The White Shield. Mitford Bertram
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The White Shield
Prologue
We were talking about Rorke’s Drift and of Kambúla, in the battles fought at which places these two warriors had borne arms. They were fine, tall, martial-looking Zulus, and both head-ringed. They carried small shields, and a perfect arsenal of assegais – beautifully-made weapons for the most part. With none of these, however, could they be induced to part.
“What should you white people want with our poor weapons?” said one. “Have you not much better ones of your own? Where is your gun, Umlúngu?”
“Yonder,” I answered, pointing to my wagon, which, far away on the plain beneath, drawn by its span of twelve black Zulu oxen, seemed at that distance to creep along like some great centipede. “But I seldom carry it about, for there is little game in these parts, and a useless gun is much heavier than a stick.”
“And a Zulu spear is no heavier than a stick, but more useful,” cut in the other, with a quizzical laugh.
Then it took some time to explain that the weapon was wanted, not for use, but for show – in short, as a curio – in process of which explanation a voice from behind sang out —
“Au! Nkose1 is fond of assegais!”
I knew that voice. Turning, I beheld the tall, gaunt form and sinewy limbs, the white-bearded countenance and bright eyes of old Untúswa, some time induna under the great Umzilikazi, Founder and first King of the Matabeli nation.
“Greeting, old friend!” I said, as he plunged eagerly forward to bestow upon me a hearty handgrip; which, by the way, left a sensation as of having shaken hands with a remarkably energetic skeleton. “Greeting to you, son of Ntelani, induna of the Elephant who of late trumpeted in the North! Greeting also to the King’s Assegai!”
“You are my father, Nkose!” cried the old man, sinking down into a sitting posture in our midst. “Yes, the King’s Assegai is still alive, like its old owner,” he said, exhibiting the splendid spear, and balancing it lovingly in his hands. “When I saw yonder wagon and the black oxen which draw it, I said to myself – ‘There goes the white man to whom I told that tale.’”
“True, Untúswa, and a right stirring tale it was. But I seem to remember, that when we parted on the Entonjaneni heights, the word was that other matters, at least as strange, remained to be told, should we behold each other again. And here now we do behold each other again, and the day is yet young. Further, here is good store of tobacco, and if there is anything which constitutes a better accompaniment to a story, why, I never heard of it.”
The eyes of old Untúswa brightened as he received the much-prized gwai, holding out both hands for it, as the courteous custom of this people is, even though the gift be no weightier than a threepenny-piece. For to receive anything with one hand only, would, to the minds of these “barbarians,” imply a contempt alike for the gift and for the giver.
High up on the ill-omened Hlobane Mountain we were seated, whose savage fastnesses I had spent days in exploring. It was early morning, and the weather was grey and depressing, seeming to threaten rain. Beneath lay a great panorama of desolate rolling plain and craggy spurs – treeless, forbidding – with here and there a kraal, dotted at intervals, symmetrical in its circular ring-fences. But here, where we sat, poised high above the world, I had come upon another small kraal, and, turning my pony loose to graze, had, as usual, tarried to make friends with its people.
Now, the older of the two warriors with whom I had been in converse, called aloud, and presently there appeared a couple of stalwart, shapely-limbed damsels, bearing a very large earthen bowl brimming with tywala, or corn-beer, and a basket containing roasted mealies. A goodly portion of the liquor was poured into a smaller bowl and handed to me, after the preliminary sip required by Zulu etiquette, the others taking draughts in common from the large earthen pot.
Zulus, like most uncivilised races, are extremely fond of listening to stories, and hold a good narrator in high repute; therefore, these two sat with faces all animation and heads bent eagerly forward. Then, having taken several copious pinches of snuff, old Untúswa commenced the tale which follows.
Chapter One.
The Chief of the Blue Cattle
You will remember, Nkose, how we of the Royal House of Dingiswayo, of the tribe of Umtetwa, with the Amandebeli, went out from the land of Zulu to found a new nation, and how we shut back the overwhelming number of the spears of Tshaka in the gates of the great Kwahlamba mountains. So, too, you will remember how, having hailed our leader Umzilikazi as king we swept ever onward, to the west and to the north, stamping flat the tribes within our path and laying waste the land, leaving behind us a desert that the cubs of the Lion of Zulu would find difficult of crossing. So, too, you will remember, how we built the great Kraal of Ekupumuleni, and subdued all the tribes round about, and sat in our fair resting-place, feared as a great and mighty people. For of the races around, all came in to konza to Umzilikazi, and to pay tribute, and such as did not – well, it was not long before the trumpeting of the Elephant sounded in their ears, dwelt they even two or three moons distant. But there was one tribe or nation which refused thus to konza, and of it I shall speak presently.
As time went by, our new nation grew in numbers and strength – though the latter might be our weakness in the day of grave trial. For we had incorporated into our army the youth of such tribes as we had conquered and whom the king deemed capable of bearing arms. These Amaholi, or slaves, were really our dogs, and even of this they might have been proud, for in our veins ran the clear unmixed blood of the “People of the Heavens;” (Such is the literal meaning of the word “Amazulu”) but did the spears of Tshaka show upon the skyline there would not be one of these miserable jackals within a day’s march of them by the time they drew near. Howbeit, although they were too cowardly to fight for us, we did not fear lest they should turn and fight against us, for the spears of Tshaka would devour them just as readily as they would ourselves; nay, more readily, for we Amandebeli were as lions, and dealt back blow for blow, were the enemy tenfold our own strength.
Time passed by, and as our impis went farther and farther afield, reports came in of a wonderful land to the north: of a land whose streams were never dry, and where the grass was ever green, and rich, and sweet. Now, around the King’s kraal, Ekupumuleni, it was not always so, and for many moons we had suffered greatly for want of rain; indeed, the King had sent out expressly to take all the rain-makers of every tribe and race and to bring them in. These tried their powers, each and all, and failed, wherefore they were put to death, for Umzilikazi declared that, as they were highly honoured and loaded with gifts when they could perform their office, it was only fair that they should pay forfeit when they could not; and this fate befell most of our own rain-makers, who were tied with their heels round the backs of their necks, and flung into a water-hole. Indeed, the only one who escaped was Masuka, the old Mosutu, whom we took, and whose life I had saved at the burning of certain Bapedi kraals, and who, while declaring himself an isanusi but no rain-maker, yet managed to bring rain, and thus not only escaped death but was advanced to still further honour. He was now of a great age, this old man, and was little else than a human skin loosely covering a skeleton; yet his eyes were as bright and marvellous as ever.
That Masuka stood so high in the king’s favour and in such honour among the people delighted me greatly, for I knew that as long as this was so I was safe from any plots my enemies might lay against me. I was now second fighting induna of the whole army, and a kehla, or ringed man. I had won a place of great power, young as I was, and those whose bitter jealousy would have moved them to compass my downfall and death were many. Moreover Umzilikazi had become suspicious of late, and was inclined to suspect each and all of his principal captains of designs upon his life and seat; and there were times when I fancied his suspicions rested strongly on Kalipe, the chief induna of the army, and myself – but mostly upon myself.
Yet, Nkose, this idea, terrible as it was, did not fill me with unmingled dismay. That I, but yesterday an umfane and unringed, should now be in a position to be suspected of usurping Umzilikazi’s seat, of aspiring to become King of the Aba-ka-zulu; Hau! This indeed would cause
Nkose means “the chief”, and is a term of courtesy.