“No. Better leave that. They’re only blowing off steam.”
But I wasn’t easy: more, I realised that the situation was a confoundedly ticklish one. They were working each other up into a state of ungovernable excitement, and simply howling down whatever I was trying to say. If I had had my pistol on I believe I should have drawn it, but it was at that moment reposing in one of the waggon pockets, some twenty-five yards behind us. The same held good of Falkner’s. He, characteristically, now brought matters to a crisis.
“Shut that silly jaw,” he growled, seizing the wrist of a fellow who was doing gwaza with a big assegai close to his face, and, with the other hand hitting him a terrific blow right between the eyes, felling him.
Then I thought my last hour had come, but no – they fell back as though scared. Falkner’s fighting powers had done us yeoman’s service after all, was the thought that flashed through my mind – and then I saw that it was not so; that our respite was due to another cause.
Unseen by either party to the turmoil two Zulus had come up – and one of them I knew, and knowing him, felt devoutly thankful that he was a pretty considerable chief.
“Now I see men,” I said, “men with rings on. Now I can talk. Greeting, Nonguza.”
He answered me with scant cordiality. He was a tall, fine man, but his face was heavy and sullen, more than that, it was a cruel face. The glance he shot at Falkner especially was not benevolent.
“I see you, Iqalaqala,” he said. “What is this, for my dogs seem to be barking over loud!”
I told him what I knew, which was little enough, and calling the waggon drivers we got at the rest of it. They had gone to look after the oxen, which were turned loose to graze, and had arrived in time to find a crowd of armed Zulus driving them off. Some had come for themselves, driving them up to the waggons, threatening them. It was then that Falkner Sewin had come out, and singling out the spokesman had challenged him to fight.
Nonguza called to two of the rioters, and ordered them to tell their story. It was soon told. They had found our oxen eating and trampling the corn of their father, Magebe, and had driven them off until their owners should pay for the damage.
Now Magebe proved to be the man who accompanied Nonguza, and on hearing this he became excited, and must needs rush off to ascertain what damage had been done. This Jan Boom pronounced to be next to nothing.
“They were hardly in the field at all, Baas,” he said in an undertone, and excellent English. “Zulu nigger one damn great big liar.”
The speaker being some shades darker in colour than any Zulu there present I could hardly restrain a laugh. Falkner couldn’t. He guffawed outright. The chief looked angry.
“Steady, Sewin,” I warned. “You’re spoiling everything.” Then to Magebe. “We had better all go and look what has been done. Then we can settle it.”
The mealie crop was only just over the rise, so we were there very soon. I had told Falkner to come too, fearing he might get into more mischief if left behind: and yet it was almost as bad having him, for he eyed the two Zulus with a sort of resentful contempt, more than once expressing a desire to knock their qualified heads together.
Even as Jan Boom had said, the damage proved to be very slight; but Magebe, an old man and avaricious, set to work to make the most of it. Half his crop was ruined and so forth. I must pay him two oxen.
Of course I had no intention of doing anything of the sort, so we adjourned to the waggons again to talk it over. There the discussion became long and heated, notwithstanding the fact that I opened it by filling them up with a great deal of black coffee and sugar. Nonguza, who did most of the talking, and I felt sure would claim the lion’s share of the spoil whatever it might be, was especially curt and offensive. I got sick of it at last.
“Here,” I said, spreading a new green blanket on the ground, and piling upon it a couple of big butcher knives – which Zulus dearly love – some strings of black and white beads, a few brass buttons and a goodly length of roll tobacco. “This is more than twice the damage my oxen have done. So now, Magebe, take it, and I will send one of my drivers with these two,” pointing to the two young Zulus who had explained matters, “and he will bring back the oxen.”
But Magebe objected that this was not enough, no, not nearly enough.
“There it is. Take it or leave it. If you leave it, then we leave the Zulu country – walk out of it, for we cannot drag our waggons. Then, when the Great Great One – he who sits at Undini – is called upon to make good the loss of two spans of oxen, two waggons and the whole of their contents – to the Englishmen whose oxen were taken – were taken by Nonguza, the induna whom he sent to keep order here on the boundary, what will he say, that Lion – what will he do? Tell me that. What will he do?”
“I know nothing of your oxen, Umlúngu,” said Nonguza, sullenly. “It is not I who have taken them.”
“Not you? Ha! When an induna of the King is present, is he greater than only the head of a kraal – a large kraal certainly – or is he less? Tell me that, Nonguza?”
It was a good game of bluff to play, and I was about at the end of my patience. I held trumps and I knew my hand, for I knew perfectly on what errand this chief was there. Now he turned and gave an order to those who had lately been threatening us, and I knew that the game was won. Yet even then, as I noted the look of sullen vindictiveness that fled swiftly across the chief’s face, I was not inclined to exult, for I was well aware that he would go a good way to be even with me yet, and in the then unsettled state of the border it would be strange if some opportunity of making himself disagreeable did not afford itself.
“Well, I’m sick of all this jaw with a couple of snuffy niggers, Glanton,” growled Falkner. “What’s going to be done?”
“Oh shut your silly head,” I said, irritably, for of course an unconciliatory tone tells its own tale even though no word is understood. “I suspect your readiness to bash all and everybody is at the bottom of the whole bother.”
“Well, if a brute comes at me brandishing a stick with a knob like a cricket ball I’ve got to do something, haven’t I?” he answered, lighting his pipe and slouching away in the sulks.
I was in no better humour, to tell the truth, but laid myself out to do the civil to Nonguza, by way of smoothing his ruffled feathers. Then, as time went by, and I was beginning to feel a little anxious once more, to my intense relief my ears caught a well-known sound, the trampling of hoofs to wit, and lo – coming over the rise were my oxen, driven at a run by those who had taken them. I gave orders at once to inspan, returning a curt negative to Magebe’s inquiries as to whether I would not stop and trade. I was going kwa Majendwa, I answered. There no mistake would be made as to who I was.
So we marched forth with all the honours of war, but as the whips cracked, and the spans tugged out in response I noticed that the cloud of armed Zulus watching us was increased by others coming over the ridge – part of Nonguza’s impi – and thought we should be lucky if we escaped further trouble at the hands of these. It was a bad beginning to our trip – in the temper the people were evidently then in – yes, a bad beginning.
Chapter Fifteen.
Two of a Trade
When Dolf Norbury learned that another white man was coming to Majendwa’s country on trading intent, his first remark was that he was damned if he should. This statement he followed up with the use of absolutely unprintable language for the space of many minutes. His first act was to shy a bottle at the head of his informant, who ducked in time to avoid disastrous contact with the same, and then to make him exceedingly drunk with the contents of another bottle, not yet reduced to its last use – as a missile to wit. This by way of compensation.
The process had another effect, that of making the injured man talk. He for his part was a young Zulu of no particular account, and what he stated was perfectly true, he went on to declare. The white man was a trader known as Iqalaqala, and with him was another white man, a great fighter, who could knock men senseless with his fists even as one might do with a large and heavy stick. He who spoke knew, for he had seen it done – not once only, either. At this Dolf Norbury’s language grew vehement and sultry again, and was interlarded by many aspirations after just one glimpse of the man who could knock him senseless or knock him anything else. Only just one glimpse, that was all. The next thing he did, by way of relieving his feelings was to start in and thrash the nearest of his native wives – of which he had several – she, unfortunately for her, being the one of least family standing, and therefore the least likely to raise resentment on the part of the relatives – or others, a thing which is bad for trade. Then he opened a bottle of “square face,” took a very big drink, and putting the bottle in a pocket or his leather coat went round to the chief’s hut.
“I have news, Mawendhlela,” he began, when he found himself inside. “But” – with a look at some others who were seated there – “it will keep.”
Not long was it before these took the hint, and stole out, one by one. The chief’s eyes twinkled as he noted the familiar bulge in the pocket of his visitor.
“Au! it is cold,” he said, pretending to shiver, “and I am getting on in years and need warmth.”
“This will give it you,” said the white man, producing the bottle.
The chief’s eyes sparkled as he watched the gurgling rush of the potent liquid into the calabash drinking vessel. Then he tossed off half of it with a gasp of contentment.
“That is indeed warm – yes, warm,” he said.
“And good. But there will soon be no more.”
“No more? Now why, Udolfu?”
“Because I am going – going away.”
“Going away? Now that cannot be.”
“It can and it is. There is no longer room for me here. There is a cow at hand who will give you more milk than I can, but not such milk as this – oh no!”
“Ha!”
“It is Iqalaqala who is the cow that lows at the gate. Iqalaqala does not trade in strong drink – neither will he bring you any guns or cartridges or powder and lead. His trade is the trade for women – beads, coloured cloth, and such.”
“M-m! Why then, Udolfu, there is still room for you here, for Iqalaqala can do the women’s trade and you can still do that for men – guns and cartridges – and drink like this – like this – which warms – ah, ah, which warms,” added the chief finishing his allowance of “square face” and pushing his calabash meaningly towards the other.
“But I will not. There is no room for two here. I will have all the trade or none.”
Mawendhlela’s face fell. He was a man who liked his comfort and the enjoyment of a daily modicum of “square face” gin, or Natal rum had become essential to this. As a chief he was not unmindful of certain plain hints on the part of those very high up indeed in the councils of the nation, to the effect that those under them were required to obtain the weapons of the white man as far as this could possibly be done. Yet here was the man who supplied him with both, threatening to withdraw. He saw the loss of his beloved drink with dismay, and with even greater dismay he contemplated the disfavour into which he would fall with those in high quarters, if his people showed but a poor muster in the way of firearms. The while Dolf Norbury was reading his thoughts, and could gauge their drift exactly. He knew, too, that personally Mawendhlela and many of his people would gladly see the last of him – but, the above considerations were potent.
“We cannot both trade here,” he repeated. “Iqalaqala must not be allowed to come. That’s all.”
“What can I do, Udolfu?” answered the chief helplessly. “Majendwa is a bull that roars louder than I, and he has the ear of the Great Great One himself. It is to Majendwa you must talk.”
“Majendwa?” repeated the white man, with a scowl as though the very name was unpalatable to him – and, indeed, it was – “Majendwa? Au! his kraal is far enough away. But here, you are chief, you, Mawendhlela. And for some days the people have been talking of the coming of Iqalaqala! Well, he must not come.”
They looked at each other for a little while in silence. Then the chief spoke.
“I can do nothing, Udolfu,” he repeated. “But you —au! you white people can do everything. And I do not want a white man who only brings trade for women.”
“Then you leave it to me?” said the trader, reaching over the square bottle and replenishing the calabash.
“It is nothing to me,” said Mawendhlela, carefully extracting a cockroach which had fallen from the thatch into his liquor, and throwing it into the fire. “No more than that – ” as the insect crackled up.
Dolf Norbury chuckled, and took a big drink himself. The life of another man, a fellow countryman – or, it might be of two men – was no more to him than that of the burnt insect. They understood each other.
It may be asked how I am able to reproduce a dialogue between two persons sitting together alone in a hut – alone mind – and I many miles away at the time. Well, passing over the question as to whether anyone ever really is alone – especially in a Zulu kraal – rather than that the veracity of this my narrative be in any wise impugned, I would remind the reader that at an earlier stage thereof I took him into confidence so far as to explain that I was wont to derive a considerable amount of information from native sources, and that such information was surprisingly accurate. So – there it is, you see!
The while we were trekking by slow and easy stages. There was a restlessness among the people as to which there could be no mistake. They were moving about in bands of ten or twenty instead of singly or in pairs, and fully armed, and now and then two or three men would come up hurriedly to the waggon, and hardly troubling to drop their weapons as required by etiquette, would start on again after a few words of inquiry as to our destination. In short the country seemed about as settled as an ant’s nest the top of which has just been kicked off; and more than one rumour had it that armed collisions had occurred with the grazing Boers beyond the Luneburg and Utrecht borders. Towards ourselves the behaviour of the people was rather offhand and independent, the young men especially being inclined to treat us to quite an unnecessary display of swagger. This was a source of anxiety to me, in that it involved a continuous strain upon my moral influence to keep Falkner Sewin from his favourite pastime of head punching, and this was difficult.
So far too, trade prospects seemed but poor. Formerly from each group of kraals we passed, people would have come eagerly forth to do a deal – now for ordinary trade goods they seemed to have no hankering. More than one head-man would ask, talking “dark,” if I carried what they wanted, and on assuring themselves that I did not, soon showed no further desire to trade. Now “what they wanted,” done into plain English, meant firearms and ammunition, and this was a form of illicit trade from which I had always kept my hands clean. Not that the temptation was not great at that. The profits were ditto and the risk to one with my facilities, hardly worth considering, and the same held good of liquor selling, though as to this latter perhaps considerations of self interest lay behind my scruples, for it was in no wise to my interest to bear part in ruining this fine race among whom I lived, and from whom I drew a living.
For the rest, life was pleasant enough as we moved along easily – outspanning during the heat of the day for several hours – and then trekking on until dark. Then the night camp under the stars, when the savoury game stew – or if we couldn’t get any game, the fried rashers of bacon, had been discussed, and pipes were in full blast – this constituted not the least pleasant moment of the day, as we sat and swapped yarns, to the accompaniment of the monotonous crunch-crunch of ruminating oxen tied to the yokes; or the occasional howl of a hyena, or the cry of some mysterious night bird coming up out of the surrounding blackness. All this my companion enjoyed immensely, as well he might. He did not so much enjoy the reverse side of the medal though, when a sudden thunderburst and a night of chilly, pelting downpour – which precluded all thoughts of a fire, or anything hot – drove us to huddle within the tent waggon, and browse upon biscuit and tinned stuff. However I had broken him in fairly well by that time, and he was disposed to take things as they came. Now and again he would try my patience by some outbreak of mulish cussedness, but I remembered his character and training, and had no difficulty in keeping myself in hand. Added to which I believe I entertained a sneaking softness towards the fellow if only that he constituted a connecting link with those I had left behind. Those? Well, to be candid, but – never mind.
We were approaching the mountainous regions of the north, and the bushy valleys and slopes of the lower country had been left behind. The air grew clear and sharp, and the nights had become downright chilly. Around, the hills rose in abrupt slopes, their sweep broken up into great terraces as it were, by tiers of smooth grey cliffs. To all appearance the country might have been uninhabited, but I knew better: knew that the great clefts which fell abruptly from the track contained teeming kraals, whose presence might easily remain unsuspected by the casual wayfarer: knew, too, that not a mile of our advance but was carefully watched and duly reported. In the Zululand of those days the passage of a white man’s waggons was an event, and that from more than one point of view.
Chapter Sixteen.
To Blows
“Here come men, Nkose, and I think that they come to cause us trouble,” said Mfutela, shading his eyes to look up the road.
I followed his glance. A dark crowd was swarming over the ridge half a mile in front, and in the then rising sun I could make out the glint of assegai blades. That was nothing, since every man in Zululand at that time seemed to make a point of moving about with as many assegais as he could conveniently carry. But it was significant that at sight of us they should have halted for a moment, and then come forward at a run, shouting like mad.
“Is there to be no end to all these mischievous idiots and their larks?” I said, sourly and in English. And yet at the time I felt not altogether happy – things happen suddenly among savages. What if the tension on the Transvaal border had already brought on an outbreak.
“Hallo! What’s the row?” sang out Falkner, from the tent waggon, into which he had dived to fetch something or other. “Any more fellows whose heads want punching – eh, Glanton?”
“No,” I answered more sourly still. “Keep those itching knuckles of yours quiet for once – for Heaven’s sake.”
It was early morning as I have said, and we were in the act of inspanning. We had camped in an open valley, and in front lay a long acclivity of miry red track mapped out by ancient wheel ruts and rendered diabolical by a heavy rainfall during the night. It was at the head of this that the crowd had appeared, and looking at both I was all the less disposed to meet opposition with the good humour which is always advisable.
“Zulu nigga troublesome debbil,” said Jan Boom, the Xosa, who was fond of airing his English, and his contempt for those of his own colour who “had none.”
The new arrivals left us in no sort of doubt as to their intentions, for they charged straight for us, and waving their weapons roared out to us to stop.
“Tre-ek!” I yelled, seizing the whip from Mfutela, and letting out the long lash in a couple of resounding cracks which had the effect of making one fellow who was brandishing a war-axe within an ace of Tom’s nose – who was leading – skip aside with some alacrity. Jan Boom, who was driving the other waggon, was quick to follow my example, and to the accompaniment of a cannonade of whip cracking and ear-splitting yells, the two spans tugged out laboriously over the heavy miry road.
So far as our disturbers were concerned, I kept silence, by way of showing that I considered them beneath my notice, until I saw that their mouthings and gesticulations as they kept pace with us on either side, were likely to schrik our two horses, leading on behind, to the point of nearly causing them to break their reims and rush away the devil knew where.
“Who are ye?” I shouted. “Who are ye that come bellowing down upon me like a pack of kraal curs? You are not children either, for I see among you men with rings. Go away.”
But the ringed men, to my surprise, were among the most boisterous.
“Turn back, Umlungu,” cried one of them. “Turn back. It is the word of our father, Mawendhlela.”
Mawendhlela! The name set my misgivings at rest in a moment. Mawendhlela a chief by virtue of birth and possessions, a man who was no warrior but one of the few Zulus at that time who was addicted to gin, and disliked me because I had always steadfastly refused either to trade or give him any.
“Mawendhlela!” I echoed. “Hau! I go to a bull that roars louder than he. I go to Majendwa – to Majendwa I say. Now – go away.”
But this, to my surprise, they showed no inclination to do. On the contrary they closed up in such wise as to bring the front waggon to a standstill. Short of cutting a way through them there was no method of proceeding, and there were about a hundred of them, all bristling with assegais. I had my revolver on though it was not visible, and for all their numbers I made up my mind to shoot the first who should lay a hand upon my people or my oxen: for there are times when forbearance may be stretched to a dangerous limit. What would have happened next I won’t pretend to guess, but some sort of diversion must have occurred, for heads were turned, looking back over the way they had come. Then the crowd parted, precipitately too, some tumbling over each other’s heels in their alacrity to get out of the way, and through the lane thus opened there rode up at a furious pace, a man – a white man.
“Here, get out of this!” he bellowed, firing off a very blast of profanity. “Turn your blanked oxen round, and trek back – d’you hear? trek back a sight quicker than you came. D’you hear?”
“May I be permitted to ask why?” I said, sarcastically.
“No, you mayn’t and be damned to you. But I’ll tell you. Because I say so. That’s why. Because I say so. You’ve heard of me.”
“Don’t know that I have. Who might you be when you’re at home?”
“I’m Dolf Norbury. That’s who I might be. Dolf Norbury, d’you hear? I’ve got the trade up here, and I’m damned if I’m going to have any dirty winkler from Natal coming up here to make holes in it. Now – d’you hear?”
“Winkler” meaning a small shopkeeper, was meant to be offensive.
“Oh, so you’re Dolf Norbury, are you?” I said, pretending to be impressed.
“That’s right. I’m Dolf Norbury, and no man ever got the blind side of me and kept it. Now – clear.”
“Ah!” I said. “I’m Godfrey Glanton, and no man ever got the blind side of me and kept it. Now – clear.”
I thought he would there and then have tumbled down in a fit. It happened that I had heard a good deal about this Dolf Norbury, but had only seen him once, at Krantz Kop, and that some years before; on which occasion, however, he had been far too drunk to remember me now. He was a big, roaring, buffalo bull of a fellow of about fifty, who would be sure to gain ascendency among savages if he laid himself out to do so. He had Mawendhlela completely under his thumb, and that for a further reason than those which have just appeared, which was as well for himself, for the more respectable chiefs of Zululand would have nothing to do with him by this time. He would have been turned out of the country, or would have died suddenly, before this but that he had his uses; for he was a most daring and successful gunrunner among other accomplishments. With all his bounce he was not wanting in pluck, and could hold his own anywhere, and always had held it as some had found to their cost – he would add, darkly boastful. His record was uncertain, but he had an intimate acquaintance with the Transkein border and Pondoland: and talked the native dialects faultlessly; in short he was just the type that would drift into the position of “chief’s white man,” with all the advantages of self-enrichment which it affords – and these are not small if the thing is properly worked. The only thing certain about him was that for some time past he dared not show his face upon any square yard of ground under British jurisdiction – on pain of death in mid air, it was not obscurely hinted. In aspect he was heavy and powerful of build. His face, tanned to a red bronze, was half hidden in a thick and flowing beard just turning grey, but the jet black of his shaggy eyebrows had not begun to turn. Under them his eyes, black and piercing, glittered like those of a snake. Now they began to roll till you could see scarcely anything but the whites. He seemed on the verge of a fit.
“Don’t put yourself in a passion,” I said, for I had become cool in proportion to the other’s rage. “There’s no occasion for it, you know. Only I may as well tell you that I don’t take any man’s bounce, and the idea of you, or any other man coming along here to give me orders strikes me as a joke. See?”
“Joke does it?” he gasped. “You’ll find it a mighty dear joke.” Then followed more talk which it is impossible to reproduce on paper. “A joke does it? D’you know I’ve killed men for less than this – yes, killed more men than you’ve even fought. A joke eh? Now – you’ll see.”
He was just turning to the noisy crowd, who however had sunk into silence, and, with eyeballs strained, were watching developments, when Falkner, whose restraint had come to an end on seeing a white man, and therefore as he afterwards put it one who could stand up to him, instead of a lot of miserable niggers who couldn’t – lounged forward.
“Here, I say. You’ll hurt yourself directly, old man,” he drawled – I suspected purposely putting on his most offensive manner.
“Hurt myself will I – aw haw?” returned the other, imitating Falkner’s drawl. “Hurt myself will I, my blanked popinjay? But first of all I’m going to hurt you – I’m going to hammer you within an inch of your life, and I won’t promise to leave you that.”
He jumped off his horse, and Falkner winked at me, for this was just what he wanted.
“I say, you know, I can’t hit you. You’re too old,” he said, in a tone calculated to exasperate the other, and it had just that effect, for literally bellowing with rage Dolf came straight at him. At first Falkner undertook to play with him, but soon found that he had got his hands full, for the other had weight and was enormously strong, and although he was inferior in science his mad rushes were nearly as irresistible as those of a buffalo bull, which was just what he reminded me of, with his eyes swollen and glaring, and his beard red and shaggy with blood. But he was uncommonly quick on his pins, and did not fight blindly by any means – indeed for some time I should have been sorry to have risked a large sum on either of them. It was a battle of giants.
I confess to watching the contest with a very keen interest. The Zulus standing around, were still as bronze as they craned eagerly forward to watch this, to them, absolutely novel form of battle. My people standing exactly where they had been, were no less interested spectators. At last I thought to detect a sign of weakening on the part of the enemy. Youth and science was beginning to tell against sheer strength. Norbury must have realised this, for shaking his head like a bull about to charge, he hurled himself forward for a final effort, striking out with terrific force. Falkner got it full on the forehead, but managed to keep up. The other staggered back, and then as he was about to make another rush I saw his right hand go behind him.
“Drop that!” I said sharply bringing round the butt end of my whipstick upon the wrist. With a howl of rage he complied literally, as the sheath knife which he had just drawn leapt from his hand. I put my foot on it just as Falkner, rushing in, knocked him fairly and squarely out.
“Two to one, you blanked cowards,” he snarled, in between curses, as he picked himself unsteadily up, half stunned as he was. “That your idea of fair play, is it?”
“And this is your idea of fair play?” I said, holding up the knife. It had a good eight-inch blade and was ground like a razor. “Why you infernal murderer, did you think I was going to stand by and see you use it?”
“You’re a liar,” he answered. “I never pulled it. You knocked it out of its sheath yourself, just for an excuse to pack on to me two to one.”
“Liar yourself,” I said. “You’d pulled it all right. Now clear out, and by the Lord, if you try any dog tricks on us by way of being even we’ll shoot, you understand. This is outside British jurisdiction, you know. So look out.”
He gave me a look that was positively devilish, and which his battered and blood-smeared countenance did not soften, you may be sure.
“Look out yourself,” he retorted furiously. “What sort of a man are you to come in and try to sneak another man’s trade? I was here first, I tell you.”
“That’s all right. But you might as well have made sure I was trying to sneak your trade first. Instead of that you come charging up to me at the head of about a hundred armed scoundrels and start a game of bounce. Did you think I was going to turn my waggons, and trek back at your bidding, or at any man’s bidding, because if so you got hold of the wrong pig by the ear, that’s all. I hadn’t intended to go near your old soaker’s place – but now I shall please myself about it.”
“Will you? All right. You were saying something just now about being outside British jurisdiction. Well, remember that. You’re not out of this country yet remember, and while you’re in it you’d better keep a bright look out. Dolf Norbury ain’t the man to be bested all along the line – and I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t begin now. So keep a bright look out, that’s my advice.”