by Wilbur Smith
‘I see you, my child.’ Gravely Gandang acknowledged her greeting, and then the abruptness with which he broached the real reason for her summons warned Tanase of its dire import.
‘We wish you to speak to us on the meaning of the Umlimo’s latest prophecy.’
‘My lord and father, I am no longer an intimate of the mysteries—’
Impatiently Gandang brushed aside her disclaimer. ‘You understand more than anyone outside that dreadful cave. Listen to the words of the Umlimo, and discourse faithfully upon them.’
She bowed her head in acquiescence, but at the same time turned slightly so that she had Bazo at the very edge of her vision.
‘The Umlimo spake thus: “Only a foolish hunter blocks the opening of the cave from which the wounded leopard seeks to escape.”’ Gandang repeated the prophecy, and his brothers nodded at the accuracy of his rendition.
Veiling her eyes behind thick black lashes, Tanase turned her head the breadth of a finger. Now she could see Bazo’s right hand as it rested on his bare thigh. She had taught him the rudiments of the secret sign language of the initiates. His forefinger curled and touched the first joint of his thumb. It was a command.
‘Remain silent!’ said that gesture. ‘Speak not!’ She made the signal of comprehension and acknowledgement, with the hand that hung at her side. Then she raised her head.
‘Was that all, Lord?’ she asked of Gandang.
‘There is more,’ he answered. ‘The Umlimo spake a second time: “The hot wind from the north will scorch the weeds in the fields, before the new corn can be planted. Wait for the north wind.”’ All the indunas leaned forward eagerly, and Gandang told her, ‘Speak to us of the meaning.’
‘The meaning of the Umlimo’s words is never clear at once. I must ponder on it.’
‘When will you tell us?’
‘When I have an answer.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’ Gandang insisted.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Then you will spend the night alone, that your meditation be not disturbed,’ Gandang ordered.
‘My husband,’ Tanase demurred.
‘Alone,’ Gandang repeated sharply. ‘With a guard on the door of your hut.’
The guard that was set upon her hut was a young warrior, not yet married, and because of it he was that much more susceptible to the wiles of a beautiful woman. When he brought the bowl of food to Tanase, she smiled in such a way that he lingered at the door of the hut. When she offered him a choice morsel, he glanced outside guiltily and then came to take it from her hand.
The food had a strange bitter taste, but he did not want to give offence, so he swallowed it manfully. The woman’s smile promised things that the young warrior could barely believe possible, but when he tried to answer her provocative sallies, his voice slurred strangely in his own ears, and he was overcome with a lassitude such that he had to close his eyes for a moment.
Tanase replaced the stopper on the buckhorn bottle she had concealed in her palm, and stepped quietly over the guard’s sleeping form. When she whistled, Bazo came swiftly and silently to where she waited by the stream.
‘Tell me, Lord,’ she whispered, ‘that which you require of me.’
When she returned to the hut, the guard still slept deeply. She propped him in the doorway with his weapon across his lap. In the morning his head would ache, but he would not be eager to tell the indunas how he had spent the night.
‘I have thought deeply on the words of the Umlimo,’ Tanase knelt before the indunas, ‘and I read meaning into the parable of the foolish hunter who hesitates in the entrance of the cave.’
Gandang frowned as he guessed the slant of her reply, but she went on calmly.
‘Would not the brave and skilled hunter go boldly into the cave where the animal lurks, and slay it?’ One of the elder indunas hissed with disagreement, and sprang to his feet.
‘I say that the Umlimo has warned us to leave the road to the south open, so that the white men with all their women and chattels may leave this land for ever,’ he shouted, and immediately Bazo was on his feet facing him.
‘The white men will never leave. The only way to rid ourselves of them is to bury them.’ There was a roar of approval from the younger indunas grouped around Bazo, but he lifted his hand to silence them.
‘If you leave the south road open, it will certainly be used – by the soldiers who march up it with their little three-legged guns.’
There were angry cries of denial and encouragement.
‘I say to you that we are the hot wind from the north, that the Umlimo prophesied, we are the ones who will scorch the weeds—’
The shouts that drowned him out showed just how deeply the nation’s leaders were divided, and Tanase felt the blackness of despair come down upon her. Gandang rose to his feet, and such was the weight of tradition and custom that even the wildest and fiercest of the young indunas fell silent.
‘We must give the white men a chance to leave with their women. We will leave the road open for them to go, and we will wait in patience for the hot wind, the miraculous wind from the north that the Umlimo promises to blow our enemies away—’
Bazo alone had not squatted respectfully to the senior induna, and now he did something that was without precedent. He interrupted his father, and his voice was full of scorn.
‘You have given them chance enough,’ said Bazo. ‘You have let the woman from Khami and all her brats go free. I ask you one question, my father, is what you propose kindness or is it cowardice?’
They gasped, for when a son could speak thus to his father, then the world that once they all had known and understood was now changed. Gandang looked at Bazo across the small space that separated them, which was a gulf neither of them would ever be able once again to bridge. Though he was still tall and erect, there was such sorrow in Gandang’s eyes that made him seem as old as the granite hills that surrounded them.
‘You are no longer my son,’ he said simply.
‘And you are no longer my father,’ Bazo said, and turning on his heel, strode from the hut. First Tanase, and then, one after another, the young indunas stood up and followed Bazo out into the sunlight.
An outrider came in at full gallop and brought his horse up so sharply that it reared and sawed its head against the bit.
‘Sir, there is large party of rebels coming up the road ahead,’ he shouted urgently.
‘Very well, trooper.’ The Honourable Maurice Gifford, officer commanding troops B and D of the Bulawayo field force, touched the brim of his slouch hat with a gloved hand in acknowledgement. ‘Go forward and keep them under observation.’ Then he turned in the saddle. ‘Captain Dawson, we will put the wagons into laager under those trees, there will be a good field of fire for the Maxim from there – I will take out fifty mounted men to engage the enemy.’
It really was a piece of astonishing good luck to run into a group of rebels so close to Bulawayo. After weeks of scouring the countryside, Gifford and his 160 troopers had managed to gather in thirty or so survivors from the isolated villages and trading-posts, but so far they had not had even a chance of a scrap with the Matabele. Leaving Dawson to prepare the laager, Gifford spurred down the Bulawayo road at the head of fifty of his best men.
Gifford was the youngest son of an earl, a handsome young aristocrat and junior officer in a famous guards regiment. He had been spending his leave on a spot of shooting in Africa, and had been fortunate enough to have his holiday enlivened by a native uprising. The general opinion of the Honourable M. Gifford was that he was frightfully keen, and a damned fine young fellow, bound to go a long way.
He reined in his horse at the crest of the rise, and held up his gloved right hand to halt the troop.
‘There they are, sir,’ cried the outrider. ‘Bold as brass.’
The Honourable Maurice Gifford polished the lenses of his binoculars on the tail of his yellow silk scarf, and then held the glasses to his eyes.
‘They are all m
ounted,’ he said, ‘and jolly well mounted at that,’ he murmured. ‘But, I say, what a murderous-looking bunch of ruffians.’
The approaching horsemen were half a mile away, a straggling mob, dressed in war kilts and headdresses, armed with a weird assortment of modern and primitive weapons.
‘Troop, into extended order, left and right wheel,’ Gifford ordered. ‘Sergeant, we will use the slope to charge them, and then disengage and attempt to draw them within range of the Maxim.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ the sergeant mumbled, ‘but isn’t that a white man leading them?’
Gifford lifted the binoculars and peered through them again. ‘The devil it is!’ he muttered. ‘But the fellow is dressed in furs and things.’
The fellow gave him a cheery wave, as he rode up at the head of his motley gang.
‘‘Morning, you aren’t Maurice Gifford by any chance?’
‘I am sir,’ Gifford replied frostily. ‘And who are you, if I may be so bold as to ask?’
‘The name’s Ballantyne, Ralph Ballantyne.’ The fellow gave him an engaging grin. ‘And these gentlemen,’ with his thumb he indicated those who followed him, ‘are Ballan-tyne’s Scouts.’
Maurice Gifford looked them over with distaste. It was impossible to tell their racial origins, for they were all painted with fat and clay to look like Matabele, and they wore cast-offs and tribal dress. Only this fellow Ballantyne had left his face its natural colour, probably to identify himself to the Bulawayo field force, but it was equally probable that he would blacken it as soon as he had what he wanted from them. He was not shy about making his wants known, either.
‘A requisition, Mr Gifford,’ he said, and handed over a folded and sealed note from his belt pouch.
Gifford bit on the finger of his glove, and drew it off his right hand, before he accepted the note and broke the seal.
‘I cannot let you have my Maxim, sir,’ he exclaimed as he read. ‘I have a duty to protect the civilians in my care.’
‘You are only four miles from the laager at Bulawayo and the road is clear of Matabele. We have just swept it for you. There is no longer any danger to your people.’
‘But—’ said Gifford.
‘The requisition is signed by Colonel William Napier, officer commanding the Bulawayo field force. I suggest you take the matter up with him, when you reach Bulawayo.’ Ralph was still smiling. ‘In the meantime, we are rather pressed for time. We will just relieve you of the Maxim, and trouble you no further.’
Gifford crumpled the note, and glared impotently at Ralph, then shifted his ground.
‘You and your men appear to be wearing enemy uniform,’ he accused. ‘That is in contravention of the articles of war, sir.’
‘Read the articles to the indunas, Mr Gifford, particularly those dealing with the murder and torture of non-combatants.’
‘There is no call for an Englishman to descend to the level of the savages he is fighting,’ said Gifford loftily. ‘I have had the honour to meet your father, Major Zouga Ballantyne. He is a gentleman. I wonder what he would say about your conduct.’
‘My father and his fellow conspirators, all of them English gentlemen, are presently standing trial on charges of having waged war against a friendly government. However, I will certainly solicit his opinion of my conduct at the first available opportunity. Now if you will send your sergeant back with us to hand over the Maxim, I will bid you good day, Mr Gifford.’
They unloaded the Maxim from its cart, removed the tripod and ammunition boxes, and loaded them onto three pack-horses.
‘How did you get Napier to sign away one of his precious Maxims?’ Harry Mellow demanded, as he clinched the straps on the pack-saddles.
‘Sleight of hand,’ Ralph winked at him. ‘The pen is mightier—’
‘You forged the requisition,’ Harry stared at him. ‘They’ll shoot you.’
‘They’ll have to catch me first.’ Ralph turned and bellowed to his Scouts, ‘Troop, mount! Walk march, forward!’
There was no doubt that he was a wizard. A wizened little fellow, not much taller than Tungata or any of his companions, but he was painted in the most marvellous colours, zigzags of crimson and white and black across his face and chest.
When he first appeared out of the bush beside the stream in the secret valley, the children were frozen with terror. But before they could recover their wits sufficiently to run, the little painted wizard uttered such a string of cries and grunts, imitating horse and eagle and chacma baboon, at the same time prancing and flapping and scratching, that their terror turned to fascination.
Then from the sack over his shoulder, the wizard dug out a huge lump of rock sugar candy. He sucked it noisily, and the children who had not tasted sugar in weeks drew closer and watched him with glistening dark eyes. He proffered the lump of sugar to Tungata who edged forward, snatched it and scampered back. The little wizard laughed in such an infectious manner, that the other children laughed with him and swarmed forward to grab at the fresh lumps of candy he offered. Surrounded by laughing, clapping children, the little wizard climbed the path up the side of the valley to the rock shelter.
The women, lulled and reassured by the sounds of happy children, came to crowd about the little wizard, to stare and giggle, and the boldest to ask him:
‘Who are you?’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘What is in the sack?’
In reply to the last question, the wizard drew out a handful of coloured ribbons, and the younger women shrieked with feminine vanity and tied them at their wrists and throats.
‘I bring gifts and happy tidings,’ the wizard cackled. ‘Look what I bring you.’
There were steel combs, and small round mirrors, a little box that played sweet tinkling music – they crowded about him, utterly enchanted. ‘Gifts and happy tidings,’ sang the wizard.
‘Tell us! Tell us!’ they chanted.
‘The spirits of our forefathers have come to aid us. They have sent a divine wind to eat up the white men, as the rinderpest ate up the cattle. All the white men are dead!’
‘The amakiwa are dead!’
‘They have left behind them all these wonderful gifts. The town of Bulawayo is empty of white men, but these things are there for all to take. As much as you will – but hurry, all the men and women of the Matabele are going there. There will be nothing left for those who come after. Look, look at these beautiful pieces of cloth, there are thousands of them. Who wants these pretty buttons, these sharp knives? Those who want them must follow me!’ sang the wizard. ‘For the fighting is over! The white men are dead! The Matabele have triumphed, who wants to follow me?’
‘Lead us, little Father,’ they begged him. ‘We will follow you.’
Still digging out gewgaws and trifles from the sack, the painted wizard started down towards the end of the narrow valley, and the women snatched up their little ones, strapped them to their backs with strips of cloth, called to the older children and hurried after the wizard.
‘Follow me, people of Mashobane!’ he chirped. ‘Your time of greatness has come. The prophecy of the Umlimo is fulfilled. The divine wind from the north has blown the amakiwa away.’
Tungata, almost hysterical with excitement and dread that he would be left behind, hurried down the length of the rock shelter, until he saw the huge beloved figure squatting against the back wall of rock.
‘Grandmother,’ he squeaked. ‘The wizard has pretty things for us all. We must hurry!’
Over the millennia the stream had cut a narrow twisted exit from the bowel of the valley, with high cliffs on each side. The granite was painted with rich orange and yellow lichens. Compressed into this chasm the stream fell in smoking cascades of white water, before debouching into a shallower wider valley in the lower foothills.
The valley was filled with fine grass, the colour of a ripening wheat field. The pathway clung to the edge of the chasm, with a perilous drop to foaming white water on one hand
and with the cliff rising sheer on the other. Then the gradient became more gentle and the path emerged into the quiet valley below. Rainwater had scarred the side of the lower valley with deep dongas, natural entrenchments, and one of these afforded an ideal emplacement for the Maxim.
Ralph had two of his troopers set it up with the thick water-jacketed barrel just clearing the lip of the donga. There were 2,000 rounds of ammunition in the oblong boxes, stacked beside the weapon. While Harry Mellow cut branches of thornbrush to screen the Maxim, Ralph paced off the ranges in front of the donga and set up a cairn of loose stones beside the footpath.
He came scrambling back up the slope, and told Harry, ‘Set the sights for three hundred yards.’
Then he went down the length of the donga, giving his orders to each man, and making him repeat them to ensure there was no misunderstanding.
‘When Jan Cheroot reaches the cairn, the Maxim will fire. Wait for the Maxim, then open up on the back of the column, and move your fire forward.’
Sergeant Ezra nodded, and levered a cartridge into the breech of the Winchester. He screwed up his eyes, judging the wind-deflection by the swaying of the grasstops and the feel of it against his face. Then he settled his elbow on the earthen parapet of the gulley, and laid his scarred cheek against the butt.
Ralph returned along the donga to where Harry Mellow was preparing the Maxim. He watched while Harry twisted the elevation screw to raise the barrel slightly to the 300 yard setting, and then swung the gun left and right in its tripod to make certain that the traverse was free and clear.
‘Load one,’ Ralph ordered, and Taas, who was loading, fed the brass tag of the cartridge-belt into the open breech. Harry let the loading handle fly back and the mechanism clattered harshly.
‘Load two!’ He pumped the handle a second time, pulling the belt through, and the first round was extracted from the belt and fed smoothly into the breech.
‘Ready!’ Harry looked up at Ralph.
‘Now all we have to do is wait.’