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Updated: May 10, 2025
But there was no one outside to begin upon, and, though a truculent, unruly crowd, their interests in the long run lay in submitting to the authority of the white chiefs. So the Wajalu rejoiced much, if tremblingly, as the last of the dreaded host disappeared.
But the remaining Wajalu had withdrawn in terror: and well for all concerned that it was so, otherwise the Wangoni, inspired by the example of their chief, would certainly have commenced a massacre which even the prestige and authority of Hazon and Laurence combined would have been powerless to quell.
As for his party, now that its existence was known, they could surprise it, and slaughter every man it contained. They, the Wajalu, were numerous, and had good fire-weapons, and knew how to use them. Why should they not rid the land of this terror? It was in their power to do so. This sounded all very plausible; many tales do, until their other side is told.
Moreover, it was certain that the slavers were much better armed than the Wajalu. Their best policy would be to treat the man well; he had already given what was as good as an assurance of his protection. These counsels prevailed.
"Men of the Wajalu," he began, in a decisive, commanding voice, "well is it for all here that I am among you this day as a friend and guest, for, but for that, this village was doomed. You know not who I am, but you shall know in time. Then you will know that but for my presence here to-day the spear and the slave-yoke would have been your portion, that of your village the flames.
"Wajalu," replied the man who had done chief spokesman, rather a good-looking native, with almost a Zulu cast of countenance. "And the head man of yonder village, who is he?" "I am he. I Mgara," was the reply, with a satisfied smile. "And those we have slain, they seemed fine fighters. Of what race were they?" "Ba-gcatya." Laurence looked grave, but said nothing.
But the reader together with Johannesburg at large knows him under another name, and that is "Pirate" Hazon. "Is it prudent, think you, Lutali?" he is saying. "Consider. These Wajalu are a trifle too near the land of the Ba-gcatya. Indeed, we ourselves are too near it now, and a day's journey or more in the same direction is it not to run our heads into the jaws of the lion?"
"It may be so," he says, "yet there is a large village of these Wajalu which would prove an easy capture and would complete the number we need." "Then let us chance it," is Hazon's rejoinder. The Arab makes a murmur of assent and stalks away to his own people, while Hazon returns to where he has left his white colleague.
As they drew near the village, the Wajalu set up the most hideously discordant war-song he had ever heard in his life. They were met in the gate by a crowd of women howling and blowing horns, and otherwise adding to the horrific tumult.
The Wajalu, who had been hanging on every word, now hastened to obey; nevertheless there was terror and dejection in every face. And their thoughts were much the same as those of their would-be deliverer. Had he the power to make good his word? The hot morning hours dragged slowly by, and still no sign of attack.
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