



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Induna's Wife, by Bertram Mitford.

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THE INDUNA'S WIFE, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.



PROLOGUE.

Twilight was fast closing in upon the desolate site of the old Kambula
Camp, and the short, sharp thunderstorm which at the moment of
outspanning had effectually drenched the scant supply of fuel, rendering
that evening's repast, of necessity, cold commons, had left in its wake
a thin but steady downpour.  Already the line of low hills hard by was
indistinct in the growing gloom, and a far-reaching expanse of cold and
treeless plains made up a surrounding as mournful and depressing as
could be.

The waggon stood outspanned in the tall grass, which, waist high, was
about as pleasant to stand in as the drift of a river.  Just above, the
conical ridge, once crested with fort and waggon laagers, and swarming
with busy life, and the stir and hum of troops on hard active service,
now desolate and abandoned--the site, indeed, still discernible if only
by ancient tins, and much fragmentary residue of the ubiquitous British
bottle.  Below, several dark patches in the grass marked the
resting-place of hundreds of Zulu dead--fiery, intrepid warriors--mown
down in foil and sweeping rush, with lips still framing the war cry of
their king, fierce resolute hands still gripping the deadly charging
spear.  Now a silent and spectral peace rested upon this erewhile scene
of fierce and furious war, a peace that in the gathering gloom had in it
something that was weird, boding, oppressive.  Even my natives, usually
prone to laughter and cheery spirits, seemed subdued, as though loth to
pass the night upon this actual site of vast and tolerably recent
bloodshed; and the waggon leader, a smart but unimaginative lad, showed
a suspicious alacrity in driving back the span from drinking at the
adjacent water-hole.  Yes!  It is going to be a detestable night.

Hard biscuit and canned jam are but a poor substitute for fizzling
rashers and wheaten cakes, white as snow within and hot from the
gridiron; yet there is a worse one, and that is no biscuit at all.
Moreover, there is plenty of whisky, and with that and a pipe I proceed
to make myself as snug as may be within the waggon, which is not saying
much, for the tent leaks abominably.  But life in the Veldt accustoms
one to such little inconveniences, and soon, although the night is yet
young--has hardly begun, in fact--I find myself nodding, and becoming
rapidly and blissfully oblivious to cold splashes dropping incontinently
from new and unexpected quarters.

The oxen are not yet made fast to the disselboom for the night, and one
of my natives is away to collect them.  The others, rolled in their
blankets beneath the waggon, are becoming more and more drowsy in the
hum of their conversation.  Suddenly this becomes wide-awake and alert.
They are sitting up, and are, I gather from their remarks, listening to
the approach of something or somebody.  Who--what is it?  There are no
wild animals to reckon with in that part of the country, save for a
stray leopard or so, and Zulus have a wholesome shrinking from moving
abroad at night, let alone on such a night as this.  Yet on peering
forth, a few seconds reveal the approach of somebody.  A tall form
starts out of the darkness and the long wet grass, and from it the deep
bass tones of the familiar Zulu greeting: "Nkose!"

Stay!  Can it be?  I ought indeed to know that voice; yet what does its
owner here thus and at such an hour?  This last, however, is its said
owner's business exclusively.

"Greeting, Untuswa!  Welcome, old friend," I answered.  "Here is no fire
to sit by, but the inside of the waggon is fairly dry; at any rate not
so wet as outside.  And there is a dry blanket or two and a measure of
strong _tywala_ to restore warmth, likewise snuff in abundance.  So
climb up here, winner of the King's Assegai, holder of the White Shield,
and make thyself snug, for the night is vile."

Now, as this fine old warrior was in the act of climbing up into the
waggon, there came a sound of trampling and the clash of horns, causing
him to turn his head.  The waggon leader, having collected the span, was
bringing it in to attach to the yokes for the night, for it promised
soon to be pitch dark, and now the heads of the oxen looked spectral in
the mist.  One especially, a great black one, with wide branching horns
rising above the fast gathering sea of vapour, seemed to float upon the
latter--a vast head without a trunk.  The sight drew from Untuswa a
shake of the head and a few quick muttered words of wonderment.  That
was all then, but when snug out of the drizzling rain, warmed by a
measure of whisky, and squatting happy and comfortable in a dry blanket,
snuff-box in hand, he began a story, and I--well, I thought I was in
luck's way, for a wet and cheerless and lonely evening stood to lose all
its depression and discomfort if spent in listening to one of old
Untuswa's stories.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE TALE OF THE RED DEATH.

There was that about the look of your oxen just now, _Nkose_--shadowed
like black ghosts against the mist--that brought back to my old mind a
strange and wonderful time.  And the night is yet young.  Nor will that
tale take very long in telling, unless--ah, that tale is but the door
opening into a still greater one; but of that we shall see--yes, we
shall see.

I have already unfolded to you, _Nkose_, all that befell at the Place of
the Three Rifts, and how at that place we met in fierce battle and
rolled back the might of Dingane and thus saved the Amandebeli as a
nation.  Also have I told the tale of how I gained the White Shield by
saving the life of a king, and how it in turn saved the life of a
nation.  Further have I told how I took for principal wife Lalusini, the
sorceress, in whose veins ran the full blood of the House of
Senzangakona, the royal House of Zululand, and whom I had first found
making strange and powerful _muti_ among the Bakoni, that disobedient
people whom we stamped flat.

For long after these events there was peace in our land.  The arm of
Dingane was stretched out against us no more, and Umzilikazi, our king,
who had meditated moving farther northward, had decided to sit still in
the great kraal, Kwa'zingwenya, yet a little longer.  But though we had
peace from our more powerful enemies, the King would not suffer the
might of our nation to grow soft and weak for lack of practice in the
arts of war--oh, no.  The enrolling of warriors was kept up with
unabated vigour, and the young men thus armed were despatched at once to
try their strength upon tribes within striking distance, and even far
beyond the limits of the same.  Many of these were mountain tribes,
small in numbers, but brave and fierce, and gave our fiery youths just
as much fighting as they could manage ere wetting their victorious
spears in blood.

Now, although we had peace from our more formidable foes, yet the mind
of the King seemed not much easier on that account, for all fears as to
disturbance from without being removed, it seemed that Umzilikazi was
not wholly free from dread of conspiracy within.  And, indeed, I have
observed that it is ever so, _Nkose_.  When the greater troubles which
beset a man, and which he did not create, beset him no longer, does he
not at once look around to see what troubles he can create for himself?
_Whau_!  I am old.  I have seen.

So it was with Umzilikazi.  The fear of Dingane removed, the
recollection of the conspiracy of Tyuyumane and the others returned--
that conspiracy to hand over our new nation to the invading Amabuna--
that conspiracy which so nearly succeeded, and, indeed, would have
completely, but for the watchfulness and craft of the old Mosutu witch
doctor.  Wherefore, with this suspicion ever in the King's mind we,
_izinduna_, seemed to have fallen upon uneasy times.  Yet the principal
object of dislike and distrust to the Great Great One was not, in the
first place, one of ourselves.  No councillor or fighting man was it,
but a woman--and that woman Lalusini, my principal wife.

"Ha, Untuswa!" would the King say, talking dark, but his tone full of
gloomy meaning.  "Ha, Untuswa, but thine _amahlose_ [Tutelary spirits]
watch over thee well.  Tell me, now, where is there a man the might of
whose spear and the terror of whose name sweeps the world--whose
slumbers are lulled by the magic of the mighty, and who is greater even
than kings?  Tell me, Untuswa, where is such a man?"

"I think such is to be found not far hence, Great Great One.  Even in
this house," I answered easily, yet with a sinking fear of evil at
heart, for his words were plain in their meaning; my successes in war
surpassed by none; my beautiful wife, the great sorceress of the Bakoni,
the wandering daughter of Tshaka the Terrible.  And his tone--ah, that,
too, spoke.

"Even in this house!  _Yeh bo_!  Untuswa--thou sayest well," went on the
King softly, his head on one side, and peering at me with an expression
that boded no good.  "Even in this house!  Ha!  Name him, Untuswa.  Name
him."

"Who am I that I should sport with the majesty of the King's name?"  I
answered.  "Is not the son of Matyobane--the Founder of Mighty Nations--
the Elephant of the Amandebeli--such a man?  Doth not his spear rule the
world, and the terror of his name--_au_!--who would hear it and laugh?
And is not the bearer of that name greater than other kings--greater
even than the mighty one of the root of Senzangakona--whose might has
fled before the brightness of the great king's head-ring?  And again,
who sleeps within the shadow of powerful and propitious magic but the
Father and Founder of this great nation?"

"Very good, Untuswa.  Very good.  Yet it may be that the man of whom I
was speaking is no king at all--great, but no king."

"No king at all!  _Hau_!  I know not such a man, Father of the World," I
answered readily.