NORTH-EASTERN RHODESIA 73 



Night falls over the little town, the largest 

 outpost of Empire in this part of Africa, and at 

 the same time one of the smallest capitals of 

 Greater Britain. Outside Government House, 

 the Boma and the gaol, the soft tread of the 

 unshodden askaris falls lightly on the peaceful 

 evening, and occasionally the silence is broken 

 by the challenge delivered in very passable 

 English, " Halt ! Who go there ? " and the inevit- 

 able (I have written " inevitable " because I 

 think the reply would be the same even were 

 you to answer "German spy") "Pass, friend; 

 all well." A gramophone sends a thrill from 

 Tosti's " Good-bye " across the Kapatamoyo 

 hills, the bugles in the police camp sound " Lights 

 out," and then all is silence, deep and absolute. 

 Now and then the peace of night which hangs 

 over Fort Jameson with that infinite charm, 

 that soothing, solemn stillness which is never 

 known in the world's great throbbing arteries 

 of life, is broken by the deep, low grunt of a 

 lion, or the ugly belch of a leopard away in the 

 wreath of rocky hills. These wild noises of 

 the night serve to remind one that only a few 

 years ago M'Pezeni, paramount chief of the 

 Angoni, ruled with a hand of blood from his 

 slaughter kraals where now the cluster of brick 

 houses has been raised in advancement of the 

 Empire. Maybe the spirit of M'Pezeni haunts 

 the Kapatamoyo hills, and at night hovers over 

 the land which once was his, just as M'Zilikazi's 

 ghost haunts the Matopos, and, according to 

 the Matabele, holds " indabas " with the spirit 

 of Cecil Rhodes, whose mortal body lies beneath 

 the granite of those rugged hills in the grandest 

 grave that ever was hewn for man. 



Perhaps M'Pezeni's spirit wails in sorrowful 



