Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 12 )( Page 3) Jim Mokakel

At the second thin whistling stroke some one said, "That's a sjambok he's using, not a nek-strop!"  Sjambok, that will cut a bullock's hide! At about the eighth there was a wrench that made the waggon rattle, and the deep voice was raised in protest, "Ow, Inkos!" It made me choke: it was the first I knew of such things, and the horror of it was unbearable; but the man who had spoken before--a good man too, straight and strong, and trusted by black and white--said, "Sonny, you must not interfere between a man and his boys here; it's hard sometimes, but we'd not live a day if they didn't know who was baas." I think we counted eighteen; and then everything seemed going to burst. The white man looked about at the faces close to him--and stopped.  He began slowly to untie the outstretched arms, and blustered out some threats.  But no one said a word! The noises died down as the night wore on, until the stillness was broken only by the desultory barking of a kaffir dog or the crowing of some awakened rooster who had mistaken the bright moonlight for the dawn and thought that all the world had overslept itself.  But for me there was one other sound for which I listened into the cool of morning with the quivering sensitiveness of a bruised nerve.  Sometimes it was a long catchy sigh, and sometimes it broke into a groan just audible, like the faintest rumble of most distant surf.  Twice in the long night there came the same request to one of the boys near him, uttered in a deep clear unshaken voice and in a tone that was civil but firm, and strangely moving from its quiet indifference. "Landela manzi, Umganaam!"  ("Bring water, friend!") was all he said; and each time the request was so quickly answered that I had the guilty feeling of being one in a great conspiracy of silence.  The hush was unreal; the stillness alive with racing thoughts; the darkness full of watching eyes. There is, we believe, in the heart of every being a little germ of justice which men call conscience!  If that be so, there must have been in the heart of the white man that night some uneasy movement--the first life-throb of the thought which one who had not yet written has since set down:   "Though I've belted you and flayed you,   By the living God that made you,   You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!" The following afternoon I received an ultimatum.  We had just returned from the town when from a group of boys squatting round the fire there stood up one big fellow--a stranger--who raised his hand high above his head in Zulu fashion and gave their salute in the deep bell-like voice that there was no mistaking, "Inkos!  Bayete!" He stepped forward, looking me all over, and announced with calm and settled conviction, "I have come to work for you!"  I said nothing. Then he rapped a chest like a big drum, and nodding his head with a sort of defiant confidence added in quaint English, "My naam Makokela!  Jim Makokel'!  Yes!  My catchum lion 'live!  Makokela, me!" He had heard that I wanted a driver, had waited for my return, and annexed me as his future `baas' without a moment's doubt or hesitation. I looked him over.  Big, broad-shouldered, loose-limbed, and as straight as an assegai!  A neck and head like a bull's; a face like a weather-beaten rock, storm-scarred and furrowed, rugged and ugly, but steadfast, massive and strong!  So it looked then, and so it turned out: for good and for evil Jim was strong. I nodded and said, "You can come." Once more he raised his head aloft, and, simply and without a trace of urprise or gratification, said: "Yes, you are my chief, I will work for you."  In his own mind it had been settled already: it had never been in doubt. Jim--when sober--was a splendid worker and the most willing of servants, and, drunk or sober, he was always respectful in an independent, upstanding, hearty kind of way.  His manner was as rough and rugged as his face and character; in his most peaceful moments it was--to one who did not understand him--almost fierce and aggressive; but this was only skin deep; for the childlike simplicity of the African native was in him to the full, and rude bursts of Titanic laughter came readily—laughter as strong and unrestrained as his bursts of passion. To the other boys he was what his nature and training had made him—not really a bully, but masterful and over-riding.  He gave his orders with the curtness of a drill sergeant and the rude assurance of a savage chief.  Walking, he walked his course, giving way for none of them.  At the outspan or on the road or footpath he shouldered them aside as one walks through standing corn, not aggressively but with the superb indifference of right and habit unquestioned.  If one, loitering before him, blocked his way unseeing, there was no pause or step aside—just "Suka!"  ("Get out") and a push that looked effortless enough but sent the offender staggering; or, if he had his sticks, more likely a smart whack on the stern that was still more surprising; and not even the compliment of a glance back from Jim as he stalked on.  He was like the old bull in a herd--he walked his course; none molested and none disputed; the way opened before him.