In the Whirl of the Rising. Mitford Bertram
there – certainly not to-night. You had better come home with me.”
The other feared that this was impossible, as, after they had journeyed together up to a certain point, it would be right in the contrary direction. But he ceased to combat Lamont’s offer to relieve him of some of the load.
“You don’t travel light, Father,” laughed Lamont, as he finished strapping the valise across his own saddle.
“But this is not my own luggage. I have been on a round of visitation, and wherever I find some of our people they are glad of the opportunity to hear Mass. It is the ornaments required for the Mass that are in these saddle-bags.”
“Oh, I understand now,” said Lamont. “I thought it was camping outfit. Well, that is shepherding the flock and no mistake – and that over a pretty wide run.”
“That is what we are here for, Mr Lamont. It is possible we may miss some, but we try not to.”
“I’m sure you do,” assented Lamont heartily. “Why, you are proverbial in this country as models of energy.”
“That is pleasant to know. But, speaking personally, I like the life. I am strong, and it does me no harm.”
They chatted of other things and everything. The priest was a cultured man, and as they covered mile after mile of hot, steamy Matabeleland, both he and his companion hardly noticed it, for they were back in the various centres of artistic Europe, discussing its treasures with eagerness and appreciation. They off-saddled for half an hour, then on again.
“I think we are getting near where my road turns off,” said Father Mathias at last. “But, Mr Lamont, I am so glad we have been able to travel together. I have not noticed the distance at all.”
Lamont cordially replied that the same held good of himself. Then, looking quickly up —
“We are going to have a change, and if it means rain – why then, hooray! Otherwise I don’t like the look of it ahead – no, not at all.”
In their conversation as they rode along they had, as we have said, lost sight of outside features. Now a deep, low growl of thunder recalled such. Over the range of hills they were skirting peered a ridge of black cloud, mounting higher and higher to the zenith in a huge solid pillar, spreading in black masses, lighted fitfully with the gleam of quickly successive flashes. The sun had already gone down.
“We are in for it,” said Lamont, looking up. “We shall get an exemplary ducking, unless – but then you might not care about that – we were to take shelter in Zwabeka’s kraal. It’s only just the other side of that bend in front.”
“Let us do that,” said the priest. “Zwabeka is a considerable chief, is he not? I would like to see him.”
“This is going to be no fool of a storm,” went on Lamont, again looking upward. “The sooner we get under cover the better.”
The booming growl had changed into a well-nigh unintermittent roar, as the huge cloud, towering pillar-like, now spread its black wings in a dark canopy in every direction. The horses pricked up their ears and snorted with alarm at each blinding flash. So far no rain had fallen, and there was a smell of burning in the very air.
Now a barking of dogs sounded between the rolls of thunder, and rounding a spur they came in sight of a large kraal, lying at the mouth of a lateral kloof, densely bushed and extending far up into the range of hills. The conical huts stood within the strong encircling stockade, and among them dark forms stood about in groups, gazing skyward, and indulging in deep-toned speculation as to the probability of a copious and welcome rain to relieve the parched-up and drooping crops in the lands. But the two white men, as they rode in through the still open gateway, thought to detect an unwonted sullenness instead of the cheerful greeting of welcome which should have been theirs. A ringed man came forward.
“Greeting, Gudhlusa,” called out Lamont, to whom the man was known. “We would shelter, and have a talk at the same time with Zwabeka the chief. Is he in his house?”
“I see you, Lamonti. Au! Zwabeka? He is asleep.”
“No matter. It will do when he wakes. Meanwhile we will go into a hut, for the rain will be great.”
“’M – ’m!” assented the bystanders in a guttural hum. “The rain will be great. Ah! ah! The rain will be great!”
There was a significance in the repetition hardly observed at the time by the new arrivals. One of them, at any rate, was to appreciate it later. To one of them, also, the utter absence of geniality on the part of the people supplied food for thought, combined too as it was with the use of his native name – in this instance a corruption of his own – instead of the more respectful ‘Nkose.’ But then Zwabeka’s people were mostly Abezantsi – or those of the old, pure-blooded Zulu stock, and therefore proud.
“Come this way, Amakosi,” said the man he had addressed as Gudhlusa, pointing to a small enclosure. “We will put your horses there, and give them grain. Yonder is a new hut with the thatch but just on. There will ye rest.”
“That is good, Gudhlusa,” said Lamont, giving him some tobacco. “Later, when the chief is awake we will talk with him.”
The new hut proved to be a very new one, which was a huge advantage in that it ensured immunity from the swarming cockroaches inseparable from old ones, and even worse. On the other hand, the thatch ‘just put on,’ was not as complete as it might be, for a glint of sky visible through a hole or two in the roof did not give encouraging promise of a water-tight protection from the average thunder-shower. The saddlery and luggage was accordingly disposed in what looked likely to prove the driest side of the hut.
“Well, Father, I’m inclined to think we can see our quarters for to-night,” said Lamont cheerfully, as he filled his pipe and passed on his pouch to his companion.
“Thanks. I think so too. Well, we might do worse.”
“Oh yes. A dry camp is better than a wet one. Do you talk the Sindabele?”
“A little. Enough to make myself understood for the ordinary purposes. But I am learning it. You seem to have got it well, though.”
“I wish I had it better. You see I am a bit interested in these people. They – and their history – appeal to me. Poor devils! I can’t help sympathising with them to a certain extent. It must be rotten hard luck for a lot of these older ones, like Zwabeka for instance, who have been big-wigs in their time, having to knuckle down to a new and strange form of government in which they come out very under-dog indeed. Still, it’s the universal law and there’s no help for it. But – I’m sorry for them for all that.”
Could he have seen what was in Zwabeka’s mind, – Zwabeka, nominally asleep in one of the huts a few yards away, – could he have heard what was on Zwabeka’s tongue, yea, at that very moment, where would his sympathy have been? The course of but a few days was destined to change it, like that of many another who desired to treat the conquered race with fairness and consideration, and who like himself were sitting on the brink of the hitherto quiescent vent of a raging volcano.
Chapter Eight.
Zwabeka’s Kraal
“Isn’t that a perfect picture of savage life, set in a savage surrounding?” said Lamont, as he stood with his travelling companion before the door of the hut allotted to them. “It is artistically complete.”
“It is indeed,” was the answer.
And it was. The circle of the kraal, with its great open space and the conical huts, four deep, ringing it in: the dark, lithe forms of its occupants, unclothed save for a mútya of dangling monkey skins; or in the case of the women a greasy hide apron: the sinuous movements as the young men and boys ran in and out among the multi-coloured cattle: the reek of smoke and kine: the wild background of wooded ridge and craggy rock, and the swirling streamers of the storm-cloud above, pouring forth jetty beams of steely blue light and reverberating roll against the bushy spurs and darksome recesses. All this in the fast-gathering dusk made up a picture of sombre, impressive grandeur, the