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

of his conversation was utterly unintelligible to Inglefield.

      “Granting for the sake of argument they never can, it is hardly to be wondered at,” replied Ames, tranquilly. “Their very existence as at present constituted is a mistake, and may prove a most serious one some of these days. First of all, the Matabele have never been more than half conquered, and having given them peace – on not such easy terms, mind – the first thing we do is to pick out a number of them, arm them, and teach them to shoot. And such fellows are turned loose to keep their own crowd in order. Well, it isn’t in human nature that the plan won’t lead to ructions, and this is only another of them. I know natives, Inglefield, and you don’t, if you’ll excuse my saying so. Now, every man Jack of your Matabele Police imagines himself a bigger man than the old indunas of the country before whom he used to shake in his shoes. And the Matabele won’t stand that for ever.”

      “Oh, come now, Ames, you’re putting things rather strong. Besides, we seem to have heard all that before.”

      “And so these fellows can swagger around in their uniforms and put on side, and crow over the old indunas, and bully the crowd at large, and – what is worse, use their position to pay off old grudges. Which is just what seems to have been done in the present case.”

      “The devil it does! Who says so?”

      “The man who has been talking the most is Samvu, the brother of Madúla,” went on Ames. “He is here to complain of your men. They appear to have acted in a pretty high-handed way at Madúla’s, and the wonder is they didn’t come to blows. You remember what the orders were to Nanzicele? We gave them conjointly.”

      “Yes. He was to remind Madúla that more cattle were due from him, and that it is time they were sent in.”

      “Precisely. Well, what do you think the fellow has been doing? He sent half his patrol to drive off all Madúla’s cattle, while he kept the people of the kraal busy with indaba. Even then he seems to have cheeked the chief and played Harry all round. The wonder is he didn’t bring on a fight. As it was, the whole kraal turned out, and simply ran all the cattle back again.”

      “If he did that, of course he exceeded his orders,” allowed Inglefield, albeit somewhat grudgingly. “But how do we know these chaps are not lying?”

      “I don’t think they are, but of course we must have a full investigation. We can begin it this afternoon. It’s dinner-time now. Come in and have a bite, Inglefield.”

      “No thanks, old chap. I’ve got something going at the camp, and my cook will get careless if I keep disappointing him. I’ll look round in an hour or so. But – I say. Why the deuce should Nanzicele – oh, dash it, I can’t get round these infernal clicks! – why should he have played the fool at that particular kraal?”

      “There comes in what I was saying before about paying off old grudges. He had a squabble about a girl at that very kraal a little while back, and now sees his chance. Well, so long. We’ll go thoroughly into the thing.”

      The police officer mounted his horse and rode away in the direction of the camp, and John Ames, having said a few words to the squatting Matabele, dismissed them for the present, and turned into the hut which he used as a dining and general sitting-room. This was a large, circular hut, rough and ready of aspect outside, with its plastered wall and high conical thatch, but the interior was not without comfort and even tastefulness. It was hung around with a dark blue fabric commonly called by the whites “limbo,” being a corruption of the native name “ulembu,” which signifieth “web.” Strips of white calico constituted the ceiling, and thus both thatch and plastered walls being completely hidden, the interior, hung around with framed photographs and prints, wore a comfortable and homelike aspect. Two small glass windows let in light and air when the door was closed, which it seldom was. Four other huts similarly constructed stood within the compound, doing duty for office, bedroom, kitchen, and store-house respectively, and the whole were enclosed by a palisade of woven grass, standing about breast high.

      The life was a lonely one, and there were times when John Ames would feel very tired of it. The place being more than a long day’s journey from anywhere, visitors were few and far between, and beyond Inglefield, the police sub-inspector, he rarely saw a social equal. Inglefield was a married man, but his wife, a soured and disappointed person, had made herself so disagreeable to John Ames on the few occasions they had met, that the latter had dropped all intercourse which involved associating with Inglefield at that worthy’s own home. If Inglefield wanted to see him for social purposes, why, he knew his way up; and truth to tell, it was a way Inglefield not seldom found, for if there is one state more lonely than the man who lives alone in an out of the way locality, it is the man who lives in it with an entirely uncongenial partner. But even with Inglefield the position was occasionally strained, by reason of their official relations Inglefield thought the force under his command could do no wrong; Ames knew that it could, and not infrequently did.

      The latter sat down to his solitary meal, which on the whole was a good one; for the game laws were not at that time rigidly enforced, nor had a combination of rinderpest and prospector decimated the larger kinds; and steaks of the roan antelope, hot and frizzling, are by no means despicable. Add to this brown bread and tinned butter, the whole washed down with a couple of glasses of whisky and aerated water from a selzogene, and it will be seen that our lonely official did not fare so badly. The era of “bully” beef and other canned abominations had not yet set in.

      His dinner over, John Ames lit a pipe and adjourned to a cane chair before his office door to await the appearance of Inglefield. The day was hot and drowsy, and he wore the light attire customary in Rhodesia – shirt and trousers to wit, and leather belt – and on his head a wide-brimmed hat of the “cowboy” order; but the heat notwithstanding, a shiver ran through his frame, bringing with it a not unwarranted misgiving.

      “This infernal fever again,” he said to himself half aloud. “How the mischief am I going to get through the rainy season? No. I really must apply for three months’ leave, and get to some cool place at the seaside. If they won’t give it me I’ll resign. I’m not going to turn into a premature wreck to please anybody.”

      There was very little fear of this alternative. John Ames was far too valuable an official for his superiors to bring themselves to part with so readily. His thorough knowledge of the natives and their ways, his consummate tact in dealing with them, and his scrupulous and unquestionable probity, had already rendered him a man of mark in his department; but withal it never occurred to him for a moment to overestimate himself, or that his chances were one whit better than those of anybody else.

      In due course Inglefield arrived, and with him Nanzicele and the squad of police whose conduct was under investigation. John Ames was attended by his native messengers – a brace of stalwart Matabele – and, Madúla’s people having been convened, the investigation began.

      Even here the picturesque element was not wanting. The open space of the compound was nearly filled; the police ranged in a double file on the one side, the people of Madúla under Samvu, the chief’s brother, squatting in a semicircle on the other. Inglefield occupied a chair beside John Ames, his orderly behind him, and his interpreter – for his acquaintance with the language was but scanty – rendering the words of each witness. And these were legion; and as the hearing progressed, both sides became more and more excited, to such an extent that when Nanzicele was making his statement, audible murmurs of dissent and disgust, among which such epithets as “liar” were not undiscernible, arose from Samvu’s followers. More than once John Ames would intervene, quiet but decisive; but even his influence seemed strained under the task of preserving order among these rival bands of savage and slightly civilised savage.

      But Nanzicele had no chance. When it came to cross-questioning him, Samvu and another ringed man of Madúla’s simply turned him inside out. There could be no question but that he had exceeded his orders, and had acted in a grossly provocative and arbitrary manner, calculated to bring about serious trouble.

      Yet not all at once was this decision arrived at. Inglefield, promptly sick of the whole thing, would have slurred the proceedings over – anything to finish them that day – but Ames was built of different stuff. Calm and judicial, he gave both