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Chapter Twenty Nine.
Mafutana’s Plan
Sikonile’s hut was full. Sikonile’s hut, being full, was exceedingly close and stuffy. Moreover, it was thick with tobacco smoke; for, unlike the Zulus, both men and women of the Xosa tribes were great smokers, and so thick was the cloud, having no egress but by percolating through the thatch roof, that none but Kafir eyes could have remained open in it for two consecutive minutes. This, with the foetid, musky, human odour combined with that of more or less rancid grease, would have sent the ordinary white man promptly outside, feeling very sea-sick indeed. No white man, however, was there; incidentally a very lucky thing for the white man, and that for other reasons than the one just given.
Sikonile was an elderly Kafir, and the expression of his massive, bearded countenance was scowling and vindictive as he sat gloomily puffing at his long-stemmed angular pipe. And this was scarcely wonderful, seeing that he was the father of Nzinto, the man whom Harley Greenoak had just shot dead. The fact that the deceased had brought his fate upon his own head did not count for much towards mending matters.
“The people might as well lie down again,” he was saying, continuing the debate, which had already reached a heated pitch. “‘It is not healthy to attempt to snatch a gun from the hand of Kulondeka,’” he quoted, with a sneer. “Hau! Had I been there then, Kulondeka would have found it ‘not healthy’ to shoot down the children of Gaika, here in their own home. Yet, a number of us, all armed, slunk away like stoned curs. Hau! like stoned and beaten curs!”
A fierce murmur greeted his words. He went on —
“And such call themselves men. And they all slink away before one. Men! Hau! I call them dogs. And if they slink away before one white, what will they do when many whites are arrayed against them? What is all this talk about driving the whites into the sea when they are afraid of a single one, alone in their midst? Why, our women would make better warriors than they.”
Most of those present, elderly or middle-aged men themselves, had sons who had been among the uproarious demonstrators; and liked not the contemptuous denunciation of the speaker. One now spoke.
“Not at the bidding of the white man did they hold their hands, Sikonile, but at the word of the chief.”
“The word of the chief,” echoed Sikonile, sneeringly savage. “Au! but Matanzima is not a chief. He is the son of the Great Chief, but he is a boy.”
“Yet he is the one to whom all these look up,” put in another. “The time to take vengeance was not yet.”
“Not yet? But will it ever be?” cried Sikonile, flinging out an arm and glaring around. “You are all afraid of this white man – afraid. Hau!”
The disgust and contempt of his tone, especially as conveyed by the last exclamation, stung them somewhat.
“Kulondeka is no ordinary white man,” said some one, sullenly. “There is that of tagati about him. Many have tried to kill him, and he is still alive. But – where are they?”
“Cowards all! Fools and cowards! They deserved their death,” was the fierce rejoinder.
“Yet, brother,” went on the one who had spoken last, “Kulondeka is here among us alone. It is thy son whom he has killed, but thou hast other sons. Matanzima is no chief – only the child of one. Yonder is his hut, and the white man is here. Now take thy other sons, and go and kill him.”
There was a touch of mockery in the tone. The words were, in fact, a challenge. Sikonile leapt to his feet.
“That will I do!” he blared forth, gesticulating with anger, for he was worked up to a blaze of revengeful exaltation. “That will I do!” And tearing down a bundle of assegais which hung against the side of the hut, he made for the door. But before he could gain it another voice spoke.
“Pause, brother. I have a better plan than that.”
The angry man paused.
“A better plan!” he sneered. “Plans – always plans! Whau! I like not such. We have heard too much of plans lately. It is now time to act. One act is worth ten times ten plans. Yet, what is thy ‘plan,’ Mafutana?”
“Hear it then, Sikonile. What sort of poor revenge would it be to kill Kulondeka, to kill him at once so that he feels nothing, and to get thyself and thy sons killed for violating the house of the son of the Great Chief – for this is surely what would happen? Should we not rather collect our sons together, and, stealing out from the kraals by twos and threes, meet after dark, and take him when he leaves to-night to return home? For he will leave to-night.”
A murmur of applause met this proposal. The vengeful father was impressed.
“Why, that is something of a plan,” he said. “But what if it should fail? Yet, it should not.”
“It should not, for it will be easy,” was the answer. “We can ambush every way by which he will leave. Then, think what your revenge will be. We will carry him to the ‘Place of the Bones,’ and spend the night burning him alive, even as we did the traitor Nemvu. Whau! what an end for Kulondeka! A great, a noble end. You, Sikonile, in each of his groans, as the fire eats into sinew and flesh and nerve, will hear the glad laughter of Nzinto, whom he slew. Now, say. Is not my plan the better? It will avoid trouble, for Matanzima, to whom all the fighters look up, will never know. And, what a noble revenge it will afford thee.”
An emphatic hum of approval went up from the entire gathering. Mafutana was a genius. And then all heads were grouped together in an eager, under-toned discussion, and, seen through the thick, dim smoke-cloud, the grim ferocious faces were as those of demons exulting over the torment of a newly acquired soul.
Harley Greenoak awoke at sundown, aroused by a light touch from his host, who had been watching carefully over his safety.
“It is nearly time to depart, Kulondeka,” said the latter. “To have done so earlier would not have been safe, to remain later would not be safe either; for, bear in mind, I am not the Great Chief, but only his child. And he has other children.”
There was significance in this. The very short twilight – for darkness falls suddenly under Southern skies – was used by Greenoak in solemnly repeating his former warnings. Then, when it was dark enough, they went outside, where the horse was already standing, all ready and saddled.
“Fare thee well, son of the Great Chief,” said Greenoak as he mounted. “My heart is sore for thee and the people if my words pass unheeded. I can say no more.”
Matanzima’s face was gloomy, and his tones sad as he answered —
“Fare thee well, Kulondeka. Who can alter or foresee his fate? For thyself, ride with care this night, and with wide-open eyes. Yet, who am I to offer counsel to one such as thee.”
The dark shadows of the adjacent bush, soon gained, swallowed up the rider. But he knew it in the dark as in the daylight; knew it as well as – even better than – the savages whose home it was, and who were even then lying, spread out in a line covering some distance, lurking, eager, every faculty of sight and hearing, and even scent, at the fullest tension as they awaited their sure and certain prey. Would they seize it? Such seemed indeed probable, for now, to make assurance doubly sure, not only lay the waiting enemy in front, but behind, stealthily flitting on, keeping the horseman ever in sight, moved a single form – that of an evil, thick-set, scrabbly bearded savage – the same whom we saw dogging his way in the darkness when he first set forth upon his perilous mission: the bulk, indeed, of whose peril had yet to be encountered.
Gaining the high ground, which should shut the valley from view, Greenoak looked back. The location lay beneath, quiet under the stars. A twinkle of light from some open hut door or the spark of an outside fire showed in the distance, but there was no sound of dancing or revelry. The night air blew fresh and sweet as he plunged down into a deep bushy valley.
Listening intently, he gave forth the cry of a night bird, then again. It was answered. Dismounting, he led his horse a few paces – then halted, soothing the animal, as a figure rose out of the gloom with rather startling suddenness. But its apparition seemed to convey no alarm to Harley Greenoak, for between him and it there now followed a short, low-toned, but very emphatic and earnest conference.
“Whau!” ejaculated Mafutana, in a smothered whisper.
“Do you hear anything, brother?”
Sikonile, raising his head, seemed to be trying to pierce the darkness. His broad nostrils snuffed the night air, like those of a buck.
“He comes,” was the answer.
Rapidly the word was passed along the line of crouching savages. And now the soft footfall of an unshod horse was plainly audible, advancing straight towards them. Hands gripped assegai hafts with fierce and bloodthirsty thrill, yet no weapon was to be used. The white man was to be taken alive, and, as their plans had been laid, he would easily be so taken. A mandate was issued by Mafutana to some of the young men, and these moved quickly away down the hill, widening out so that they should give the advancing horseman time to get within the toils, yet not too near, lest the horse should wind them and show alarm.
Along the dark ridge the crouching savages lay, tense with excitement; every head raised, listening, like that of some evil snake. Then a quick gasp escaped them. Just below there was the thud of a heavy fall, and the plunging of frantic hoofs, the jingle of a bit, and the rattle of stones. Like lightning they were up and sweeping down upon the spot. But no sound was uttered. This had to be brought through in silence.
Already as they arrived, their forerunners had raised the fallen horse, which stood trembling and snorting in terror, and had flung themselves upon and pinioned its rider. Others grinned as they untied the long reims which, extended from bush stump to bush stump across the path, had composed the trap which had effected their capture so easily and bloodlessly.
Sikonile came forward with a grin of hate upon his countenance that was simply demoniacal. He would have such a sweet revenge now. But as he pushed through the throng to look at the prisoner a murmur of wonder which had arisen had increased to a hubbub. This was not Kulondeka at all.
It was one of themselves – a native. In the starlight they could see his face. Yet – the horse was that of Kulondeka.
“Who are you?” asked Sikonile, an assegai raised threateningly.
“Pato, son of Teliso, of the Abatembu, under the chief, Umfanta,” was the unhesitating answer.
“And Kulondeka’s horse? How didst thou come by it?” asked Mafutana.
“Who is Kulondeka?” said the prisoner, wonderingly.
“Answer questions, do not ask them,” interposed Sikonile, furiously, giving the prisoner a couple of vicious digs in the thigh with his assegai.
“I found this horse down there,” said the latter sullenly, “and it was standing alone, so I took it. If it is a chief’s horse —au! here it is. I thought it was a white man’s.”
“Where were you going?” queried Mafutana.
But before any answer could be made, an interruption occurred. One of the bystanders, who had been bending down closely scrutinising the prisoner’s face in the starlight, shot upward with a quick ejaculation.
“Whau!” he cried, bringing his hand to his mouth. “See, brothers. Here is Pato, son of Teliso, of the Abatembu, under the chief, Umfanta. Should it not rather be Mantisa, son of no Fengu dog in particular, a spy of the Amapolise, under Bokelo? Do I not know him! Hau! He it was who got me a long time in prison, for stealing a sheep which I never stole. Ha! Welcome to thee, Mantisa. For thee we have a warm bed, ah-ah – a bed of fire!”
The unfortunate detective, seeing himself unmasked, realised that the only hope of escape for him was a swift death instead of a long and lingering one by fiery torment. So, instead of answering, he only spat contemptuously. A score of assegais were raised. But Sikonile flung himself in the way.
“See you these?” he said. “Where is Kulondeka?”
“That I know not,” came the sullen reply.
“Ha! The fire! The fire will make him speak!” cried several. “To the fire then! To the Place of the Bones!”
And in a moment the wretched Fingo’s arms were tightly bound behind him with raw-hide, and he himself was hustled along, propelled by kicks and blows and assegai prods, towards the place of his ghastly death.
But not until they had got some little way did it become known to the whole party that the horse had disappeared. It had been left standing, just as it had arisen from the ground, with the bridle still on its neck. In the prevailing excitement no one had made it his business to hold it. Now it was gone.
Chapter Thirty.
The “Place of the Bones.”
Harley Greenoak for once in his life had committed an error of judgment. He had quite reckoned on the possibility of being followed, even as he knew that every step of his way had been dogged from the moment he had left the settlement. But the possibility of a formidable and cleverly devised ambush being prepared for him in front, he had somehow or other quite overlooked. So when he turned over his horse to Mantisa with instructions to take it to a point agreed upon and await him there, he was, of course, in complete ignorance of the trap into which his auxiliary was about to fall. Even then, if Mantisa had carried out his instructions to the letter, instead of taking a way of his own because it was a little shorter, he need not have fallen into the trap at all.
Greenoak’s object in getting rid of his horse for a time was that he was going into exceedingly broken and rugged country, in parts of which he could not ride at all. A led horse would be a serious impediment, hampering him at every step, to say nothing of the repeated plungings and stumblings of the animal among the rocks and stones being nearly as good as a bugle for all purposes of telling undesirable ears near and far that he was there. Again, it might neigh on occasion, which would serve the same purpose.
Now he struck off at a tangent from his former line of route, and, after some hours of steady walking, got among the broken precipitous ground which overhung the river. Rising from far beneath, he could hear its swirl and murmur. Further down he struck, his labours doubled by his carefulness to avoid any and every sound. For sound travels far on a still night, more especially on a river bank.
He looked about for a place wherein to ensconce himself so that he could see without being seen, and soon found one that answered the purpose so exactly that it might have been made to order. It was a depression overhung by a great rock, and, lying snugly, with his gaze just over the tip of a hollow, he could command a full view of the river drift, while himself invisible from above.
And now it was as well he had had that long sleep in Matamzima’s hut, for the very restfulness of this place after hours of hard walking rendered even his iron frame lax to the point of drowsiness. But it was not far to dawn now.
The stillness was absolute, hardly the cry of bird or beast awoke to break it. The loom of the Kei hills was well-nigh invisible against the stars, so dark had become this darkest hour before the dawn. Then to Harley Greenoak’s ears came a far-away sound, faint but unmistakable. It was the sound of voices, of native voices, singing. From far down on the plains beyond the river it came, and it was drawing nearer and nearer.
The watcher’s nerves thrilled to the sound. The voices were pitched low; purposely so he knew, none better. Knew also that they proceeded from a moving mass of men. Would the dawn never come?
It would, and it did. The world had grown perceptibly lighter. The loom of the hills was now distinct, but the depth of the plain was in darkness. Still the moving sound drew nearer, and now in the tense stillness the listener could even distinguish the tenour of the words. It was a song of war.
None but a large and strongly armed band would have ventured thus to advertise its presence. The inference was clear. The body now marching from the Gcaleka country was the expected incursion. If he had been in any doubt before, Harley Greenoak had now already decided to himself that his information was accurate.
The darkness faded still more, and now upon the fast lightening plain he was able to make out the moving mass. Lighter still! Hundreds of armed savages were advancing to the drift. He could make out detail, and took in the fact that many of them had guns, and now even that indescribable rattle of assegai hafts – curiously unlike any other sound – was borne upward to his ears. But the identity of any in the band he could not arrive at.
The war-song had ceased. They descended to the drift in silence, and without a moment’s hesitation waded into the swirling current, their weapons held high above their heads. This was breast deep, and as they gained the middle of the stream many linked hands in order to steady themselves against its strength. More than once a deep-toned, smothered laugh and a splash told that an odd warrior here and there had slipped and got a ducking. Finally, the last had disappeared. He could not see them land, his own side of the river being shut from view by the tree-tops; but he knew exactly where they would land, and the line they would take for Matanzima’s kraal. Harley Greenoak’s work here was done.
The next phase of it was that of warning. Listening intently, he left his hiding-place. There was no sound of life along the river bank, the invading party had gone in an almost contrary direction. He struck into an old path, which followed the downward course of the river, and for some distance was able to travel with ease and rapidity. Then this ceased, giving way to tumbled and broken rocks, every here and there heavily overgrown with trailers. Above, on one side great rugged krantzes walled him in. Not for many miles further down could he strike the open country again. Greenoak had never been along this river bank before, but his experienced eyes took in the hang of it completely.
Suddenly he stopped dead short, listening intently. In front – and not very far in front – the sound of deep-toned voices. In a moment he had slipped into a cleft between two rocks, and had drawn the trailers over him; and it seemed hardly a moment more when a number of fully armed Kafirs appeared, moving leisurely along the way he had come, but taking the upward course of the bank. But for their utter unguardedness, they would have met him face to face. As it was, they passed so near as almost to brush the trailers which afforded him such precarious concealment. He held his very breath, so near were they.
They were talking at random, and a good deal all at once – and something was said about a roast, and how good it was, and the speakers passed on while others succeeded, talking about nothing in particular. But Harley Greenoak, through the interstices, recognised several of them, among others, Mafutana and Sikonile, whose son he had shot. Then he knew that this hiding-place had received him not a moment too soon.
The last of the Kafirs had gone by, but Greenoak was in no hairy to move. When, finally, he decided that it was time to do so, the sun was already flaming up from beyond the Kei hills, and the birds were breaking into song, twittering and calling from the cool shade of krantzes, or balancing on twig and spray, joyous, perky, in the glow of the new-born day.
Suddenly he halted. No sight, no sound, had thus pulled him up, but – an odour. For there came to his nostrils a strong smell as of cooking, and it came from in front. He remembered how some of the Kafirs had been talking about a “roast.” Of course, he was coming to where they had spent the night, and had feasted – probably upon stolen stock. Well, he would investigate. But – what if there should be others there?
Cautiously he advanced, weapons ready, peering before him, listening, the strange odour stronger with every step, and he found himself hoping they might have left some of their repast, for he could do with a broil himself. And then —
Not altogether unfamiliar with scenes of horrific ghastliness himself, at what he now saw, peering cautiously over a great rock, Harley Greenoak felt his blood run cold and his flesh creep.
Beneath lay a hollow, overhung by the beetling cliff. The place was evidently the resort of a gang of cattle stealers, for the ground was thickly strewn with the skulls and bones of cattle and sheep, but, needless to say, the sight of these was not what had perturbed him.
In the centre of the place, slung to a thick, stout pole whose ends rested on two rocks, was a human figure – what was left of one, that is. It hung horizontally, bound to the pole by wrists and ankles, back downwards, forming a bow, and underneath were the still smouldering ashes of a large fire. The head hung down and the wretched creature was quite dead, but the middle of the body, upon which the fire had played, presented a sight that was indescribably horrible.
This, then, was the “roast” to which those human fiends had made allusion, decided Greenoak; but why should the poor wretch have incurred such devilish vengeance, for the body was that of a native, not that of a white man? Mastering his horror and disgust, Greenoak stepped quickly forward to investigate – and then the mystery stood explained. In the agonised, drawn face of the dead man he recognised that of Mantisa, the Police detective.
Like light the truth was borne in upon his brain. He pieced together everything. The presence of Mafutana and Sikonile with the party supplied the link. They had been lying in wait for himself, and in the darkness had pounced upon Mantisa in mistake for himself, nor could it have been long after the former had gone on with the horse. Yet why should they have brought the poor wretch here to put him to such a ghastly death? An assegai or two would have answered all purposes there on the spot. And then a conviction of the real truth came home to Harley Greenoak. They had tortured their prisoner to force him to reveal his own whereabouts, and Mantisa had been unable or unwilling to do so. A great wave of pity and admiration swept through Greenoak’s heart as he gazed upon the miserable mangled remains.
“Poor, plucky devil!” he said to himself as he turned away, for the nature of the ground precluded any kind of attempt at burial. “Poor, plucky, heroic devil! Well, he’s gone aloft, that’s certain, if any one ever did get there, black or white.”
As he left the place of horror, he wondered what had become of his horse. Had it been captured too? But as against this, he recalled the fact that it was not in the possession of the perpetrators of this atrocity what time they passed his hiding-place. Well, he supposed he must give it up as lost, but coming at this juncture the loss was serious, for he had intended making a quick round in order to warn as many of the settlers as he could reach.
An hour of further travelling and the bush line would draw to an end in favour of more open country above. Just before reaching this, however, a sound reached him. It was the quick whinny of a horse, the shaking of the saddle-flaps, then a neigh. Of course, to one of Greenoak’s rapid powers of deduction this meant a riderless horse. What if it was his – what if it had broken away, while the savages were occupied with their prisoner? A few more minutes and he came in sight of the animal, and – it was his.
But, holding the end of the bridle-rein, was a man, a native – a thick-set, ugly, scrabbly bearded savage, and armed. Greenoak’s gun was up in a moment, covering the fellow.
But somehow or other, it did not seem to produce the effect he had expected. The ugly face split into a white stripe of grin, and a voice said in excellent English —
“Not shoot, Mr Greenoak. I John Voss.”
Well might Greenoak start. This, then, was the fellow who had been stealthily following him. The make-up was perfect. It happened that normally John Voss was a singularly neat and smart-looking native, with an intelligent face and, for a native, a very respectable beard, of which he was not a little proud. The sacrifice of this latter alone, in order to transform himself into an evil-looking, squalid savage, argued a whole-hearted zeal deserving of recognition, and he had certainly succeeded, for himself, to a dangerous degree at that moment.
“Well, John, you’ve had a narrow escape,” said Greenoak. “But that I was afraid the horse would have schreked at the shot and cleared, you’d have been down with a bullet through you at this moment, I believe. Now let’s hear all about it.”
The other told him – how he had followed Mantisa, and witnessed his capture; how in the excitement of that event he had mingled with the Kafirs in the darkness, and had ridden away upon the horse when their attention was more fully occupied, intending to wait for its owner at the point where he judged the latter would reappear. Then Greenoak told him of the crossing from Gcalekaland, and the barbarous vengeance which had been taken upon poor Mantisa. It happened that John Voss had not been into the location at all, so had been powerless to warn either of the ambush laid, for the simple reason that he knew nothing of it.
And as they travelled, these two laid their plans as to how best warn the neighbourhood.
