I did not sleep very well that night, for now that the danger was over I found that the long strain of it had told upon my nerves. Also there were many noises. Thus, the bearers who were shot had been handed over to their companions, who disposed of them in a simple fashion, namely by throwing them into the bush where they attracted the notice of hyenas. Then the four wounded men who lay near to me groaned a good deal, or when they were not groaning uttered loud prayers to their local gods. We had done the best we could for these unlucky fellows. Indeed, that kind-hearted little coward, Sammy, who at some time in his career served as a dresser in a hospital, had tended their wounds, none of which were mortal, very well indeed, and from time to time rose to minister to them.
But what disturbed me most was the fearful hubbub which came from the camp below. Many of the tropical African tribes are really semi-nocturnal in their habits, I suppose because there the night is cooler than the day, and on any great occasion this tendency asserts itself.
Thus every one of these freed slaves seemed to be howling his loudest to an accompaniment of clashing iron pots or stones, which, lacking their native drums, they beat with sticks.
Moreover, they had lit large fires, about which they flitted in an ominous and unpleasant fashion, that reminded me of some mediæval pictures of hell, which I had seen in an old book.
At last I could stand it no longer, and kicking Hans who, curled up like a dog, slept at my feet, asked him what was going on. His answer caused me to regret the question.
“Plenty of those slaves cannibal men, Baas. Think they eat the Arabs and like them very much,” he said with a yawn, then went to sleep again.
I did not continue the conversation.
When at length we made a start on the following morning the sun was high over us. Indeed, there was a great deal to do. The guns and ammunition of the dead Arabs had to be collected; the ivory, of which they carried a good store, must be buried, for to take it with us was impossible, and the loads apportioned.1 Also it was necessary to make litters for the wounded, and to stir up the slaves from their debauch, into the nature of which I made no further inquiries, was no easy task. On mustering them I found that a good number had vanished during the night, where to I do not know. Still a mob of well over two hundred people, a considerable portion of whom were women and children, remained, whose one idea seemed to be to accompany us wherever we might wander. So with this miscellaneous following at length we started.
To describe our adventures during the next month would be too long if not impossible, for to tell the truth, after the lapse of so many years, these have become somewhat entangled in my mind. Our great difficulty was to feed such a multitude, for the store of rice and grain, upon which we were quite unable to keep a strict supervision, they soon devoured. Fortunately the country through which we passed, at this time of the year (the end of the wet season) was full of game, of which, travelling as we did very slowly, we were able to shoot a great deal. But this game killing, delightful as it may be to the sportsman, soon palled on us as a business. To say nothing of the expenditure of ammunition, it meant incessant work.
Against this the Zulu hunters soon began to murmur, for, as Stephen and I could rarely leave the camp, the burden of it fell on them. Ultimately I hit upon this scheme. Picking out thirty or forty of the likeliest men among the slaves, I served out to each of them ammunition and one of the Arab guns, in the use of which we drilled them as best we could. Then I told them that they must provide themselves and their companions with meat. Of course accidents happened. One man was accidentally shot and three others were killed by a cow elephant and a wounded buffalo. But in the end they learned to handle their rifles sufficiently well to supply the camp. Moreover, day by day little parties of the slaves disappeared, I presume to seek their own homes, so that when at last we entered the borders of the Mazitu country there were not more than fifty of them left, including seventeen of those whom we had taught to shoot.
Then it was that our real adventures began.
One evening, after three days’ march through some difficult bush in which lions carried off a slave woman, killed one of the donkeys and mauled another so badly that it had to be shot, we found ourselves upon the edge of a great grassy plateau that, according to my aneroid, was 1,640 feet above sea level.
“What place is this?” I asked of the two Mazitu guides, those same men whom we had borrowed from Hassan.
“The land of our people, Chief,” they answered, “which is bordered on one side by the bush and on the other by the great lake where live the Pongo wizards.”
I looked about me at the bare uplands that already were beginning to turn brown, on which nothing was visible save vast herds of buck such as were common further south. A dreary prospect it was, for a slight rain was falling, accompanied by mist and a cold wind.
“I do not see your people or their kraals,” I said; “I only see grass and wild game.”
“Our people will come,” they replied, rather nervously. “No doubt even now their spies watch us from among the tall grass or out of some hole.”
“The deuce they do,” I said, or something like it, and thought no more of the matter. When one is in conditions in which anything may happen, such as, so far as I am concerned, have prevailed through most of my life, one grows a little careless as to what will happen. For my part I have long been a fatalist, to a certain extent. I mean I believe that the individual, or rather the identity which animates him, came out from the Source of all life a long while, perhaps hundreds of thousands or millions of years ago, and when his career is finished, perhaps hundreds of thousands or millions of years hence, or perhaps to-morrow, will return perfected, but still as an individual, to dwell in or with that Source of Life. I believe also that his various existences, here or elsewhere, are fore-known and fore-ordained, although in a sense he may shape them by the action of his free will, and that nothing which he can do will lengthen or shorten one of them by a single hour. Therefore, so far as I am concerned, I have always acted up to the great injunction of our Master and taken no thought for the morrow.
However, in this instance, as in many others of my experience, the morrow took plenty of thought for itself. Indeed, before the dawn, Hans, who never seemed really to sleep any more than a dog does, woke me up with the ominous information that he heard a sound which he thought was caused by the tramp of hundreds of marching men.
“Where?” I asked, after listening without avail—to look was useless, for the night was dark as pitch.
He put his ear to the ground and said:
“There.”
I put my ear to the ground, but although my senses are fairly acute, could hear nothing.
Then I sent for the sentries, but these, too, could hear nothing. After this I gave the business up and went to sleep again.
However, as it proved, Hans was quite right; in such matters he generally was right, for his senses were as keen as those of any wild beast. At dawn I was once more awakened, this time by Mavovo, who reported that we were being surrounded by a regiment, or regiments. I rose and looked out through the mist. There, sure enough, in dim and solemn outline, though still far off, I perceived rank upon rank of men, armed men, for the light glimmered faintly upon their spears.
“What is to be done, Macumazana?” asked Mavovo.
“Have breakfast, I think,” I answered. “If we are going to be killed it may as well be after breakfast as before,” and calling the trembling Sammy, I instructed him to make the coffee. Also I awoke Stephen and explained the situation to him.
“Capital!” he answered. “No doubt these are the Mazitu, and we have found them much more easily than we expected. People generally take such a lot of hunting for in this confounded great country.”
“That’s not such a bad way of looking at things,” I answered, “but would you be good enough to go round the camp and make it clear that not on any account is anyone to fire without orders. Stay, collect all the guns from those slaves, for heaven knows what they will do with them if they are frightened!”
Stephen nodded and sauntered off with three or four of the hunters. While he was gone, in consultation with Mavovo, I made certain little arrangements of my own, which need not be detailed. They were designed to enable us to sell our lives as dearly as possible, should things come to the worst. One should always try to make an impression upon the enemy in Africa, for the sake of future travellers if for no other reason.
In due course Stephen and the hunters returned with the guns, or most of them, and reported that the slave people were in great state of terror, and showed a disposition to bolt.
“Let them bolt,” I answered. “They would be of no use to us in a row and might even complicate matters. Call in the Zulus who are watching at once.”
He nodded, and a few minutes later I heard—for the mist which hung about the bush to the east of the camp was still too dense to allow of my seeing anything—a clamour of voices, followed by the sound of scuttling feet. The slave people, including our bearers, had gone, every one of them. They even carried away the wounded. Just as the soldiers who surrounded us were completing their circle they bolted between the two ends of it and vanished into the bush out of which we had marched on the previous evening. Often since then I have wondered what became of them. Doubtless some perished, and the rest worked their way back to their homes or found new ones among other tribes. The experiences of those who escaped must be interesting to them if they still live. I can well imagine the legends in which these will be embodied two or three generations hence.
Deducting the slave people and the bearers whom we had wrung out of Hassan, we were now a party of seventeen, namely eleven Zulu hunters including Mavovo, two white men, Hans and Sammy, and the two Mazitus who had elected to remain with us, while round us was a great circle of savages which closed in slowly.
As the light grew—it was long in coming on that dull morning—and the mist lifted, I examined these people, without seeming to take any particular notice of them. They were tall, much taller than the average Zulu, and slighter in their build, also lighter in colour. Like the Zulus they carried large hide shields and one very broad-bladed spear. Throwing assegais seemed to be wanting, but in place of them I saw that they were armed with short bows, which, together with a quiver of arrows, were slung upon their backs. The officers wore a short skin cloak or kaross, and the men also had cloaks, which I found out afterwards were made from the inner bark of trees.
They advanced in the most perfect silence and very slowly. Nobody said anything, and if orders were given this must have been done by signs. I could not see that any of them had firearms.
“Now,” I said to Stephen, “perhaps if we shot and killed some of those fellows, they might be frightened and run away. Or they might not; or if they did they might return.”
“Whatever happened,” he remarked sagely, “we should scarcely be welcome in their country afterwards, so I think we had better do nothing unless we are obliged.”
I nodded, for it was obvious that we could not fight hundreds of men, and told Sammy, who was perfectly livid with fear, to bring the breakfast. No wonder he was afraid, poor fellow, for we were in great danger. These Mazitu had a bad name, and if they chose to attack us we should all be dead in a few minutes.
The coffee and some cold buck’s flesh were put upon our little camp-table in front of the tent which we had pitched because of the rain, and we began to eat. The Zulu hunters also ate from a bowl of mealie porridge which they had cooked on the previous night, each of them with his loaded rifle upon his knees. Our proceedings appeared to puzzle the Mazitu very much indeed. They drew quite near to us, to within about forty yards, and halted there in a dead circle, staring at us with their great round eyes. It was like a scene in a dream; I shall never forget it.
Everything about us appeared to astonish them, our indifference, the colour of Stephen and myself (as a matter of fact at that date Brother John was the only white man they had ever seen), our tent and our two remaining donkeys. Indeed, when one of these beasts broke into a bray, they showed signs of fright, looking at each other and even retreating a few paces.
At length the position got upon my nerves, especially as I saw that some of them were beginning to fiddle with their bows, and that their General, a tall, one-eyed old fellow, was making up his mind to do something. I called to one of the two Mazitus, whom I forgot to say we had named Tom and Jerry, and gave him a pannikin of coffee.
“Take that to the captain there with my good wishes, Jerry, and ask him if he will drink with us,” I said.
Jerry, who was a plucky fellow, obeyed. Advancing with the steaming coffee, he held it under the Captain’s nose. Evidently he knew the man’s name, for I heard him say:
“O Babemba, the white lords, Macumazana and Wazela, ask if you will share their holy drink with them?”
I could perfectly understand the words, for these people spoke a dialect so akin to Zulu that by now it had no difficulty for me.
“Their holy drink!” exclaimed the old fellow, starting back. “Man, it is hot red-water. Would these white wizards poison me with mwavi?”
Here I should explain that mwavi or mkasa, as it is sometimes called, is the liquor distilled from the inner bark of a sort of mimosa tree or sometimes from a root of the strychnos tribe, which is administered by the witch-doctors to persons accused of crime. If it makes them sick they are declared innocent. If they are thrown into convulsions or stupor they are clearly guilty and die, either from the effects of the poison or afterwards by other means.
“This is no mwavi, O Babemba,” said Jerry. “It is the divine liquor that makes the white lords shoot straight with their wonderful guns which kill at a thousand paces. See, I will swallow some of it,” and he did, though it must have burnt his tongue.
Thus encouraged, old Babemba sniffed at the coffee and found it fragrant. Then he called a man, who from his peculiar dress I took to be a doctor, made him drink some, and watched the results, which were that the doctor tried to finish the pannikin. Snatching it away indignantly Babemba drank himself, and as I had half-filled the cup with sugar, found the mixture good.
“It is indeed a holy drink,” he said, smacking his lips. “Have you any more of it?”
“The white lords have more,” said Jerry. “They invite you to eat with them.”
Babemba stuck his finger into the tin, and covering it with the sediment of sugar, sucked and reflected.
“It’s all right,” I whispered to Stephen. “I don’t think he’ll kill us after drinking our coffee, and what’s more, I believe he is coming to breakfast.”
“This may be a snare,” said Babemba, who now began to lick the sugar out of the pannikin.
“No,” answered Jerry with creditable resource; “though they could easily kill you all, the white lords do not hurt those who have partaken of their holy drink, that is unless anyone tries to harm them.”
“Cannot you bring some more of the holy drink here?” he asked, giving a final polish to the pannikin with his tongue.
“No,” said Jerry, “if you want it you must go there. Fear nothing. Would I, one of your own people, betray you?”
“True!” exclaimed Babemba. “By your talk and your face you are a Mazitu. How came you—well, we will speak of that afterwards. I am very thirsty. I will come. Soldiers, sit down and watch, and if any harm happens to me, avenge it and report to the king.”
Now, while all this was going on, I had made Hans and Sammy open one of the boxes and extract therefrom a good-sized mirror in a wooden frame with a support at the back so that it could be stood anywhere. Fortunately it was unbroken; indeed, our packing had been so careful that none of the looking-glasses or other fragile things were injured. To this mirror I gave a hasty polish, then set it upright upon the table.
Old Babemba came along rather suspiciously, his one eye rolling over us and everything that belonged to us. When he was quite close it fell upon the mirror. He stopped, he stared, he retreated, then drawn by his overmastering curiosity, came on again and again stood still.
“What is the matter?” called his second in command from the ranks.
“The matter is,” he answered, “that here is great magic. Here I see myself walking towards myself. There can be no mistake, for one eye is gone in my other self.”
“Advance, O Babemba,” cried the doctor who had tried to drink all the coffee, “and see what happens. Keep your spear ready, and if your witch-self attempts to harm you, kill it.”
Thus encouraged, Babemba lifted his spear and dropped it again in a great hurry.
“That won’t do, fool of a doctor,” he shouted back. “My other self lifts a spear also, and what is more all of you who should be behind are in front of me. The holy drink has made me drunk; I am bewitched. Save me!”
Now I saw that the joke had gone too far, for the soldiers were beginning to string their bows in confusion. Luckily at this moment, the sun at length came out almost opposite to us.
“O Babemba,” I said in a solemn voice, “it is true that this magic shield, which we have brought as a gift to you, gives you another self. Henceforth your labours will be halved, and your pleasures doubled, for when you look into this shield you will be not one but two. Also it has other properties—see,” and lifting the mirror I used it as a heliograph, flashing the reflected sunlight into the eyes of the long half-circle of men in front of us. My word! didn’t they run.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed old Babemba, “and can I learn to do that also, white lord?”
“Certainly,” I answered, “come and try. Now, hold it so while I say the spell,” and I muttered some hocus-pocus, then directed it towards certain of the Mazitu who were gathering again. “There! Look! Look! You have hit them in the eye. You are a master of magic. They run, they run!” and run they did indeed. “Is there anyone yonder whom you dislike?”
“Yes, plenty,” answered Babemba with emphasis, “especially that witch-doctor who drank nearly all the holy drink.”
“Very well; by-and-by I will show you how you can burn a hole in him with this magic. No, not now, not now. For a while this mocker of the sun is dead. Look,” and dipping the glass beneath the table I produced it back first. “You cannot see anything, can you?”
“Nothing except wood,” replied Babemba, staring at the deal slip with which it was lined.
Then I threw a dish-cloth over it and, to change the subject, offered him another pannikin of the “holy drink” and a stool to sit on.
The old fellow perched himself very gingerly upon the stool, which was of the folding variety, stuck the iron-tipped end of his great spear in the ground between his knees and took hold of the pannikin. Or rather he took hold of a pannikin and not the right one. So ridiculous was his appearance that the light-minded Stephen, who, forgetting the perils of the situation, had for the last minute or two been struggling with inward laughter, clapped down his coffee on the table and retired into the tent, where I heard him gurgling in unseemly merriment. It was this coffee that in the confusion of the moment Sammy gave to old Babemba. Presently Stephen reappeared, and to cover his confusion seized the pannikin meant for Babemba and drank it, or most of it. Then Sammy, seeing his mistake, said:
“Mr. Somers, I regret that there is an error. You are drinking from the cup which that stinking savage has just licked clean.”
The effect was dreadful and instantaneous, for then and there Stephen was violently sick.
“Why does the white lord do that?” asked Babemba. “Now I see that you are truly deceiving me, and that what you are giving me to swallow is nothing but hot mwavi, which in the innocent causes vomiting, but that in those who mean evil, death.”
“Stop that foolery, you idiot,” I muttered to Stephen, kicking him on the shins, “or you’ll get our throats cut.” Then, collecting myself with an effort, I said:
“Oh! not at all, General. This white lord is the priest of the holy drink and—what you see is a religious rite.”
“Is it so,” said Babemba. “Then I hope that the rite is not catching.”
“Never,” I replied, proffering him a biscuit. “And now, General Babemba, tell me, why do you come against us with about five hundred armed men?”
“To kill you, white lords—oh! how hot is this holy drink, yet pleasant. You said that it was not catching, did you not? For I feel——”
“Eat the cake,” I answered. “And why do you wish to kill us? Be so good as to tell me the truth now, or I shall read it in the magic shield which portrays the inside as well as the out,” and lifting the cloth I stared at the glass.
“If you can read my thoughts, white lord, why trouble me to tell them?” asked Babemba sensibly enough, his mouth full of biscuit. “Still, as that bright thing may lie, I will set them out. Bausi, king of our people, has sent me to kill you, because news has reached him that you are great slave dealers who come hither with guns to capture the Mazitus and take them away to the Black Water to be sold and sent across it in big canoes that move of themselves. Of this he has been warned by messengers from the Arab men. Moreover, we know that it is true, for last night you had with you many slaves who, seeing our spears, ran away not an hour ago.”
Now I stared hard at the looking-glass and answered coolly:
“This magic shield tells a somewhat different story. It says that your king, Bausi, for whom by the way we have many things as presents, told you to lead us to him with honour, that we might talk over matters with him.”
The shot was a good one. Babemba grew confused.
“It is true,” he stammered, “that—I mean, the king left it to my judgment. I will consult the witch-doctor.”
“If he left it to your judgment, the matter is settled,” I said, “since certainly, being so great a noble, you would never try to murder those of whose holy drink you have just partaken. Indeed if you did so,” I added in a cold voice, “you would not live long yourself. One secret word and that drink will turn to mwavi of the worst sort inside of you.”
“Oh! yes, white lord, it is settled,” exclaimed Babemba, “it is settled. Do not trouble the secret word. I will lead you to the king and you shall talk with him. By my head and my father’s spirit you are safe from me. Still, with your leave, I will call the great doctor, Imbozwi, and ratify the agreement in his presence, and also show him the magic shield.”
So Imbozwi was sent for, Jerry taking the message. Presently he arrived. He was a villainous-looking person of uncertain age, humpbacked like the picture of Punch, wizened and squint-eyed. His costume was of the ordinary witch-doctor type being set off with snake skins, fish bladders, baboon’s teeth and little bags of medicine. To add to his charms a broad strip of pigment, red ochre probably, ran down his forehead and the nose beneath, across the lips and chin, ending in a red mark the size of a penny where the throat joins the chest. His woolly hair also, in which was twisted a small ring of black gum, was soaked with grease and powdered blue. It was arranged in a kind of horn, coming to a sharp point about five inches above the top of the skull. Altogether he looked extremely like the devil. What was more, he was a devil in a bad temper, for the first words he said embodied a reproach to us for not having asked him to partake of our “holy drink” with Babemba.
We offered to make him some more, but he refused, saying that we should poison him.
Then Babemba set the matter out, rather nervously I thought, for evidently he was afraid of this old wizard, who listened in complete silence. When Babemba explained that without the king’s direct order it would be foolish and unjustifiable to put to death such magicians as we were, Imbozwi spoke for the first time, asking why he called us magicians.
Babemba instanced the wonders of the shining shield that showed pictures.
“Pooh!” said Imbozwi, “does not calm water or polished iron show pictures?”
“But this shield will make fire,” said Babemba. “The white lords say it can burn a man up.”
“Then let it burn me up,” replied Imbozwi with ineffable contempt, “and I will believe that these white men are magicians worthy to be kept alive, and not common slave-traders such as we have often heard of.”
“Burn him, white lords, and show him that I am right,” exclaimed the exasperated Babemba, after which they fell to wrangling. Evidently they were rivals, and by this time both of them had lost their tempers.
The sun was now very hot, quite sufficiently so to enable us to give Mr. Imbozwi a taste of our magic, which I determined he should have. Not being certain whether an ordinary mirror would really reflect enough heat to scorch, I drew from my pocket a very powerful burning-glass which I sometimes used for the lighting of fires in order to save matches, and holding the mirror in one hand and the burning-glass in the other, I worked myself into a suitable position for the experiment. Babemba and the witch-doctor were arguing so fiercely that neither of them seemed to notice what I was doing. Getting the focus right, I directed the concentrated spark straight on to Imbozwi’s greased top-knot, where I knew he would feel nothing, my plan being to char a hole in it. But as it happened this top-knot was built up round something of a highly inflammable nature, reed or camphor-wood, I expect. At any rate, about thirty seconds later the top-knot was burning like a beautiful torch.
“Ow!” said the Kaffirs who were watching. “My Aunt!” exclaimed Stephen. “Look, look!” shouted Babemba in tones of delight. “Now will you believe, O blown-out bladder of a man, that there are greater magicians than yourself in the world?”
“What is the matter, son of a dog, that you make a mock of me?” screeched the unfuriated Imbozwi, who alone was unaware of anything unusual.
As he spoke some suspicion rose in his mind which caused him to put his hand to his top-knot, and withdraw it with a howl. Then he sprang up and began to dance about, which of course only fanned the fire that had now got hold of the grease and gum. The Zulus applauded; Babemba clapped his hands; Stephen burst into one of his idiotic fits of laughter. For my part I grew frightened. Near at hand stood a large wooden pot such as the Kaffirs make, from which the coffee kettle had been filled, that fortunately was still half-full of water. I seized it and ran to him.
“Save me, white lord!” he howled. “You are the greatest of magicians and I am your slave.”
Here I cut him short by clapping the pot bottom upwards on his burning head, into which it vanished as a candle does into an extinguisher. Smoke and a bad smell issued from beneath the pot, the water from which ran all over Imbozwi, who stood quite still. When I was sure the fire was out, I lifted the pot and revealed the discomfited wizard, but without his elaborate head-dress. Beyond a little scorching he was not in the least hurt, for I had acted in time; only he was bald, for when touched the charred hair fell off at the roots.
“It is gone,” he said in an amazed voice after feeling at his scalp.
“Yes,” I answered, “quite. The magic shield worked very well, did it not?”
“Can you put it back again, white lord?” he asked.
“That will depend upon how you behave,” I replied.
Then without another word he turned and walked back to the soldiers, who received him with shouts of laughter. Evidently Imbozwi was not a popular character, and his discomfiture delighted them.
Babemba also was delighted. Indeed, he could not praise our magic enough, and at once began to make arrangements to escort us to the king at his head town, which was called Beza, vowing that we need fear no harm at his hands or those of his soldiers. In fact, the only person who did not appreciate our black arts was Imbozwi himself. I caught a look in his eye as he marched off which told me that he hated us bitterly, and reflected to myself that perhaps I had been foolish to use that burning-glass, although in truth I had not intended to set his head on fire.
“My father,” said Mavovo to me afterwards, “it would have been better to let that snake burn to death, for then you would have killed his poison. I am something of a doctor myself, and I tell you there is nothing our brotherhood hates so much as being laughed at. You have made a fool of him before all his people and he will not forget it, Macumazana.”