Men of Men - Smith Wilbur (книги бесплатно без txt) 📗

In Hunter's Odyssey I deliberately refrained from giving the location of the ancient ruin. As far as I know, it has not been rediscovered by any other white Man while a superstitious taboo forbids any African to venture into the area.

Thus there is every reason to believe the statues lie where last I laid eyes upon them.

Bearing in mind that my chronometer had not been checked for many months when these observations were made, I now give you the position of the city as calculated by myself at that time.

The ruins lie on the same longitude as the kopje which I named Mount Hampden on 30" 55" E., but 175 miles farther south at 20" 0" S. There followed a detailed description of the route that Zouga had taken to reach Zimbabwe, and then the notes ended with this statement: mister Rhodes offered the sum of 1000 pounds for the statue which I rescued.

The following noon Ralph took the brass sextant from its travel-battered wooden case. He had bid ten shillings for it at one of the Saturday auctions in the Market Square of Kimberley, and Zouga had checked its accuracy against his own instrument and showed Ralph how to shoot an "apparent local noon" to establish his latitude. Ralph had no chronometer to fix a longitude, but he could guess at it from his proximity to the confluence of the Shashi and Macloutsi rivers.

Half an hour's work with Brown's Nautical Almanac gave him an approximate position to compare with the one that his father had given in the notes for Zimbabwe.

"Less than one hundred and fifty miles," he muttered to himself, still squatting over his father's map, but staring eastwards.

"Six thousand pounds just lying there," Ralph said quietly, and shook his head in wonder. It was a sum difficult to imagine.

He packed away the sextant, rolled the map and went to join the slumbering trio beneath the wagon for what remained of the drowsy afternoon.

Ralph woke to a stentorian challenge that seemed to echo off the granite cliffs above the camp.

"Who dares take the king's road? Who chances the wrath of Lobengula?"

Ralph scrambled out from under the wagon. The day was almost gone, the sun flamed in the top branches of the forest, and the chill of evening prickled his bare chest. He stared about him wildly, but some instinct warned him not to reach for the loaded rifle propped against the rear wheel of the wagon. Below the trees the shadows were alive, blackness moved on blackness, dusky rank on rank.

"Stand forth, white man," the voice commanded.

"Speak your business, lest the white spears of Lobengula turn to red."

The speaker stepped forward, out of the forest to the edge of the camp. Behind him the ring of dappled black and white war-shields overlapped, edge to edge in an unbroken circle surrounding the entire outspan, the "bull's borns" of the Matabele fighting formations.

There were many hundreds of warriors in that deadly circle, and the broad stabbing spears were held in an underhand grip so that the silver blades pointed forward at belly height between the shields.

Above each shield the frothy white ostrich-feather headdress trembled and swayed in the small evening breeze, the only movement in that silent multitude.

The man who had broken the ranks was one of the most impressive figures that Ralph had ever seen. The high crown of ostrich feathers turned him into a towering giant. The breadth of his chest was enhanced by the flowering bunches of white cowtails that he wore on his upper arms. Each separate tail had been awarded him by his king for an act of valour, and he wore them not only on his arms but around his knees also.

His broad intelligent face was lightly seamed by the passage of the years, as though by the chisel of a skilled carpenter, forming a frame for the dark penetrating sparkle of his eyes; yet his chest was covered with the elastic muscle of a man only just reaching his prime and his lean belly rippled with the same muscle as he moved forward.

His legs were long and straight under the kilt of black spotted civet tails, and the war-rattles bound about his ankles rustled softly at each pace.

"I come in peace," Ralph called, hearing the catch in his own voice.

"Peace is a word that sits as lightly on the tongue as the sunbird sits upon the open flower, and as lightly does it fly., There was movement beside Ralph, and Bazo came from his bed under the wagon.

"Baba!" Bazo said reverently, and clapped his hands softly at the level of his face. "I see you Baba! The sun has been dark all these years, but now it shines again, my father."

The tall warrior started, took a swift pace forward, and for an instant a wonderful smile bloomed upon the sculptured ebony of his face; then he checked himself, and drew himself up to his full height again, his expression grave, but the feathers of his headdress trembled and there was a light in his tar-bright eyes that he could not extinguish. Still clapping his hands, stooping with respect, Bazo went forward and knelt on one knee.

"Gandang, son of Mzilikazi, your eldest son, Bazo the Axe, brings you the greetings and the duty of his heart."

Gandang looked down at his son, and at that moment nothing else existed for him in all the world.

"Baba, I ask your blessing."

Gandang placed his open hand on the short cropped fleecy cap of the young man's head.

"You have my blessing," he said quietly, but the hand lingered, the gesture of blessing became a caress, and then slowly and reluctantly Gandang withdrew the hand.

"Rise up, my son."

Bazo was as tall as his father, and for a quiet moment they looked steadily into each other's eyes. Then Gandang turned, and flirted his war-shield, a gesture of dismissal, and instantly the still and silent ring of warriors turned their own shields edge on, so that they seemed to fold like a woman's fan, and with miraculous swiftness they split into small platoons and disappeared into the forest.

Within seconds it seemed as though they had never been. Only Gandang and his son still remained at the edge of the camp, and then they too turned and slipped away like two shadows thrown by the moving branches of the mopani trees.

Isazi came out from under the wagon, naked except for the sheath of hollowed gourd covering the head of his penis, and he spat in the fire with a thoughtful and philosophical air.

"Chaka was too soft," he said. "He should have followed the traitor Mzilikazi, and taught him good manners. The Matabele are upstart bastards, with no breeding and less respect."

"Would a Zulu induna have acted that way?" Ralph asked him, as he reached for his shirt.

"No," Isazi admitted. "He would certainly have stabbed us all to death. But he would have done so with greater respect and better manners."

"What do we do now?" Ralph asked.

"We wait," said Isazi. "While that vaunting dandy, who should wear the induna headring not on his forehead but around his neck like the collar of a dog decides what should become of us." Isazi spat in the fire again, this time with contempt. "We may have long to wait, a Matabele thinks at the same speed as a chameleon runs., And he crawled back under the wagon and pulled the kaross over his head.

in the night the cooking fires from the camp of the Matabele impi down the valley glowed amber and russet on the tops of the mopani, and every time the fickle night wind shifted, the deep melodious sound of their singing carried down to Ralph's outspan.

in the grey dawn Bazo appeared again, as silently as he had disappeared.

"My father, Gandang, induna of the Inyati Regiment, summons you to indaba, Henshaw."