A Frontier Mystery. Mitford Bertram

It was hot. Away on the skyline the jagged peaks of Kahlamba rose in a shimmer of haze. In front and below, the same shimmer was upon the great sweep of green and gold bush. The far winding of the Tugela shone here and there through the billowy undulations of the same, and above, a gleam of silver where Umzinyati’s waters babbled on to join it. So, too, over the far expanse of warrior Zululand—peaceful enough now to outward aspect in all conscience—the slumbrous yet far from enervating heat of mid-afternoon still brooded.

Yes, it was hot, decidedly hot, and I remarked thereupon to Tyingoza, who agreed with me of course. Every well-bred native agrees with you—that is to say pretty well every native—and Tyingoza was a well-bred native, being of Umtetwa breed—the royal clan what time Tshaka the Usurper, Tshaka the Great, Tshaka the Genius, Tshaka the Terrible, shook up the dry bones and made the nation of Zulu to live. Incidentally Tyingoza was the chief of a very large native location situated right on the border—and in this connection I have often wondered how it is that with the fear of that awful and bloodthirsty tyrant Cetywayo (see the Blue Books) before their eyes, such a congested native population could have been found to plant itself, of its own free will, right bang within assegai throw of his “manslaying machine” (see again the Blue Books), that is to say, with only the division afforded by an easily fordable river between it and them. Tyingoza’s father had migrated from Zululand what time the Dutch and Mpande fought Dingane, and Dingane fought both; for, like a wise man, he held that he could not konza to three kings, and now Tyingoza would have returned to his fatherland, with which all his sympathies—sentimental—lay, but for the material fact that he—and incidentally, his followers—were exceedingly comfortable where they were.

“M-m!” hummed Tyingoza. “In truth it is hot here, but—not over there, Iqalaqala.”

There was a quizzical twinkle in Tyingoza’s eyes, as he pointed down into the valley beneath—and I understood him. The above, by the way, was my native name, meaning one who is wide awake at a deal; bestowed presumably because when I had bought out the former owner of the trading store at Isipanga the guileless native had discovered rather a more difficult subject to get round than that worthy dealer; who was all too frequently in his cups, and easy to “best” while in that halcyonic condition. I did not resent the use of the sobriquet on this or any other occasion: in the first place because it was not an unflattering one; in the next because I liked Tyingoza, who was a gentleman every inch of him, and—shrug not in horror, oh ye noble white brethren—in my heart of hearts I could not but recognise that this aristocratic scion of a splendid race was, taking him all round, every whit as good a man, albeit dusky, as a certain happy-go-lucky inconsequent and knockabout trader in the Zulu.

I understood his meaning. “Over there”—la pa—referred to the abode of my nearest neighbour, a retired British officer, who had lived to no better experience than to imagine himself

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