over, and both stood listening.

"By Jove, but it is deep," said Elvesdon. "And beastly dangerous too, almost hidden in the gra.s.s."

Thornhill had not joined them. He was seated on the flat rock, puffing away at his pipe. The ghastliness of the situation was known to him and to one other there present--and here was this unthinking girl dropping stones into this particular cleft, of all others on that mountain top-- of all others in the world.

"That is one of the 'mouths' that gives not back its prey," said the deep voice of Manamandhla. "_Whau_! It retains that which it swallows." Then with a word of farewell greeting he withdrew, but in the opposite direction to that by which they had ascended.

"Hadn't we better go down?" said Thornhill. "It'll be dark directly."

"And it's shivery now," said Edala, looking round with a shudder. "Come along."

By the time they were off the moss-grown natural stairway it was nearly dark. The horses, hitched to a bush by the bridles, shook themselves and whinnied at their approach.

"What would be the effect of your 'aerial throne' by starlight, Miss Thornhill?" said Elvesdon, as they pa.s.sed beneath the mighty cliff, whose loom cut straight and black against the myriad stars which came gushing out into the velvety vault.

"I've never tried it. I believe I'd be afraid. You know--the Kafirs say the Sipazi mountain is haunted, that all sorts of _tagati_ sounds float off from the top of it at night."

"You afraid? Why I don't believe there's anything in the world that could scare _you_, after what I've seen."

"Oh isn't there? I'm rather afraid of lightning, for one thing."

"Are you?"

"Yes. You see, it's a thing that no precaution on earth will guard you against. You can stick up conductors on a house, or any sort of building, but you can't stick one on your hat, when you're out in the open. I always feel so utterly helpless."

"Well, of course it's risky. But you must remember the very small proportion of people who get hit compared with the numbers who spend a large slice of their lives exposed to it."

"So I do, but somehow it seems poor consolation when everything is fizzing and banging all round you and you expect every second to be knocked to kingdom come. No. I don't like it a bit--in the open that is. Under cover, though it's even a Kafir hut, I don't mind."

"You wouldn't like to be seated on the 'aerial throne' then, eh?"

laughed Elvesdon.

"No, indeed. Look. There's a fine shooting star."

A streak like a falling rocket, and the phenomenon disappeared.

Elvesdon gratefully admitted to himself that this homeward ride through the soft dews of falling night was wholly delightful. Yes, but--would it have been equally so were he alone, or with any other companion at his side--his host for instance; who had lingered behind to light a pipe, and had not taken the trouble to catch them up again? He was constrained to own to himself that it would not. This girl was of a type wholly outside his experience, so natural, so absolutely unconventional. Her ways and ideas struck him somehow as peculiar to herself--and then her appearance--as striking as it was uncommon. He had not begun to fall in love with her, but could not ignore the possibility that he might, and in that case Heaven help him, for he felt pretty sure he would meet with no reciprocity.

Meanwhile, there was nothing to be gained by discounting potentialities, wherefore he laid himself out to make the most of the present time, and succeeded admirably well. If his host was rather abstracted and silent throughout the evening, Edala more than made up for it. She chatted away on every subject under the sun; and played and sang--both well--so that by the time he went to bed Elvesdon had come to the conclusion that he had never enjoyed himself so much--or got through such a jolly day in his life.

CHAPTER TEN.

A CHIEF--OUT OF DATE.

Zavula sat in his hut smoking, and--blinking.

Zavula was an old man. There were wisps of white beneath and above the dull, uncared for head-ring, for being a Natal native he did not keep his head scrupulously shaved, as the way of the ringed Zulu is. But his eyesight was very weak, wherefore he sat--and blinked. And he was alone.

A small fire burned in the bowl-like hollow in the centre of the hut.

Into this Zavula was gazing. Perhaps he was dreaming dreams of the past--when he had been somebody, when he was looked up to and respected by thousands of tribesmen; when, too, he had gallantly led in person these same tribesmen, at the call of the white man's Government, against the hosts of Cetywayo the Great King, on the red plain of Isandhlwana-- only to retire, in helter-skelter rout, together with such of the whites who had it in their power to do likewise, before the on-sweeping wave of the might of Zulu. Then, in those days, his word was law. He had been called upon to a.s.sist the Government, and he and his fighting men had done so loyally. It was not their fault if the white leader had been out-generalled by Tyingwayo, who had learned the art of war under Tshaka the Terrible. They had done their best, and had been thanked for it and remembered, when Cetywayo's power had melted into air, and the horns of that Bull, which had gored where they would, had been blunted and rendered harmless for ever.

And now here were his people engaged in running their heads against a rock. _Whau_! was ever such foolishness known? His people! He had no sons living. The two he had--both were slain in the waters of Umzinyati while striving to escape from the pursuing spears of the Great King-- after Isandhlwana. His people, to whom his word had been law, had now turned to Babatyana. He himself was a chief no more.

Babatyana was his brother's son, and Babatyana was not old. Since the teaching of the white people had found footing in the land, and, worse still, since the teaching of certain black people from a far off country beyond the salt water, had come among them the old were no longer respected, no longer listened to. He, Zavula, was old, but Babatyana was not; wherefore the people turned to listen to the words of Babatyana. And Babatyana was plotting against the whites--against the Government. _Whau_! was ever such foolishness known?

What did Babatyana, and the fools who were listening to him, think they would gain--think they would do? The whites, who overthrew for ever the House of Senzangakona and the might of Zulu at the very zenith of its power and glory--were they to be overthrown in their turn by a few unorganised tribes all unskilled and unpractised in the art of war? The whites, who could bring guns to bear, each of which could fire a hundred bullets in every direction while a man could count scarce half that number--why Baba-tyana and his fools might as well run their heads hard against the nearest cliff and strive to beat that down as attempt such a thing as this. _Whau_! was ever such foolishness known?

They reckoned on help from the Amazulu? Well, what then? Even if they got it, where were the Amazulu now? They were no longer a nation. The power of the House of Senzangakona was gone for ever; and even if the splendid army of the last of those Elephants were here to fight on their side--what then? Even more now--ten times more--were the whites able to disperse such, like smoke; for their weapons were ten times better than any they had possessed at the time of the breaking up of the great House.

_Whau_! was ever such foolishness known!

And for what were the people plotting, these fools? Because they had to pay a little more in taxes than formerly, to pay for their own protection? Their own protection, for how would it have been with them had the Amabuna [Boer] come out best in the late struggle? The rule of the Amangisi [English], when the very worst had been said against it, was mild and merciful compared with what that of the Amabuna would be, were these masters of the land. Under this every man could enjoy his own and be free. And he was free, no man freer. But--under that?

Again. Even if these strange preachers who had come among them with this poison under their tongues spoke truly; that the tribes were to combine and drive out the white man--whether Amabuna or Amangisi--what then? Somebody must be chief. There was no such thing as all men, all tribes and nations, being equal. The very idea was foolishness. Who then would be chief. Who then would be king? There was still a son of the House of Senzangakona alive. And the thinker, for his part, preferred the rule of the white man to that of the House of Senzangakona.

All of the above he had put before his people, and that not once only.

But they had turned a deaf ear, or had listened but coldly. The spirit of unrest coursed high through their blood. The strange preachers were promising them a great and glorious future--and Babatyana had turned towards them a favourable ear. Zavula was old, they said among themselves; Babatyana was in his prime. He knew. He could walk with the times. The time had come for Zavula to go to sleep. Which sense may have accounted for the fact that Zavula now sat in his hut alone.