In the Whirl of the Rising

In the wild din, we repeat, nothing can be heard, consequently the residue of the refugees are totally unaware that one among their number is down, lying pinned to the ground by his horse but otherwise uninjured, awaiting the spears of hundreds of savages aroused to the last degree of vengeful exasperation. But such is sadly the case – and that man is Piers Lamont.

This is “where he is.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.
No Hope!

The township of Gandela was practically in a state of siege. Taught tardy wisdom – providentially not too tardy – by recent happenings, its authorities had caused a strong laager to be formed, and within this its inhabitants gathered at night. To those of them who owned stands in outlying parts of the township this was a considerable disadvantage, for in the event of attack their property would inevitably be looted and their houses burnt. Moreover, the accommodation within the laager was of necessity cramped and comfortless, and involved a considerable amount of promiscuous ‘herding,’ But in those lurid days, when tale succeeded tale of treacherous massacre and mutilation throughout the length and breadth of the land, – unhappily, for the most part true, – when refugees, singly or in groups, would come panting in with hair-breadth escapes to narrate, unspeakably glad to have escaped with their bare lives, – when, at any moment, the Matabele impis might swoop down upon them in such force as to tax their uttermost resources – why, then, people were not particular as to a little discomfort more or less.

And of this, in the Gandela laager at any rate, there was plenty. Transport had been scanty and dear enough, in all conscience, before, when it was not uncommon for a whole span of oxen to succumb on the road to the fell rinderpest. Now, since the outbreak, when anything like regular communication had been cut off – the roads only being kept open by strong and well-armed patrols and then at the cost of fierce fighting – the situation at outlying posts such as Gandela became more than serious. The food supplies threatened to run short. There was not much fear of any attack in the daytime, or at all events without ample warning, for the surrounding country was carefully scouted on every side; and such being the case those who dwelt on the outlying stands occupied their houses until sundown, when they collected within the laager. Among such were the Fullertons.

The worthy Dick grumbled terribly; not at the prevailing discomfort, but that having womenkind to look after he was debarred from joining any field force – at all events for the present – for the plan which we heard formulated for the raising of such a force under the command of Lamont was of necessity in abeyance by reason of the disappearance of the latter.

Disappearance, indeed, was the word. The men who were with him when flying for their lives had been utterly unable to tell when or where they had lost sight of him. They had, however, been able to guide the relief party under Peters and Wyndham to the place within the hills where they had been first attacked. But – no trace of him whom they sought. Farther on, they came upon the bodies of two others of the stragglers – as usual, hacked and mutilated – those of their horses, similarly treated, lying hard by. But of Lamont there was absolutely no trace. He seemed to have disappeared, horse and man.

The situation contained one hopeful feature. If there was no trace of him in life, equally was there no trace of his death; no blood marks, such as would probably have been the case. The innumerable footprints of the pursuing Matabele might have obliterated such, yet it was improbable that to experienced spoor-readers – and there were several here – some trace, however faint, should not be discernible; and herein lay room for hope.

The missing man might be in close hiding among the kopjes. To this end, Peters and his force spent a long time searching the wild and broken ground, and, incidentally, shooting an odd Matabele or two engaged in outlying scouting. But the search proved futile; moreover, a large impi – far too large for them to engage unless they desired to court disaster – appeared on their front, effectually barring further advance. Sorrowfully they returned to the Kezane to report their failure.

That was a day destined to remain engraved in lurid letters on Clare Vidal’s memory as long as she should live. She would not have believed the human mind to be capable of bearing so acute a stage of anguish as that which filled hers when the party returned, without – him. But with her it took no form of tears or hysteria. Pale, stony-eyed, she asked her questions calmly, and with coolness and acumen. Had they really searched exhaustively. Was it likely he had been taken prisoner? In a word – was there any hope?

“There’s life, you must remember, Miss Vidal,” had answered the officer in command of the Scouts. “The very fact of finding no trace of him shows that he was not killed there, at any rate. If he has been captured – well, prisoners have been known to escape. There have been instances of such.”

“But – not many?”

The other’s heart smote him. He had known of cases wherein men had blown their own brains out rather than accept the chances of life on such odds. He could only repeat —

“Well, there have been such instances. Natives very rarely take prisoners at all. The fact that they had not killed Lamont there and then, and it is certain they had not, seems to show some powerful motive for sparing his life for the present. And, while there is life – ”

” – There is hope. Yes, I know. And now, what is going to be done to try and save him?”

The other felt troubled, and looked it. His orders were to keep the road open, and afford escort to such outlying whites as desired to reach a place of safety. He did not see how he could take his troop off this duty, to engage in an indefinite search for one man, who would almost certainly have been murdered long before they should so much as hear of him – even if they ever did.

“This is one thing that’s going to be done, Miss Vidal,” cut in Peters. “I’m going to try and find him, – I for one. Wyndham I know will make another, and it’ll be strange if we don’t find a good few more who’ll volunteer.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Clare.

“Excuse me – no. That can’t be done, Miss Vidal. It’s quite impossible. Not a man would volunteer on those terms.”

She thought a moment. “You are right, Mr Peters. Yes. I see that. For me there is nothing for it but to – wait. To wait!” she repeated bitterly.

“And – hope,” supplemented Peters. “If any man is going to find out what’s become of Lamont, I’m that man. He almost threw away his life once to save mine, and now I’ll either return with him if he’s above ground or I won’t return at all.”

This conversation had taken place within the living-room of Grunberger’s house, and now Clare’s self-possession utterly gave way. She sank into a chair, and sobbed.

“Cheer up, Miss Vidal, cheer up,” said Peters briskly. “If it’s in the power of mortal man to find Lamont, I’m going to be that man. There’s more’n one could tell you I’m not easy put off a job I once make up my mind to bring through. I’m not saying it to brag. Now I’m going to collect as many as I can, and we’ll start at dark.”

“God will bless you,” was all she could say, as she wrung the hard, gnarled hand of the honest pioneer.

“This is a devilish sad, romantic sort of business,” said the officer of Scouts; for the circumstances of the engagement, thus tragically broken, were pretty well known now all over the camp. “Lovely girl, too, by Jove!” Peters nodded. “Good, too,” he said. “Good and plucky. She’s the only girl I’ve ever clapped eyes on good enough for Lamont.”

The other smiled half-heartedly. This was a piece of hero worship that he, naturally, could not enthuse over.

Peters was as good as his word – and that night he, with over twenty men, well-armed and rationed, started on their quest. The following morning the Fullertons and Clare Vidal, and the men who had been wounded in the fight, started in the other direction, that of Gandela to wit, under a strong escort of Scouts. With them, too, went the storekeeper’s family. Grunberger himself refused to budge, and as it was decided that the Kezane Store would form a very good base for supplies, and something of a garrison was left there for the present, there was no need for him to do so.

“Ach! so. We shall haf Zeederberg’s coaches outspanning here again before de month is out,” he declared, as he bade them a hearty good-bye.

No obstacles met them on the return trek, but to one at least the scenes of the former terror and strife were as holy ground as they passed slowly over them. More than one ghastly trace of that grim running fight met the eye, but to Clare’s mind and to Clare’s gaze, there was only one sight – that of him who had hurried to their rescue, of him whom she had watched with admiration, yes and love, she knew it now – so skilfully and intrepidly handling his gallant little force. The horrors of that day were all merged in this. And in those three short days she had loved, and lost! No, it would not bear dwelling upon.

How the subsequent days were lived through Clare was never quite sure. Over and above the poignancy of bereavement an awful depression would come upon her, and in her dreams she would again see the horrors and bloodshed she had witnessed – ay, and taken part in; and the savage faces of those she herself had slain would rise to confront her, glaring hideously with distorted features and threatening snarl. What was she expiating, she would wonder, that no peace should be hers either by night or by day?

If she suffered, it was in silence. Hers was far the stronger mind of the two, and even to her sister she shrank from laying it entirely open. Yet her reticence was seen through, and everybody was considerate and sympathetic. Every scrap of news relating to what was going on in the field was promptly conveyed to her, all but what she thirsted to hear, and that was still lacking. Day followed upon day, and the whereabouts of Peters and his following remained shrouded in a mystery as impenetrable as that of him whom they sought.

Among those who strove to cheer her up was Driffield the Native Commissioner, and he in a measure succeeded.

“Don’t give up, yet, Miss Vidal,” he said, “no, not by any means. I wish I could bring you round to my belief, and that is that Lamont will turn up again.”

“I wish you could,” she answered. “But – time goes on and we hear – nothing.”

“I’m not sure that’s against it,” returned Driffield. “Lamont was a peculiar chap – in fact, a very peculiar sort of chap. He was friendly with Zwabeka’s people and with Zwabeka himself. Well, then, it’s just possible some of them may be hiding him away until it’s safe to turn him loose.”

“Why do you think that, Mr Driffield?”

“I don’t know. It occurs to me as quite within the possibilities. The great thing is – we know he wasn’t killed there, and we know that two others were. Lamont understands natives thoroughly – I could see that – and I fancy I know a little about them myself. Look, too, how he engineered the old witch-doctor the day of the race meeting. That was a great piece of nerve and gumption combined. By Jove! I shouldn’t wonder in the least if he were to make it worth their while to let him skip. Somehow I’m almost certain he’ll turn up again quite jolly.”

“If only I could think so!” she would reply sadly.

Every day she would visit the wounded men, who were lying in a temporary hospital within the precincts of the laager, and this she never missed. They had been wounded in her defence, she declared, and anything she could do to brighten the weariness and pain of their enforced detention should be done. And brighten it she did, and her daily visit was looked forward to with such eagerness that more than one poor fellow declared that it almost made it worth while being knocked out. But Jim Steele growled mightily.

“To think I should be logged up here, when Peters and the rest are looking for the captain. These infernal sawboneses are no damn good at all. Eh, Strange?”

“No? Only to save you by a miracle from having to part with your hoof, Jim,” answered the Buluwayo surgeon tranquilly. “That no good, eh?”

For the other had been shot in the ankle, and had just escaped the necessity of amputation by something like a miracle, as the doctor had said.

“Well, get it all right again sharp, that’s what I want,” growled the big fellow, who was terribly hipped and impatient under his enforced rest. “Get me out of this in ten days, Strange, and I’ll double your blooming fees – Dawson’s too.”

“If you were to multiply them by twenty or twenty hundred, Jim, it couldn’t be done,” answered the surgeon tranquilly. “Moreover, not with my consent, nor Dawson’s either,” – the latter was the Gandela medico, – “do you put that foot to the ground under six weeks. No, it’s no use cussing, none at all. Besides, here’s Miss Vidal just coming in, and she might hear you.”

There was one who was variously affected by the disappearance of Lamont – one of whom we have lost sight of for a little, and that one was Ancram. When he awoke from his slumber of exhaustion to find the relief party gone, at first he had affected great concern. Why had not someone awakened him? Of course he would have joined it. As a matter of fact, he was overjoyed that no one had, for he had no stomach for fighting, and had spent the last three days heartily wishing he had taken Lamont’s advice and cleared out of the country in time. More than ever did he congratulate himself on his escape, when the experiences of the relief party became known, but it was with dismay that he learned the disappearance of its leader. For Ancram was getting desperately hard up, and would soon not know which way to turn. He was not much liked among those into whose midst he had come. Lamont might have helped him – probably would – not by reason of what he could tell – the prowess of the missing man was too much in the air for that – but for old acquaintance’ sake; and now Lamont had disappeared.

The days of that disappearance had just grown into weeks. News would filter through from outside – of battles fought, of rescues effected; of losses inflicted upon the savage enemy: but of the missing man, and those who sought him, came no word, and Clare Vidal, abandoning hope, could only storm high Heaven with supplication for him, whether in life or in death.

Chapter Twenty Nine.
“Where he was.”

Even with the first slip and stumble of his horse Lamont realised that his last moment had come; and, as he lay pinned there and unable to move, he restrained a natural instinct to call for assistance. His fleeing comrades could not render him such, and the attempt would result in the certain sacrifice of their own lives. His time had come.

He was powerless for resistance. His magazine rifle was lying on the ground beyond his reach, and his revolver was crushed beneath him in such manner that he could not get at it. Helpless he awaited his end, agonising and bitter as such must be.

He saw the swarming savage faces, scowling beneath their war adornments, the tossing shields and uplifted assegais, as that dark crowd surged forward, eyeballs glaring and blades lifted, eager to redden the latter in the blood of a hated and now helpless enemy. He heard the guttural death-hiss vibrate upon the air – and then – and then – he saw and heard no more. His horse, rendered frantic with terror, had made a wild effort to rise, and in so doing had so crushed its rider’s leg that the latter had fainted through sheer acute agony.

“Wou! This has gone on too long. He has said that none should be spared.”

“Yet, this one is.”

“Ill will befall us, brothers; ill because of it.” And Gingamanzi, the highest in rank of the group of Abantwana Mlimo there deliberating, clicked deprecatorily, and spat.

This Gingamanzi was a small, crafty-looking Makalaka, very black, and with a nose almost aquiline, giving a predatory and hawklike aspect to his forbidding countenance. His status in the hierarchy of the Abstraction was hardly second to that of Qubani, indeed there were those who reckoned his gifts the greater.

The group was seated in the open – a huge, riven granite pillar towering up behind them. Above, around, everywhere, vast granite blocks were piled, shutting in the place on all sides. It had been raining heavily for several hours, though by now it was sullenly clearing, and on the wet earth, stamped flat and muddy by hundreds of feet, fires were springing up in the dusk, and the hum of many voices rose and fell upon the damp heavy air.

Hundreds were collected here; all fighting men, no women and dogs. Weapons of war lay behind each group, just as they had been put down: shields, assegais, guns of all sorts and sizes, axes, knob-sticks. It was evident that this was an important stronghold and rallying point for the Matabele impis in the field.

“Zwabeka will bring destruction upon us, brothers,” went on Gingamanzi. “He it is that spared this Makiwa. He laughs at Umlimo.”

“Perhaps he is but keeping him as a sacrifice to Umlimo,” said another. “A man half dead already would make a poor sacrifice.”

“Zwabeka is chief here now,” went on Gingamanzi meaningly. “By the time the sun has risen twice, he will not be. We will go and look at this Makiwa, and see how soon he will be ready for Umlimo. Zwabeka will not give him to us now, but when he is dead, he will be glad to.”

“Au!” grunted another, “I am but a child beside the chief of the Abantwana Mlimo. Still I would ask – Of what use is one who is already dead, as a sacrifice to Umlimo?”

Gingamanzi put his head on one side.

“Thou art but a child! Ah! ah! that is true, Kekelwa. For the man will not really be dead but will only seem to be. If I can but touch him with this; one touch, even one little touch that he will hardly feel; why then he will be as one dead to the beholders, and yet he will know all that goes on. He will even be able to feel.”

“Then he will move,” was an objection raised. “How then will they think him dead?”

“He will not move. The múti here is such that he will not move, although he will know and feel.” And the black little demon contemplated lovingly a sort of lancet that he had drawn from a wooden sheath. The keen point was encrusted with something. Grim heads craned eagerly forward to examine the thing. Whau! the múti of Gingamanzi was wonderful, wonderful, declared his satellites sycophantically.

“Then, when they think him dead, we will take him away to the right place, and revive him again. Whau! Umlimo will laugh, spending days and nights listening to his shrieks and groans. This big strong Makiwa, this leader of impis, he shall weep and whine like a woman or a dog under that which we shall make him suffer, and that for days. Come, we will go and see him, and it may be now I shall touch him with the múti point.”

With a hum of ferocious anticipation the group arose. These undersized, lean Makalaka, who led the superstitions of the superior race, made up for their lack of physical prowess in the field by a love of cruelty at home, and woe betide him who should be handed over to their tender mercies. That one they reckoned ought so to be, and hoped would be, we have gleaned from the above conversation – and this one a white man.

They made their way to a great block of boulders, the piling of which formed a spacious natural cave. In this several Matabele warriors were lounging, some cooking food at a fire near the entrance. By the fitful red light of the flickering flames another recumbent form could be made out at the far extremity of the place. As the sorcerers would have entered, several of the warriors sprang to their feet, and barred passage.

“Give way; give way,” ordered Gingamanzi curtly. “We would see the Makiwa.”

“That may not be, Umtwana Mlimo,” came the ready reply. “He has said it – our father – that none may approach the Makiwa.”

“But another he– who is greater still – has said that his servants may. How is that, Umfane?”

“Whau! ‘Umfane!’ I Umfane – I, who wear the ring!” And the tall warrior scowled down upon the puny representative of an inferior race.

“Umfane or not, thou art going into battle again soon,” returned Gingamanzi. “But it will be thy last. Not through death – that were easy – but a warrior who has lost the use of his legs, and has to walk on his hands like a dog – why, he had better be dead. But dead or not he has fought in his last battle. How sayest thou?”

“Eh! hé! How sayest thou?” echoed the sorcerers.

“How say I? This is how I say,” answered the warrior, noting that some of his comrades seemed to be wavering. “For what happens in battle I will take my chance. For what happens here I have to answer to my father, and chief. His word was: let none enter, and – on the head ring of Umzilikazi – none shall enter – no, not even were it Umlimo himself.”

The speaker’s voice had risen to a roar, to which was added a shrill cry of menace and resentment from the group of sorcerers at this blasphemous utterance. Even the bold one’s comrades looked somewhat aghast. Would they ultimately yield? And yet – and yet – far away in Gandela one broken-hearted woman was wearying high Heaven day and night on behalf of him now threatened with this new and ghastly peril.

“Thy next battle will be thy last,” said Gingamanzi slowly, pointing a menacing finger at the obdurate sentinel.

“That we shall see. Hau! I seem to remember the chief of these Abantwana Mlimo, when we were doctored, promising us that Makiwa’s bullets should turn to water. Yet, at Kezane, Makiwa’s bullets were made of very hard lead. And he who told us this was Gingamanzi.”

This was a facer, and partly accounted for the secret contempt in which the sorcerers were held by many in the nation. Moreover, since the rising had begun, the fighting men had been brought into daily contact with them, to the detriment of their prestige. Then, too, they always skulked in a place of safety when fighting was to the fore – all save one, and that one Qubani. But Qubani was not present in this camp.

Now Gingamanzi was an uncommonly difficult person to put down, and lacked not readiness or assurance, else had he not filled the position he did.

“Hard lead,” he repeated when the sneering laughter of the warriors had abated. “Hard lead! Ha! Those who found them so were those who were wanting in faith. They suffered doubt as to our powers to linger in their hearts while we were doctoring them. So the múti failed in its effect.”

“Eh! Hé!” assented the residue of the sorcerers.

“Thou scoffing dog!” shrilled Gingamanzi. “Wilt thou now give passage lest worse befall thee?”

For answer the other had picked up a gun.

“I will give thee ‘dog,’” he said, bringing it up. But the sorcerers were thoroughly scared, and scattered yelling. Their múti was not proof against this, anyhow.

“Hambani-gahle, Abantwana Mlimo!” With which contemptuous dismissal Ujojo turned his back on the irate sorcerers, and, going to the end of the cave, bent over the recumbent form of his late master.

The latter moved restlessly, not recognising him. The fact was that the shock of capture and the pain of his bruised leg, coming upon the strain of the few days preceding, had told upon even Lamonts iron constitution – added to which several days of wet weather and exposure had brought about a bad attack of up-country fever. Now he lay covered with several blankets, yet shivering as though he were lying in contact with an iceberg.

His escape from death at the assegais of his captors was hardly short of miraculous; and was partly due to the wave of wonder that went through those who beheld him, reckoning as they did that he had been blown to atoms in his own dwelling, partly to the intervention of Zwabeka; about half of the impi which had reinforced the assailants of the Kezane Store being composed of that chief’s own followers. Now Zwabeka was not acting out of sheer good-nature when thus intervening, although, as a matter of fact, he liked Lamont, and would rather see him alive than dead. He had a motive underlying, and the motive was this. Zwabeka did not believe in the rising or in its ultimate success. He had been more or less drawn into it, but he was far too shrewd a man to believe that the whites would ever be driven out of the country, or that, even if they were, they would not return in tenfold force. Then where would he, and others, come in? Therefore, he was for ‘hedging,’ in pursuance of which line he was for saving Lamont’s life – if possible.

If possible! But these were times when it hardly seemed possible – when more than once a furious clamour was raised for the prisoner’s life. It had been discovered that he had been in command of the force which had offered such a staunch and stout resistance at the Kezane, and before. This was no man to let go, they represented, to do them incalculable damage in the future. Besides, think of their own people who had been slain – was no vengeance due to them? And the agitators were backed up by at least one chief of equal standing with himself, together with Gingamanzi and his band of Abantwana Mlimo.

But Zwabeka, albeit a morose savage, and given to pessimism, was a man of character; and having made up his mind to the line he had chosen to adopt, had no idea of wavering a hair’s-breadth therefrom. Wherefore, when such tumults were at their height, he would ask the clamourers what satisfaction there could possibly be in killing a man who was nearly dead already – pointing to the prisoner, who was so weak and ill he could hardly sit on his horse. That would be poor revenge for anyone. Give him time to get well again, anyhow.

This told – to a certain extent – but what told still more was a declaration, on the part of Zwabeka, that those who wanted to kill the prisoner could fight for the privilege. This Makiwa was his prisoner, and he intended to dispose of him as he chose.

By the time they gained their resting-place, the remote hollow in which we have seen them, Lamont found himself most piteously ill; indeed it seemed to matter but little to him whether the constant clamourings for his death should be acceded to or not. He had almost ceased to care whether he lived or died.

Seeing him sink lower and lower Zwabeka shook his head and muttered. Over and above the advantage it would be when the rising had failed, to be able to say to the Government, “Look now – here is one of your commanders, who led against us. I have taken care of him, when the people would have slain him. Have I not? Ask him.” Over and above this, we say, he had expected substantial reward at the hands of the man himself. And now the man would not get well, seeming to prefer to die. The native doctors – not necessarily despicable in cases known to them – had been able to do nothing. Zwabeka was puzzled.

Just then, however, his luck seemed to turn. Some of his people who had been out, partly on a scout, partly maraud, brought him some news. In the result he went straight to the bedside – or rather blanket side – of his prisoner.

“Hearken, Lamonti,” he began, when the guard had got outside with alacrity and a respectful salute. “You are not yet tired of life?”

“Almost,” was the wan reply. “But why?”

“I can get you one of your own doctors. Will you send him word to come?”

Lamont stared, half raising himself. “But – it is war time, or – has peace been made?”

“Not so. But he shall come and go in safety.” The other thought for a moment. Then he said – “I dare not do it, Zwabeka. You are chief of many, but not of the whole nation. If the man should come to harm at the hands of others, would not I have lured him to his death? Who is he?”

“Au! He cannot come to harm – Qubani says so,” said the chief impatiently. “It is the doctor who came with you, and slept at my kraal.”

Lamont started. Father Mathias! But then he was not a doctor, not in the sense the chief had meant. Well, no matter. It would be good to see once more a friendly face, to press a friendly hand.

“Where is he?” he asked eagerly.

“Will you send for him?” returned the chief. “Au! he will be in no danger. He is a good doctor and has cured several of Madula’s people. He is there now.”

That settled Lamont. If the priest was right among the hostile natives already, why then he would be just as safe here as there, if not safer. It seemed too from Zwabeka’s words that he possessed some knowledge of medicine.

The chief now saw he had gained his point. Calling up two of the men who were on guard, he ordered them to listen carefully to Lamont’s words and remember them, and to aid them in this Lamont managed to find an old scrap of tattered envelope, and scratch two or three words on it. “You are a true friend, Zwabeka,” he said, when they were alone together again. “Au! we have been friends, but men forget friendship when there is war. But – not you.”

“That is so, Lamonti, and it may be that we shall sit down side by side once more. Yet for the present, be not slow to get well, for, as you did now say, I am not chief over the whole nation, and others may come in here at any moment. Then the way out will be hard. Now, rest.”

Rest! After the chief’s departure it seemed to Lamont that restfulness had fled from him for ever. He was aroused indeed. It was evident that Zwabeka meant to contrive his escape. Happiness again – which spelt Clare. During his long, weary march into this captivity the thought of her had simply maddened him, until the fever had reached its more prostrating stage; deadening, perhaps mercifully, the more acute mental throes. He was being led to his death, he had told himself, and she in the years to come would forget him, and find happiness with somebody else. Not even in the next world would they belong to each other. And then the effect of the fever had rendered him careless whether he lived or died.