Haviland's Chum

“I think so too.” Whereupon, turning to the chief, they expressed their willingness to organise a corps of sharpshooters among the more promising of the Inswani.

“That is well,” said Dumaliso, rising. “And now, O strangers, if you would see the end of this dog Mushâd, the time is at hand.”

“Tell him we don’t want to see it, Haviland. Brute as Mushâd is, I don’t want to see him tortured. It makes me sick.”

Haviland at first made no reply. He seemed to be thinking.

“We will go, Oakley,” he said at last. “I have got an idea or saving the poor brute from torture, at any rate.”

As they went forth with Dumaliso, a strange subdued roar was arising, and from every part of the town people were hurrying towards the great space at the head of which stood the King’s throne. In thousands and thousands the densely packed mass of surging humanity blocked the way, and it required all Dumaliso’s authority to clear a passage. A new spectacle seemed to be anticipated, and the pitiless crowd thrilled with delight as it speculated by what particular form of torment their traditional enemy was to die. It was horrible, and there, thickly studding the outer stockade, were numerous fresh heads, grinning in anguished distortion, being those of the slave-hunters, who had been put to death in batches. And now their leader, the famous and terrible Mushâd, was the last.

There was the usual roaring outburst of sibonga as the King appeared and took his seat. There were the executioners, savage-looking and eager, and then – the last of the slave captives was dragged forward.

Heavens! what was this? The bowed and shrunken figure, palsied and shaking, was that of an old, old man. The snow-white hair and ragged beard, the trembling claws and the blinking watery eyes – this could never be Mushâd, the keen-eyed, haughty, indomitable Arab of middle age and iron sinewy frame, whom they had last seen, here on this very spot, hurling defiance at his captors in general and at the King in particular. No – no, such a transformation was not possible.

But it was. Ill-treatment, starvation, torture had reduced the once haughty, keen-spirited Arab to this. Where he had defied, now he cringed. Yet no spark of ruth or pity did his miserable plight call forth in those who now beheld him. Brutal jeers were hurled at him. They had come to see him die in torments. They had looked forward to it from day to day. They were not to be baulked now.

Of all this Haviland was aware, and an intense pity arose in his heart as he gazed upon the miserable wreck. He had thought he knew what savages really were, but now realised that it was reserved for the Inswani to teach him.

“Ho! Mushâd, my dog!” jeered the King, in his deep voice. “Thou who namedst thyself the scourge of the world. Why, I think the meanest slave thou hast ever sold would crack his whip over thee now.”

“Look yonder,” went on Umnovunovu. “Thou seest those four poles? Good. Thou wilt be tied to those by an ankle and wrist to each, half a man’s height from the ground, with fire beneath thee, and for a whole day thou shalt rest upon a warm blanket, I promise thee.”

The two Englishmen shuddered with horror as they saw what was to happen. The miserable slave-hunter was to be slowly roasted to death. Then Haviland spoke, as he admitted to himself, like a fool.

“Spare him, Great, Great One. Spare him the torture. See, he has undergone enough. Put him to the swift death of the sword.”

The King’s face was terrible to behold as he turned it upon the interruptor; no less terrible as they beheld it was the roar of rage that went up from the spectators.

“Wilt thou take his place upon yon glowing bed, thou fool white man?” he said with a sneer that was more than half a menacing snarl.

“Haviland, go easy, man,” warned Oakley. “This won’t do at all. Why should we sacrifice ourselves for that infernal villain? Haviland, you’re an ass.”

The sneer had gone out of the King’s face. For a moment he contemplated the two white men in silence.

“What were his words?” he said, pointing to Oakley. Haviland told him.

“Not so,” said Umnovunovu, with an impatient stamp of the foot. “Let him say the words exactly as he said them. Or – ” The last was rolled out in a roar of menace.

Oakley, greatly wondering, repeated his words. The King, still wondering, pointed with his spear at Mushâd. In a moment the executioners were upon him, and he was dragged to the place of his torment and death.

But to make him fast to the poles it was necessary to cut the thongs which bound his wrists. Mushâd, apparently more helpless than a new-born babe, saw his opportunity and characteristically seized it. From one of the executioners he snatched a heavy two-edged dagger, and with all the old determination reviving, in a twinkling he drove it home – hard, strong, and straight – cleaving his own heart.

It took the spectators some moments to realise that they were cheated of the glut of revenge for which they were there. Then went up the most awful ravening roar. The two white men! They had bewitched the Arab! They it was who had saved him from their vengeance! Let them take the slaver’s place!

For a few minutes the King listened to their frenzied bellowing. Then, slowly, he raised his spear and pointed at Haviland.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

A New Wonder

At the fatal signal the executioners threw themselves upon Haviland, so quickly that it became evident that no opportunity would be allowed him of repeating Mushâd’s device. His revolver and knife were taken from him, and, firmly held in the iron grasp of these muscular savages, he was forced to stand powerless, awaiting the will of the King. No chance, either, had Oakley of coming to his aid, separated as they were by an infuriated and armed crowd.

“First of all,” said the King, “those who allowed the Arab to escape must go. I have no use for such.”

Two of the executioners were immediately seized by the rest. No prayer for mercy escaped them; perhaps they knew the futility of it. The King made a sign. Both knelt down; there was a flash of two scimitars in the air, and in a second two spouting, headless trunks were deluging the earth. An awed silence rested momentarily upon the multitude; then broke forth into hideous clamour for the torture of the white wizards.

For such these were, they declared. All the insects and herbs they were collecting – what was all this for but for purposes of witchcraft? Only that morning they had captured a huge scorpion, and had been found distilling evil múti from its venomous carcase. With this they had enabled their enemy to escape them. With this they had even bewitched the Great Great One himself. Death to the wizards! Let them take the Arab’s place!

Haviland’s shirt was rent from his back, revealing a curious jagged scar, running from the left shoulder halfway to the elbow.

“Hold!” roared the King.

All eyes were raised, so startling was the tone. The Great Great One was indeed bewitched, was the one thought in the minds of the now silent multitude. And, indeed, there seemed some colour for the idea. Umnovunovu had half risen from his seat, and, both hands gripping the arms of the throne, he was staring wildly at the unfortunate prisoner.

“Loose him!” he cried. Then, in excellent English, “Come here, Haviland. I know you now.”

In after times Haviland used to say that he had met with some wild surprises in the course of a somewhat adventurous career, but none wilder, madder, more utterly dumb-striking than when the King of the Inswani broke out into good English, hailing him by name. He started, stared, rubbed his eyes, gasped – then stared again.

“Great Scott! Am I drunk or dreaming?” broke from him at last. “Why, it can’t be – . But it is – Cetchy – Anthony – Mpukuza?”

But with the last name a mighty groan broke forth from all who heard, then another and another. Even in the whirl of his amazement and relief, Haviland recognised that he had blundered terribly. He had actually named the King by his veiled name, and that in the presence of the whole nation.

“Not Mpukuza now, but Umnovunovu. The Stump has spread into the Fire-striking Tree,” said the King in a loud voice, speaking in Zulu. Then, dropping into English again:

“I have never forgotten you, Haviland, although you have forgotten me. When your friend there called you Haviland, I made him repeat it, so as to make sure. Then I remembered that bad scratch you gave yourself one day at Saint Kirwin’s, when we were scrambling through a wire fence. I knew the scar would be there still, so I arranged to make sure of that too.”

No wonder his people deemed Umnovunovu bewitched. Here he was, talking easily, fluently, in the tongue of these strangers; nor was that all, for his very countenance had changed, and the hardened savagery of the ferocious despot had given way to an expression that was bright and pleasing.

“No fear. I didn’t forget you, Cetchy,” answered Haviland, unconsciously reverting to the old nickname, which, however, didn’t matter, being English. “Why I was quite a long while in the Zulu country, and inquired for you everywhere. Ask Kumbelwa if I didn’t. I wanted no end to run against you again.”

“Well, and now you have, and in a mighty queer sort of way. And, do you know, Haviland, if you had been any one else, I’d have let them do what they liked with you. I hate white people. Nick and the others at Saint Kirwin’s taught me that. I wish I’d got Nick here. I’d put him through what Mushâd’s dogs underwent. Then I’d make him dance on that fire.”

The recollection of his school experiences and discipline revived all the savage in the young King. His face hardened vengefully.

“Oh, bosh, Cetchy,” replied Haviland, with a laugh. “You surely don’t bear a grudge against Nick for giving you a licking now and then; it’s all in the ordinary course of things when a fellow’s at school. Supposing every fellow I’d ever given a licking to wanted to burn me. Instead of that, we’d be shaking hands and talking over old times. Jarnley, for instance.”

Umnovunovu burst into a roar, his good humour quite restored.

“Jarnley!” he echoed, “I gave him such a licking before I left. You see, I was growing every day, and I felt strong enough to lick Jarnley. So we fought, and I licked him.”

It was a curious contrast, this easy and light-hearted school reminiscence, proceeding from the mouth of a blood-stained barbarian despot, clad in his savage panoply, and enthroned at the head of his astounded subjects. And on the ground, where they had fallen, the huge gory trunks of the decapitated executioners. Haviland saw the bizarre incongruity of the situation, and said as much, adding with something of a shudder as his glance fell upon the hideous corpses: —

“You’re a cruel young beggar, Cetchy, you know. Why are you?”

“Cruel? Look here, Haviland. When you did wrong, Nick gave you a thousand lines, or a thrashing. I can’t give my people lines because they can’t write, and a thrashed man does wrong again, but a killed man, never. If I stopped killing, I should stop being King, for it would mean that. But – who is he?” pointing towards Oakley.

“A friend I rescued in rather a strange manner. I’ll call him.” And he started towards Oakley, all making way before him now, so great was the general amazement. And he had a purpose in this move.