John Ames, Native Commissioner: A Romance of the Matabele Rising

  CHAPTER TEN.

  THE IGNITING OF THE FLAME.

  "That man's late again. He always is. Tom, don't ever ask him again.He seems to treat me with studied rudeness."

  Thus Mrs Inglefield, consulting her watch. She was an acid lookingperson, who might once have been passable in aspect. Now the deepeningof her habitual frown was far from prepossessing.

  "It's only on the stroke of seven," said Inglefield, shortly. "Give hima little law, Annie. He'll be here directly. Perhaps some niggerturned up at the last moment on particular business."

  The suggestion was like throwing paraffin upon flames.

  "That makes it worse," exploded the lady. "To keep me--to keep us--waiting to suit the convenience of a few filthy blacks--"

  "Well, give the chap a show," snapped Inglefield, not in the best ofhumours himself. The while, Crosse, the cattle inspector, satprofoundly pitying Inglefield, thinking, too, that the defaulter, whenhe did come, was not going to enjoy his dinner overmuch.

  "Hope I'm not late," said a voice in the doorway.

  "Not a bit, Ames; at least, only two minutes, and that doesn't count,"cried Inglefield, cordially, feeling very much "in opposition."

  "Roll up, man, and have an appetiser, Crosse, you'll cut in?"

  John Ames, ignoring the coldness of his hostess' greeting, noticed thatfully a quarter of an hour went by before they sat down to table. Whenthey did sit down the interior of the hut looked snug enough. Thebright lamp shed a cheerful glow upon the white napery and silver forks;and pictures and knick-knacks upon the walls and about the room--orrather, the hut, for such it was--rendered the place pleasant andhomelike, suggestive of anything but the wilds of savage Matabeleland.Any remark, however, which he addressed to his hostess was met by a curtmonosyllable, she turning immediately to converse with Crosse, affablyvoluble. It mattered nothing. He had only consented to come uponInglefield's urgent and repeated invitation, having experienced thatsample of behaviour before.

  "What sort of a time did you have down in Cape Town, Ames?" said Crossepresently, when he could conversationally break away.

  "Rather a good one. It was a great nuisance having to come back."

  "Mr Coates was such a nice man," interpolated Mrs Inglefield, withmeaning, referring to John Ames's _locum tenens_. "We used to see agreat deal of him."

  "Find any nice girls down there, eh, Ames?" said Inglefield, slily,fully alive to the unveiled rudeness of his spouse.

  "Oh yes--several."

  "And one in particular, eh?" went on the other, waggishly, drawing a bowat a venture; for John Ames was not one to wear his heart upon hissleeve or to embark in chatter upon the subject nearest and dearest tothat organ.

  "_Nice_ girls! I didn't know there were any nowadays," snapped MrsInglefield. "A pack of bicycling, cigarette-smoking, forward tomboys!"

  "Oh, come, Mrs Inglefield," laughed Crosse, "you mustn't be so down onthem. They're only up to date, you know."

  "Up to date! Then, thank Heaven I'm not up to date; I'm onlyold-fashioned," she retorted.

  "I'd be sorry to wear the boots of the chip who told you so, Annie,"pronounced Inglefield. "Besides, you're romping hard over Ames'sfeelings; at least, I surmise you are. He's too close a bird to givethe show away. _But_--as poor old Corney Grain used to say."

  "Oh, I always say what I mean," she answered, with an air which plainlyadded: "if people don't like it so much the worse for the people." AndJohn Ames was thinking that never again, under any circumstanceswhatever, would he sit at the table of this abominably ill-bred andoffensive woman. He was right. He never would; but for a reason thatit was as well he--and all of them seated there--did not so much asdream.

  Then, partly that subject-matter for conversation is, to isolateddwellers in a remote wilderness, necessarily limited, partly because hedeemed it a safe topic, Inglefield led the talk round to the day'sdoings--the destruction of Madula's cattle.

  "It's an infernally wasteful way of getting rid of them," he said. "Idare say you've blazed away nearer a thousand cartridges than a hundred,eh, Ames?"

  "Quite that. As you say, it is an abominable waste, and if ever thetime comes when we shall sorely need every one of those cartridges forour own defence--"

  "Oh, now you're croaking again, old chap," interrupted Inglefield; whilehis spouse remarked--

  "Faugh! I'd as soon be a slaughter-house butcher at once. Sooner."

  "Somebody must do it, you know, Mrs Inglefield," replied John Ames,placidly. "If the job were turned over to natives they'd waste fivetimes the number of cartridges, and the poor beasts would suffer all themore."

  "Suppose we change this very unpleasant subject," she remarked, lookingpointedly at him, quite ignoring the fact that it had been started byher husband, and she it was who had done the most towards keeping itgoing.

  "Policeman he want to see Inkose."

  The interruption proceeded from one of the two small boys who acted aswaiters, and who had just entered.

  "Tell him to wait until I've done dinner, Piccanin," replied Inglefield,placidly.

  "It may be something important," hazarded John Ames.

  "Oh, it'll keep till after dinner," was the airy rejoinder. "Er--whichpoliceman is it, Piccanin?"

  "Big policeman, 'Nkose; him name Nanzicele. Him come up from barracksnow."

  The men's quarters--which, by the way, were not barracks but nativehuts--lay about three hundred yards below those occupied by theirofficer.

  "Then tell `him' to go back to them again, and wait until I've donedinner," replied Inglefield, briskly; for he was of an obstinate turn,besides instinctively resenting anything like interference on the partof his brother official.

  The small boy retired, and for a moment voices were heard outside. Thenthere entered--Nanzicele.

  "Great Caesar!" cried Inglefield, reddening. "What the devil do youmean, sir, by disobeying orders? Go back to the barracks at once!Here, _Puma! Hambasuka_! Footsack!"

  But ignoring the pointing finger of his irate superior, Nanzicele tookone step to the side--leaving the door clear--and, standing atattention, ejaculated in loud and sonorous tones--

  "_Baba--'Nkose_!"

  Was it a signal? Crosse, who was seated opposite the door, lurchedforward, falling with his face on the table, simultaneously with thecrash of two shots fired from outside. John Ames, pinned to his chairby a grip as powerful as steel, was impotent to do more thanineffectually struggle. Half a dozen stalwart savages rushed into thehut, and, dividing their forces, four of them threw themselves uponInglefield, the remaining two turning their attention to the latter'swife. It was all done in a moment. The suddenness of it, the total,utter unpreparedness of those who, but two seconds ago, had beenunsuspectingly dining, left not the smallest chance of resistance.Inglefield, starting up, instinctively to seize the carving-knife, wasstabbed again and again with sword-bayonets before he could raise ahand, and fell to the floor. The wretched woman, too petrified with thesuddenness and terror of it all even to shriek, was promptly despatched;one savage drawing his weapon across her throat with a slash that nearlysevered the head. It was all over in a moment. Yet one victimremained:

  John Ames, now bound fast to his chair with straps, felt himself growdizzy and sick with the horror of this appalling butchery. Blooddripped to the floor, then splashed in bright red drops on the garmentsof the murderers. And those garments were the uniform of the NativePolice.

  All seemed to heave in misty dimness before his eyes. In a moment hewould faint. Then, with a vast effort of will, he recovered himself.Why had _he_ been spared? In a moment the whole situation flashedthrough his brain. This was the beginning of a general rising. TheNative Police had no grudge against their officers, let alone againstInglefield, who was, if anything, too easy-going. If _they_ were inopen revolt, then the rising was general, even as he and one or twoothers had feared might one day be the case. The fiercely sullendemeanour of Madula and his people at the destructi
on of their cattlenow assumed an aspect of deadly significance. The destruction of theircattle! Ah, there was the last straw! But--why had he been spared?

  Then amid this scene of horror hope came uppermost. His administrationhad always been signalled by strict and impartial justice to thenatives, even when white interests were concerned--a line, be itwhispered, not invariably the rule in those days, when the policy knownas "supporting the white man against the black" at any cost, was deemedwise and necessary. He was known to several of the chiefs, and bychiefs and people alike respected. It might well be that he was markedout for exemption from a general massacre.

  But now a voice, lifted up, seemed to shatter to fragments any suchhopes--a great jeering voice, vengeful, triumphant, menacing. It wasthe voice of Nanzicele, addressing him in voluble Sindabele.

  "Ho, Jonemi! Where are you now? And these? `Let the people havepatience. Let the people have patience,' Your words, Jonemi. Greatwords, Jonemi! Well, the people have had patience, and now their day iscome. By this time to-morrow all the whites in the land will be dead."

  "Will be dead," echoed those around, with an emphatic hum.

  "Why have you--have you all done this thing, Nanzicele?" said John Ames,striving to repress the shudder of loathing and disgust which shook hisvoice. "Have you not been treated well--treated with everyconsideration and justice by your officer? And yet--"

  "Justice!" growled the savage. "Justice! Now nay, Jonemi; now nay. Iwas a chief in the Amapolise, now I am a common man again. Who made meso? Not this"--pushing with his foot the bleeding corpse of Inglefield."But for thy counsels he would not have brought me down. It was thou,Jonemi--thou. Now shall thy blood pour over my hand."

  Nanzicele all this while had been working himself up to a state of fury,as he talked into the face of his helpless prisoner, or victim, theothers standing around emphatically applauding. Now he seized a poultryknife from the table, and, jerking back John Ames' head, held the edgeagainst his throat.

  It was a horrible moment, that expectation of an agonising death, and anignominious one to boot--one of those moments which could concentrate alifetime of horror. The helpless man could do nothing. Every second hethought to feel the keen blade slashing through vein and muscle, carotidand windpipe. But the barbarian seemed in no hurry. He threw down theknife again.

  "I have a better way with thee than that, Jonemi. When we have finishedwe will burn down this hut, leaving thee here. Ah--ah!" Then he turnedhis attention to the table, where the other murderers were promptlydemolishing the remnants of the feast.

  But for the tragedy just perpetrated the sight would have been comic.Two had got hold of a roast fowl and were quarrelling over it like acouple of dogs over a bone. A third had cut a huge chunk out of a legof sable antelope, and having plastered it thickly with mustard, wasdevouring it in great bites, the tears streaming down his face thewhile. Pepper, too, had discomfited another; and yet another, trying touse it, had driven a fork nearly through his cheek, all talking andspluttering the while. Yet all were foul with the blood which had justbeen shed; even the white cloth was splashed and smeared with it. Amongthem John Ames recognised his own body-servant, Pukele. The latter hadtaken no active part in the murders, having, with two other men, come inlater. Still, there he was among them, the man whose faithfulness, tohimself at any rate, he had always deemed beyond suspicion; the man withwhom he would have entrusted his life, even as poor Inglefield had saidbut an hour or two ago with regard to Nanzicele. Yet that fiend hadbeen the first to murder him in cold blood. In truth, one could trustnobody. Little, therefore, was he surprised now when Pukele, turning tohim, joined the others in abusing and threatening him.

  A bottle of whisky, half emptied, stood on the table, and another,unopened, on the sideboard, together with two of "squareface." Most ofthose present understood the corkscrew of civilisation, and in a fewmoments were choking and gasping with the effects of their fierylibations. As this unwonted indulgence began to take effect, the uproarcreated by the murderous crew became simply indescribable. Plates anddishes were smashed, glasses thrown at each other, and one of thebottles with its precious contents was smashed. And foremost of all,amid the madness of the riot, was Pukele--the quiet Pukele, the faithfulPukele.

  Already two of the murderers had rolled under the table dead drunk,falling upon and clutching the gashed bodies of their victims. Others,snatching up knives from the table, with reeling step and blood-lust intheir drunken faces, staggered towards their victim. But between thelatter and them, somehow, was always interposed the form of the faithfulPukele, of the riotous Pukele, of the treacherous, murdering Pukele.

  To John Ames it seemed that death's bitterness should already be past,for whatever the method of it, death itself was sure. He knew he wouldnever leave that hut alive, and could almost have prayed that all wereover. Then his thoughts reverted to Nidia Commerell. How thankful hewas that she was in safety twelve hundred miles away. Would she feelmore than a transient sorrow or regret when she heard of his end? Hewould have died at his post anyhow. And then he recalled the words offlattering approval she had more than once uttered when expressing aninterest in his career. And that last long golden day they had passedtogether. Well, even at this terrible moment he felt thankful he hadlived to go through that experience. But--what was this?

  The strap which bound his right arm to that of the chair had snapped.Snapped? No; it had been cut. The large form of Pukele stood in frontof him, was standing with his hands behind his back, and one of thosehands held a sword-bayonet such as was used by the Native Police, itshaft _towards_ John Ames. Now he saw who had cut the strap.

  He reached forth cautiously, and gently withdrew the weapon fromPukele's grasp; then, having cut the strap confining his other arm, bentdown, and in a moment his legs were free. Pukele the while wasdiscoursing volubly with the other Police rebels, fanning a heateddiscussion and egging them on to drink. But ever between them and theprisoner he stood. A horrible sight they presented, their once smartuniforms filthy with blood and grease, their faces lolling withintoxicated imbecility, their speech thick and their legs tottering.But the treacherous Pukele, the riotous, drunken, abusive Pukele, nowseemed, strange to say, as sober as the proverbial judge. He stoodfirm, unless perhaps a gradual swaying of his body to the left wereperceptible; and the door of the hut was behind him--a little to theleft.

  John Ames, between him and the door aforesaid, watched every move. Thesavage roysterers were becoming alternately more and more riotous andmaudlin. Then the faithful Pukele made a movement with his hand behindhim. It was unmistakable. John Ames slid from the chair, and in amoment was through the door, and round behind the hut just in time toavoid running right into the arms of a new--and sober--body of the nowrevolted police, who had come up to join in the fun and to loot theirmurdered officer's quarters. He had escaped with his life. After all,there was some fidelity left among these barbarians, he thought, as hestepped briskly, yet cautiously, through the darkness. He had escapedwith his life, yet here he was, in the heart of a rebel country--everyone of whose white settlers had probably by this time fallen in savagemassacre--without food or means of procuring any, and with no otherweapon than a sword-bayonet. The outlook was far from reassuring.