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Chapter Twenty Seven.
In the Locations

Sunrise. A long green valley bounded by pleasant, round-topped, bush-clad hills. The slopes are dotted with kraals, the blue wood-smoke curling aloft from the yellow thatch of many a beehive-shaped hut, the red-ochred forms of the inhabitants moving about – early as it is – making a not unpleasing contrast to the eye against the bright green of the pastures, though by no means pleasing to another sense, at far closer quarters. But the thorn enclosures contain no cattle, although it is milking-time, nor do any stand around outside, only a few sheep and goats. This is strange.

Harley Greenoak, pacing his horse up the valley, noted the fact, and – read it at its real meaning. And its real meaning did not augur well either for the situation or for his self-imposed mission by which he had hoped to improve the latter. But little time was to be his for tranquil reflection, for there was a savage rush of dogs from two of the clusters of huts he was passing at a hundred yards or so, and a tumultuous snapping and snarling round his horse’s heels. It was followed immediately by a scarcely less tumultuous irruption of the inhabitants. These poured forward, vociferating volubly. All had sticks, and a goodly proportion carried assegais. Their demeanour was not friendly.

But the foremost pulled up short, then the rest. The rush subsided into a walk.

“Whau! It is Kulondeka!”

No weapon had been presented, or even significantly handled. No change had come over the imperturbability of the horseman. It was only the name, the mesmerism, so to say, of the personality. That was all.

“I see you,” was the answer. “But I did not come to see you.” And the speaker rode unconcernedly on.

The crowd, who had now stoned and beaten off the dogs, fell in behind, talking in an undertone among itself. From every additional kraal passed, others came forth to swell it, at first aggressively hostile in attitude, then more subdued, but always sullen. In fact, Greenoak remarked that the prevailing attitude was that of sullenness.

“The grass is green and abundant. There should be good pasture for the cattle here now,” he remarked over his shoulder to the foremost. “There will be plenty of fatness and milk this season.”

A deep-toned murmur, in which he was quick to detect a covert sneer, greeted his words.

“Ewa—Ewa! Plenty of fatness this season, Kulondeka,” answered several voices. And the same unmistakable sneer underlay the words.

“Turn back, Kulondeka,” now said one, a man who seemed to be in some authority, as he came up along side of the horseman. “We do not want any white people about here now. The chief is tired of them.”

“The chief! But it is not the chief I am going to see, Mafutana. It is his son.”

“But what if he is not here?” said the Kafir, sullenly.

“But what if he is?” returned Greenoak, composedly. “I know my way. I have no need of these here” – with a wave of the hand towards those who were following. “They can go home.”

A hoarse jeer among the crowd greeted the words, but the said crowd showed not the slightest sign of complying with the speaker’s wish. More than one, gripping the long, tapering assegai, was thinking what a tempting target was offered by the back of this unmoved white man, riding there before them as though his life hung upon something stronger than a not very secure rope. So the strange procession passed on.

The newly risen sun was flaming above the Kei hills. The blue sky was without a cloud. The morning air, not yet unpleasantly warm, was clear and invigorating. The fair, rolling pastures were green and promising, and altogether the whole scene should have been one of pastoral peace. But it was the peace of the slumbering volcano, to-day stillness, to-morrow red ruin, and none knew this better than Harley Greenoak. He knew why there was no cattle anywhere in sight.

Now he had reached a kraal at the head of the valley, one in no wise differing in appearance from any of the others he had passed. Here he dismounted, but before he could make an inquiry of the inhabitants – the crowd following him, by the way, having now halted at a respectful distance – an interruption occurred – startling, unexpected.

A large body of Kafirs came pouring over the ridge. They were in full war-array – cow-tail tufts, flapping monkey-skins, long crane feathers flowing back from the head, jackals’ teeth necklaces – in short, every conceivable variety of wild and fantastic adornment which could lend to the sinuous clay-smeared forms a wholly terrific appearance. And indeed such was the effect, as with a roar like that of a beast they rushed down upon Harley Greenoak.

He, for his part, stood unmoved; though even to one of his iron resolution the array of excited faces and gleaming eyeballs, and threatening assegais, as the savages crowded up to him, might well have proved momentarily unnerving. Was this the projected Gcaleka raid, he wondered, and in a flash he decided that it was not. It was a body of young men who had spent the night war-dancing, with its concomitant of beef and beer feasting, hard by; and, now excited by such stimulant, mental and physical, was prepared for anything.

They made mock thrusts at him with their assegais – not too near, however. Others were leaping into the air, singing, or reciting all the deeds they were about to do.

“The time of the Abelungu has come!” cried one, if possible more truculent and demoniacal-looking than his fellows. “Whau! but we will drive them all into the sea, and take their wives for our wives. Have you a wife, Kulondeka? But no. She would be too old. She, and others like her, would do to hoe our corn lands. Or – ”

And the speaker made a quick, downward slash with his assegai that left room for no explanation in mere words.

Greenoak listened to all this – and more – in silent contempt. He was getting rather tired of it, and expected that they would be getting the same directly, and would go. But the most truculent of them, a huge, red-smeared brute of well-nigh gigantic proportions, lunged forward and snatched hold of the double gun which he held in his left hand, attempting with a quick powerful jerk to wrest it away.

He did not succeed. In a twinkling the muzzle of Whites. Greenoak’s heavy revolver caught him fair and square between the eyes, with such force that the impact alone was almost enough to brain him, apart from the roar of the detonation which immediately followed. The huge barbarian, his head blown to atoms, crashed to the ground like a felled tree.

For a moment there was a tense and deathly silence. Greenoak, still holding the pistol pointed, had taken a couple of paces backward. His grey eyes were gleaming like steel, and his whole aspect was cool and dangerous. The time for indifference was past, he had decided; that for action had come; and the man who had ventured to lay a hand on him had paid for his daring with his life. At that moment he himself hardly expected to escape with his, but it would go terribly hard with several, before, in their weight of numbers, they should succeed in taking it. Now, he wasted no word. His silence, the lightning-like promptitude with which he had acted, and with which he would be ready to act again, as they well knew, were more awe-inspiring than mere verbal warning. And then there was the prestige of his personality.

Upon the silence broke forth a deep-toned, vengeful growl that was ominous. Then it suddenly died down. A voice behind him spoke.

“It is Kulondeka I see.”

“It is,” answered Greenoak, not turning his head. “And I think, son of the Great Chief, that these had better go home. It is not a healthy amusement for any man to try and snatch my gun out of my hand.”

At these words, cool and contemptuous, a new outburst of wrath went up, and the excited savages began to crowd up nearer, clamouring that Kulondeka should be given up to their vengeance. Some in the background raised the war-cry. It was taken up, and, gathering volume, sounded back from the hills, whence now other bands were hurrying to the scene. The chief’s son stepped to the side of Harley Greenoak and threw an arm around his shoulders.

“See. We are brothers,” he said. “The Great Chief is the father of both.”

Again there was a silence, broken immediately by a voice.

“Au! The son of the Great Chief is bewitched. This Kulondeka is the eyes and ears of the whites – here, everywhere. How then can he, too, be the son of the Great Chief?” And a fresh outburst greeted the words.

Greenoak noticed that this was the man who had tried to turn him back. He had thrust himself forward, and being a headman of some standing, and elderly, he might prove dangerous in the scale. And his leanings were hostile.

Matanzima drew himself up. It was time to assert his dignity, and he had plenty of it. Seen outwardly now, he was a lithe, straight, well-set-up savage, with clear eyes and a decidedly pleasing face. He wore an ample kaross of leopard skin, flung loosely around him, and but for this, and a massive ivory armlet, displayed no adornment whatever. Now he turned his eyes sternly upon the assembled rout, sweeping it steadily from end to end with his glance.

“Have I no men?” he said, in slow, incisive tones. “Have I no men? Then who are these? Are they Mafutana’s dogs, or are they mine? Hau! There are dogs who bark too loud, but when it comes to biting slink away with their tails down. How is it with these? I lead not such dogs to war.”

The clamourers paused, shamefaced. Matanzima was immensely popular with the younger men; in fact, was regarded as the leader and hope of the war-party. They dared not actively oppose him. They knew, too, that but for this white man, for whose blood they were thirsting, he would never have been here to lead them. The clamour seemed to be dying out.

“What of Nzinto yonder, son of the Great Chief?” cried a voice. “He is the son of my father, and lo! – he lies dead.”

“M-m!” The deep-chested murmur from the crowd backed the words. All eyes were bent eagerly upon Matanzima.

“Why, as to that,” said the latter, “you have heard Kulondeka say that it is not healthy to try and snatch a gun from his hand. Nzinto tried to, and – ”

“Yet it shall be blood for blood, son of Sandili,” was the answer, “for he was my brother.”

“Kulondeka is my brother,” returned Matanzima. “Or, I should say, my father, for what am I but a boy beside him? Yet no blood for blood shall it be here. If you meet in battle – well and good, the best warrior is he who wins. Now we have talked long enough. I think – too long.”

And linking his arm within that of Greenoak, he drew him towards the hut from which he himself had just emerged, at the same time making a sign to one of his own immediate attendants to take charge of the horse, which, its first uneasiness over, was placidly cropping the grass, its bridle trailing on the ground.

Chapter Twenty Eight.
The “Pulse of the People.”

Harley Greenoak was not sorry to exchange the riot and racket outside for the cool interior of the young chief’s hut. The latter was by no means as neat and clean as he had been wont to find in similar dwellings among the Zulus; because the Xosa has a sort of passion for grease – and dogs. Two of the latter got up growling as he entered, but slunk out of the doorway with astonishing celerity at a peremptory word from their master. Then two of Matanzima’s wives appeared, bearing food, in the shape of stamped mealies and curdled milk, also a large calabash of native beer, and here again there was a suggestion of but half-washed vessels, and a flavour of grease and red-ochre seemed to permeate the stuff itself. But to Greenoak little matters of this sort were the merest trifles.

“It is good to see you again, Kulondeka,” said the young chief, when breakfast was well under way. “Now – what is the news?”

“News? Why as for that, son of Sandili, the news is great.”

“Great?”

“It is. And such as it is I bring it from – no further distance from here than I could shoot with this gun.”

“Ha!”

The ejaculation, quick and eager; a sudden intensity wherewith the answer had been received was not lost on Harley Greenoak. As we heard him tell the Commandant, he was here to feel the pulse of the people. Already he had got his finger upon it.

“The people are mad, son of the Great Chief,” he went on. “Mad – quite mad. The people here.”

Matanzima laughed – and it struck his hearer there was a note of great relief in the tone.

“Why, as to that, Kulondeka,” he said, “they are only a little excited. They are all young men, those out yonder. They have been dancing all night, and have not worn it off. But – mad? Au!”

“And Mafutana, and Sikonile, and others who gave me speech on the way hither – are they young men, and have they been dancing all night?” said Greenoak, innocently, and with his head on one side. “They talked ‘dark’ as they followed on behind me, but – not dark enough, son of Sandili. Ah – ah – not dark enough. They are mad. Shall I say why?”

The young chief nodded and uttered a murmur of assent.

“Then why are the children of the House of Gaika preparing for war?”

This was putting things straightly. Matanzima brought his hand to his mouth with a quick exclamation. Then, laughing softly, he shook his head.

“Now, nay, Kulondeka,” he said. “You are my father, but your dreams have been bad. The war was not with us, and it is over now. And I would ask – If we sat still then, if we did not rise in our might to aid our brethren over yonder, would it not be the act of fools and madmen to rise now, when there is no one to aid, and the whites are all armed and prepared? Now, would it not?”

“It would. It would be the act of just such as these. That is why I say that the news I bring is that your people are all mad, Matanzima.”

The latter did not immediately answer, and Greenoak sat and watched him. Such words, uttered by any other man, would have been equivalent to the signing of his death-warrant. But Greenoak knew his ground. He had saved the life of the young chief once, and he knew that the latter would never forget it as long as he lived. Moreover, between the two there was a very genuine liking, and a longing to save this fine young fool from the ruinous consequences of the mad, impracticable scheme on which he was already embarking had borne a full part in moving him to start upon his perilous undertaking.

“Whau! Kulondeka. Are you sent by Iruvumente?” (The Government.)

“Not so, Matanzima. Yet the answers I am getting might well make it appear as though I were. For they are just the answers that might be got ready for a Government commissioner.”

The other laughed again, but just a trifle shamefacedly. He knew, only too well, the utter futility of trying to hoodwink this one man of all others. The latter went on —

“Where are all the cattle belonging to the people? The land here is green and the grass soft and fresh. Who would have thought the pasture in the Gombazana Forest could be better?”

Here again was food for fresh discomfiture. For how should Kulondeka have known so accurately that the tribe had been steadily sending away all its women and children to the wooded fastnesses he had mentioned, in order to have its hands free entirely? Yet what did not Eulondeka know?

“For that,” answered Matanzima, “there may be some reason. The Ama Gcaleka might come over and seize some of our cattle to make up for all your people took from them, what time we did not aid them. Ah – ah! What time we did not aid them,” he added significantly.

“If you feared that, why did you not send word to Bokelo?” said Greenoak, using the name by which the Commandant was known among the tribes. “He would have sent sufficient Amapolise to patrol the border, so that such a thing could not have befallen.”

The look on Matanzima’s face at the mention of such a contingency would have escaped pretty nearly any other man than Harley Greenoak. Him it did not escape. Yes. He was getting his finger more and more tightly on “the pulse.”

“When there is lightning in the air, does a man go about flourishing steel,” was the reply, with another amused laugh. “Whau! some of our people are hotheaded, and not always clear-sighted – as you yourself have just seen,” he added whimsically. “There has been lightning in the air, and Bokelo’s Amapolise might be just the steel which should draw down the crash.”

“Now, listen to me, Matanzima, and we will talk ‘dark’ no longer,” said Greenoak, becoming impressive. “You have referred to me as your ‘father,’ and that is just what I want to be to you. I want to see you great and powerful, and at the head of your nation. I do not want to see you – with others – spend the rest of your life in the white man’s prison. The Great Chief Sandili, is old and infirm, and are you not his ‘great’ son? It cannot be long before you yourself are Chief of the House of Gaika! Whau! look around. Is it not a splendid land which is given you wherein to dwell? Are not the people prosperous and happy, with cattle grazing by their tens of thousands in valley and on hill? Why, then, fling all this away with both hands? Why exchange it all – for what? Ask those of your people who have passed years of their lives in the white man’s prison, for any offence against the white man’s laws. Ask such what it feels like – day after day – moon after moon – toiling at road-making, dragging heavy carts loaded with heavy stones, watched and guarded every moment by, it may be, some miserable Hottentot, ready to shoot you down at any attempt to escape, sometimes in chains it may be. Whau! What a fate for the chiefs of the House of Gaika. Come heat, come cold – ever the same weary round of toil. Then again – no home, no comfortable huts, no wives, no tobacco – nothing to look forward to but the most miserable and grinding slavery. That is the fate you are rushing upon headlong. The fate that will as surely be yours as that the sun is shining above at this moment. You and your people are not as the Ama Gcaleka. They are Kreli’s men, and you and the Ama Ngqika are the Queen’s men. This is the way the laws of the white men punish those who rise in rebellion against the Queen. Now say. Is it good enough? Is it?”

Greenoak paused, and sat gazing fixedly at his listener. The young chief’s face had grown troubled and moody.

“Whau! Such words are even as the words of Tyala,” he said, as though half to himself.

“The words of Tyala,” echoed Greenoak, eager to push his advantage. “Ha! And Tyala is wise – no man wiser. Now, Matanzima. You have the ear of the Great Chief. Go now and speak into it, word for word, all I have been saying. Lose no time, do it at once. So shall you save not only yourself, but your people. To delay is death. Where is Sandili?”

“Near Tembani. But I cannot go to him now, Kulondeka,” he explained gloomily. “Do you not see? The people here. I alone can hold them.”

Yes, that “pulse” was beating now, that pulse of the people which Harley Greenoak was there to feel. There was no chance of making a wrong diagnosis here. But a great sinking came into his heart. More and more, while reasoning with this young leader of the seething war-party, his mind had been impregnated with a growing pity for him, and the dreary intolerable doom he was so surely preparing for himself and many more. For, reading the other, more and more easily he realised that it was too late for the young chief to draw back. The plot had about reached its head. The incursion from beyond the river was all arranged, and its fulfilment imminent. Yet – was it too late?

“Then – hold them,” he answered emphatically. “Hold them. Have you no men? Send and recall the cattle and women that have been sent away. Send out another ‘word’ – that the time is not ripe. Think, son of Sandili, the last chief of the House of Gaika; for no other will be chief after him when the whole nation is broken up. There is yet time. It is not too late. Now, I have ridden the night through, and I am growing old. While I sleep – for I am tired – think again upon my words; and – act upon them, and that at once.”

Greenoak rose, and going to the side of the hut, stretched himself upon the ground. In less than five minutes he slept, slept hard and dreamlessly. Slept – one man, alone – in the midst of teeming enemies, who but a short while before had been clamouring for his life, and even now, it might be, were plotting how they might take it when he should be once clear of the protecting presence of their chief. The sanctuary of the latter’s house they dared not violate. But blood had been shed, and blood cried for blood. It would be hard if they could not, by way of wily ambuscade, obtain their just vengeance when this man should be beyond the protecting influence. The prestige of his personality was great; still he was but one, and they were many. Vast events were maturing; the making an end, then, of this man, with the semi-supernatural reputation for invulnerability, would be a fitting precursor of them.

But Harley Greenoak was still Harley Greenoak, and meanwhile he slumbered on, peacefully and unafraid, in their midst. Would he have slept on so soundly had he known what was going on in another part of the location? Who knows?