The White Hecatomb, and Other Stories

William Charles Scully

"The White Hecatomb"

"And other stories"

Chapter One.

The White Hecatomb.

“For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.”—Hosea VIII, 7.

“Ehea, Inkosi am. I know by the smell of it that this snuff is of the same kind as that which my grandson brought from you the other day. Well, I am thankful that before I die I taste in my nose what really is snuff. But to think that I should have had to wait all these years for it;—and now to be unable to see its colour! There, I have kissed your hand, and that is all I can do to show my gratitude.

“That one like you—one who can have as much as he likes of such snuff—should want to come here and talk to an old woman such as I, is wonderful. You cannot be old, to judge by your voice. Is it not perhaps the young women you want to talk to? But give them none of that snuff,—they are impudent children of no experience, and would not value it. Well, if it be myself that you want to talk to, my tongue is alive although my eyes are dead.

“When was I born, did you say? That I can hardly tell you. I think that none but myself are now living who saw that day. My father’s clan dwelt far from here, beyond the Tugela river. He was just a common man of the Amangwanè tribe, and he stood close, until the day of his death, to the great fighting chief Matiwanè. In the days of my childhood I saw nothing but fighting and wandering about. I do not remember when we first began to wander, but I think my mother was wandering when she bore me. Tshaka had fallen upon us, the Amangwanè, and we, in turn, fell upon the Amahlubi, whom we followed, fighting, across the Quathlamba Mountains into a land of wide plains, high mountains, and great rivers.

“When still a little girl I have often sat on a hill with the women and the other children, and looked down upon the fighting. When the villages of the Bathlokua were burnt the sun and the whole sky were hidden by smoke.

“Matiwanè was one who loved blood. He drank the gall of every chief that was slain, to make him fierce. When he fled back to the Zulu country, Dingaan filled his mouth with the liver of an ox, and told the captive Hlubis to beat him with sticks on the belly until he died. But that was long afterwards,—after much blood had flowed. Blood, blood;—the light died in my eyes many years ago, yet whenever I think of the days when I was a child, I seem to see a great redness glowing through the darkness.

“When Tshaka fell upon us for the third time, he drove us back among the steep mountains of the Lesuto, and here we said we would henceforth dwell. After Tshakas ‘impi’ had departed, Matiwanè sent back parties to gather some millet from the ruined fields, for our crops were nearly ripe when we were driven forth. Then our men took to hunting, and we lived on what they killed; but there was much sickness among us, because there was no grain for the children to eat, the little grain we had being kept for seed. When the children cried with hunger they were told to wait until the millet grew, for that then their hunger would be satisfied.

“The spring rains fell early, and on every mountain-ledge we broke the ground and planted the millet. It grew as millet has never grown before or since, in spite of the steepness of the ground, and we used to go and sit among the high thick stalks, and fondle them, and think that in a few weeks more we should be feasting upon the food we loved so much and had been without for such a long time.

“Just as the grain commenced forming, small flights of locusts began to arrive from the westward. We stood around the millet patches with boughs of trees, and drove away the locusts that attempted to alight. One day we saw a brown cloud arising in the west, and this grew and spread over the mountain-tops until it covered the whole land. Then the cloud descended upon our fields, and we saw that it was a great flight of locusts.

“Men, women, and children then fought as they had never fought in the worst days of battle against the spears of Tshaka, but it was all in vain. Next day the millet-fields were bare, and the men wailed like women.

“Then the men sharpened their spears once more, and we set our faces to the southward. We covered the face of the land like the locusts we were fleeing from, and the tribes fled before us like game before a troop of wild dogs. When we crossed the great river (the Orange) we turned to the eastward, and over-ran the country of the Abatembu, who never stood to fight us on a single occasion. Then we turned to the northward, and wandered on, secure in our great numbers, and driving herds of spoil. At length we crossed the Umtata river and took possession of the mountain range between that and the Inxu river. Here, we said, we will make a home, and now we will cease from wandering about like wild animals. We had spoiled the Abatembu of grain, so we broke the ground and again sowed millet, of which we gathered a good harvest. We built huts, and we thought that at length we should have rest. I was then a young girl, hardly old enough to marry.

“One day, in the winter-time, we saw great armies coming up against us from several directions, but we were not afraid, for Matiwanè had many spears, and his men feared not to die in war. One small body of men clad in bright red garments came towards us, moving together as one man. When they came close, they stretched themselves out like a snake, and then they seemed to place tubes like black reeds to their mouths, through which they blew white smoke. Then our men began to fall dead, and our hearts were turned to water at this dreadful thing, the like of which we had never before seen. With the smoke came a fearful noise like thunder, and we thought that the children of the sky had come down in wrath to destroy us. Soon we heard a louder thunder, and then balls of iron fell out of the sky on us, and smashed our men into bloody heaps where they stood thickest. The Abatembu and the Amagcalèka now moved up from behind the men in red, and fell upon us with the spear.

“Then took place a great slaughter, and those of us who escaped from it were few. Women and children were sought in their hiding-places and killed with the spear, whilst the old and sick were burned quick in the huts. My father was slain early in the day, and my mother and I fled with some others back towards the Quathlamba Mountains, meaning to reach, if possible, the country of the Lesuto, and place ourselves under Moshesh, the chief of the Basuto.

“We fled up the valley of the Inxu river, driving a few cattle before us. It was in the middle of winter, and at night the cold seemed to burn like fierce fire. We were pursued by the Abatembu, but they could not overtake our cattle, and having no food, were obliged to turn back. When we reached the mountains the feet of our cattle were so sore that we had to slaughter every beast, and then we went on, carrying the meat.

“No rain had fallen since our flight began, but as we ascended the mountains the cold became more and more fierce. Fuel was scarce, and every morning many lay dead around the fireplaces.

“Just before we reached the top of the mountain range the weather became warmer, and black clouds came rolling up. As night fell the wind became suddenly again cold, and then snow began to fall.

“That night saw the end of all but me. We crowded together in three lots for the sake of warmth,—all our clothing had been thrown away in the flight, so we were quite naked. The women and children crouched in the middle, and the men placed themselves around and held up their shields to try and keep off the snow. One ring of men sat on the ground and held their shields straight up, others sloped their shields outwards, whilst a few held theirs up with outstretched arms, the whole thus taking the shape of a hut.

“We huddled together as close as we could, but the wind carried the snow in between the shields in fine powder. The chattering of teeth sounded for a little while louder than the wind, and ever and anon cries of ‘Moi-ba-bo’ (A native exclamation expressive of anguish or distress) arose. Then the men in the group next to the one in which I was turned their spears against each other in their pain, and those of them who still lived scattered and died among the rocks.

“After a time the men of the outer ring died where they sat, and the last thing I remember is that a shield sank down on me; then I fell asleep. My legs and my body to the breast were covered by the people lying around me, and I was leaning forward against a man who was quite dead, although there was a little warmth still left in his body. Before I slept I ceased to feel pain, and became quite comfortable.

“I awoke feeling sharp pangs all over me. I could not move, as I was held fast by the bodies among which I was lying, and the shield above me was pressing downward with a great weight. All was quite dark, and I could hear no sound.

“I struggled hard, and gradually began to loosen myself. Suddenly I felt something slip away from the shield above me, and then I moved the shield away easily to one side, and as I did this something seemed to strike me on the eyes, a great light flashed all around me, and then I could see nothing, although I could breathe free air. It was this, the European doctor said, which, years afterwards, caused me to lose my eyesight altogether.

“You can understand what had happened:—The sun was shining brightly, there was no cloud in the sky, but the whole world was white,—white,—white;—no one, before or since, ever saw such a whiteness. I had lain so long under the shield in the darkness, that the sunlight and the snow burnt into my eyes like lightning.

“I rubbed my eyes gently, and gradually I began to see. I was still held fast by the dead people lying around me, but I kept struggling, and gradually I freed myself. Then I first recollected where I was and saw what had happened. I cried aloud and tried to remove the snow from the mound out of which I had dragged myself, but I was too stiff to do much, and I kept getting dizzy and tumbling down on the snow.

“Not far off was a rocky bluff, against which the sun was shining warmly. I crept to a ledge and sat down on some dry grass, from which I shook off the snow; soon, then, I began to get warmer. After a while I went back and moved the snow away from one side of the heap. First I reached a shield, and after some trouble I was able to pull this aside. Under it I found dead limbs and bodies. I kept removing the snow until I uncovered my mother’s face. I touched it, and found it stiff and colder than the snow. Then I cried aloud and went away.

“I then picked up a shield, the stick of which was protruding from the snow, and went forth to seek for the dwellings of men. As I departed I passed another mound of snow, out of which I could see the ends of the shield-sticks protruding. The snow was beginning to melt, and I could see the limbs of those who had scattered among the rocks, appearing here and there.

“I stumbled along over the snow without seeing anything but a dreadful whiteness, that made the water stream from my eyes. I suffered terribly from pains all over me, especially in my feet, and I wished for death. Every now and then the wind blew so cold that it seemed to cut me like a spear all over my naked body. I tried at first to keep it off with the shield, but found that on account of my eyes I was obliged to hold the shield up over my head so as to prevent the bright sunlight from falling on my face.

“I wandered on and on until the sun began to fall, and then the thought came to me to find a place in one of the valleys to die in,—for I did not want to die on the white, lonely top of the mountain. I had seen no signs of men or cattle, and I had given up all hope. I no longer wished to live. Looking down a long slope I saw that in a deep valley beyond it the snow had disappeared, so I thought to try and get down there, out of the horrible whiteness which froze my body and burnt my eyes like fire, and there lie down and die at once.

“I reached the edge of the valley, which had steep sides, and soon I found a footpath which led down sideways. This I followed to the foot of a steep, narrow cliff, where I sat down and rested. Then I heard a noise as of a stone rolling down the mountain-side, coming from the other side of the flank of the cliff, so I stood up and went quickly forward. Just then I heard another noise, and a large stone hurtled past me, and crashed into a patch of scrub just below. Out of this several hares leaped, and then ran away over the snow in different directions. Then I heard a shout from near the top of the cliff, so I looked up and saw a man bounding down the steep slope.

“The man was young, hardly more than a boy. He was armed with an assegai and several light throwing-clubs, and he carried two dead hares slung over his shoulder. He ran to where I was standing and accosted me, asking who I was and where I had come from. I began to weep, and told him everything I could remember.

“‘What,’ said he, ‘are you one of the “Fetcani,” who have been slaying our people? I think I must kill you, because many of my friends have died under the spears of Matiwanè.’

(The word “fetcani” means “enemies.” It was specially applied to the horde of Matiwanè, which was at enmity with all other tribes.)

“At this I told him that I did not mind whether he killed me or not, as I was already dying of cold and hunger. Then he examined me more closely, and after a short time he began to laugh.

“‘Come along,’ he said, ‘I will not kill you to-day. Perhaps you will grow fat and pretty, and I may by and by take you as my wife. I can at any time kill you if I want to.’

“His kraal was not far off. He had come out to hunt hares by rolling rocks down the mountain-side to drive them from the bushes in which they were hiding, and then following their tracks through the snow.

“We reached the kraal, and I was there fed and kindly treated. The name of the young man was Masubana, and the kraal belonged to his father. Masubana was his father’s ‘great son.’

“Two years afterwards I married Masubana. He died long ago—shortly before I lost my sight. For many years I was poor and miserable; then my eldest son Ramalèbè, who had joined Lèbènya’s clan, brought me down here to Matatièlè to dwell with him. He also is dead, but his children give me enough food, and a blanket now and then.

“Come again, my father, and I will try and think of some more of what happened in the old days. That snuff seems to make me young again. See that you give none of it to foolish people of no experience, who perhaps would not value it at its true worth. Let me once more kiss your hand.”

Note.—The foregoing relates to the defeat of the Amangwanè horde by Colonel Somerset at Imbulumpini on August 27, 1828, and its subsequent annihilation in the pursuit by the Amagcalèka and Abatembu impis under Hintza and ’Ngub’incuka respectively. Three bodies of fugitives escaped from the field of battle, only to meet a worse fate than that of being killed in the fight. One party, the largest, was driven nearly to the source of the Orange river, and there burnt alive in a valley full of long grass, in which they had taken refuge. Another made its way to the north-east, and was cut to pieces by the Amabaca under Ncapay, at the base of the Intsiza Mountain, in what is now East Griqualand. The third perished in the manner described in the tale. The horde must have numbered considerably over a hundred thousand souls. It was completely wiped out of existence.

Chapter Two.

The Vengeance of Dogolwana.

“The dark places of the earth are full
Of the habitations of cruelty.”
Psalm lxxiv.
“Whose graves are set in the sides of the pit.”
Ezekiel XXXII, 23.

The Death of the Chief

The old chief of the Amagamedse tribe lay dying in his hut. It was a warm summer’s evening, with a sense of moisture on the almost silent breeze, which was borne from the other side of the valley, over which a slight thunder-storm had passed.

Umsoala, the chief, lay on a mat under which some dry grass had been spread to ease his loosened bones. He was partially propped against the body of old Dogolwana, his faithful and tried attendant. Dogolwana sat with his left arm around his beloved master’s waist. He had bravely sustained for a long time a painfully strained position.

Sitting silently on the ground, against the circular wall of the hut, were a number of old men and a few women, all clad in blankets, their knees drawn up to their chins. Between the centre-pole and the dying man sat a young woman, who held a little boy of about five years of age in her arms. On a log of wood, near the dying man’s feet, sat the Magistrate of the district and the District Surgeon. They had been hurriedly sent for on the previous day when the paralytic stroke, which was putting a sudden period to the old chief’s existence, had fallen.

The dying chief was a man of enormous build. He was covered by a blanket to the middle, but his trunk and arms, gaunt and wrinkled with age, were bare. His chest did not heave, as he was breathing from the diaphragm. His face was grey and shrunken, and but for the eyes, which were bright and lively, one might have almost thought him already dead.

After his lips had been moistened with water brought by the young woman in a cleft calabash, the chief spoke, his voice at first broken and trembling, but gaining steadiness and volume under the stimulus of excitement as he proceeded:

“I am dying alone... alone... for a man is alone when his children desert him. Where are my sons? Have they not been sent for?”

Old Dogolwana replied in a low tone:

“Yes, my chief and father.”

“My sons, for whose sakes I have striven, leave me lonely at the hour of my death. There is Songoza, my ‘Great Son,’ whom I have asked the Government to recognise as chief in my place. I made him rich and now he is poor. I filled his kraal with cattle, and he has filled his huts with women until to-day his kraal stands empty. There is Gonyolo, eldest son of my right hand. I gave him the cattle of his house last year and told him to keep his mother in comfort till she died. One by one the cattle are driven to the village and sold for brandy. They tell me his mother has to go to a neighbouring kraal to beg for a drink of milk. When I went to visit Bawela a few months ago, I found him drunk with beer. He and his friends mocked me to my face. The bones of cattle were strewn around the huts, and a fat cow had just been slaughtered. And Philip, that I sent to school and kept there until he had learned nearly as much as a Magistrate—does he not ride around amongst the people telling them not to listen to my words? Nomtsheke—Zoduba and the others—all children, though men in years. And now I am near my death, and none but this poor little Gqomisa is near me. Come here, boy.”

The mother half arose and pushed forward the little boy, who shrank back at first; then crouching down on his face and knees at his father’s side, he began to cry.

Old Dogolwana seemed to divine what the old chief wanted. He lifted the powerless arm from the elbow, and let the hand rest on the back of the crouching child.

After another sip of water, Umsoala recommenced speaking. He now addressed the Magistrate:

“You have always been a father to me and to my people, and your coming now makes my heart lighter. We have known each other for many years, and the knowledge has brought trust. This little boy Gqomisa is my youngest child. There sits his mother Notemba, the daughter of Dogolwana. I wish to tell you, so that all may know, that the herd of black cattle here at my ‘great place’ belongs to Gqomisa, and is left in charge of his mother, old Dogolwana, and Dogolwana’s son Kèlè. I have paid out their shares of cattle to Songoza and to all my other sons, and if they should try to take what belongs to this boy, I want the strength of the Government to shield him from wrong. Will you promise to protect him?”

“I will protect him,” replied the Magistrate.

“He is such a little child. It is true he has Dogolwana, and Kèlè who is the bravest and strongest man of my tribe, to protect him, but his enemies will be many. I ask the Government, in its strength, to stand on his side. I took the side of the Government when the Tshobeni raised the war-cry in the great rebellion, and the Governor himself told me that I dammed the flood of war, and that my services would never be forgotten. I only ask that the Government may now keep my little boy from harm.”

“I will be his father,” said the Magistrate.

The Magistrate and the District Surgeon had far to ride, so they arose to take their leave of the dying chief. He was past all possibility of recovery, and had only a few more hours to live. The Magistrate bent down and spoke in a voice broken by emotion, holding the time Umsoala’s cold and lifeless hand.

“I leave you now because I must return to my duties. We will never meet again unless it be in that land beyond the grave. We have worked together all these years, and my heart is heavy at parting with you, my old friend. I only hope that your son Songoza will follow in the ways of his father.”

“My son, my son. Why is he not here to hearken to my last words? Be a father to Songoza. Advise him. He is young and headstrong—perhaps the years may bring him wisdom. Bear with him for the sake of my people, to whom I have tried to be a father.”

“I will bear with a lot for your sake,” said the Magistrate. “Now good-bye, old friend. I know you are brave, and that you fear nothing for yourself. You will be all right—wherever you go to. I will try and influence Songoza for good, and I will protect your little son Gqomisa. Good-bye... old friend...”

The Sepulture

The old chief died next morning just as the day was breaking. Immediately after his death the women and most of the men left the hut and dispersed silently. No one was allowed to enter the hut in which the body lay, and all inquiries were answered with the statement, “The chief is very near death,” or “Our father is about to draw his last breath.” As day wore on a round pit, three feet in diameter and about six feet deep, was dug on a ridge which overhung the “great place.” Every one then knew that the chief was no more, but custom forbade the fact of his death to be acknowledged.

At the same time another excavation was being secretly dug deep in the heart of a large forest in an adjoining valley. This was the real grave. Among the more important Bantu clans the last resting-place of the chief is always kept a profound secret. The object of this is to prevent an enemy obtaining the bones and, by their means, working magic against the tribe.

In the middle of the night, the dead body, with the legs flexed and the knees bound up to the chin, was borne out of the hut by Dogolwana and three other old men. It was carried by means of two poles between which it was slung after the manner of a sedan chair. Avoiding the footpaths, they hurried the dead chief up the side of the mountain, and then plunged into the forest, stumbling over rocks and dead trees in their course. The hoarse bark of the bush-bucks challenging each other echoed across the ravine, the jackals yelled at the stars from the grassy hill-tops, and the brown owls moaned from the tall yellow-wood trees. Every now and then unseen forest creatures would rustle through the undergrowth, or a frightened loorie flutter away, breaking its bright plumage against the branches in the darkness. In the broken fringe of cliff over the river-way a leopard made a dash at a troop of sleeping baboons which, having heard the alarm-call of the sentinel, darted away and escaped with hoarse roarings.

When the bearers paused to rest, as they frequently did, the forest seemed full of awful whisperings. It contained the graves of the dead chief’s ancestors—secret places known to no living man. It seemed to the bearers as if the spirits of the dead were abroad in the rustling darkness, mustering to welcome a long-waited-for companion—a son and subject made peer by the patent of death.

They found the open grave. A pit had been sunk, and a large, dome-shaped excavation made in its side. Dogolwana had already been chosen for the awful but honourable task of entering this chamber after the body had been placed there, and finally disposing of the latter for its long rest. The Kafirs have the most intense horror of a dead body, and the man who enters the grave-chamber with a dead chief becomes a chief himself immediately upon emerging—so highly is the dead esteemed.

The body of Umsoala was placed on a mat, in a sitting posture, facing the “great place,” where the herd of black cattle that he had loved so well were kraaled every night. The left hand had been bound across the breast, with the open palm inwards. The right hand and arm had been allowed to stiffen in a flexed position, and in the hand a spear was placed, the handle resting on the ground and the blade pointing upwards. At his side were an earthen pot, a calabash, and a wooden pillow.

The face of the lateral excavation was then filled up with stones, the builders saying the while in low tones: “Watch over us.”

“Remember your people in the place to which you have gone.”

“Do not forget that we are your children.”

After the building up of the excavation was finished, the grave was filled in with earth, and then bushes and twigs were strewn on it so as to conceal as far as possible all signs of its existence. After this, Dogolwana and his companions separated, and returned to the “great place,” each by a different course.

Just before day broke, a bright flame suddenly leaped to the sky—the chief’s hut had been set alight in several places at once. Soon a mass of flame-shot smoke climbed into the still morning air, in the form of a massive fiery column with an immense black capital.

When day broke, old Dogolwana and his companions could be seen just completing the filling in of the other grave, which had been dug on the ridge at the back of the “great place.” Over it they piled heavy stones, and afterwards they dragged bushes up and built a surrounding kraal-fence. Within the enclosure thus formed cattle would be folded for about two years. A small hut was built in the immediate vicinity, and here the watchers of the grave took up their abode. According to native custom these are authorised to beat and rob any stranger coming near the grave. The persons of the watchers are sacred, and they are not subject to actions at law, nor can they be put to death for any crime during the period of their watching. The kraal surrounding the grave is an inviolable sanctuary even for the worst criminals, and the cattle folded there may never be killed, nor can their progeny be in any way disposed of until the very last one of the original cattle has died.

The Killing of Kèlè

In due course, Songoza was duly declared chief of the Amagamedse. In an address to the assembled people, the Magistrate highly extolled the old chief, and exhorted his successor to follow Umsoala’s example. Songoza was reticent; he stood with the other sons of the late chief around him, and listened quietly to the Magistrate’s words. The assembly dispersed in silence. It was evident that the memory of the dead man was not held in esteem. As a matter of fact he had of late years rendered himself unpopular by leaning towards civilised methods and ideas, and discouraging the grosser forms of superstition. Songoza was known to be reactionary, but as the tribe would have acknowledged no one else, Government was constrained to recognise him as his late father’s successor.

Two days afterwards, a messenger came hurrying in from old Dogolwana to report that Songoza had swooped down and driven off the herd of black cattle belonging to little Gqomisa. The Magistrate thereupon sent for Songoza, who, after considerable pressure, consented to return them, so they were restored, under police supervision, to old Dogolwana.

The country of the Amagamedse was a border territory, and just over its bounds lay the country of the Unonclaba, an independent native state. A few months after the death of Umsoala, Songoza began to profess great friendship for Kèlè, the son of old Dogolwana. There took place no function at Songoza’s “great place” (each chief, on his accession, chooses a “great place” for himself) to which Kèlè was not specially invited, and several of the chief’s cattle were assigned to him to milk, according to the custom known as “’Nquoma.”

Songoza arranged to add to his harem a girl of the Unondaba tribe, the daughter of a petty chief who dwelt about ten miles from the border, and when the first instalment of the “lobola” cattle were sent, Kèlè was one of those selected to take charge of and deliver them. Three men besides Kèlè were sent, namely, Pandule, Sogogo, and Rali.

Just about this time Songoza’s mother, Manolie, became ill. She lay on a mat and coughed. On the fourth day of her illness her pains became very great, and she kept pressing her hand to her right side and saying that there was fire within her body. After this she wandered in her mind for several days. At intervals she partially regained her senses, and then she kept calling to the chief, her son, to find out who had bewitched her. So Songoza sent men with an ox to Hloba, a renowned witch-doctor, who lived at Xabakaza, with a message asking him to “smell out” the person who had bewitched Manolie.

Kèlè, with his three companions, started with the “lobola” cattle on the day after the messengers went to Hloba. They crossed the border, and slept at a kraal about five miles from the dwelling of the bride-elect. Here a goat was killed for them, and they feasted late into the night. Next morning they arose, lit a fire, and began cooking the remainder of the goat’s flesh in a pot.

They were sitting round the fire talking, when a man was seen approaching. This turned out to be Xosa, one of Songoza’s Indunas. His arrival occasioned some surprise, and in response to an inquiry, he stated that he was carrying a message from Songoza to the bride’s father. Just then, having caught Pandule’s eye, he made a quick movement with his lips, and dropped his gaze. After this, Rali stood up and walked a short distance away to collect some fire-wood. Xosa followed him, and said in a whisper:

“Manolie is dead, and Kèlè has been ‘smelt out;’ Songoza has sent me to tell you and the others to kill him.”

Rali, having in mind Kèlè’s great strength and courage, replied:

“Son of my father, how can we do it? He has his shield, spear, and club, and some of us will surely die. Why did not the chief send a larger party?”

“I do not know,” replied Xosa, “but the order is that he is to be killed at once before he returns over the border to within reach of the hand of the Government.”

“What plan do you think will be best?” asked Rali. “A blow from a club would not be safe, for his hair is thick and his head-ring is heavy and strong.”

“Nevertheless, the club is the best,” replied Xosa; “one can stand behind him as he leans over the fire, and strike him just over and in front of the ear below the head-ring, where the bone is thin.”

Then they walked back to the fire with the wood, meaning to tell Pandule and Sogogo as soon as an opportunity should offer.

Just afterwards Kèlè stood up and walked away, leaving his weapons behind. Then Pandule and Sogogo were told. They were much astonished; all knew that Kèlè was innocent. They discussed the best mode of killing him. Pandule was very much against using the club, for fear of an unskilful blow. Sogogo was a strong man and an expert fighter. So it was finally decided that the spear should be the weapon, clubs (amabunguza) being kept in readiness in case they should be required. Xosa refused to help in the killing by using any weapon. He was not a strong man, and he said that the chief had only told him to convey a message to the others.

After a short time Kèlè returned, and again took his seat by the fire, sitting on his heels. Sogogo stood up, yawned, stretched himself, and took up his spear, which he pretended to sharpen on a stone. Pandule and Rali also stood up. They took their clubs and began comparing them, pretending to dispute as to the respective weights and workmanship. Xosa then moved from where he was, and sat opposite Kèlè. These two were now sitting with the fire and the pot of meat between them.

Then Pandule remarked that the meat must now be sufficiently cooked. Sogogo continued: “You, Kèlè and Xosa, lift the pot from the fire so that we can eat, and then proceed on our journey.”

Rali added:

“Do not try and lift it by yourself, Xosa, for you are not strong enough.”

Xosa thereupon seized the pot by the rim on one side with both hands, and Kèlè bent forward and did likewise. Then Sogogo, who stood ready, with his right hand towards Kèlè’s back, plunged the spear into Kèlè’s left side just below the arm-pit. Kèlè gave a roar and sprang up, but Rali and Pandule struck him at the same time on the head and neck with their clubs. He fell dead across the fire.

They then took the body and dragged it for a short distance down the hill to a point where there were some large rocks. After this they returned to the fire, and found Xosa busy cleaning the meat which, on account of the overturning of the pot, was full of ashes.

Songoza sent a present of two oxen to the chief of the Unondaba with an apology for having soiled the earth of his territory with the blood of a wizard, and excusing himself on the ground that the unreasonableness of the laws imposed by the white man prevented him from administering justice in his own country. The Unondaba chief sent a message in reply, to the effect that he fully approved of his brother’s action, and sympathised in the inconvenience caused by the vexatious restrictions imposed by European government. He added that the Unondaba territory was always at Songoza’s disposal for similar operations.

Old Dogolwana and his wife were nearly mad with grief at Kèlè’s death. It was the thought of their responsibility in respect of little Gqomisa that brought them to a condition of outward reasonableness. Kèlè’s widow and her little baby son came to dwell with the old people, and a deadly revenge was sworn against the murderers of Kèlè.

The Plot

After Kèlè’s death old Dogolwana redoubled his care of little Gqomisa. He and Notemba hardly ever let the child out of their sight. Every night the little one’s mat was unrolled between that of his protector and the wall of the hut. Three of Dogolwana’s grandsons—lads between twelve and sixteen years of age—looked after the cattle. Another widowed daughter-in-law, with the widow of Kèlè, cultivated the maize-field.

Dogolwana was obliged to dissemble his hatred of Songoza, who, however, disclaimed all complicity in the killing of Kèlè, and often visited the late chief’s “great place.” No native, even under the Government, could afford to defy the paramount chief. Dogolwana brooded over his intended vengeance with deadly persistency. What form that vengeance was to take, he had not been able to decide, but revenged he would be, so he chewed the cud of implacable resentment, and bided his time.

Philip, the educated half-brother of little Gqomisa, often visited the “great place,” and he, as much as Songoza, was hated and feared by old Dogolwana. Philip was a cold-natured, cunning man. He had dwelt, ever since his father’s death, at the kraal of Songoza, who was completely under his influence.

The herd of black cattle, which numbered several hundred head, was ever in the mind of Songoza, and Philip was continually reminding him that only the life of little Gqomisa stood between him and his possession. Songoza was poor—his former wealth squandered in purchasing fresh wives. He already possessed upwards of twenty, for he endeavoured to add every handsome girl he saw to his harem. In his sinister mind, acted on by the evil influences of Philip, the wish for the little boy’s death soon ripened into a murderous resolve.

Songoza’s chief wife Mahlokoza, a woman of considerable force of character, was the only one of his wives who possessed any influence over him, and her son Umkilwa, a boy of about seven years of age, was the only being who inspired him with anything like affection. In his way, Songoza loved this boy, who already gave evidence of possessing a somewhat brutal nature.

Mahlokoza and Philip between them hatched out a plot against little Gqomisa, and after all the details had been worked out, Songoza was taken into their confidence. His stupidity would have rendered him useless in the preliminary stages of the conspiracy.

About six months after Umsoala’s death, in the winter, Mahlokoza’s second son, a child of three years of age, sickened and nearly died. As the child recovered, Mahlokoza herself became ill, and the witch-doctor was sent for. After the exercise of most powerful incantations he announced that the sufferers had not been bewitched by any being of flesh, but that some evilly-disposed, disembodied spirits, who held a spite against the “great house,” were plaguing them. There existed, he officially declared to a large assemblage, one, and only one, possible remedy. The chief must transfer his great wife and her children to the “great place” of his late father, and there cause to be slaughtered by him (the witch-doctor) a young black bull from the herd. This sacrifice would attract the “imishologu,” or ancestral spirits, who would rally round the “great house,” and drive away the inimical ghosts.

Old Dogolwana was obliged to agree to this, and even to assist at the ceremonial, knowing as he full well did that some treachery was afoot against little Gqomisa. Mahlokoza, after she and her children had been sprinkled with the blood of the bull, declared herself much better, and began making preparations for returning home at once. However, the function was not yet at an end. The witch-doctor went through some further most elaborate ritual, and then fell into a trance. On awakening he declared to have again received a communication from the spirits dwelling in the unseen, this time to the effect that the great wife and her children were required to remain at the late chief’s “great place” for at least two weeks, at the end of which period the evil ones, who dared not venture near so sacred a locality, would have left the neighbourhood in disgust.

Here again old Dogolwana was obliged to submit. He now felt that matters were developing rapidly, and that the crisis was approaching fast. Mahlokoza and her two sons were assigned a hut next door to the one occupied by little Gqomisa and his two guardians.

Trouble began on the very first day—just after the witch-doctor left and the company dispersed—for Umkilwa and his younger brother fell upon little Gqomisa with their small clubs, and mauled him cruelly before old Dogolwana’s wife, who was the only one near, could interfere. This was added as a considerable item to the already heavy account debited against Songoza and his house.

However, next day things went somewhat more smoothly. Three of the black cows were assigned to Mahlokoza’s hut for milking purposes, and a supply of corn was delivered in baskets every day.

Philip became a constant visitor, and now and then Songoza called in passing. One morning, about ten days after Mahlokoza’s arrival, Songoza and Philip arrived together. All the visitors were invited to partake of beer in old Dogolwana’s hut.

Kèlè’s widow, Mamiekwa, was a silent little woman with very bright eyes. She was continually hovering around Mahlokoza and the others, trying to hear what they talked about, but hitherto she had been unable to overhear anything.

On this occasion she announced her intention of spending the day in a neighbouring forest seeking for medicinal roots, so she handed over her baby to old Dogolwana’s wife, asking her to look after it until evening. She managed to whisper to old Dogolwana just before she left:

“Get them all in here again at sundown to drink beer.”

Mamiekwa gave a hurried glance around to make sure she was not being watched by any one, and then, instead of going to the forest, darted into the hut occupied by Mahlokoza and her family.

Huts of the larger class generally have four poles fixed in the ground and extending to the roof close to the wall on the side opposite the door. These poles are connected by horizontal pieces of wood, across which wattles are laid. Rude shelving, generally in two tiers, is thus formed, and upon the shelves are kept skins, mats, bundles of dried rushes, and other bulky articles. In the hut occupied by Mahlokoza the upper shelf was piled high with rolls of matting. Mamiekwa nimbly climbed up and lay down amongst these, which effectually concealed her. Here she lay perfectly still, and hardly venturing to breathe.

After some little time, Songoza, Mahlokoza, and Philip came in. Mahlokoza said to Philip:

“Sit at the door where you can see outside, so that no one can creep up to listen. That owl-face Mamiekwa is always sneaking near, and I am sure Dogolwana suspects.”

Philip went and sat right in the doorway, and every now and then looked out to either side.

“Is it settled that it is to happen to-morrow night?” asked Songoza.

“Yes,” replied Philip; “and I shall stay here to see that all is arranged. I must try and dispose of Mamiekwa. If I can manage it, I will get her to sleep in the hut too.”

Bit by bit the horrible conspiracy was unfolded. In the middle of the following night, the door of Dogolwana’s hut was to be fastened from the outside, and then the hut was to be burnt with its inmates. Songoza particularly wished the thing to be done in his absence, but Philip, whilst agreeing to fasten the door some time after the inmates had gone to sleep, insisted that Songoza’s should be the hand to apply the fire. Philip knew Songoza well, and did not desire to run the risk of being made a scapegoat.

The day seemed very long to Mamiekwa stretched amongst the mats, and it was with a keen sense of relief that she heard at sundown the voice of old Dogolwana at the door saying that a pot of beer of a fresh brew, which had risen splendidly, was waiting to be discussed, and that they must be sure and bring the children to have some of it. Shortly afterwards every one else left the hut, so she came down from her shelf. After ascertaining that the coast was clear, she ran along the pathway at the back of the kraal, and darted into the forest, whence she emerged in a few moments, carrying some “mootie” (medicine) roots which she had dug out, scraped, and hidden on the previous day.

That night she communicated what she had heard to old Dogolwana, his wife, and Notemba, and then under the influence of black wrath and despair, a counter-plot, equally appalling, was hatched.

The Vengeance

Next morning Songoza took a friendly farewell, saying that he was going away on a three days’ visit. Late in the afternoon, Mahlokoza went to the forest to collect fuel, and her two boys went down to the field to gather sticks of “imfe” (sweet reed). Old Dogolwana had been plying Philip heavily with beer, and consequently the latter was somewhat mellow. When the coast was clear, Mamiekwa, to whom Philip had been making love all day, brought him an earthen pot of beer, over the edge of which the pink foam was temptingly protruding. She lifted the pot for him to drink from, and as he stretched forth his head, old Dogolwana struck him a violent blow behind the ear with a knobbed stick, and he fell to the ground, stunned. Dogolwana and the two women then bound his hands and feet securely with thongs which they had in readiness. They then lashed him firmly to a heavy loose pole which was lying in the hut, passing the thongs round and round his body and the pole together, so firmly that he could hardly writhe. They then fastened a gag in his mouth. Just as they had finished, he regained consciousness, and glared at them like the trapped animal that he was. A blanket was tied loosely over his head, and he was than left to his own reflections.

Upon the return of Mahlokoza with the load of fuel she was treated in exactly the same way in her own hut. After dark she was carried into the other hut and laid alongside Philip. The two boys had been easily secured on their return from the field. They were trussed and gagged in the same manner, and laid on the ground between their mother and uncle.

The door of the hut was then securely fastened by lacing a strand of soft copper wire through the wicker-work, and round stout poles placed across the entrance, after the manner agreed upon by the conspirators, as overheard by Mamiekwa.

Old Dogolwana, his wife, and Notemba, with little Gqomisa, Mamiekwa, and her baby moved into the hut which Mahlokoza had occupied. Little Gqomisa had been kept out of the way whilst the terrible preparations described had been carried out.

The huts at the “great place” were arranged in the form of a large crescent, with the cattle kraal midway between the points. The old chief’s hut had been in the middle of the curve. After his death, old Dogolwana had taken possession of the huts near the right-hand point. Those huts towards the middle of the curve were uninhabited, being used as corn stores. Thus, no one dwelt nearer to the hut where the wretched victims lay bound awaiting their doom than the women and boys occupying the huts at the left-hand point, beyond the cattle kraal.

As soon as darkness fell, old Dogolwana and the women barred the door of the hut which they occupied securely on the inside, and sat in grim silence awaiting developments. Dogolwana sat listening close to the wicker door. After waiting thus for some hours he heard stealthy footsteps approaching, and then some one endeavoured to open the door. Then Songoza whispered:

“Philip—Philip, open—it is I.”

The women snored loudly and Dogolwana sat mute and rigid. After calling Philip’s name several times in a low voice, and obtaining no answer, Songoza crept away. Going softly to the door of the other hut, he examined the fastenings, which satisfied him that Philip had performed his share of the contract. He then stole away on tip-toe until he reached the other side of the hut in which Dogolwana was. Then he sat down and pulled out a flint, steel, and tinder-box.

Old Dogolwana and the women could hear the low click, click of the steel on the flint through the “wattle and daub” wall of the hut.

The touchwood soon ignited, so Songoza placed it in the curve of a doubled wisp of dry grass, and then he ran quickly over to the hut which contained his brother, his wife, and his two sons, one being the only creature that had ever awakened a spark of love in his cold and cruel heart.

The wisp of grass quickly ignited, and with it Songoza ran around the hut, firing the overhanging eaves every few feet. He then rushed into the forest. The hut was old and as dry as tinder. The roaring flames shot up instantly, and within a quarter of an hour the glowing roof sank down with a thud between the blazing walls.

About an hour afterwards Dogolwana again heard some one trying to open the door.

“Who is there?” he called out, his voice sounding muffled through the blanket which he had drawn over his head.

“Open the door, Philip; it is I, Songoza.”

“My chief,” replied Dogolwana; “Philip, with your wife and children, is sleeping in the next hut on the left.”

Songoza gave one frightful shriek, and rushed forth as if driven by fiends.

Chapter Three.

Gquma; Or, The White Waif.

“A sun-child whiter than the whitest snows
Was born out of the world of sunless things
That round the round earth flows and ebbs and flows!”
Thalassius.

One

The fish had been biting splendidly since midnight, and when at dawn we ran the boat into a little creek which branched from the main lagoon between steep, shelving, rocky banks overhung with forest, we counted out eleven “kabeljouws,” the lightest of which must have weighed fifteen pounds, while the heaviest would certainly have turned the scale at fifty.

We laid them out, ’Nqalatè and I, on the smooth, cool rock shelves. The fish more recently caught were yet quivering, and the lovely pink and purple flushes still chased each other along their shining sides. ’Nqalatè, like all Kafirs, hated having to touch fish; he regarded them as water-snakes with a bad smell superimposed upon the ordinary-ophidian disadvantages. After cleansing the “kabeljouws” under my directions, he washed and re-washed his hands with great vigour; but, to judge by the expression of his face when he smelt them afterwards, the result of the scrubbing was not satisfactory.

The morning was cool and bracing, and a wonderful breeze streamed in over the bar at the mouth of the lagoon, where the great ocean-rollers were thundering. A flock of wild geese arose and flew inland after their night’s feeding, uttering wild screams of delight as they soared into the sunlight, which had not yet descended upon us. Seamews and curlews wheeled around with plaintive cries. A couple of ospreys swooped down and settled on a giant euphorbia only a few yards off. Ever and anon vivid halcyons skimmed down the creek. In the forest close at hand the bush-bucks were hoarsely barking, and the guinea-fowls uttering strident cries.

While my companion collected fuel, I took the kettle and forced my way through the bush to the bed of the creek at a spot above the reach of the salt water. On returning I found ’Nqalatè blowing at the fire as only a Kafir can. Lifting his head out of the smoke, he gave a sneeze, and immediately afterwards uttered the exclamation: “Gquma ’ndincede!” This struck me as peculiar. “Gquma,” pronounced “g (click) o-o-ma,” means in the Kafir language, “a roar,” such as the roar of a lion, or of the sea; in this instance I took it to mean the latter, and “’ndincede” means “help me,” or “give assistance.” After speculating upon this strange rudimentary suggestion of the widespread habit according to which divers races of men invoke their respective deities or deified ancestors after the innocuous process of sneezing, my curiosity as to how the roar of the sea came to be invoked in an apparently analogous sense prompted me to question ’Nqalatè on the subject.

“Gquma, whom I invoked,” he replied, “is not the roar of the sea, but a woman of your race who lived many years ago, and whom we, the Tshomanè, look upon as the head of our tribe. You will notice that whenever a Tshomanè sneezes he calls on Gquma.”

“But where did Gquma come from?” I inquired, “and why was she so called?”

“Gquma,” replied ’Nqalatè, “was a white woman who came out of the sea when she was a child. She married our great chief ’Ndepa, and she and he together ruled our tribe. She was the great-grandmother of our chief Dalasilè, who died last year.”

The tide was running out swiftly, and I waited impatiently for it to turn, so that I could re-commence fishing. The sun was now high, and the breeze had died down to a gentle, fragrant breath. Suddenly the water ceased running, and began to sway troublously backward and forward, lapping loudly against the rocks. Then the tide turned, up it came rushing—this strange, cold, pure, bitter spirit pulsating with the ocean’s strenuous life. Like a singing bird it was vocal with wonderful words that no man may understand; with joyful tidings from its habitations in the sea’s most secret places were its murmurs thrilling.

We cast off the boat and let her drift with the current until a good anchorage was reached. Fishing usually affords large opportunities for reflection or conversation, and on this occasion ’Nqalatè related to me all he knew about Gquma, and, moreover, gave reference to certain old men of the tribe, by whom the narrative was subsequently amplified.

Two

One autumn morning early in the eighteenth century, some people of the Tshomanè clan, then occupying that portion of the coast country of what is now Pondoland, which lies immediately to the north-east of the mouth of the Unitati river, were astonished by an unwonted spectacle. The wind had been blowing strongly from the south-east for several days previously, and the sea was running high. Just outside the fringe of breakers an immense “thing” was rolling about helplessly in the ocean swell. This “thing” looked like a great fish, such as on rare occasions had been stranded in the neighbourhood, but it had a flat top from which thick, irregular stumps, like trunks of trees, protruded. Moreover, long strings and objects resembling immense mats were hanging over the sides and trailing in the water. As the rolling brought the flat surface into view, strange creatures resembling human beings could be seen moving about on it.

Such an object had never been seen or heard of by the oldest man of the tribe. The people assembled in crowds and watched, dumb with astonishment. Then a shudder went through them. A faint cry repeated at regular intervals pierced the booming of the surf, and a white fabric, which swelled out as it arose, was seen to ascend the tallest of the protruding stumps. The breeze was now blowing lightly off the land.

All day long the monster lay wallowing. The trailing ropes and sails were cut away, and the great East Indiaman, impelled shoreward by the swell, was just able for a time to maintain her distance from the land. The current sucked her slowly southward, and the crowd of natives silently followed along the shore. Late in the afternoon the breeze died down, and the doomed vessel rolled nearer and nearer the black rocks. Just after sundown she struck with a crashing thud, and thereupon a long wail of agony arose from those on board. Then she heeled over somewhat, and it soon appeared as though she were melting away in the water. By the time night fell, strange objects which the people feared to touch had begun to wash up; these were stranded by the receding tide. Nevertheless, the outline of the dark hull could still be faintly seen when the startled people withdrew to their homes, where they talked until far into the night, over the wonderful and unprecedented events of the day.

At the first streak of dawn the people began to re-assemble on the beach. The vessel was no longer to be seen, but the strand was strewn with wreckage of every description, a quantity of which had been flung high and dry by the waves. When the sun arose the people gained confidence and scattered about examining the different articles, which were distributed over an extent of several hundred yards of beach.

A shout arose, and then a rush was made to a certain spot where, in a wide cleft of the black reef, which was floored with gleaming white sand, a strange object had been discovered. Huddled against the rock on one side of the cleft lay a child, a little white girl with long yellow hair. She was clad in a light-coloured garment of a texture unknown to the natives, and around the upper part of her body were tied a number of discs of a substance resembling soft wood of little weight.

The people crowded around the spot, keeping at a distance of a few yards, and gazed with astonishment at this strange creature cast up by the sea. The night had been mild and the sun was now shining warmly on the pallid child, who was breathing slowly in a swoon-like sleep. At length she opened her eyes, they were of the hue of the sky, a colour never previously seen by any of the spectators in the eyes of a human being.

The gazing crowd increased, some of the people who climbed over the rocks gaining foot-hold on the higher ledges of the steep reef, and gazing eagerly over the heads of the others who were nearer. At length an old man, Gambushe, head councillor to Sango, the chief, stepped forward and lifted the little girl in his arms. She was deathly cold, and when she felt the warmth of the old man’s body she clung to him and tried to throw her arms about his neck. This, however, the discs of cork prevented her doing, so Gambushe sate her on his knee, and untied the string by which they were fastened. She then nestled her face against his shoulder. The child appeared to be quite without dread; probably she was accustomed to black faces, but in any case the terrors of the past night would, for the time being, have dulled her capacity for further fear.

The kraal of Gambushe was situated in a valley behind the adjacent forest-covered sandhills which rose abruptly almost from high-water-mark, and thither he carried the worn-out child, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder. A few of the natives followed him, but the greater number remained on the shore. Their curiosity had now got the better of the dread inspired by the unprecedented events just witnessed, and they began to examine and appropriate flotsam and jetsam from the wreck. Bales, boxes, clothing, and furniture—all things unknown—were eagerly examined. The bales, on being ripped open, were found to contain silk and cotton fabrics, which struck the natives with wonder and delight.

An order was sent by the chief to the effect that all the property salved was to be carried to his “great place,” which was situated about five miles away, and thither long lines of laden men, women, and children wended over the sinuous footpaths.

In the afternoon dead bodies began to roll in with the curling surf, and the white, bearded faces of the drowned men struck the excited natives with fresh terror. All of the Bantu race shrink with the greatest horror from contact with a dead body, so the people drew back and gathered together in affrighted groups, to discuss the strange situation. The wind again blew freshly, and as the sea arose the dead men came in more and more thickly, some with wide-open eyes, and lips parted in a terrifying smile. Faster and faster came the bodies, until the whole beach was strewn with them. Mixed with the bodies of the Europeans were those of a number of Lascars, of whom the crew was probably largely composed.

The people left off removing the wreckage, and sent to the chief for instructions. In the meantime they retired terror-stricken to their homes.

Next morning the chief came down, accompanied by the witch-doctors and soothsayers of the tribe, who, with hardly dissembled dread, passed along the strand from body to body. Then they withdrew for consultation, with ashen-grey faces and trembling limbs.

They came to a unanimous decision, which was communicated to a general meeting of the tribe convened next day at the “great place.” The monster that had died on the rocks amidst the white water, was one of the creatures of the sea sent to bear the little white maiden to the land of the Tshomanè. She, when old enough, was to be the “great wife” of ’Ndepa, the chief’s “great son,” then a boy of about twelve years of age. She was a daughter of the mighty ones that dwell in the sea,—her marine nature being clearly shown by her long yellow hair, which resembled nothing but sea-weed. All the dead people strewn on the beach had been her slaves; they had now been destroyed because she no longer needed them.

The chief gave an order that no more property should be removed from the beach, and that the things taken before the washing up of the bodies were to be carefully preserved for the use of the white maiden. She had come to the land of the Tshomanè when the sea was raging and thundering against the black rocks, so her name, said the soothsayers, must be called “Gquma,”—“the roar of the sea.”

Three

In those days the European was quite unknown to the Bantu of South-Eastern Africa. Rumour had vaguely told of the advent of strange men with white, bearded faces, who had conquered the “Amalawu”—the Hottentots—by means of the thunder and lightning, over which they had command. This was, however, regarded simply as one of the many semi-mythical tales which are always current among uncivilised people. Now and then, at long intervals, strange, white-winged monsters had been seen by the Tshomanè gliding over the ocean, but these appearances had been classed with meteors, eclipses of the sun and moon, and other unexplainable phenomena. Among savages the unprecedented does not occasion nearly so much astonishment as among civilised men, for the reason that the former have but a very rudimentary idea of the laws governing cause and effect. Like the early Christians, to whom the miraculous was the normal, savages assign all the many things they do not understand to the category of the magical.

The explanation of the nature and the advent of the little white waif as given by the soothsayers was fully accepted. The fair-skinned, blue-eyed child with the long, shining, yellow locks was looked upon as a gracious gift from the undefined but dreadful powers that rule the world from the realm of the unseen, a creature to be fostered and cherished as a pledge of favour,—to be reverenced as an emanation from something that had its dwelling where the sea and the sky met, and that swayed the destinies of ordinary men from afar, something the less known the more awful. It must be borne in mind that the brandy-seller, the gun-runner, and the loafer had not as yet nearly destroyed all respect on the part of the native for the European.

Little Gquma took with strange kindness to her new surroundings. She must have possessed one of those natures—more common among women than men—which can easily assimilate themselves to new surroundings. She was apparently about seven years of age. She talked freely, but of course her language could not be understood. One word she repeated over and over again—pointing the while to herself: “Bessie, Bessie.” This was supposed to be her name, but the one given by the soothsayers quite superseded it.

Gquma remained at the kraal of Gambushe, whither all the things saved from the wreck had been carried—two large store-huts having been built for their reception. One day when one of the boxes was opened, the child caught sight of a pair of hairbrushes and a large mirror. These she at once seized, bursting into tears at the same time. She carried them away with her, and was soon afterwards seen to place the mirror standing against the side of one of the huts. Then she sat down before it, and began brushing out her long, yellow hair, speaking softly to herself the while. Every day thereafter she spent some time before the mirror, brushing her hair and sometimes weeping. In some of the other boxes other brushes were found, and these were put aside for Gquma’s use.

Three white cows had been assigned from the chief’s herd for Gquma’s support, and soon afterwards a law was enacted in terms of which all pure white calves born in the Tshomane herds were regarded as “Gquma’s cattle,” and had to be delivered, when a year old, at Gambushe’s kraal. This tribute was submitted to cheerfully by the people, and it was considered a token of good fortune when a cow gave birth to a white calf. In those days virulent cattle diseases were unknown, and in a few years “Gquma’s cattle” had increased to a herd of several hundreds. The fame of “the child of the sea” spread far and wide, and people used to come great distances to see her and her wonderful herd of white cattle.

The property salved from the wreck soon became destroyed by moths and damp, consequent on bad storage. In the course of a few years nothing whatever of the textile fabrics was left. At first some attempt was made to clothe Gquma in garments selected from the salved stores, but these were mostly of an ill fit, and soon she came to prefer the untrammelled nakedness of her little native companions. These always paid her the greatest deference, and acknowledged her authority without question. She quickly picked up the language of the tribe, and she appeared to be perfectly happy in her new surroundings.

In the eighteenth century some of the best ideals of the age of chivalry were realised among the Bantu tribes of South-Eastern Africa. Battles were fought for honour and not for plunder; in warfare the lives of women and children were respected—prisoners were never put to death, but were held at ransom. After a battle the young men of one side would often send home their shields and spears by the attendant boys, and proceed as honoured guests to the kraals of their late adversaries. It was an age of gentle manners and generous deeds, which withered for ever when the butcher Tshaka turned the land into a shambles.

The uneventful years slipped by, and the white waif grew in stature and beauty. Her favourite ornaments were cowrie and other sea-shells. Being always regarded as the child of the sea, her fondness for bathing was looked upon as appropriate and natural. On the level sandy beach which stretched for miles to the north from the reef on which the ship had been wrecked, the great rollers of the Indian Ocean swept in, thundering, and here on sunny days, Gquma with her body-guard of boys and girls would sport and swim, diving through the combers, and then looking back to see them curl over and dash with a thud on the hard smooth sand. On summer days, when the sun beat fiercely on the beach, they would spend hours on the banks of one of the many streams that trickled down through the forest, plunging every now and then into some crystal-clear, fern-fringed pool.

In cold weather Gquma wore for clothing a kaross made of otter-skins, which had been tanned to the softness of silk, and sewn together cunningly with strands of sinew by an old refugee from one of the inland tribes, which excel as workers in peltries.

Gquma grew to be a most lovely woman. Her skin had browned to a rich glowing tint, and the healthy, natural life she led developed her form to the highest degree of symmetry. She was never asked or expected to perform labour of any description, the Tshomanè people regarding her as one who should be left to follow her own devices. Those who sent her would show her what it was good that she should do.

The one conventional practice which she continued was the brushing of her hair. Before the wreck she had evidently been taught to take care of her locks, for from the day on which she wept at seeing the hairbrushes and the mirror, she had each night and morning brushed her hair carefully. At night, before sleeping, she would twist it together, and then coil it around her neck. In the morning when she arose she would shake it out until it fell over her shoulders to below her waist. Gquma’s brushing of her hair was looked upon as a sort of rite, and the function was regarded with the deepest respect, more especially as she often wept softly during its performance.

The Tshomanè clan, which is located in the ’Mqanduli district, Tembuland, is now of comparative insignificance, but in the eighteenth century it stood at the head of a tribe of considerable strength and importance. At the advent of Gquma, Sango had been chief for about four years. His “great son” was ’Ndepa, who afterwards became the husband of Gquma. Sango was a man of wisdom, who loved peace, and who kept his clan as much as possible within its own territory. ’Ndepa took after his father in character. He was about five years older than Gquma, and he married her shortly after she arrived at womanhood.

At the marriage feast of Gquma the whole tribe assembled. By advice of the soothsayers the great dance took place at the sea shore, and instead of following the custom in terms of which the bride should have been led to her husband’s dwelling, Gquma and her maidens stationed themselves midway in the cleft of the black reef, where she had been tenderly delivered by the destroying waves, and thither the bridegroom went to ask his bride of the Ocean. Gifts of meat, milk, and beer were cast into the foam, and the soothsayers read the signs of the murmuring water as propitious to the union.

Within a few years of the marriage Sango died, and ’Ndepa became “great chief”; but Gquma, rather than he, was looked upon as the head of the tribe.

Gquma lived only for about eighteen years after her marriage. She bore to her husband two sons, the eldest of whom was called Begela, and a daughter, who was called Bessie. Begela inherited the chieftainship after the death of his father. During the lifetime of Gquma, ’Ndepa did not take another wife.

Gquma died of a mysterious disorder which baffled the skill of several renowned doctors. She lay almost speechless on her mat for many days, and she became more and more emaciated. Then her mind began to wander, and her speech was ever of the sea. On the day she died she was, at her own request, carried down to the cleft in the reef. Just before she breathed her last, she called for Bessie, her daughter. The child was brought and placed at her side. The dying mother strove to speak, but was unable to do so. She partly lifted herself, and pointed across the sea with her right hand; then she turned, clasped the child to her bosom, and gave out her life with a long-drawn sigh. In the night a terrible storm arose, and the shore afterwards was found to be strewn with myriads of dead fish.

When the storm subsided, Gquma’s body was carried at low tide to the extreme outside verge of the black reef. After being heavily weighted, it was cast into the sea, as also were the hairbrushes and the mirror.

It was noticed that soon after Gquma returned, as all the people believed, to the ocean that had given her birth, good fortune seemed to have departed from the tribe which had acknowledged her as its honoured and beloved chief, and the insignificant remnants of which venerate her memory even at the present unromantic day.

Chapter Four.

The Tramp’s Tragedy.

“Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine.”—Matthew VII, 6.

“From Durban, sir. Been a matter of three weeks on the road. Left my mate at Kokstad, where he ’listed in the Cape Mounted Rifles. Wouldn’t have me because I was half-an-inch too short, and a matter of fifteen years too old.

“Yes, looking for a job now, same as lots of others. You’re right, sir, times is mortal hard. I tramped all the way down to Durban from Johannesburg. No one, barring a black, can get taken on there now. Twenty years ago this was something of a white man’s country;—’tisn’t no more.

“Yes, it’s my own fault; ’most everything that happens to man is, barring good luck, and that’s often sent special by the devil for the sake of what comes afterwards. Drink? well, that of course. When a man has been tramping all day long in the hot sun, and then lies down so tired and blistered that he can’t sleep, but lies thinking of the chances he has lost and the things he has done, small blame to him if he buys threepenn’orth of forgetfulness, even if it is another nail in his coffin. Another nail! As if any more were wanted. I tell you, sir, most of us tramps are dead and damned long ago, and any parson will tell you that when a man’s damned there’s no hope for him.

“Drink? all sorts. ‘Cape Smoke’ is bad, and Natal rum is worse, but of all the brews to rot the inside out of a man, Transvaal brandy takes the cake. But I will say this for it: a bottle goes mortal far. I’ve seen more than one man killed by a single bottle, through drinking it too quick on an empty stomach. But I’m too tough; that sort of thing won’t finish me.

“Let’s see. I first took to the road twenty years ago, just after the alluvial petered out at old ‘Pilgrim’s,’ and I’ve been on it ever since pretty well, except for a few years in the Transvaal when I was working on the Boers’ farms before the war, helping them to build. I’m a mason by trade; leastwise I never was in my articles, but I picked it up natural like. I used to get a job that would keep me on a farm sometimes for two or three months, and when I got my money, swag it to the nearest town. Then drunk for a fortnight, and the road again until I’d found another job.”

(“Pilgrim’s Rest,” an alluvial gold-field in the north of the Transvaal, rushed in 1873.)

“Well, I suppose ’most every man has something special to look back upon; mine, I never talk about. However, you’ve given me a good feed and a shake-down, and you don’t seem to suspect I’m going to try and steal your spoons or cut your throat, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you about it; anyhow I’ll try. Just let me light my pipe, and then you sit sideways so’s you can’t see my face, and I’ll be able to talk better.

“It came about this way: me and a mate left ‘Pilgrim’s’ together, meaning to tramp to Kimberley, but of course we had to get work on the road. I was just twenty-four years old, and as strong as a horse. I’d not been drinking long, and you couldn’t see by me that I’d ever touched a drop.

“At Lydenburg we met a Dutchman who told us of a farm about two days’ journey away, where there was some building wanting to be done, so for there we started. The place was a little way off our course to the right, but that didn’t matter. Well, we reached it on the second day, and we were at once taken on. The Boer wanted a ‘lean-to’ built, and the bricks and mortar were ready. The man who’d agreed to do the job had hurt his hand and been obliged to go away to a doctor, so the Boer was right glad to see us.

“You know, sir, what life is like on a Boer’s farm—coffee and biscuit first thing in the morning, early dinner of meat and pumpkin, and late supper of bread and dripping; lots of coffee, of course, in between. This Boer was a good sort and treated us well. We took the job on as a piece, so we worked hard. We grubbed with the family, listened without understanding a word when the old man read the Bible and prayed, and helped them (leastwise I did) to sing hymns. I soon began to pick up a little of their lingo, learning a few words every day, but my mate didn’t know a word of it, and wouldn’t learn.

“There were lots of children, mostly small, and a young nephew of the old woman’s who lived in the house. His name was Jacob, and he’d long, black hair and a cock-eye. The two eldest children were boys, and the next one was a girl of twelve. She and I became great chums. She used to come out and sit near where I was at work, asking questions about the bricks and mortar, and teaching me Dutch words. She used to laugh like the dickens at my way of saying them. Often, when visitors came, or when the old woman made coffee between meals, as she did three or four times a day, Hessie (that was her name) would bring me out a cup, and watch me drink it. She didn’t like my mate, who was a surly old bear, so she would never bring him any, and if I gave him a swig out of mine, she’d get as mad as cats, and swear she’d never bring me any more.

“Sometimes she’d ask me all about my people, and get me to describe the place I’d come from. To hear me describing Manchester in my Dutch would have made a cow laugh. She’d want to know all sorts of things, whether I’d any sisters, and what they were like, and if I’d a sweetheart, and whether I’d ever come back again to the farm after the job was finished. She always used to call me ‘Vellum.’

“Well, the job was finished at last, and me and my mate left the farm with about ten pound each, meaning to go straight to Kimberley. Hessie took on a powerful lot when I said good-bye to her, crying and sobbing. I was very sorry to say good-bye too, and I sent her back a present of a red leather belt with a big steel buckle from Middleburg, where we dossed down the first night after leaving the farm.

“I don’t know how it was, but although I met four or five of my old chums, I never touched a drop of drink at Middleburg, and what’s more, I didn’t want to. My mate wanted to, sure enough, but I wouldn’t let him; and to be quite safe we went and slept just outside the town, where we couldn’t see the lights in the bars, nor hear the boys shouting.

“Next morning we started for Pretoria, and there we both got on the bend. In a week all our money was spent, and we were then kicked out of the hotel. Next day me and my mate got blaming each other, and it ended in my giving him a most almighty hammering, after which we parted.

“I hung about Pretoria for a while, loafing mostly, and doing odd jobs. Then I got work in the country again, and when it was finished, went back to Pretoria and drunk out what I’d made. This sort of thing went on for about five years—a few months’ work at which I’d earn a bit of money—then a couple of weeks’ spree. After this a loaf around looking for jobs and picking up whatever I could get.

“You’re right, sir, sometimes I was in very low water. I’ve lived with the niggers in the locations at the lower end of Pretoria, and I’ve seen some queer sights. I lay ill in a hut there once for three months, and never had a doctor near me; a woman just physicked me with roots, and did me a power of good. When I got better I swore off drink for the twentieth time, and then, as luck would have it, I dropped on a Dutchman who wanted a house built. He lent me a couple of pound to buy clothes with, and then loaded me up on his wagon and took me to his farm, which was not very far from Middleburg.

“After the job, which took me four months, was finished, instead of going back to Pretoria I thought I’d drop round and see how little Hessie and the others on the farm where I’d got my first job over five years ago, were getting on. I’d more than twenty pound in my pocket, and as I’d nearly died through spreeing after I was sick a few months back, I made up my mind to keep on the straight, at all events for some little time to come.

“So I bought an old pony and a secondhand saddle from the man I’d been working for, and then I rode into Middleburg, where I got a bran-new rig-out at one of the stores. Next day I went on to Hessie’s farm. The old man and the old woman were away visiting, and the children, who were nearly all standing outside, had grown so that I hardly knew one of them. It seemed funny that none of them knew me from a crow.

“I just hitched my horse on to a stake, and went straight up to the front door. Not one of the children had recognised me, so they just lolled about and took no notice, same as Dutch children pretty nigh always does. The door was open, but I knocked, meaning to ask for Hessie, and after I’d seen her and got a cup of coffee, to go back to Middleburg. Just then, after I’d knocked, there came down the passage a tall, strapping young woman with the prettiest face I’d ever seen. She shook hands same as the Dutch always do with strangers that come on horseback, and asked me to come inside, so inside I came. I sat down on the old ‘bank’ (sofa) with the straight back and the bottom of crossed thongs, that looked just as if no one had sat on it since I’d left the farm, and then I began to ask the young woman about Hessie. When she heard my voice she gave a start, and then jumped up and called out in her own language: ‘Why it’s Vellum,’ so it turned out to be Hessie after all. She just ran at me, holding out both her hands, and laughing and blushing. Well, in less than no time I was talking to her about all sorts of things, and drinking cups of coffee as hard as ever I could. I could now speak Dutch quite well, but she’d hardly give me a chance to speak at all, being so full of questions, and asking another before I’d had time to answer the one. She was a wonderful pretty girl—very plump, with brown eyes and hair, and rosy cheeks. I’d never have known her again. She kept saying she wondered how it was she’d not known me, and then she’d get quite sad like, and say she thought I looked terrible old, and asked me if I’d had lots of trouble. I said yes, and then she pressed me to tell her what my trouble was. I told her a long yarn about my father and mother having died, and myself having been laid up for three months with fever (which was my name for the ‘rats,’ and worse). I felt so bad at deceiving her, that I was sorry I’d come back. All at once she jumped up and ran out of the room. When she returned her cheeks were very red, and her eyes bright. After a while I noticed that she had put on the belt I’d sent her long ago as a good-bye gift, and then that it was still nearly new. Then she called in her brothers and sisters, and we all shook hands, and they made me welcome all round.

“Well, she made me off-saddle my horse, and would hear of nothing but that I must stay for the night. It was just a piece of luck my finding any one at the farm, because the old man was preparing to shift to another farm up near Lydenburg, which he had bought. That evening we sat up late in the ‘voorhuis’ (parlour), and talked to one another long after every one else had gone to bed. Hessie told me all about herself, how she had missed me, and how she used to wonder where I was, and whether we’d ever meet again.

“I lay that night, not in the little outside room that I’d used before, but in the big strangers’ room, where there was a four-poster with a feather-bed so thick and soft that a bigger man than me might have got lost in it. Will you believe me, sir, when I tell you that I didn’t sleep a wink? I just lay awake thinking of the life I’d been leading and the things I’d done, and feeling as if I’d made everything I touched dirty. Then the way I’d had to lie to the girl made me feel so hot that I’d to kick off all the blankets, and that ashamed, that if I’d known where to find my saddle and bridle I’d have stole out and cleared.

“Next day the old man and the old woman turned up, and right glad they were to see me, too. They said I must stay on for a spell. Then the old man remembered that he wanted some building done at the other farm, so he asked me to go there with them and take on another job. This I agreed to do, and Hessie was that glad, her eyes just danced.

“In about a fortnight’s time we packed the wagons and started for the new farm, which lay in the mountains about fifteen miles, just as the crow flies, to the westward of Lydenburg. We reached there in four days, and I began building at once with bricks from some old walls which we broke down. There was a sort of a shanty already standing, but the old man wanted a bran-new house put up, and I took on the contract to do the mason-work, assisted by his boys. What with brick-burning and laying the foundation, it promised to be a six months’ job.

“I just lived with the family like in the old days, only friendlier. Hessie could not do enough for me, and talked and went on with me just like she used to as a child. By and by this young woman’s fondness began to make me feel queer. I was very fond of her, too, but a bit afraid of her at the same time; she was so mortal good and innocent, and the worst of it was she believed me to be the same. Many’s the time I’ve been sorrowful for days together through thinking of my past life, and wishing it had been different. Supposing I’d kept on the straight those five years, I might perhaps have put by enough money to buy a little farm, and then have married Hessie; for the old man liked me and would, I’m pretty sure, have helped us with some stock. These thoughts used to worry me more and more; it was just terrible to think of the chance I’d lost. And then the girl got fonder and fonder of me, and used to look sad when I’d keep out of her way, as I often did for two or three days at a spell.

“No, I never once thought of trying, as you say, ‘to live down the past,’ and marry her. You see, I couldn’t. There were good reasons against it. I’ve not told you half about the life I led those five years. Drink alone was enough. I knew that sometimes when the thirst for lush took me, nothing on earth would keep me from drinking. Once I went to Lydenburg where I was not known, and stayed a week just because I felt I must go on the bend. I was drunk on the quiet for three days in a back room of the hotel, and then I stayed four days sober before returning, so as to let the signs work off. But there was worse than the drink...

“After I’d been on the farm about six months, young Jacob, the old woman’s nephew, turned up. He had been away down colony for nearly a year. Jacob had grown into a long, thin, slouching galoot with a yellow face and a live-long-day scowl. His squint made him seem to be always looking round the corner. He, it turned out, had asked Hessie to marry him just before I’d conic back, and she’d not said no, nor yet yes, to him; but just that she wanted to wait a bit, and that she’d see when lie returned from the colony. I soon saw that Jacob was hot spoons on Hessie, and dreadful jealous of me. For a while I enjoyed making him mad, but when I saw how bad he looked I got sorry for him, and tried to avoid the girl. Then she began to look miserable, and, I can’t tell you, what with one thing and another, I didn’t just know where I was.

“One day, just about a month before I expected the job to be finished, I was standing by myself working at pointing the foundation, when who should come round the corner but Hessie. She sat down on a stone close by. ‘Vellum,’ says she, ‘Jacob has again been asking me to marry him, and I’ve told him I won’t.’ ‘But,’ says I, ‘why don’t you marry him, Hessie? he’s got a good farm, and I’m sure he’s fond enough of you.’

“When I’d begun speaking I’d my face towards my work, and just when I stopped I turned to look at Hessie. She was leaning forward with her mouth half-open and her cheeks pale. For a while she didn’t speak. Then she gave a gulp and said, breathing hard: ‘Oh, Vellum, is it you who says that to me?’ I felt that sorry, I could have cut my throat. I knew now that I loved the girl as I’d never loved any one else, and here she was offering herself to me and I couldn’t take the gift. I cursed my own folly again only hotter, and what with one thought and another, I clean forgot for a few moments where I was, and that Hessie was there.

“When I looked round again Hessie was still staring at me, and then the thought came to tell her a lie which would hurt a bit at first, but do her good in the end. So I just said in a sort of jokey way: ‘Why, Hessie, if I weren’t a married man I’d think you were in love with me.’

“At that she gave a start and another gulp and said: ‘Are you truly a married man, Vellum?’ Well, thinks I, it’s no use turning back now, so I said: ‘Yes, Hessie; didn’t you know I’ve been married four years, and that my wife has gone to stay with her people at Potchefstrom?’ At this she just stood up, and walked away.

“Well, thinks I to myself, the sooner I’m out of this the better; but of course I couldn’t leave before my job was finished. I saw very little of Hessie now except at table. She went about very pale, and never once looked me in the eye, for which I was very thankful. Not many days after our talk, the old man told me she’d promised to marry Jacob, who, all the same, seemed to scowl worse than ever, and looked as mean as a rotten banana.

“As bad luck would have it, no sooner was my contract finished than the war with the English broke out. Then Lydenburg was in a state of siege, so I couldn’t get away. After a while a lot of Boers trecked on to the farm, and formed a ‘laager’ there. Then a commandant came from near Pretoria, and took charge. This happened to be a man who’d often enough seen me blind drunk in the streets between my spells of work. I’d done a job for him, too, and he’d humbugged me out of two pound ten. I felt sure he’d told my old man all about me, but beyond looking a bit strange for a day or two, it made no difference in him or in the old woman—they were just as kind as ever. But all the other Boers looked very sour at me, and would never answer when I’d speak to them.

“Jacob had a cousin who was a parson—and the dead spit of him—right down to the squint and the scowl. He was what they called a ‘dopper,’ (a South African Calvinist), which means in parsons one who sings very slowly, and speaks through his nose. This chap came one Sunday and preached to the Boers. His sermon was all about some folks called the Amalekites, and a chap called Agag, and that the Lord’s chosen people must hew to pieces all folks who weren’t chosen. He also told them they were to be careful of spies, and he talked a lot about wolves in sheep’s clothing. I was a long way off, but he ramped and shouted so loud, I could hear it all.

“Next day the old man told me on the quiet that I was suspected of being a spy, and that my life was in clanger. I told him this was ridiculous, because I’d been on the farm for months before the war began, and had no friends outside the ‘laager.’ He said he knew this, but that all the others were against me, and I must be careful.

“A couple of days after this the old man told me I’d have to clear out without further delay, because all the other Boers hated me like poison, and they meant to try me by court-martial for being a spy, and perhaps shoot me. He said that Jacob would take me away on horseback that night, and then I could lie by during the following day, and make my way to the English lines at Lydenburg when it got dark again. Just after midnight we were to creep away to a bush where our horses would be tied, and ride on from there. The old man gave me twenty-five pounds, which was all the money he had by him, and said he would send me the balance when the war was over, and I’d given him my address.

“That night I went into my room, and pretended to go to bed as usual. I just put my few little things together, and then I blew out the candle and sat waiting in the dark, feeling very lonesome and uneasy.

“By and by I heard a light tap at the door, so I opened it, and there I found Hessie with a Hottentot servant-girl named Griet, who used to wash my clothes. They came in on tip-toe, shut the door, and then Hessie drew me to one side and whispered very softly: ‘Vellum,’ says she, ‘you must do what I tell you now, quickly, and ask no questions.’ ‘All right, Hessie,’ says I, ‘what am I to do?’ ‘You must go into that corner of the room and take off all your clothes, and I will do the same in the opposite one. Then Griet will bring yours to me and mine to you, which you must put on. Do this at once, and then I will tell you the rest.’

“I could tell from the girl’s way of speaking that she was very much in earnest, so without saying anything I just went into the corner and took off my clothes. In a few moments Griet carried them away, and brought me Hessie’s, which I put on. They fitted me quite well.

“Just then Hessie stepped out of her corner and came to me in the dark. ‘Now, Vellum,’ says she, ‘just go with Griet, and when she tells you, steal out of the “laager” and follow her. Then walk as quickly as you can along the Lydenburg road until daybreak, when you must hide in the bush until night comes again. From there you can easily reach the Lydenburg “laager” before next morning.’

“She then took my two hands and pressed them very hard. ‘Vellum,’ says she, ‘we will never meet again; think kindly of me, for I love you very dearly.’ She then let go my hands, and put her arms around my neck. ‘Good-bye, Vellum,’ says she, ‘give that to your wife when you see her,’ and then she gave me a long, loving kiss. Then she and Griet left the room together, before I’d been able to say a word.

“Now that I knew I’d never see Hessie again, I felt more knocked of a heap than I’d ever felt in my life, and hot with shame at the lie I’d let her go away believing. I sat in the room and waited for about an hour, feeling quite queer in Hessie’s clothes, and liking to feel that what now touched me had touched her that was so good, and wondering whether, if I escaped, I’d have the grit in me to try and be a better man for her sake. I had a big ‘cappie’ on, which quite covered my face. I kept wondering why the plan for getting me away had been changed; but I guessed Hessie had some good reason for what she’d done.

“Then Griet came in and told me to follow her quickly. We went out by the front door. She was barefoot, and I just in my socks, and carrying my boots. We crept round the house in the shadow of the wall, and stole down the garden, which was long and narrow, with quince hedges on each side. We crossed a stream of water at the other end, and then walked quickly up the hill opposite, until we came to the road, along which we went as hard as we could. Then I wanted to put on my boots, so we turned a bit out of the road, and sat down under a bush.

“Griet then said she’d go back, so I gave her half-a-sovereign for herself, and my kind love and thanks to take to Hessie. Griet told me I was to listen for a horse’s footsteps, and when I heard this, to take cover until the horseman had passed. Griet then said ‘Good-bye, Boss,’ and we shook hands, and she went back.

“I walked along the road as quick as I could, and after going for about a quarter of an hour I heard a shot far ahead. This gave me a bit of a start, but I knew there was nothing for it but to keep my ears and eyes open, and go straight on, so straight on I went.

“Soon after this, I heard the sound of horses’ feet coming on in front, so I just went a few yards out of the road, and lay down among some rocks. In a few minutes a man rode past leading a horse by the bridle. This was Jacob, and he was laughing to himself quite loud. After passing me by a few yards, he stopped and dismounted. Then he let go the horse he had been leading, and gave it a heavy kick in the stomach. The horse just trotted away a few yards and began to feed. Jacob mounted again and rode on, still laughing. I tried to think what all this meant, but it got over me altogether. The last thing I heard of him was his laugh. What made it so queer was that I’d never heard him laugh before.

“After Jacob had got well past I went over to the horse, which was still feeding, and found it was my old moke, ready saddled-up. Here, thinks I, is a bit of luck; so I got on him and rode away, taking it easy, for I knew I could not reach Lydenburg that night, and I meant just to overhaul a gully full of scrub that I knew of about ten miles ahead, and where I could lie by next day.

“As I was going slowly along, my old horse began to cock his ears and snort, and then he gave a shy that nearly threw me out of the saddle. I looked, and saw something lying just at the side of the road. It was not a very dark night; there was no moon, but the stars could be seen every now and then through the flying scud. Seeing that the thing lay quite still, I got off to look more closely at it. I found it was a dead body... I at once thought of the shot and of Jacob’s laugh. I noticed a big slouch hat lying alongside, which somehow reminded me of my own.

“I laid my hand on the body, and found that it was quite warm. I felt farther and found... My God!... It was Hessie!

“She was quite dead, shot from behind through the back and chest... I was standing in a puddle of her blood... I saw it all now. That damnable scoundrel Jacob had brought her out here and shot her, thinking it was me. She had found out his meaning in offering to take me away, and come and died in my place...

“So now you can see, sir, why it is of no use your talking to me of ‘turning over a new leaf,’ and ‘leading a different life.’ I’m sick and tired of everything, and I’ll be a drunken tramp until I die in a ditch.

“When the war was over I went back to look for Jacob and kill him at sight. But the devil had got the best of me. Jacob’s neck had been broken by the capsizing of a wagon... I often hear that laugh of his... Some day I’ll hear it in hell.”

Chapter Five.

The Seed of the Church.

“The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.”

Tertullian.

One

Matshaka sat on a stone on the highest south-eastern spur of the Intsiza Mountain, just overlooking the Rodè Wesleyan Mission Station, one Sunday morning in the month of November 1880, and listened to the faint throbbing of the church bell. Beyond the mission, the broken hills of Pondoland, divided by the winding Umzimvubu—“the river of the sea-cows”—stretched away towards the ocean until they merged with the sky in an opaline haze. Around the Intsiza and on the surrounding mountain ranges the air was clear; and the distant features of the landscape looked unnaturally near—an almost certain sign of imminent rain.

It was the season of thunder-storms. The sun beat fiercely into the glowing valleys, but on the mountain-tops the air was cool. Already the heavy cumulus clouds were curdling over the distant Drakensberg, and raising their white and shining masses over the near Xomlenzi range. In the course of a few hours they would unite and sweep over valley and mountain, with shoutings of thunder and wind, and volleys of lightning, hail, and rain.

Along the almost invisible footpaths the people could be seen approaching the church from many directions. They suggested ants slowly creeping to a nest. Matshaka looked at them and thought deeply. The light breeze that almost invariably streams for hours against an approaching thunder-storm carried to his ear the clear notes of the bell. The beats grouped themselves in sets of three: what was the bell trying to say? It seemed as if a word were being repeated over and over again in the ringing. At length he found it—“Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza;” that was the word. “Intsiza” in the Kafir language means “refuge.” The mountain was so called on account of its broken and involuted valleys which, in the oft-recurring inter-tribal wars between the Pondos, the Bacas, and the Xesibes, afforded a refuge to the vanquished. And now the church bell tolled out the word so clearly that Matshaka wondered how the thing could ever have puzzled him—“Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza.”

Matshaka was a Pondo. A heathen and a polygamist, he had lived his fifty years without a single aspiration towards anything better than the surrounding savage conditions afforded him. A man of strong character, he had amassed considerable wealth, and attained to an influential position in his clan. From where he sat listening to the bell he could see a large herd of his cattle grazing in the valley below his kraal, which was situated about four miles from the Rodè Mission.

Pondoland, like every state under savage rule, was the scene of cruelty, oppression, and misgovernment in most forms. Exposed to the unchecked rapacity of the chiefs, the unhappy people were always in danger of death, or confiscation of their property upon some puerile pretext. The one quality which was of advantage to its possessor was cunning. Frugality and industry resulted in the amassing of wealth, and wealth excited the envy and cupidity of the rulers, who, through the agency of the witch-doctor, were never at a loss for a pretext for “eating up” the owner. Courage availed little, for what could one do against numbers? Honesty would have been ridiculously out of place; conspicuous ability minus cunning would have excited sure and fatal jealousy. Cunning combined with force of character generally enabled a man to die a natural death—even though rich; provided, of course, that he had been judiciously liberal in the right quarters, and had consistently supported the strong against the weak.

Matshaka had used strength and cunning, had used them unscrupulously, and prospered accordingly. Throughout his long life he had stood on the side of the oppressor, and shared the spoil of the oppressed. The words “right” and “wrong” had, practically speaking, no meaning for him. But quite recently, something like the first faint glimmerings of a moral sense awoke in his soul. The glaring and palpable frauds of the witch-doctor had never deceived him, his intellect was too acute and his temperament too reasonable. Lately, a vague and undefined sense of general dissatisfaction with his surroundings had gradually grown, and after this developed the conviction that everything he knew, himself included, was utterly and hopelessly bad. Thereafter the “beer-drink” knew him no more, he held aloof from the “eating up,” which had been his favourite and profitable diversion, and he begun to shun his fellow-men. Soon he became an object of suspicion.

Matshaka sat on the mountain-top and looked at the church far below him. It was built on a spur which ran out abruptly from the lower zone of the Intsiza. The bell had ceased ringing, but the beats still kept sounding in his head. Intsiza—Refuge. Yes, the mission was at least a refuge for those fortunate enough to escape from the dreadful “smelling out,” a sanctuary which had always been respected. He had, on the previous Sunday, attended church for the first time in his life, and what he heard there increased his dissatisfaction and unrest ten fold. He could not have told what it was that impelled him to go. He had, of course, often heard accounts of what was taught in churches, but the idea of an omnipotent God coming into the world in the semblance of a poor and insignificant member of a despised class, had always appeared to him as ridiculous. The son of God going out mightily to war with a blood-red banner streaming over him would have seemed appropriate to his conception of deity, but meekness and submission as attributes of Godhead were too preposterous.

Yet some of the things he had heard on the previous Sunday stuck in his memory. “Come unto Me, all ye who labour and are heavily laden,” impressed him particularly. He himself was one of the heavily laden; who and where was the God that gave relief to such? Matshaka sat thinking over this until long after the service was over, and he was still thinking of it when the faint beats of the bell, which was now sounding for afternoon service, fell upon his tense ear. As if in answer to his unspoken questions the wind swept up the one clear word: “Intsiza, Intsiza, Intsiza.”

The sun suddenly darkened, and, glancing to the westward, Matshaka saw the great bulging thunder-clouds sweeping up in a serried mass. He arose and quickly descended the mountain. He reached his dwelling just as the storm broke.

Two

The germ of unrest planted in the congenial soil of Matshaka’s mind grew and branched until it filled and dominated the man’s whole being. The result was a condition of hyperaesthesia. He seemed to be more alive than formerly; things previously unnoticed forced themselves on his attention and became significant with mysterious meanings. Everything in his environment hurt him. His wives were mere animals that he had purchased for his pleasure and use, his sons and daughters were mere savages without his force of intellect. He had hitherto held aloof from all who were Christians, and had strenuously opposed the missionaries. Now, however, he felt a pressing need for intellectual and spiritual communion, but there was not a living soul in the whole circle of his acquaintance with whom he felt he could speak of what was torturing him. His thoughts seemed to focus themselves upon the missionary at the Rodè, but he could not make up his mind to speak. What he really needed was some one to explain to him his own mental and spiritual condition, a talker rather than a listener. His longings were quite undefined, and their object utterly unintelligible even to himself; had one asked him as to the nature of his trouble he could hardly have even guessed at its nature.

During the week of suffering following the Sunday spent upon the Intsiza, one idea continually haunted Matshaka, the idea of becoming a Christian. When first this presented itself the notion was summarily dismissed, but it kept persistently recurring. Public opinion is probably a more potent coercive among savages than among civilised men, and for an intellectual savage with Matshaka’s antecedents to turn his back on the traditions of a lifetime, and cleave publicly to what his fellows held in contemptuous scorn, involved consequences that might well appal the bravest.

Next Sunday, however, found Matshaka at the Rodè Church. When he arrived there were not more than a dozen persons in the building. It was a rainy day, and the congregation was consequently small. He took his seat right at the back, in one of the corners, and from there watched the dripping worshippers as they arrived one by one. An old man named Langabuya especially attracted his attention. This man had been “smelt out” for witchcraft some seven or eight years previously, and Matshaka had assisted at his “eating up.” He had managed to gain the sanctuary of the mission, and thus to save his life. He had been a rich man, almost as rich as Matshaka, but all his possessions had been taken. Now he lived at the mission, his sole substance, as Matshaka knew, being a few goats. Yet he looked contented with his lot, and at peace with all men.

The service began with a hymn sung by the congregation. The natives are natural musicians, and they easily acquire the faculty of part-singing. The harmony seemed to intensify the discord and unrest of Matshaka’s troubled spirit; all the events of his turbulent life seemed to crowd in on his mind as the past is said to overwhelm the consciousness of a drowning man.

The hymn over, a prayer was said by the minister, but it made no impression on Matshaka; the ideas were pitched in a key to which his mind could not yet vibrate. After the prayer another hymn was sung, and then the minister opened the Bible and said he was going to read the Word of God. This statement set Matshaka’s mind on the alert; now he would hear the very words spoken by the majestic and all-powerful God to the men He had made. It was with an almost sick feeling of disappointment the forlorn man soon learnt that the words being spoken were not those of the God towards whom his spirit was passionately stretching forth its hands, but of one of His many prophets, who were, after all, only men.

The chapter happened to be the second in the Epistle of Paul to the Colossians. Matshaka listened to the sentences read by the minister in a sonorous voice and with excellent execution, and presently felt an unfamiliar stir within him. When the minister reached the thirteenth verse: “And you, being dead in your sins, and the uncircumcision of your flesh, hath He quickened together with Him, having forgiven you all trespasses,” something seemed to transfix the heart and then the brain of the desolate man sitting in the corner of the church, with bent head, and face hidden in his hands.

Then happened to Matshaka what happened to Saul of Tarsus when on the road to Damascus: a great light from Heaven shone round about him. This was succeeded by a darkness as of death. Then the scales fell from his eyes, and he saw with a blinding clearness of vision. That strange new birth, that awakening of the soul which transfigures those who genuinely experience it, was his; let those doubt it who may, this experience is the great fact in some lives. Its existence is ignored by many, denied by a few, and explained satisfactorily by none. The Christian explanation is partly vitiated by attributing it solely to Christian influences; the fact being that it was well known in ancient times amongst Pagan nations. Moreover it is in these days realised by many to whom Christianity, in some of its most important aspects, is a book sealed with adamant. The materialistic attempt at an explanation is quite untenable. Conversion, the conviction of sin, the awakening to a higher life, that thunder-trump which separates the many goats from the few sheep of our past, and summons the soul to that seat of agony from which it can and must discern good from evil, without speciousness or self-deception, is as real and fundamentally natural as the earthquake, and as tremendous in its effects.

Matshaka broke into a passion of sobs which he vainly strove to stifle. At the conclusion of the reading the minister came down the aisle, and kneeling next to the penitent, besought the Lord to save this sinner, whose spirit was broken and whose pride lay in the dust. The congregation prayed silently in unison, not one turned his head to look. They well knew what was happening; most of the elder members had undergone a similar experience.

A short time elapsed and then Matshaka’s sobs ceased. When the ordinary service proceeded he became quite calm. After its close, the minister met the penitent, took him by the hand, and led him apart. It was eventually settled that he was to attend regularly for instruction each day at the mission, before being formally received as a church member.

When Matshaka left the mission for his home the rain had cleared off; the steep, green slopes of the Intsiza shone in the sunlight, and foaming cataracts shot down the gleaming crags. In his eyes was a new-born light, and his heart was the home of a virginal peace from whose gentle face the spirits of wrath had fled away—never to return.

Three

Probably no more villainous and unmitigated fraud than the Kafir “isanuse” or witch-doctor cumbers the earth. Pretending to the faculty of divination, he trains his powers of observation and memory to an extraordinary extent. Every trivial circumstance coming within the sphere of his cognisance is hoarded with a view to future use, and by means of spies he is kept informed of all going on among the people of his clan. Rich and influential men are, of course, the objects of his keenest regard. Nothing is too unimportant to claim his attention. The pattern of a snuff-box, a dent in an assegai handle or blade, the number of cowrie shells in a necklet or armlet—all facts of this description are noted with the view to possible use against the owner, should it be advisable to convict him of practising black magic. Such facts can be used in this way, for instance: if a man be accused of causing any one’s illness or death, it is very useful to be able to say—“You took the assegai with the crack in the handle that you mended with the sinew of a she-goat last spring, dug a hole with it in front of the sick man’s hut, and buried therein” (whatever the particular supposed magical substance may be). This knowledge of detail fills the spectators with awe at the witch-doctor’s powers of divination. All the friends of the accused know that he possesses an assegai mended in the manner described, and they at once feel that he is guilty.

Superimposed upon all this fraud is a growth of self-deception; no doubt many of these wretches believe themselves to be possessed of magical powers.

When a witch-doctor is consulted, a present, such as an ox, a sheep, or a goat—according to the rank and wealth of the person seeking his advice—is always brought.

Such person, with his friends, sits down in front of the witch-doctor’s hut. Having already been advised by a spy of the probability of such a visit being made, the witch-doctor—after asserting his dignity by keeping his visitors waiting for a suitable period—comes forward, and without any greeting, states to the startled strangers the object of their visit.

Those consulting a witch-doctor are bound by custom to “vuma,” or acknowledge the truth of every statement he makes, whether it be true or false. Thus, supposing a child to be ill, and the parents to have come to consult the witch-doctor as to who has bewitched it—for all illness is assumed to be caused by “umtagati,” or witchcraft—the witch-doctor might say: “You, Sogolima,” (or whoever it may be), “have come to find out who it is that has bewitched your child that is ill.” At once all would clap their hands loudly, and call out “Siyavuma,” which means, “we acknowledge.” A false statement is sometimes purposely made. For instance, in the case we are supposing, the witch-doctor might say next: “It is a girl that is sick,” whereas as a matter of fact it is a boy. The audience would, nevertheless, cry out “Siyavuma,” but involuntarily; the exclamation would not be so loud, nor would the hand-clap be so energetic as if a true statement had been made. Then the witch-doctor would say: “No, you are lying; it is not a girl that is sick, but a boy.” Then “Siyavuma” would break forth with a loud shout, and all would be struck with terror at the wonderful powers of the “isanuse.”

Usually the witch-doctor takes his cue from the chief as to the selection of victims. Women practise this horrible trade rather more often than men.

Whilst it was yet early morning of the Sunday following that upon which Matshaka had attended church, and floated away from his past life on a flood of penitent tears, small bodies of men could be seen trooping over the hills from every direction towards the kraal of Nomaduma, priestess and witch-doctor, renowned over the whole country-side for skill in occult arts. Her dwelling was situated at the foot of a conical hill which rose abruptly for about six hundred feet, and ended in a bare, rocky point, fringed close to its summit with large, loose boulders. This hill is known as the “Bonxa,” a word which means the breast of a woman, in some of the northern Bantu dialects. It is a striking object in the landscape, and has been the scene of many a horrible tragedy. All wizards detected anywhere in the neighbourhood were dragged thither for execution.

An hour after sunrise several hundred men had assembled, and fresh arrivals happened every few moments. The men were ranged in the form of a crescent along the hill-side, and facing the witch-doctor’s hut. A larger party than usual approached. This consisted of the chief Makanda with his councillors and other attendants. They took up a position midway between the central portion of the crescent-shaped crowd and the “isanuse’s” dwelling. Here they sat down and waited in silence.

All the men bore arms when they came. Some had guns, many had spears and assegais, and a few carried clubs, “amabunguza.” All the weapons, however, had been placed together in an empty hut about forty yards to the right of that occupied by Nomaduma. The sun shone fiercely from a cloudless sky, and not a breath of wind could be felt. The men sat absolutely mute and motionless.

About half-an-hour after the arrival of the chief, the wicker door of the hut was drawn suddenly aside, and Nomaduma, the “isanuse,” appeared. She was a tall, slender woman of about forty-five years of age. Her features were emaciated, and her hair drawn out into innumerable long locks, which were stiffened with grease and red clay. Her eyes were bright, and her cruel lips, partially withdrawn, showed her dazzlingly white teeth, which were beautifully small and even. Her only garment was a robe of tanned calfskin, which was draped around her waist and hips. Encircling her body, under her thin and pendent breasts, was a girdle made of the dried skins of snakes, twisted together. From her neck depended a number of pieces of bone, fragments of dried and polished wood of different sorts, and various little skin bags. But the most striking element of her attire was the innumerable dry, inflated gall-bladders which were fastened all over her in bunches and festoons. These were the gall-bladders of sheep and goats, some hundreds of which are an essential part of the witch-doctor’s paraphernalia.

When Nomaduma appeared, a low murmur, which lasted for a few seconds, arose, and then dead silence reigned. She stood erect and gazed fixedly at the sun; then she turned slowly towards the gibbous moon which was sinking in the west. She appeared to affect being unaware of the presence of the chief and his crowd of followers. Moving very slowly, she took a few paces towards where Makanda was sitting, and then she paused, closing her eyes and throwing her head back, as her body and limbs stiffened. After a silence of a few minutes, and without changing her posture, she spoke:

“The chief has come to seek my help against the false friends who seek to do him evil.”