Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 26)( Page 5 ) Our Various Ways

Hours had gone by in hopeless effort; but the oxen stood out at all angles, and no two would pull together in answer to the feeble efforts of the fainting men.  Then there came a lull in the shouts from the waggon and in answer to the little voorlooper's warning shout, "Pas op, Baas!"  (Look out, Master!), the white men looked round and saw the Zulu driver up on his knees freeing himself from the reims.  In another moment he was standing up full height--a magnificent but most unwelcome sight: there was a thin line of froth along the half-opened mouth; the deep-set eyes glared out under eyebrows and forehead bunched into frowning wrinkles, as for a few seconds he leaned forward like a lion about to spring and scanned the men and oxen before him; and then as they watched him in breathless silence, he sprang lightly off the waggon, picked up a small dry stick as he landed, and ran up along the span. He spoke to the after-ox by name as he passed; called to another, and touched it into place; thrust his way between the next one and the dazed white man standing near it, tossing him aside with a brush of his arm, as a ploughshare spurns a sod; and then they saw how the boy's madness had taken him.  His work and his span had called to him in his delirium; and he had answered.  With low mutterings, short words hissed out, and all the sounds and terms the cattle knew shot at them--low-pitched and with intense repression--he ran along the span, crouching low all the time like a savage stealing up for murderous attack. The two white men stood back and watched. Reaching the front oxen, he grasped the leading reim and pulled them round until they stood level for the straight pull out; then down the other side of the span he ran with cat-like tread and activity, talking to each and straightening them up as he had done with the others; and when he reached the waggon again, he turned sharply and overlooked the span.  One ox had swung round and stood out of line; there was a pause of seconds, and then the big Zulu called to the ox by name--not loudly but in a deep low tone, husky with intensity--and the animal swung back into line again. Then out of the silence that followed came an electrifying yell to the span: every bullock leaned to its yoke, and the waggon went out with a rush. And he drove them at a half-trot all the way to the store: without water; without help; without consciousness; the little dry twig still in his hand, and only his masterful intensity and knowledge of his work and span to see him through. "A mad troublesome savage," said Harry Williams, "but one of the very best.  Anyhow, we thought so; he saved us!" There was something very familiar in this, and it was with a queer feeling of pride and excitement that I asked: "Did he ever say to you `My catchum lion 'live'?" "By gum!  You know him?  Jim: Jim Makokel'!" "Indeed I do.  Good old Jim!" Years afterwards Jim was still a driver, working when necessary, fighting when possible, and enjoying intervals of lordly ease at his kraal where the wives and cattle stayed and prospered.