Haviland's Chum

The demeanour of those awaiting battle was varied and characteristic. Of the bearers, those of the more timid races were subdued and scared. The temerity of their white leaders in thinking to resist Mushâd and his terrible band was simply incomprehensible. Why did they not pay him the usual blackmail and be suffered to pass on? Some of the bearers – the braver ones, to the number of about a score – though not usually entrusted with firearms, were now supplied with rifles, in the use of which they had already been drilled, and had even experienced some practice in the shape of a petty skirmish or two. These were now turning on swagger. The ten Arabs, Somala’s clansmen, who were always armed, were simply impassive, as though a bloody fight against overwhelming odds were a matter of every-day occurrence, which could have but one result – victory to themselves. Yet there was a gleam in their keen sunken eyes, and a nervous handling of their weapons, as they trained and sighted their rifles experimentally, and fingered the blades of their ataghans, that betrayed the martial eagerness that bubbled beneath the concealing mask. But the most striking figure of all was that of the Zulu, Kumbelwa. From a private bundle of his own he had fished out a real Zulu war-shield of black and white bull-hide, with a jackal tail tuft, and a short-handled, broad-bladed assegai – the terrible conquering weapon of his race. He had also brought forth a great head-dress of towering black ostrich feathers, and sundry tufts of white cow-hair, which he proceeded to tie round his arms and legs, and thus accoutred, he stood forth, a magnificent specimen of the most magnificent race of fighting savages in the world.

“By Jove, that’s a grand chap!” exclaimed Oakley, as he gazed with interest upon this martial figure. “Do they grow many like that in the Zulu country, Haviland?”

“A good few, yes. Mind you, I’d sooner have Kumbelwa with me in a rough and tumble than any dozen ordinary men.”

“How did you pick him up? Save his life, or anything of that sort?”

“No. A sort of mutual attraction. We took to each other, and he wanted to come away with me, that’s all. D’you see that string of wooden beads hung round his neck? That represents enemies killed, and I strongly suspect most of them wore red coats, for, like every man-jack of his nation, he fought against us in the war of ’79. But wild horses wouldn’t drag from him that he had killed any of our people, and it’s the same with all of them. They’re too polite. If you were to ask them the question, they’d tell you they didn’t know – there was too much racket and confusion to be sure of anything. But – look at him now.”

The Zulu, half squatted on his haunches, was going through a strange performance. His rifle lay on the ground beside him, but his left hand grasped his great war-shield, while with the right he was alternately beating time with his assegai to his song, or making short, quick lunges at empty air. For he was singing in a low, melodious, deep-voiced chant. At him the whole crowd of bearers was gaping, in undisguised admiration and awe.

“He’s singing his war-song,” explained Haviland. “I’ve never seen him do this before any other row we’ve been in. Evidently he thinks this is going to be a big thing.”

“And he’s right,” said the doctor. “Look there?”

He pointed in the direction of their late halting-place. From their present one, the ground fell away almost open, save for a few scattered shrubs or a little heap of stones, to the thin timber line. Within this forms could now be seen moving – more and more were coming on, until the place was alive with them – and the gleam of arms, the light falling on the blades of long spears and shining gun-barrels, scintillated above and among the approaching force. And this was coming straight for their position. Decidedly, our party had gained the latter none too soon.

As the new arrivals debouched from the timber, the three white men scanned them anxiously through their field-glasses. The leaders, and a goodly proportion, seemed to be pure blood Arabs, but the bulk consisted of negroids and the undiluted negro – these latter naked savages of ferocious aspect, incorporated probably from the fierce cannibal tribes along the Upper Congo. The Arabs, in their turbans and long-flowing garments, wore a more dignified and civilised aspect, yet were hardly less ruthless.

This formidable force, once clear of the timber, halted, drawn up in a kind of battle line, possibly expecting to strike terror by reason of its numerical strength and sinister aspect, and those watching reckoned it to consist of not less than five hundred men. Above bristled a forest of long spears, the sun flashing back from their shining tips. But higher still, reared above these, there floated a flag. In banner shape, so as to display, independently of any breeze, its ominous device, it was turned full towards them. Upon a green ground a red scimitar, dripping red drops.

“That is the standard of Mushâd,” whispered Somala, touching Haviland’s elbow.

A vivid interest kindled the features of the three white men, also those of the Zulu. Here, then, was the renowned slaver, the man whose name was a byword from Zanzibar to Morocco. They were about to behold him face to face. Upon the bulk of the native bearers the effect produced was different. The ruthlessness of the terrible slaver chief, his remorseless cruelties – ah! of such they had heard more than enough. And then a man was seen to leave the opposing ranks and walk towards them. Halfway, he halted and cried in a loud voice:

“Who are ye – and what do ye here? Are ye friends or foes?”

Somala, instructed by Haviland, replied:

“We are no man’s foes. Our mission here is a peaceful one – to collect the strange rare plants and insects of the land. That is all. Who are ye, and who is your chief?”

The herald broke into a loud, harsh, derisive laugh.

“Who is our chief?” he echoed. “You who gaze upon our standard, and ask ‘Who is our chief?’ Ye must be a kafila of madmen.”

“Is it the great Mushâd? If so, we would fain see him, and talk. Yonder, where the stones rise upon the plain,” went on Somala, prompted by Haviland, and indicating a spot about a third of the distance between their position and the hostile line. “If he will advance, with three others – unarmed – we will do likewise, pledging our oath on the blessed Koran and on the holy Kaba that we meet only in peace.”

“I will inquire,” replied the emissary, and turning, he went back.

“Supposing he accepts – which of us shall go?” said Oakley.

“I and Somala, and Kumbelwa,” answered Haviland. “And I think Murâd Ali,” designating a dark sinewy Arab, a blood brother of Somala’s.

“I claim to go instead of him,” said Dr Ahern, quietly, but firmly. “Oakley can remain in command.”

“Very well,” said Haviland. “Will they really be without arms, Somala?”

“They will perhaps have small arms concealed, Sidi. But they will not break faith.”

“Then we will do the same, and on the same terms. Look! Here they come!”

Four men were seen to detach themselves from the group, and advance, one bearing the chief’s terrible standard. When they were near the appointed spot, Haviland and the doctor, followed by Somala and Kumbelwa, also stepped forth.

“Whou!” growled the tall Zulu to himself. “A warrior without arms is like a little child, or an old woman.”

For all that, he had taken the precaution of secreting a formidable knife beneath his mútya. He also carried his great war-shield.

The Arabs stood, coldly impassive, awaiting them. They were stern, grim-looking, middle-aged men – their keen eyes glowing like coals beneath their bushy brows as they exchanged curt salutations. The chief differed not at all from the others in outward aspect: the same spare, muscular frame; the same grim and hawk-like countenance, haughty, impassive; the same turbaned head and flowing white garments. For all the solemn pledge of peace they had exchanged, it was evident that neither party trusted the other overmuch. They had halted a dozen paces apart, and were silently scanning each other. But what seemed to impress the Arabs most, as could be seen by their quick eager glances, was the aspect of Kumbelwa. They gazed upon the towering Zulu with undisguised admiration.

Haviland opened the talk with a few civilities in the current dialect, just to let them see he was no novice at interior travel, then he left the negotiations to Somala. They were peaceful travellers, and desired to quarrel with no man, but were well armed, and feared no man. They would send a present of cloth and brass wire for Mushâd and some of his more distinguished followers, then they would go their different ways in peace and amity.

The ghost of a contemptuous smile flickered across the features of the Arabs at this prospect. Then Mushâd said:

“And my slaves? They will be sent too?”

“Slaves?”

“My slaves. Those who have fled to your camp, O travellers. They must be sent back.”

“But they have taken refuge with us. They have eaten our salt, O chief. We cannot yield them up. Take presents from us instead.”

“You are young, and therefore foolish,” replied Mushâd, staring Haviland in the eye with haughty contempt. “My slaves must be given up. I have said it.”

“And if we refuse?”

“Look yonder. Have you as many fighters as these?”

“Not quite as many. But we are well armed, and, fighting in a good cause, we fear no man.”

For a few moments neither party addressed the other. Meanwhile the doctor said hurriedly in English:

“What do you think, Haviland? Is it worth while risking all the expedition, and throwing away the fruits of these two years – and all their gain to science, mind – for the sake of a few miserable niggers? If we send them back, they’ll only make slaves of them, and indeed that’s all they’re fit for.”

“Let’s see.” And, turning to the chief, he resumed: “If we send back those who have sought refuge with us, will the chief solemnly promise that they shall not be harmed – that beyond the labour required of them they shall not be killed, or tortured, or ill-treated?”

A low growling chuckle escaped the Arab’s deep chest, and his eyes flashed in haughty contempt.

“La Illah il Allah!” he blazed forth. “I will promise this much. They shall groan beneath heavy loads, and shall eat stick in plenty. But first, six of them shall hang by the heels till they are dead, with their eyes scooped out, and a live coal inserted in each socket. Further I promise – that this last shall be the fate of every one in your camp who shall fall into our hands alive, if you hesitate further to send back my slaves. On the holy Kaba I swear it. Now, make your choice. Will you return them, or will you not?”

Haviland looked at Ahern, who nodded his head.

“That settles it,” he said in a cold, decisive tone, turning again to the slaver chief. “Big words, big threats do not frighten us. We send not back to you these people who have sought our protection, to be put to your devilish tortures.”

For a moment, the two parties stood staring at each other in silence. Then Mushâd and his followers withdrew, feeing the others for a little distance, after which they turned, and stalked back to their awaiting forces, the green banner with its sinister symbol seeming to wave defiance and menace as it receded.

Chapter Twenty One.

Battle