the commandant was nothing if not thorough, and as it came home to him what a marvellous escape the ammunition escort had had, and the direful effects that would have resulted from the carrying out of the attempt—not only to the force under his command, but in consequence to many lives along the frontier—his first impulse was to order the traitor to be shot, right out of hand. two considerations, however, moved him from his purpose, or at any rate to the postponement of it. one was that he was a man of judicial mind, and deemed it only fair that the culprit should have an opportunity of making what defence he could; the other a secret appreciation of the latter’s calm courage. for jacob snyman had uttered no prayer for mercy, nor had he put on the swagger of bravado. to one of the commandant’s temperament this appealed powerfully. in fact, on thinking further, he was by no means eager to order the kafir’s execution, and probably he was the only man in the camp wearing the police uniform of whom this could be said. so jacob snyman—otherwise manyelo—was brought before a sort of court-martial consisting of the commandant and the commissioned officers, and was asked what he had to say.
he had nothing to say—what could he have? then harley greenoak came forward, and told how he had found the fuse and the tinder in among the ammunition boxes, all ready fired. told, too, how he had known the prisoner before and—well, had thought it right to keep an eye on his doings, and in the result had defeated his daring attempt to desert to the enemy with one of the ammunition waggons.
the kafir smiled slightly at this, and shook his head.
“that would have been great,” he muttered in his own tongue. “but who shall perform anything if kulondeka is there, and is determined he shall not?”
when dick selmes was asked to give his version of the prisoner’s attempt to murder him, he said at once that he’d rather not.
“is it absolutely necessary, commandant? it seems as if the wretched devil had got more on his back than he can throw off as it is,” he pleaded. “i don’t want to help drive nails into his coffin.”
“still, you’d better tell us what you know,” was the uncompromising answer. and dick did so.
the proceedings were as short as they were informal. no interpreting was necessary, as the prisoner spoke english glibly and well. he was asked once more if he had anything to say.
well, he had, was the answer, but he supposed it did not amount to much. he had joined the police only with an eye to helping his countrymen, and, why should he not? would an englishman not undergo risk for the sake of helping his countrymen? well then, if this was right in an englishman, why was it wrong in a kafir? what kulondeka had stated was quite correct. he had volunteered to drive the foremost ammunition waggon, with the object of preventing it—and, as he had hoped, the other also—from reaching the kangala camp at all; and, had he succeeded, he would have placed a large store of ammunition in the hands of his countrymen. the reason why the latter had used no firearms in yesterday’s fight, he said, was for fear of exploding this ammunition.
those who heard were listening with extraordinary attention. there was something strangely pathetic in this smiling, unperturbed man telling his story without hope or fear on the one hand, and without bravado or defiance on the other. he was, in fact—and he knew it himself—to use dick selmes’ syllogism, driving the nails into his own coffin. he richly deserved his fate of course, but—
when that plan failed, went on jacob, he had tried to blow up the waggon. no. he had not blown up the one which had been exploded before, though it was true that this event had put the idea into his head. had he succeeded, the whole of the police force at the kangala would have been annihilated.
“that all?” said the commandant, tersely.
the prisoner nodded.
“that all,” he assented, as though he had been narrating the misdeeds of somebody else, in which he had no concern whatever.
“remove him fifty paces back,” said the commandant.
then the little group conferred. harley greenoak stood by listening to their counsels, but taking no part therein. there was a solemnity in the demeanour of the younger officers. even ladell, who would willingly have shot the delinquent with his own hand when caught in the act, inwardly shrank from helping to doom a man to death in cold blood, even though the man was black and richly deserved his fate. however, the safety of more than themselves called for stern necessities. the deliberation was a short one.
“jacob,” said the commandant, when the prisoner had been brought back. “on your own showing you have played the part of a spy, a traitor, and a would-be murderer. in half an hour you will be taken outside the camp and shot.”
“in half an hour?”
“in half an hour,” repeated the commandant, clicking open his watch.
“hau! may i smoke pipe o’ ’bacco first?”
“here!” cried dick selmes, springing eagerly forward and wrenching open his pouch.
the kafir calmly proceeded to fill his pipe. then he asked for a light. no objection was raised.
“i t’ank you, sir,” he said courteously, returning the pouch, and proceeding to emit complacent puffs. there was a silence. probably the most at his ease was the culprit, whose life had but minutes to run. the commandant, at any time a man of few words, sat back in his camp chair, his face as impassive as wood, his gaze straight in front of him. it was a silence nobody cared to break. to dick selmes it was especially awesome, even terrible. he would have liked to plead for the man’s life, but he knew it would be useless. there were but eight minutes more.
the doomed one, where he was squatting, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, then half filled it again, with a little tobacco he had kept over, in the hollow of his hand. a few more puffs. there were but five minutes to run. the sun flamed in an unclouded sky, the green roll of hill and plain golden beneath his beam, and for this man, who sat there, in five minutes should be substituted the dark unknown. yet he sat, placidly puffing out tobacco smoke at if he had a hundred years to live. a savage and a heathen, death seemed to hold out for him no terrors whatever.
the commandant shut up his watch. the prisoner rose, calling out that he would like to take his farewell of a very great one, one who was a great fighting chief and a great igqira (doctor) as well; for whom he had found many magical things—this in reference to the commandant’s love of collecting to which we have already heard reference made by sub-inspector ladell. further, he desired to bequeath to that great one something valuable, a “word” of great weight, such as might be the saving of many lives. he did not ask his own as the price. he merely wanted to leave a bequest to his father and chief, the commandant.
thus, as the latter, having signed that he should be brought forward, the doomed one stood before his judges.
“what is that ‘word’?” said the commandant, shortly.
“this, amakosi. the whole of the gudhluka reserve is up in arms, and the kangala will be heavily attacked this very night.”
“and the chiefs—who are they?”
“vunisa and pahlandhle. they have been massing their men for days. now they are ready.”
“and how have you known this, here, under arrest.”
the kafir smiled and shook his head.
“i was not a prisoner the day before yesterday, great one,” he answered.
“if you ran such risks for the benefit of your countrymen yesterday, how is it you will give them into our hands to-day?” asked the commandant.
“you are my ‘father,’ great one, whom i have lived to serve. i go to my death, but i do not want you to meet yours. to the whole of the gudhluka reserve the amapolise here are as a mouthful, if taken unprepared—if taken unprepared,” he repeated.
among the young officers there was a stir of sensation. the whole story, in their opinion, was an impudent cook-up. the fellow had invented it to save his life. surely the chief would not be humbugged by any such yarn as that. but then they remembered that its inventor had not even asked for his life. in their whispered remarks inspector chambers and the two other inspectors took no part. they had unbounded confidence in the judgment of their chief.
the latter sat, stroking his long beard as he gazed thoughtfully at the prisoner. a lifelong experience had taught him that no white man ever got thoroughly to the bottom of the innermost workings of a kafir’s mind. he might think he did, only to find that it was just the moment when he did not. he himself was partial to the natives, and no man was more appreciative of the good points in the native character. he knew, too, that a native is very much a creature of irresponsible impulse. this boy, who would cheerfully have sacrificed them all yesterday, felt now concerned at the possible risk to his chief. he had accompanied the latter on many a collecting expedition in pursuit of his natural history studies, and had entered into these with enthusiasm and zest; here, then, was a motive, here a presumption that his weighty warning might be a true one. none knew better than himself either, the marvellous, if mysterious, methods which these people had of flashing news from point to point almost with telegraphic swiftness, wherefore he had no reason to doubt that this one knew what he was talking about.
“attend now, jacob,” he said. “you made a grave attempt yesterday against the safety of all here, and it did not succeed. to-day you are, as you say, making an attempt to ensure our safety. if that succeeds it will wash out the other attempt.” then to those who custodied him, “take him to the guard-hut, iron his legs at any rate, and put two sentries on guard—until further orders.”
jacob snyman, otherwise manyelo, saluted and was led away. he knew now that his life was saved.
dick selmes and one or two more noticed an almost imperceptible but approving nod on the part of harley greenoak, standing behind the commandant, as this decision was given. the latter rose. the proceedings were ended. it was near evening now, and the whole force was immediately put in preparation for giving its expected assailants a particularly warm reception.
“well, you’re a plucky young swine anyhow, jacob,” growled one of the troopers who was fixing on the leg irons. “darned if i didn’t think we should be shovelling you underground just now, instead of anchoring you tight in a snug hut. but if you don’t get us our big fight to-night, the old man’ll still have you shot.”
“oh, you get your fight right enough,” answered the prisoner, with a careless laugh. “quite as much fight as you want, no fear. i say—any one got pipe o’ ’bacco to spare?”
“here you are, you young swab, although you did try to blow us all sky high,” said the man, lugging out half a handful. “still you’re plucky enough anyway.”
