CONTENTS
LIFE IN AFRIKANDERLAND
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
A DEATH-BED SCENE
A death-bed is always a sad scene, but doubly so when it is that of a parent surrounded by his or her children, and trebly so when those children are young and helpless.
Let me introduce the reader to such a scene for a moment, for ’tis good now and again to be drawn near to death, if only for a moment, for it brings us face to face with the fleeting and uncertain nature of life, and admonishes us to be prepared.
Behold, then, a pale weak figure, in a white draped, old-fashioned, four-post bed; that figure is the figure of a dying man, that man the father of three children, a boy and two girls, who are standing around the bed clinging to their mother.
‘But if father is going away, where is he going to, mother?’ said the boy, the eldest of the three. Alas! he did not realise what was taking place. He had been told that his father was going away; but he could not realise that he would see him no more on earth, and that he would be left alone to fight the battle of life, with only a poor, poverty-stricken mother to stand between him and starvation.
‘Dear Stephen, he is going to heaven. God has called him and he must go.’
‘But may we not go with him, mother?’
‘No, my child, we may not go till God calls us.’
‘But when will He call us, mother?’
‘I do not know, dear; we must be prepared to go whenever He calls; it may be to-morrow, or it may not be for years.’
‘But when shall we see father again, mother?’
‘When God calls us to heaven, too, dear.’
‘Come near, Stephen,’ his father called to him in weak and trembling tones. ‘Steve, my son, I want to say a few words to you before I leave you. First I want you to take care of your mother and sisters as much as you can. Your mother will be weak and unprotected, and when you are grown up, you must work and support her and your sisters as best you can. Then I want you to promise to always fear God and look to Him for aid in time of need, and serve Him to the best of your ability in time of prosperity. And lastly, I want you always to be faithful to your country and your people. Remember that here we are a vassal race as yet. But thank God there are two bright spots in South Africa where our people are free, and acknowledge only one King—God—the King of kings. And if ever the time should come that you may be able to aid in bringing our people nearer to being a one and united people—free—under God’s guidance, do your best. Do you promise?’
‘Yes, father, I will do my best.’
‘I know, child, you can hardly understand these things yet, but when you are older you will understand what I mean. Your mother will write my request down for you, and when you are grown up and are a man, you will understand. Now kiss me all of you. May God bless you and be a father to you all. Amen.’
CHAPTER II
BOYHOOD
Seven years have passed, our young hero has grown considerably. He is now twelve years of age. Behold him once more. He is kneeling near to his mother and sisters. The mother is praying. ‘Oh, God,’ she prays,‘have mercy on our dear people. Oh, Jesus, they are of our blood and our race, and they have done no wrong as a people. Oh, Christ, they have fled into the wilderness to worship Thee in quiet and in peace. Oh, God, they have done naught but they have done it in Thy name. Oh, Lord, they have struggled against famine and troubles untold. Oh, Jesus, they have bled and fought against the heathen and Thou hast always succoured them. When death faced them Thou saved them and said, “Live, and be a people.” Oh, God, Thou wilt surely not desert them now. Lord aid, even though victory seems impossible to human minds. Thou art the God of battles, and to Thee all things are possible. Oh, Lord, in Thee do we and they trust, now and evermore. Amen.’
They rise, and Steve goes up to his mother and stands leaning fondly against her.
It is January 1881. It is the time of the Transvaal struggle for independence and freedom.
Daily alarming telegrams arrive, and tear the hearts of relatives and friends of the poor struggling immigrants in the Transvaal. The killed and wounded of the Boers are always given in hundreds. We now know how lying these telegrams were. But the friends of the Boers did not then know what was true or not.
Steve nestled near to his mother and said,—
‘But, mother, cannot we go and help our people in the Transvaal? Surely it is not so far away but we can reach them, and fight by their side? And,’ drawing himself up to his full height, ‘if needs be, we can die with them.’
‘My dear, you are far too young to talk about fighting and dying in battle; but it is impossible, even if you were old enough, to do so. There is many and many a heart here that beats in unison with our race, fighting for freedom in the Transvaal, and would gladly take up arms for them. But, alas, we are bound hand and foot, and are surrounded by the enemy. We cannot leave here a day’s march, but the English Goverment will stop our people from going to help their friends in the Transvaal. We are surrounded by enemies. No, child, we can only pray and trust in God.’
‘And will God help them if we pray for them, mother?’
‘Yes, child, for their cause is just, and God always helps in a righteous cause.’
CHAPTER III
A CONTROVERSY
‘Steve, you are talking nonsense.’
A group of boys were standing talking, warmly arguing about the all-absorbing topic of the day—the Transvaal war.
‘I should like to know why I talk nonsense more than you?’
‘Why, you say that the Transvaal Boers can fight against England and win. I should like to know how a few Boers can fight against England, when we have already more soldiers on the Transvaal border than there are Boers to fight, and there are as many more coming out from England, with ever so many cannon. And when these arrive, what will your Boers do then? You are talking nonsense, I say!’
‘I am not talking nonsense, for mother says that, if we pray to God to help our people, He will surely do so, and then they will win; for God is stronger than England and all the world besides.’
Steve’s opponent smiled derisively, as if he thought Steve was talking nonsense worse than ever—as if people could swallow such childish superstitions in the latter end of the nineteenth century, that God fights the battles of nations; these things are too antiquated! But, thought he to himself, I might as well fight it out with him on his own ground, and with his own weapons, so he said,—
‘But, Steve, the English people will also pray; and why do you think God would answer your people’s prayers more than the prayers of the English?’
‘Because God only answers our prayers when we pray for a righteous thing; and our people’s cause is righteous; the cause of the English is unrighteous, for they seek to oppress a weaker people than themselves, who have done them no harm.’
Steve’s simple faith in his mother’s teachings and in the promises of his God, had given him the victory in this schoolboy controversy. His opponent could only smile in a depreciating sort of way and walk off.
CHAPTER IV
INDEPENDENCE GAINED ONCE MORE—YOUTHFUL PATRIOTISM
Those were anxious times for all true South Africans—the time of the Transvaal war of independence. At first, nothing but cooked telegrams came, which made out that the Boers wherever met were being defeated. But later the truth leaked out, as it is ever bound to do, viz., that the Boers were wondrously victorious in every battle that had been fought. The accounts of Bronkorstspruit, Laingsnek and Schuimhoogte were received with mixed feelings in the town of G——n, in the Cape Colony, where Steve and his mother lived. Mixed, in that they were received by all Afrikanders and Republicans with joy and thanksgivings to Him, to Whom alone they ascribed the victory of their brethren; but with anger and almost with unbelief by the Imperialists. They could not believe it, for how was it possible for those cowardly (?) Boers (who, it had been predicted, would run away at the first cannon shot), to defeat the thoroughly armed and disciplined troops of England, why it is impossible! They believed that such simple faith as Steve’s was childishness. But what was their consternation when the disastrous news—to them—of Amajuba came, capped by the tidings that peace had been concluded favourably to the Boers. They called shame on England for at last recognising the injustice that they were perpetrating on a quiet and peace-loving people.
Public opinion in England, and all over the world, had shown the Imperial Government the error of their ways at last. They had to make peace after being defeated, and promise the Boers their independence back again. But the Imperial Government seemed to say, ‘Never mind the defeat and shame, we will show the Boers a trick or two yet. We will appoint a Royal Commission, and force a convention on the Boers to our own liking, and they shall feel the Lion’s paw in another way.’
Yes, England was magnanimous (?) enough to give (?) the Boers their independence back, but not the independence that had been taken from them.
Oh, no, English diplomats are not such fools! They took gold from the Boers; they gave them brass in exchange. They took their independence, independence in every sense of the word, from them; independence without conditions, such as was recognised by the Sand River Convention, but they gave back a false municipal independence, only a shadow of the independence possessed before.
‘Bah!’ thought these English diplomats, ‘how will these ignorant Boers know the difference?’ Alas, England, England, where was thy boasted honour and magnanimity then? Thou protector of the weak and injured, remember there is a God, Who weighs the nations, as well as individuals; and the time may arrive, when thou mayest see that dread hand-writing on the wall with those fatal words, ‘Mene, mene, Tekel, Upharsin,—Thou hast been weighed, and thou hast been found wanting, and thou shalt be swept from off the face of the earth. Stop—before it is too late, and use the power and wealth that God has granted thee, to a better purpose than that of enslaving and oppressing a weaker people.’
’Twas a glad day for Steve when he stopped before the notice board of the local paper one day and read the news of the Transvaal victory at Amajuba, and that peace and freedom were promised to the people of his father. He ran joyfully to his mother and cried out, ‘Mother, mother, God has heard our prayers, the Transvaal has won, and our people are Free.’
‘Is that true, my son?’
‘Yes, mother, I have just seen it on the notice board,’ and then Steve told her all he had read on the board.
His mother, God-fearing and grateful, made him kneel at her side, and poured out praises and thanksgivings to God Almighty, Who had thus wrought a miracle to save His people.
Does England realise that the Boers are a God-fearing people, who have never heard of materialism, Atheism and other blaspheming isms? still less do they believe in such. No, they believe simply, and with the faith of a child in God and His word:—‘If your faith is no larger than a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say to that mountain “Go,” and it shall go, “Come,” and it shall come.’ The Boers had faith, and they moved not mountains, but they moved—England.
While the war was still going on, and the ultimate end of the war was yet uncertain, Steve, to show his patriotism, and to prove that he was not ashamed to be called a Boer (which name was generally used by the English as a name of contempt and reproach), got up an association amongst all his young Afrikander friends. In this association there was only one rule, and this rule was, that no member was to speak to another member without using as a name of endearment the name ‘Boer.’ Each one was to be honoured when addressed by another member by being called ‘Boer’; and for some time the English schoolmates of these young patriots were surprised to hear remarks such as these, ‘Hillo, “Boer,” are you going for a swim this afternoon,’ or, ‘I say, “Boer,” let us go and have a feed of grapes at Tante (auntie) Sannie this evening.’ And even to this day, when these young men are grown up and are scattered over the country, when corresponding with each other, they are in the habit of beginning their letters in this way,—
‘My dear old Boer. I received your last letter,’ etc., and they have lived to see the name of Boers not only not to signify shame any longer, but to be honoured by friends and foes.
Steve was over jealous of the good name of his people, and lost no opportunity to stand up for them.
Our young hero had one staunch English friend, that is English in that his parents were English, but he was Afrikander born, and he was an Afrikander at heart. He was named Gus Turner. These two young friends were standing together amongst a group of other boys one day arguing on politics as usual. Why shouldn’t they?—their parents talked nothing else all day.
A young man named Jim M’Murphy was speaking sneeringly. He was strongly built, and considerably larger than Steve. He was saying,—
‘It is all humbug these Boers having beaten our soldiers. They are all cowards!’
‘You lie!’ cried Steve in his anger; and before he knew what was going to take place, he was sprawling on the ground, with a bloody nose from an unexpected blow. But Steve was not the boy to accept punishment unreturned, so he jumped up and hit his assailant on the eye, which spoilt the sight of that eye for a day or two.
‘Well done, Steve,’ cried Gus; ‘do it again.’
But he had no time to do it again, for at that moment one of the teachers appeared on the scene and put a stop to further fighting. But M’Murphy had not done with him yet; a black eye was not to be taken tamely by an Englishman from a Boer!
That night, when Steve went home from the evening preparation class at school, he was surprised to see a crowd of street arabs outside the school door. These youngsters were composed of Kaffirs, Hottentots, and bastards of all colours. To explain their presence, we must state that M’Murphy’s father kept a grocery store; among other good things, he retailed sugar sticks. Jim M’Murphy was his fathers’ assistant when not in school, and thus had full access to his father’s stock of sugar sticks, and he used these sugar sticks as payment to his regiment of young ragamuffins, who were to assist him in having his revenge on Steve for the black eye given him. What he really intended doing with Steve, when he had captured him, has never been revealed; but as soon as Steve had walked a few paces from the school door, pushing his way through the crowd with the assistance of Gus Turner, and wondering what in the world was up to call such a crowd together, he felt his jacket pulled violently from behind and heard M’Murphy’s voice calling out,—
‘Here he is.’ In a moment two or three more had hold of him before he knew any evil was intended him. But when he saw how the wind lay, he wrenched his arms free and struck out right and left, always seconded by Gus Turner, who stuck to his friend like a man. But although Steve’s arms were now free, M’Murphy still had hold of his jacket, and he could not reach behind himself to strike at the coward behind his back. But he was not at a loss yet. He spun round and round as fast as he could, and here was M’Murphy revolving round him, standing straight out behind Steve’s back, somewhat like the snake that had hold of Paddy’s clothing when Paddy was running round the house.
Going round at the speed that Steve was spinning, even M’Murphy had to let go! and the sudden cessation from his circular motion caused him to lose his balance, and sent him squirming on the ground. M’Murphy’s army was now closing up to take Steve and his companion prisoners by force of numbers, when the teacher once more appeared on the scene, being attracted by the noise, and scattered M’Murphy’s army (like chaff before the wind) with his great knobby stick.
Steve and Gus took advantage of this diversion in their favour to clear round the first corner, but soon found the whole crowd on their track once more. There was nothing for it now but to run to avoid being captured. But the enemy could run too, and half-a-dozen of the best runners amongst the enemy were soon overtaking the two fugitives. The foremost one was just laying hold of Steve’s coat, when Gus Turner dropped down right in front of him, tripped him, and sent him head over heels to the ground, and two more of the enemy, being just behind, followed suit. But Gus was up again in a moment, and once more he and Steve ran for it. Gaining a good few paces by the confusion caused by the tripped enemy, Gus Turner’s home, which was the nearest, was soon reached. Once protected by the shadow of his castle, and sure of a safe retreat, the two fugitives stood at bay, and taking out their catapults, a boy’s most offensive weapon, sent a shower of buckshot into the ranks of the approaching enemy, who first halted in a crowd at a short distance, but finding themselves thus bombarded by the hidden battery of the two boys standing in the dark shadow, the enemy soon scattered and dispersed, leaving Gus and Steve in possession of the battlefield.
CHAPTER V
YOUTHFUL PRANKS
It is not our purpose to give a full history of the boyhood of our hero. We would rather hurry on to give an account of his life as a man. But we hope our readers will not think it tedious, if we give an episode or two of his boyhood’s life, which will enable the reader the better to understand and sympathise with him in his aspirations and ambitions.
Steve was by no means a paragon of goodness at all times—no boy ever is. He loved mischief as much as any other boy. We do not believe in the perfect hero. Every boy and man, as well as girl and woman, has his or her faults. Steve’s greatest fault was a keen sense of the ludicrous, which often led him into mischief; besides he loved mischief for its own sweet sake. He, one night, nearly had to sleep in the lock-up through his mischievous pranks. He and a companion, thinking it a pity not to make the best use of a fine moonlight night, proceeded to prepare for a game of snake. To the reader, who has never had the pleasure and excitement to play snake, I will explain how it is done.
A dark coloured strip of cloth is obtained in the shape and size of a fine large healthy snake. To one end of this artificial snake the end of a thin and almost invisible string is tied. The longer the string the safer the operation is.
Well, Steve and his companion manufactured just such a snake. They laid the snake on one side of the street in the regulation way. That is in the shape a snake is supposed to delight in assuming, viz., curled up in a zigzag form. Then they took the further end of the string to the opposite side of the street, crept through a hole in the hedge, taking their end of the string with them, and watched their opportunity. Presently a man came down the street, walking jauntily along as if he feared neither man nor devil; but as soon as he is in a line with the snake the fun commences. The first thing our peaceful citizen is aware of is a snake entangled with, and curling between, his legs, in a most lively fashion (operated by the string of course). Who is going to fight a snake of such a size in the uncertain moonlight, and unarmed too? Not he! no fear! So the only result was a yell, a whoop, and a mighty jump, and our peaceful citizen disappears round the first corner with long record-beating strides, leaving the destruction of the snake to the next comer. Of course, as soon as the victim is out of earshot, Steve and his companion are holding their sides, laughing at the jolly fun. The snake is soon replaced and the fun recommences. After sundry victims had afforded copious fun to the mischievous operators, they began to think it rather slow waiting for customers, so they started walking up the street in search of the slow-coming victims. The fun was lively and brisk for some time, but they reached the summit of their enjoyment when they frightened a troop of servant girls, accompanied by their beaux, out for a walk. The troop scattered all over the street, howling, yelling and screaming, fit to wake the dead. They did wake someone from his sleep, who was not quite dead yet—the night watchman. Now this night watchman was not a bird to be caught by chaff twice. He had seen this trick before. He caught up the snake, and, following the line up, soon came to the hiding youths. But if he thought that he was going to gain promotion by catching these night-birds he was mightily mistaken, for these slippery gents crushed their way through the hedge lining the street into a garden, and climbing hedge after hedge, from one garden into the other, until they came to another street, easily escaped, and walked quietly home, minus their snake, which had fallen into the hands of the watchman. Of course this spice of danger made the fun all the greater.
Steve and his friends had one grand playground. It was on the edge of the town on the river bank. There they would congregate of an afternoon and indulge in all the different kinds of games dear to a boy’s heart. Steve was one of the youngest of the boys who met here, and therefore was not as yet initiated into all the crafts of the band. One night, while playing cricket at this spot, Steve’s cousin and namesake—a boy easily led astray and into mischief, vacillating and weak principled, of which more will be seen further on—came to him, and, after leading him on one side, said in English (which, the reader must understand, is a foreign language to Steve, his mother’s tongue being Dutch, or rather Afrikander, and he was only just beginning to learn English at school).
‘I say, Steve, do you want to smoke?’
‘Smoke? Smoke? What is that?’
‘Rook, rook!’ replied his cousin.
‘Oh, rook! I don’t know. Is it nice?’
‘Oh, yes; come and try.’
Of course the policy of his elder companions in asking Steve to join them was to make him participate in their stealthy practice, and thus incriminate him, to prevent him from getting them into trouble by telling anyone about it, by which means their parents might come to hear of it, which, of course, would mean severe punishment to them. Steve’s cousin led him into a dense bush on the river bank, which he had never explored as yet, therefore he was surprised to see his cousin part the bushes and lead him into a large but thoroughly concealed opening among the bushes. The overhanging branches made it a nearly rainproof retreat. Here Steve found about half-a-dozen members of the secret smoking club. After a look round, our hero was offered a smoke, which he accepted, and was soon puffing away at—what does the uninitiated reader think?—a piece of ratan, which was one of the first stages in learning the art of smoking in this particular band; the porous wood of the ratan, or cane, serving as a good conductor of the smoke from the burning end. Of the whole band gathered here, only one was advanced enough to indulge in the real article, viz., tobacco; the rest were all smoking one, or another, of the different substitutes for tobacco known to the rising generation. I suppose the manly reader who has been brought up in a proper and an enlightened manner has learned to smoke with the usual cigarette, made up of Turkish, or mixed tobacco. But these youths, sons of more or less poor parents, being allowed no pocket money, had to satisfy themselves with the best substitutes for tobacco they could discover; and they showed a rare genius in discovering different cheap articles to serve their purpose, amongst which were such things as pumpkin stalk, cane, leaves of various trees, and various similar rubbish. All this is vulgar is it not? Yet I can assure you it is not as bad as it sounds. It produces plenty of the chief thing desired—smoke!
But to resume. Steve did not remain satisfied for many days with these insipid and weak substitutes; so when his cousin, who was the only one who smoked tobacco regularly, offered to allow him a few puffs at the real thing, he accepted readily enough, and smoked like all novices generally do, viz., smoked as if his life depended upon his finishing the pipe as fast as possible. All went well until he had finished the pipe, for while he was yet smoking, he had thought it not at all as nasty as it had been described to him. But when he had put the pipe down (which was made of two joints of reeds, one about an inch in diameter serving as the bowl, and another one with a tiny opening serving as the stem) he began to feel the effects. He felt as if the world were whirling round and round on purpose to make him sick. He made his way to some water the best way he could, plunged his head therein and washed out his mouth, but nothing would take away that awful feeling which most readers who are also smokers know to be the effect of the first pipe of tobacco. It was only after having lain down on the grass for an hour or so, with closed eyes, vowing innumerable vows never to touch tobacco again, that he got well enough to go home, amid the teasings and jokes of his companions. But I must state here that Steve did not keep his vow never to touch tobacco again. Who does not make these vows when learning to smoke, and who does not break them? Steve tried again and again, and after having broken his pipe and renewed his vow not to smoke again for some dozen times, he succeeded at last in smoking without getting sick, and to-day he can smoke his pipe against any man.
CHAPTER VI
A CHARACTER SKETCH OF OUR HERO
Steve was not fond of school. He liked studying and learning, but he wanted to select his own studies, and hated to be forced to learn what he did not wish to study. He was passionately fond of books, with hardly any distinction. He would never allow a book to pass out of his hand without first reading it, if he could help it. If he got hold of a book he would read it. If he had no time, he would make time. While walking in the street, he would be holding the book in front of his nose, while carefully feeling his steps, or while taking his hurried meals, or when other people were soundly sleeping at night, and even in school he would find time to read; and read books, too, which no teacher of any self-respect would have tolerated. But what did Steve care for the opinion of his teacher as to what books he should read? A book was a book to him, to be used and to be made the most of possible. He would smuggle the book into school under his coat, and while his teacher was thinking that Steve was studying his lessons most diligently, that young man would be deeply interested in some book of travels, or something of the kind. Not that Steve did not learn his lessons. He did learn them, but it did not take him long to do so; reading his task over once or twice was quite sufficient for him to know as much of it as he cared to know. His object was not to be at the top of his class. No, his nature was too retiring to allow him to render himself as conspicuous as all that. If he did happen to come up top by accident, he made his way down to the bottom again as fast as he could. His friend, Gus Turner, was also fond of being at the bottom of the class, but not from choice, but perforce because his mental abilities did not allow him to get up higher, and he always did his best to keep Steve near him, for he found Steve useful to prompt him when his own knowledge of questions asked, failed him. Steve always obliged his friend as best he could, both in supplying answers as well as in keeping near him at the bottom of the class. One day he was caught in the act. The teacher had come down with a question right from the top of the class, and no one could answer the question asked, until he had come to Steve, who thoughtlessly answered it correctly. ‘Go up top,’ said the teacher. But Steve quietly kept his seat. He was not going to leave his friend at the bottom while he went to the top! The teacher soon noticed this, and asked him why he did not go up. He replied that he did not care to do so. ‘Go to the bottom then,’ commanded the angry teacher. Steve did so. What did he care? His friend was at the bottom; he had been just above him, now he was just below him. What difference did it make?
I have said that Steve was fond of reading; he was also fond of thinking—day-dreaming. His great delight was, when he had the time for it, as on Sundays, for instance, to go out for a walk into the veld, and find a shady grassy spot on which to lie on his back, looking up into the sky, to think—think about all sorts of things, past, present, and future. He did not fear to try and think out problems which had puzzled greater and more matured brains than his. There was one great mystery to which his thoughts generally would come back again and again. He could generally find some solution to all questions that cropped up, but this particular one would not be solved, turn it over as he would. This mystery was—Space.
CHAPTER VII
THOUGHTS AND FLOWERS
While thus lying on his back, gazing up into the bright South African sky, with the sun seemingly floating as an atom in all the immensity of space; and the sun he had learned in his books was ever so many times larger than our earth, and yet it seemed only a speck in space. ‘Space, space, what is space? Where does it begin? Where does it end?’ And then he would fly on in imagination from world to world, from star to star, from sun to sun, but his imagination could not find even a probable ending for space. He had never read anything on the subject to help him. He had never read any book in which he had seen what others thought of the subject, so he had to puzzle his own poor brain, eternally thinking, thinking ever on it. Surely, SURELY there must be some answer to this problem. Surely there MUST be a beginning to space as well as an end, otherwise how can it be, and yet it cannot have beginning or end. He felt as if he should get mad trying to think it out; and when he got so far as to feel his brain reeling in endeavouring to pierce beyond the mystery of space, he would jump up and shout and laugh, and run about looking for his favourite wild flowers in order to forget this maddening thought, but it would come back to him whenever he was alone and thinking.
Speaking about flowers—that was another of his passions. He was never so happy as when tending his few flowers. He was famous for the beauty of the wild flowers he generally gathered in the mountains when he had time. He used to think a half-holiday well spent if he could take a walk into the mountains to gather a beautiful bouquet of his favourite wild flowers. As has been suggested before, he was of a retiring nature, and greatly disliked crowds. At any festival in town, when everybody, including his own family, would all eagerly gather together to enjoy themselves by seeing and being seen, he would rather go for a walk in the veld, where his thoughts were his only company—and good company he always found them. Or he would find a comfortable nook and read a book, during which occupation he would forget the rest of the world and be happy.
CHAPTER VIII
STEP-CHILDREN
Steve’s mother had married again a few years after his father’s death. She would have preferred remaining unmarried, as she considered it would have been more faithful to the memory of her dead husband; but she found herself too poor to educate her children unaided, and bring them up as she would like to do. It was not a happy marriage, which is usually the case where there are step-children to cause jealousy—the more so when the step-parent is not of the best-natured and gentlest character. Steve’s stepfather respected and, in his way, loved his wife; but he disliked Steve, because that youngster was a manly and proud little fellow, and rebelled against his stepfather when the latter treated him unjustly, or ill-treated his little sisters: which his stepfather often did, more out of spite to Steve than from any other reason.
He used to make Steve work (out of school hours) in the garden, chop wood, carry water, and, in fact, he invented work for the poor boy if there was no work really wanting to be done. Poor Steve did all this most patiently and dutifully, even though he lost his play hours; for he did not really care much for the usual boyish games of his companions. All he cared for was to secure a candle end to read his beloved books by at night, when everybody else was sleeping, or to take his walk into the veld on Sundays, after church time. Amidst the beauties of Nature, which he loved with the love of a true child of Nature, he was happy. He was patient and enduring amidst the petty persecutions of his stepfather, for his mother’s sake, while it only concerned himself. He did not even complain when his stepfather one day found him stealing a glimpse into a new book which he had borrowed from a friend and cruelly took it from him and cast it into the fire. His stepfather could not have done him greater personal injury if he had tried for a month to find the way. But Steve took it quietly and patiently, even though it was a borrowed book and it would take some of his few most-treasured books to satisfy his friend from whom he had borrowed the volume. Steve was accustomed to these daily persecutions from his stepfather.
But there were times when even his stepfather was awed into fear of him—that was when Steve considered his sisters ill-treated. To give an instance.
Steve’s mother had a son by her second husband, seven years old at this time—a child who, perhaps, would have been a good boy if he had been left to his mother’s care and training. But his father utterly spoiled him by giving him his desires and wishes unstinted, no matter at what sacrifice or how foolish those wishes were. If it was the most precious article belonging to his stepbrother or sisters, if he asked for it, he was to have it. Steve had long rebelled against this, especially on behalf of his sisters, but always to no effect. In fact, he made himself only the more hated by his stepfather. He did not dislike his little half-brother; he wished to treat and love him as his mother’s child, but the child’s father made this an impossibility for Steve, through his continual injustice. The result was that the boy was perfectly spoiled, and, whenever he saw his brother or sisters have anything new, he used to cry for it until his father made them give it up to him.
One evening the whole family was sitting round the table, waiting for evening prayers, at which the mother always insisted that everyone should be present. Steve’s sister, Dora, had that day secured at school a pretty little picture book; she was sitting looking at this when her little stepbrother, who was sitting next to her, snatched at the book and tore a leaf. She, of course, pulled the book away from him, which made the spoiled child set up a fearful howling. His father got up and gave poor, innocent little Dora a severe slap on the cheek, which made the poor child turn blue from pain in a moment. Steve could not stand this. He was now sixteen years of age, and could not quietly see his little sister treated in such a cruel and unjust way.
He rose, pale from anger, and, striking his fist on the table, which made the different articles thereon jump again, said in a voice hard and firm,—
‘By God, if you strike my sister again in that way, I shall kill you. Do you hear?’ And his voice sounded and his expression looked so threatening, that the coward (all blusterers are cowards) felt awed and afraid. He had not the courage to brave Steve in his anger. He looked down and did not say a word more.
CHAPTER IX
FAVOURITE HEROES
When Steve was fifteen years of age he was taken from school and placed in an office at a small—very small—salary.
His education was not completed yet by far. He could read well, write fairly well, of arithmetic he knew sufficient for the ordinary wants of business life; his grammar was only sufficient to help him to speak English fairly correctly, with a mistake only once in a while. In orthography he was proficient enough to write a fairly well spelled letter. In history he excelled—that was his favourite study, no matter whose history it was. Bible, secular, English, Dutch, Italian, but especially South African, French and American history, he studied; the latter two because they were Republics, for he was a thorough Republican, and wished to know everything about Republicanism.
He loved to read the story of Napoleon. He gloried in Napoleon’s genius, in his wonderful victories. But he grieved over the follies of the Emperor. The General Bonaparte, even the first Consul was his admiration—but the Emperor was a monster to him. He could not understand that a man, who had displayed such wonderful genius as Napoleon had done, could make such foolish mistakes as Napoleon had made as Emperor. He could not understand that such a man should care for the empty pomps and vanities of a throne. To his mind Napoleon would have been a greater man by far if he had remained only a Consul or President of the French Republic. Why a man who had done what he had done for France, and who had striven to the end to live and work only for the people, who wished to live for posterity as a man who had won the hearts of his people (such a man would be nobler and grander by far than one like Napoleon proved in the end) had only used his country and people to work for his own glory and vanity, puzzled Steve.
On the other hand, he considered George Washington by far a greater and nobler man than Napoleon. For Washington had lived and fought only for his country, and had proved to be nobly unselfish to the end. The States, in his opinion, really did “lick creation” as a great and free country.
The history of his own country he simply devoured. He never lost an opportunity of getting hold of a book which treated in any way of South Africa. If the book spoke favourably of his country and people, he was pleased and happy. If the book libelled his country—as so many books really do—he was grieved, but treated it with the contempt it deserved, and took his revenge by extracting any information he found in it.
CHAPTER X
OUT OF SCHOOL
As we stated in the last chapter, Steve was taken from school before his education was at all fairly completed and placed in an office. This was done against the wishes of his mother; but his stepfather said he could not have him eating the roof off the house and live a lazy, good-for-nothing life any longer—he must work and earn his living.
William Waitz (which was the name of Steve’s stepfather) wanted to make a mechanic of the poor boy, but his mother, who understood his nature, would not allow this. She knew this was altogether against the wishes and abilities of her son, and she insisted that he should be placed in an office. Her influence—and a good woman’s influence, even on a bad man, always makes itself felt—gained for Steve the victory, and he was not placed with a mechanic, which he would have hated. He desired opportunities to improve himself mentally, and how could he improve himself so as a mason or brick-layer?
Steve knew his education was by no means complete, but he did not mind leaving school, for he ardently desired to earn his own living and to be independent; besides, he did not intend to leave off studying, only now he could choose his own subjects for study. History—political and natural—astronomy, geography, books on agriculture, horticulture, tree culture, apiculture, all were welcome to him; he would as readily read and study the one as the other, and on many a night, when his stepfather sent him hungry and starving to bed as a punishment for doing nothing in particular, he would console himself and forget his hunger in reading some book or other. It was nothing unusual for him to be caught by the daybreak stealing into his little room, his candle still burning, and he deeply immersed in his book.
CHAPTER XI
HOPES
For the first couple of years Steve’s earnings all went into the pockets of his stepfather. But during the third year Steve simply refused to give up more than three-quarters of his salary, for his father supplied him only with the barest necessities in clothing, and he considered he was entitled to a small portion of his earnings to buy such things as he wished for, such as books, etc.
The first thing Steve did, when he found himself absolute owner of a portion of his earnings, was to subscribe to the local library, even though he sadly wanted a new suit and a new pair of boots. But to be able to select his own books to read from such a stock of books as the library contained, he would have sacrificed almost anything.
He first of all inquired for all books dealing with his beloved South Africa; and if he could find any dealing with the Transvaal or Orange Free State, he was doubly happy. The Transvaal and the Free State were to him as two shining stars in an otherwise dark sky; they were the two states in which his people were free. Ah! how he used to long to go to the Transvaal and live where he could feel free, and say, ‘Here I am a man, for here I can look everybody in the eyes and feel I am his equal, and not subject to a foreign race,’ His plan was firmly made up to go to the Transvaal as soon as ever he could manage to do so. The time did arrive at last when he could go.
CHAPTER XII
THE TRANSVAAL IN PROSPECTIVE
Steve had always watched with absorbing interest the progress of events in the Transvaal. He had seen with intense pity the struggle of the Republican Government to make ends meet, and to prevent financial ruin. But he always trusted that all would come right; and it was with a joy almost greater than if his own fortune was in question that he—at last—saw the rising fortunes of the South African Republic. He saw the reported discoveries of gold at Barberton; which already gave a great stimulus to commerce and trade; and then, as if Providence had determined at last to make the Transvaal prosperous and rich, far beyond the dreams of avarice, the grand discoveries at the Witwatersrand followed those of Barberton, which in turn were augmented by further discoveries all over the district. Miles of main reef were traced out, companies with enormous capitals were promoted, and a time of great prosperity and successful speculation followed. Fortunes were made and lost in a week, a day, an hour. The Government revenues rose by leaps and bounds, and they had no longer to almost beg for the loan of a few thousands. Capitalists were only too eager to advance money on such safe securities as could be offered.
Government officials, who before had to work for the love of country and people only, now received their rewards; from the highest to the lowest they were able to now receive their salaries at the end of the month. And when the finances of the country were placed on a sound and safe footing, the Volksraad did the right thing at the right time by advancing salaries all round.
The reported rich finds, so marvellous and so rich at the Witwatersrand, were soon noised all over the world; and people flocked from all quarters of the globe to the goldfields. They came, saw, and were satisfied—even as the Queen of Sheba was—that all the riches of the Rand had not been reported to them.
A township was laid out and given a name—Johannesburg. Who has not heard of it? Johannesburg became the ninth wonder of the world. It rose, as if in one night, and became a great and well-built city, such as can be found no where else in South Africa, and, in certain senses, nowhere else in the world!
Beautiful buildings, strong and lasting, rose, as if by enchantment, one after the other, proving that confidence was not wanting in the stability of the goldfields.
Johannesburg differed greatly from other goldfields in other countries. In Australia and California, when a goldfield was first rushed, tents and tin shanties prevailed. Here, buildings in brick and stone were prominent everywhere. In the former, law and order was noted for its absence; here, everything was done most orderly and lawfully, which showed once more the ability of the Boer Government to govern even such a community, and that not by display of force. Comparatively few police were kept; only sufficient for watching the individual criminal and vagabond that even such a law-abiding goldfield will attract.
It was, and is, a marvel to many how order and law were kept and administered by such a weak show of police. I believe it was simply the conscious strength and stability of the Government which was felt, if not seen, by all parties, combined by the promptness of the Government to remove all just causes of complaints, and to give aid where aid was required. No honest and just memorial was ever refused by Government. The only request which could not be granted was the Franchise, the justness and fairness of which is open to question, and appears altogether in a different view when seen either by the one side or the other. But of this we shall see more anon.
CHAPTER XIII
THE NESTLING PREPARING FOR FLIGHT
Well, Steve thought these things all tended to realise his dream of becoming a Transvaaler.
One thing only troubled him; would it be right for him to desert his mother and sisters? After long thinking, he decided to leave it to his mother to decide for him, so he went to her and said,—
‘Mother, you know I have always wished to go to the Transvaal; you know what my father said on his death-bed; that I must do all I can to make our people one strong nation, and I can do more for them in a country where they are free and independent. From there I can work as if entrenched in a castle, and who knows, some time we might be able to free our people in this country too? But on the other hand, father also said I must look after you and my sisters; do you think I ought to stay here? do you think I can do more for you staying at home, or can I do as much or more by going to the Transvaal, and work and try and make enough money to be able to help you and my sisters in time of need?’
‘My son, the thought of losing you is dreadful, and that alone could induce me to keep you here; but my love for you is above being selfish; I can only wish for what is best for you, and if you think you can do better in the Transvaal, let not the thought of me or your sisters, keep you back. We can get on, and we shall write to you every week, and if we need you, or aid from you, we shall not fail to let you know. I would not thus give you up so easily, but I know your heart is set upon going; I have expected it for a long time. I believe I can trust you to keep your name and heart pure even thus far away from me; and God will watch over you.’ She wept. Even though she appeared to give him up so easily, to go far away from her, not to see him again, perhaps for years, perhaps never again on earth, her heart was torn to the very roots. But she was an unselfish mother, and would not sacrifice her son’s well-being and future prospects to her love.
‘But, mother, will father be as good to you and sisters when I am away as when I am here, for, without vanity, I may say I think he fears me just enough to forbear from ill-treating my sisters, and when I am away he may feel no such restraint.’
‘Better, I think,’ replied his mother, ‘for I really believe it is the antagonism he feels for you that makes him bad-tempered and cruel sometimes. I think if you are away, and ceased to irritate him, he will be a better stepfather and wife to us.’
‘Mother, you have decided for me. I go as soon as I can hear of an opening!’
CHAPTER XIV
COUSINS
Steve’s cousin and namesake had proceeded to the Transvaal some months before this.
We have mentioned the young man before as Steve’s tutor in the art of smoking. A few words as regards him will not be out of place here, as we may hear, off and on, of his doings, as affecting Steve. We have said before that he was a vacillating young man; a fact which he showed in every act of his life. Years before he surprised Steve’s constant young heart, during the Transvaal war of independence, by declaring—while the issue was as yet uncertain—that the English would give the Boers such a licking as they would never forget. He declared the Boers were cowards. He was one of those that took up the saying, that the Boers would run away at the first cannon shot. He changed his mind when the Boers were successful. Now he composed songs, in which he celebrated the victory of the Republicans in glowing terms, and abused the English tyrants enough to suit the taste of the most fiery Republican. Such was his nature. He was inconstant to his friends, he was inconstant to his sweethearts (mind the plural), he was inconstant to himself!
Like all such natures, he was a braggart and boaster. When he was amongst strangers he was a Crœsus in wealth, a king in power. Amongst his friends, he had always seen and done things wonderful to relate. But not one of them seemed ever to have the luck to be present when he saw and did these things. But his acquaintances knew him, and generally treated his stories with derision and contempt. Their ironical questions and looks appeared to his vanity questions and looks of belief and wonder.
He was not actually ill-natured or unkind. He had his tender spots. Real pain and grief greatly affected him, and brought pity into his heart, and at such times he was always amongst the first to render aid. In this respect only he resembled Steve. In all else he was his direct opposite. His vanity, love of boasting, and wish to thrust himself into a prominent part of whatever was taking place, together with a weakness to be on the side of the stronger party, was the bane of his life. The worst of him was that he did not seem to realise the shame and dishonour of deserting his party when it seemed to be on the losing side and taking up with the stronger.
Steve hated these faults in his cousin, and tried to reason sense and honour into him. But, being several years the junior of his cousin, his opinions were considered as childish, and disregarded. So Steve could only view his cousin’s backslidings with patience and grief; which he did; as he was thrown into daily contact with his cousin through force of circumstances. In one thing or another he had to do with him every day, and really bore him a sort of cousinly affection, but this was unaccompanied by any respect.
CHAPTER XV
THE RISING GENERATION
When Steve’s cousin left for the Transvaal a sort of correspondence was kept up between them. Steve took advantage of this to write to his cousin and ask him to look for a situation for him.
At this time, through the force of circumstances—the want of proper schools, the struggle for existence against poverty, native troubles, and other difficulties—the youth of the Transvaal were seldom educated enough to take their proper places in the civil service of their country, or in the commercial, law, or other offices, so that the Government were forced to employ Hollanders, young educated Afrikanders from the Cape Colony and elsewhere, in the civil service; and merchants, as well as other employers, were forced to do the same, the only difference being, that for Government service a knowledge of official language—Dutch—was absolutely necessary for applicants, while private offices were not always particular, especially commercial offices. Hence the abuse the Government has had to suffer on account of employing so many of their Hollander brothers. These disabilities on the part of born Transvaalers are gradually disappearing through the fostering care of Government. Schools are State-aided in an instituted manner now, and young Transvaalers are continually entering Government service more and more every day.
CHAPTER XVI
THE APRON STRINGS CUT
For the reason given in the last chapter, it did not take Steve’s cousin long to find a good situation for him; and when Steve received the letter in which his success was told, and bidding him come up without a day’s delay, his joy was unbounded.
His preparations did not take long. By selling everything that he had which he could not take with him, and scraping together every penny he had, he just managed to get together sufficient to take him to Pretoria—his final destination. Why linger over Steve’s leave-takings from friends and relatives? why should we restrain him with our presence when he bids good-bye to mother and sisters? why visit with him for the last time the haunts of his childhood? Many of us do not require to be told what took place, many of us have gone through it ourselves, have cast a lingering look on a beloved walk, or favoured spot, have given the last pressure to the hands of dear ones weeping, have felt the choking sensation which prevents the voice from saying the last word we fain would say, but must leave unsaid through emotion.
Steve was on his way to Eldorado; to the land of freedom and wealth; to the land where were centred all his hopes and ambitions for the future.
It was the first time he had left home for longer than a week; but in spite of his regrets to leave home, mother and sisters, he felt happy. He left as if he was a man at last. Free. He was going to fight the battle of life unaided; he asked for naught but a fair field and no favour.
Ah, Nature looked doubly glorious that morning as he rode through the surrounding hills and valleys and felt the genial sunshine and breathed the pure free air.
We will not accompany him any farther. We will leave him travelling on the top of the coach, enjoying his freedom and the beauties of Nature, as viewed from his lofty perch, free to indulge in his day-dreams and build his air castles unstinted for material; his rich imagination supplied all. The future is his; we will meet him in Johannesburg.
CHAPTER XVII
FIRST VIEW OF JOHANNESBURG
A coach halts in front of the coaching office, Johannesburg, a young man gets down and bustles about to secure his luggage, for here the coaches change, a new one has to be taken for Pretoria.
Of course this young man is no other than Steve. He arranges for his luggage to remain at the office until the Pretoria coach leaves, which will not be until three o’clock in the afternoon; it is only 10 a.m. now. He thinks the best thing he can do is to have a look round and see as much as he can of the place while he has the opportunity. He turns to a young man—whose acquaintance he has made during the journey on the coach, and who was returning to Pretoria, after spending a short holiday at the sea-coast—and said,—
‘I say, Harrison, what are you going to do while you wait for the coach?’
‘I am sure I don’t know. Kill time as best I can, I suppose.’
‘Suppose you act as guide and mentor for me in viewing the place. You know the place—I don’t—and you might take me to the places most worth seeing during the few hours we have. Come, be charitable this once, and help a green un.’
‘All right, old boy, I am always willing to be unselfish, and besides it will do as well as anything else to kill time and keep me out of mischief.’
He took Steve all over the principal streets to Hospital Hill, and gave him a bird’s eye view of all the surrounding places; and a sight worth seeing, too, it was to a young man that had just left a quiet provincial town. It was all bustle and vigour wherever he looked. It seemed as if there was an electric power in the air which forced everyone to do and act; no lingering or looking backward here, on, on, seems to be the watchword, or be left behind, to catch up never again. Even Steve seemed to feel this mysterious influence stealing over him as he stood gazing on the busy throng; he felt as if he would like to rush into the midst of them and to push and elbow his way until he was amongst the first, to stay there. For the moment Steve forgot his natural inclination to be reserved and quiet; he felt as if he could push and rush on with the best of them.
But other thoughts soon came crowding on; thoughts of pride and joy that he at last had the privilege to see the place fully which was so famous all over the world for its riches.
And this place belonged to his people—to the Afrikanders. Here they were free, and the equal of other races. Here they had the right to work out their own destiny. Ah, it was something to be proud of; this youthful but mighty and growing city; these surrounding and undulating plains, underneath whose green grass has lain concealed for ages past untold wealth. Wealth which was laid and preserved by Providence for the purpose of helping the people of his race to rescue their country from poverty and financial ruin.
Ah, God has been good to us. He means it well with us. We have a right to hope that he shall lead us on right to the end, if only we can remain true to Him as a people.
He spoke something of the latter thought to his companion, who was an Englishman, and who supposed Steve to be an Englishman too, from his pure accent, as he had learned to speak English very well, and with a purer English accent than is generally acquired by Afrikanders, through being in daily contact in his six years of business life with Englishmen. His companion replied,—
‘My dear fellow, do you think that this rich mining country will long remain in the possession of the Boers? If you do you are mightily mistaken. If the Boers do not themselves soon begin to see that they are unable to keep all these Uitlanders in order, and ask the British Government to take the government of the country over, then England will take it over whether they consent or not?’
Steve felt a pang shoot through his heart.
‘But how can England take their freedom from them? They have once tried to do so, and the Boers fought for their country and liberty and got it back. How can England take it now again?’
‘My dear fellow, you must remember that at that time this country was only a poor, worthless desert and England did not consider it worth while fighting for?’
‘Take that for granted; but even then, do you think England would be so unjust to take the country from the Boers again, just because it turns out to be richer than she thought; that would be disgraceful.’
‘But England has, through her capitalists, thousands of pounds sterling—and soon it will be millions—at stake in the goldfields of the country; she is bound to look after the money her subjects have placed in this country.’
‘Let us put it plainly,’ said Stephen. ‘You have a house, I have a thousand pounds; I wish to find a safe hiding-place for my money, I think your house just the place; I hide it there, without your request or permission. But, on after thoughts, I think my money would be much safer if I had possession of the house instead of you. I arm myself; I go to you and say, “You clear out of this, my money is not safe while you remain in possession.” You refuse to go. I put a bullet through your brain, carry you out, bury you, and take full possession. My money is safe now, no more need be said—might is right. That is about how you place the case.’
Harrison shrugged his shoulders, and replied doggedly,—
‘You do not understand these national affairs; it is otherwise than with individual personal affairs,’
‘I hope I may never understand it, if it means dishonour,’ replied Steve.
After this they wended their way to view a mine or two, from the outside, as they felt they could not spare the time then to go inside a mine. There was very little to be seen from the outside—a large shed-like building, hauling gear over a seemingly bottomless pit, surrounded by heaps of quartz and débris. Steve could hardly realise that this apparently hard, common stone, called quartz, really represented the great wealth of the mines. He had hoped to see, at least, some visible gold, but he was disappointed. It was just hard, flint-like stone, without a particle of yellow metal visible; and yet he was assured the gold was extracted in paying quantities from this stone.
After this they returned to town, to seek some refreshments, and came to a large building in course of erection.
Steve saw a couple of children playing close by, under the scaffolding; he took no particular note of them, but stood admiring the architecture of the building.
Suddenly he heard a cry of horror behind him; he saw a gentleman and lady standing with upheld hands, with a horror-struck and transfixed expression, looking at the children near to him; he turned, and what he saw sent a thrill of horror through him. He loved children, and would rather bear pain himself a thousand times than see a child in pain, wherefore he felt the danger of a child all the more. What he saw was this: A little girl was standing under the scaffolding, innocently looking at a beautiful doll another girl was carrying in the street, without seeing the terrible danger that was threatening her. Above her a tremendously heavy beam, which was securely tied at one end, was slipping down on the opposite side, a workman was holding the dangerous end. A rope was tied round it, and he was holding with all his might to prevent its falling; but the weight was too much for him. He dared not take breath to call out for help, the waste of the least breath, or the least bit of strength taken from the effort of holding the beam, would precipitate its fall. But it was slipping—slipping. ‘My God,’ thought he, ‘will no one see and take away that child.’ Someone saw. The cry of the mother of the child and the look of horror on her face had drawn Steve’s attention to the danger. He saw all we have described in the flash of an eye. Not a moment did he hesitate or think what he should do. He never lost his presence of mind in danger. Like the arrow from a bow, he flew right under the threatening beam, the fall of which meant death to any living creature that might be under it. He seized the child by the dress, and came out on the opposite side of the beam. He felt a shock against his shoulder, as if some heavy object struck him. He felt himself whirled round several times by the shock, and thrown against the wall. The thunder, as of a falling mountain, sounded in his ears. But he held the child firmly in his arms; she was safe. The beam had fallen, if Steve had been a fraction of a second later, or the beam had fallen a fraction of a second sooner, both he and the child would have been crushed. As it was, it just grazed his shoulder. He was unhurt save for a severe bruise on the shoulder.
Of course, a crowd collected in a moment. The mother and father had rushed over from the opposite side of the street where they had been standing. The mother was hugging and kissing the child; the father was wringing the hand of Steve, with protestations of gratitude and service. A re-action came for the mother; she felt faint and could scarcely speak her gratitude to Steve. So her husband hurried her to a carriage with the child, and going to Steve said,—
‘My friend, you have done a brave action; you have saved my child, on whose life the happiness of my wife and myself depends. I am your friend and debtor for life; here is my card. Let me see you this afternoon, and if there is anything I can do for you, I trust you will let me know it. I would not leave you now, but I must take my wife home.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Steve; he was thankful to be prevented from saying more by being pushed and pulled away by the crowd.
He hurried to find his companion (who had seen and heard all), and said to him, ‘Come on, Harrison; we have no time to lose, if we do not wish to lose our coach!’
‘What, are you going away without accepting the invitation of your new-found debtor? I would not, if I were you. He might do something good for you. Let me see his card.’
On seeing the name on the card, he whistled in surprise.
‘I say, young fellow, your fortune is made; I wish I were you. Why, man, the name on this card represents the most successful speculator and company promoter on the Rand. Why, a tip from him is worth thousands. Of course you will change your mind and let the coach take care of itself, and go and see him as he requested.’
‘Of course not; I do not like this fuss and bother about nothing. I do not wish to be paid for doing a humane action. Come on, let us be off,’ And in spite of his companion’s repeated advice not to lose such an opportunity to make his way in the world, Steve boarded the coach and left for Pretoria.
Quixotic? Yes, I suppose so. Unworthy the nineteenth century? No! I think the nineteenth century is unworthy of such Quixotism. Such an act is only worthy of the time of knight errantry, when men acted only for the honour of the thing, and every deed was not valued in £ s. d. But then Steve lived in that time in a sense—in a shell; his shell was composed of books, in which such creeds are still taught and tolerated, even though they are derided and laughed down in actual life—that is, in ultra-civilised life, which really means ‘live for self, and self only; nothing for nothing, and everything for gold.’ But Steve was unacquainted with this creed as yet; let us hope that he will never become the slave of such a creed.
CHAPTER XVIII
PRETORIA AND ITS LIFE
The writer of this has never admired the works of Rider Haggard; they are too untrue—untrue to Nature and the probabilities of life, and certainly untrue to facts, which are grossly exaggerated. But even in winter a strayed swallow is seen in our country. On the barest plain a tree is met occasionally, and in Haggard’s work I once came across something with which I can cordially agree. It is long ago since I read it, but it so surprised me that I have always remembered it. Yet it is so long since I read it that I am not quite sure in which of his works I saw it; but if I am not mistaken the thing is in Jess. The passage I refer to is where he says that Pretoria is the prettiest town in South Africa; and if Haggard thought so in the days when he knew Pretoria, when the streets were swamps, covered with grass, and it was a danger to venture out of doors after dark for fear of breaking a limb in some concealed hole, when no better building—or hardly better—than the house which Jess inhabited existed in the town, what must we say of it now, when the streets have been rebuilt (more or less), when beautiful buildings—the best and grandest in South Africa—have been raised; merchant princes have erected palaces, beautiful stores rival European houses, and Government has covered a block of ground with a pile of buildings of which even Pretoria can be proud. Even Nature herself has been improved upon, if I may be allowed to say so. Plantations of trees have been planted, where formerly bare plots of ground existed, beautifully laid out ornamental and flower gardens enchant the vision. A block of tares, which grew only a crop of grass formerly, is now laid out in a beautiful park, worthy the name, with a large fish pond in the centre, and even a substantially built bandstand has been added lately. All in all, Pretoria more than deserves the name so often applied to it, ‘Pretty Pretoria’; it really deserves to be called beautiful Pretoria.
No wonder, then, that Steve, who possessed a keenly appreciative eye for the beautiful, was enchanted with the view which met his eye when he entered Pretoria through the poort, from which emerges the road leading into it from Johannesburg, and he felt—like so many others have felt before and since—that once having seen Pretoria, a man may travel the world over, but he would ever feel a longing to be back in Pretoria. Many have felt this longing when in foreign lands, and have come back. Steve found his cousin waiting for him at the halting-place, and was soon introduced into his room at the quiet boarding-house, which had been secured for him at his request.
After a few days spent in resting after travelling for days in a cramped and crowded position, and becoming acquainted with the town in which he had resolved to make his home, Steve took his place in the office where he had secured the much-desired situation.
It did not take Steve long to get well into the mysteries of his work and the good graces of his employer and fellow-clerks. What pleased him most was that he came in daily contact with the Burghers of the district, which gave him the opportunity he had desired, viz., of studying the men whom he looked upon as heroes, in that they had dared so much and suffered so much, and had come out of the ordeal safe and victorious.
He found them distrustful at first, although kind and respectful. The stranger you are to them, the more civilly and kindly you are treated, but always with great reserve. But by studying them, and being always friendly and cordial towards them, he soon gained their confidence, and many was the pound of butter and biltong, varied now and then by a dozen of eggs, a couple of fowls, and at Christmas time even a lamb, that he received from them as tokens of friendship.
He found that the better they knew you, and the more they liked you, the more they joked with you and teased you. They are very fond of teasing, which has led foreigners to take them in earnest, and spread all sorts of reports, repeating for fact what the Boers said when they were only what is vulgarly but expressively called chaffing them. They especially delighted in doing this to ‘green uns,’ but always with the utmost good nature, and only when they liked such a ‘green un.’ They would never do it to one whom they disliked or distrusted. By the good grace and good nature with which Steve received all this banter, he got to be greatly liked, and was soon considered as being quite one of them, and was known to them far and wide. We shall see a great deal more of them in connection with Steve’s adventures and life amongst them, and shall delight to study their character with him with the view of understanding better this much maligned people.
In this way Steve spent several years of quiet life. He applied himself vigorously to his work, so that, as we have said, he soon gained the confidence of his employers, and speedily obtained promotion and increase of salary, which enabled him, while saving considerably, to send many a present to his mother and sisters.
In the boarding-house where he lodged, he found quite a pleasant party, composed of many nationalities, amongst whom he struck up many friendships irrespective of language. He found himself a fellow-lodger of his cousin; his former travelling companion, Harrison; another Englishman, a colonial named Keith, and a young Afrikander named Theron, who formed his particular circle of friends, and they generally managed to be together when any excursion or picnic was undertaken.
Although, as we have said, he did not really agree with his cousin, he felt that in common gratitude towards him for having obtained a situation for him, and as a duty due to cousinly affection, he was bound to include him as one of his friends.
In the boarding-house, the boarders were in the habit of forming themselves into a sort of free and easy debating society, for want of better recreation in the long evenings. That is to say those who did not care to spend their evenings in bar-rooms and billiard saloons, which formed Pretoria’s principal places of amusement at this time. Of course it goes without saying, that Steve kept clear as much as possible of these places, for he was accustomed in his native town to the idea that it was a disgrace for any self-respecting man or youth to be seen going into a bar. What shocked him was for the first time to see a girl serving drink in a bar, surrounded by a coarse and blaspheming crowd of young men. To him women had always seemed as creatures almost divine, too good to be touched without veneration. He thought they should be worshipped at a distance, and that in their presence the most choice and delicate language only should be used. There he saw them treated roughly and disrespectfully, and even handled as if they were only coarse, common, everyday human beings, and worst of all they seemed to be pleased with such treatment, and even to invite it by their actions.
‘Surely,’ thought he, ‘these girls must have mothers and fathers, who grieve over their disgrace and degradation; and many of them must have brothers—what must their feelings be to see their sisters in such a position?’ And he would utter a silent prayer for God to keep his sisters innocent and pure. Of course Steve’s horror of bars and barmaids gradually lessened, and he afterwards even went so far as to accept an invitation from a friend now and again to ‘Come and have something cooling this hot weather,’ or, ‘something warming this cold day?’ (for alcohol seems to have the power to cool on hot days and warm on cold days); but he never allowed himself to acquire the habit of frequenting these places, and when he did enter them, he always treated the barmaids with the utmost respect; for, said he, ‘The question is not, whether they are ladies, but whether I am a gentleman.’
Through his always keeping from bad places, and only going to places where he was sure respectability was guaranteed, he soon got into a good circle of society in Pretoria. He was received and welcomed in the best families, but his pride kept him from taking full advantage of this. He was too poor to meet them on equal terms, and rather than meet them as an inferior, even though it were only in purse, he would rather not meet them at all, except in a casual way now and again. For Steve was proud, and, what is more, he was proud of his pride. ‘For,’ said he, ‘if it were not for my pride, I would do many a wrong action which now I am too proud to do.’ He was never too proud to do a good action. He would stop and speak to the poorest beggar on the street if he could do good by it. He would walk alongside of a poor, ill-dressed person in the street, were his clothes ever so much patched; his hat so old that it hung over his eyes; he would never think of his dress, if it were a hard-working, honest man. But he was too proud to be seen in the company of a well-dressed, idle, good-for-nothing, bar-frequenting, prostitute-hunting man. He was too proud to speak or know a flighty, forward woman. And who shall say that he was wrong?
CHAPTER XIX
A DEBATE
As we have said before, Steve and his fellow-boarders sometimes constituted themselves into a sort of debating society, in which the public questions of the day were generally discussed. Let us follow Steve into the drawing-room, which he is just entering as a heated debate is on.
‘Hullo, Keith, at it again as usual, running down the powers that be of the land we live in,’ remarked Steve on entering. ‘What is the use of knocking your head against a rock; for I tell you this Government is as firmly established as a rock. Have you ever seen a big old mastiff walking along the street, calm and self-contained, a troop of curs following, barking and snapping at him, without the mastiff taking the least notice of their noise or snaps. Well, Oom Paul is the mastiff, the newspapers that abuse him and petty pot politicians (I hope the shoe won’t fit you) are the curs; there you have my opinion.’
‘So you think it currish to stand up for your rights, and agitate for it?’
‘By no means.’
‘What do you mean then?’
‘I think it currish to be perpetually barking and snapping at a man, as so many of the Jingo imperialistic papers and private amateur politicians are continually doing. You do not see it because you do not wish to do so; but just watch the actions of the Government, no matter what they may do or decide upon doing, but it is reviled and cried down. They may do something with the most honest intention of pleasing the Uitlanders, but some sinister intention is found, or supposed to be found, lurking behind it. No contract is given out for some public work, no matter if the man be the best workman and has sent in the lowest tender, but somebody is sure to have taken a bribe from the contractor to work into his hands, and so with everything, just because it is a Boer Government; any stick will do to beat a dog with, or—a Boer official.’
‘Well, all the same, it is hard lines that an educated Englishman should submit to laws made by ignorant, uneducated Boers; we won’t submit to it. Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, Britons never, never will be slaves; there you have my opinion.’
‘My dear fellow, no one wants you to submit to it. I don’t believe you got an invitation from the Boer Government to come here and live under their laws. All you have to do is to submit to it or leave. No one will prevent you or ask you to come back. I do not say this because I wish to make myself nasty, but, in common fairness, you must consider what is right. Here you come into a free Republic, inhabited by a quiet, peace-loving, God-fearing people. They have obtained their country after herculean struggles against enemies from within and without. Again and again they had to fight for country and liberty, and at last they seem to be safe, and wealth comes to them. Strangers from afar come unto them. (Strangers, besides, who are of the people who have persecuted and chased them from their old home, “into a new country, and out again”; and still are they threatened by the Government of these self-same strangers.) They share their wealth with these strangers, they give these strangers the protection of their laws, on an equal footing with themselves. But these gold-hunting strangers are not satisfied with this. It is not enough for them to share with the original owners of the soil—no, they want to be masters! And because the owners of the soil will not walk quietly out of their country and give everything up to the would-be usurpers, they are reviled, libelled and abused. You are an Englishman, an Englishman’s boast is supposed to be love of “fair play,” where does your love of fair play come in here?’
‘But if they wish to share with us, why do they not share the franchise with us?’
‘That is it—you are asking for the handle of the knife. You know very well that if the franchise is given to every Tom, Dick and Harry, the Uitlanders will get hold of the handle, and if the Boers should try to pull it out of their hands, they will cut their fingers. You are asking them to simply commit political suicide. No, old man, a thing obtained, as their liberty was obtained, will be more cherished than to be thus lightly given up. Now, if your intentions were honest and fair to the Boers, you would quietly wait your hour until the stipulated time expires, when you may legally become a Burgher; and if the time appears rather long, I have perfect confidence that, if the Uitlanders will only show the Government that they wish to become peaceful, law-abiding citizens of the Republic, anxious to advance the honour and prosperity of the country of their adoption, which they can only do by working with the Government, and ceasing to show their prejudice to everything that is Boer, then I am sure the Government will soon shorten the time of probation, and take them into the fold of full burghership.’
‘Yes; but we are not going to humble ourselves and beg for a vote; no, by Jingo! sooner than that, we will fight for it, and take by force what is refused us when we ask for it. Besides, even though we are not strong enough to take the Government by force, we only have to get up a row, and start some sort of revolution, and ask the British Government to step in, and of course England will say to your President, “You cannot keep the peace, we will have to come and keep it for you,” and the trick is done, wacht een beetje.’
Such reasoning disgusted Steve, as I am sure it would many an honest and fair-thinking Englishman. However, he replied,—
‘All I can say is that, if England does this, her glory shall pass away from her; such injustice will be tolerated by neither God nor man, and England shall raise such a cry of shame as has never been heard before. She shall feel something like the man who opened a hive of angry bees, and when the bees are stinging and buzzing about his ears, she shall be sorry she ever opened that hive. But I must say I have more faith in the honour and justice of your countrymen than you seem to have.’
Such discussions as these were the order of the day, and the sample given above may be taken as a fair example of the opinions of the two parties in the country. We shall leave the debaters now, but on some future occasion we shall take advantage of the privilege of historians to visit them again.
CHAPTER XX
A HUNTING WE GO
After a few years stay in Pretoria, Steve and his four special friends made up a party for a sort of picnic and shooting expedition combined.
They procured a roomy Cape cart and four horses, laid in a stock of tinned provisions for three weeks, and started one sunny morning in August.
It was a beautiful day, and our friends enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air greatly, after their long confinement in town and office. Steve’s cousin, as usual, took a leading part. He was driving. After a halt for breakfast and again for dinner—which was doubly relished for being partaken of in the open air—they went on at a good pace, so as to arrive in time, before dark set in, at a certain farm, the owner of which was known to Steve.
‘Well, I declare this is grand,’ remarked Steve as he lay back in the cart, comfortably settled and puffing away contentedly at his pipe. ‘I do enjoy driving at a good pace, with the wind fanning your chin—oh—ah—her—goodness gracious, where are we going to? I must remark here, and at once, that I don’t enjoy a journey to the centre of the earth, where you seem to be taking us, cousin mine. What in the name of goodness do you mean by driving us in here?’
‘But I am in the path.’
‘My dear fellow, don’t you know that when you come to a place like this, the farther you are out of the path the safer you are? Let me instruct you now, once for all, that while you are driving this company, when you come to a black-looking, soft, soapy, muddy hole like this, turn out of the path, and cross where you see the longest grass, and if a cart or waggon has never ridden there before so much the better.’
For the benefit of the reader, who is unacquainted with Transvaal roads, we will describe the sort of ‘black, soft, soapy, muddy hole,’ as Steve called it. In certain patches of the country stretches of a black, soft soil are found, something like what, I imagine, an Irish bog to be from descriptions that I have read of it. When rain has not lately fallen, it is hard and firm enough, but where a stream runs through it, then you have to be careful. Those who know what they are about, generally take good care to cross where no one else has crossed before, and where grass is growing, where the grass itself and its roots form a pretty safe bridge across. But where waggons or carts have been in the habit of crossing, the grass and roots have been cut up, down you go, horses and all, up to the nave and over. In just such a hole our young hunters now found themselves. The horses were up to their bellies in the soft mud, and could find no foothold to work themselves and the cart out. The cart itself was simply floating on the mud, the bottom of the cart lying like a boat on it, while a little of it ran in and blackened the tan-coloured shooting boots of the occupants. What were they to do now? To leave the cart meant a mud bath, and such mud!—black, sticky, oily mud!
I am afraid they would have made up their minds to spend the night in their uncomfortable position; but always when danger seems to be greatest, help is near at hand.
Fortunately for them, they were in sight of the farmhouse where they intended spending the night; and the kindly old Boer and his two sons were soon seen coming along with half-a-dozen oxen yoked to a long chain.
The chain was soon fastened to the harness of the leaders, which the rescuers could just reach, and the oxen pulled out cart and horses. But what a state they were in; the nice tan-coloured harness was painted black as far as the mud reached, so were the horses and cart. But fortunately night was coming on, and the entry of the visitors to the werf did not look so disreputable as it otherwise would have done.
CHAPTER XXI
A BOER AND HIS FAMILY
The farmhouse at which our young friends arrived in such an unclean state, was a really fine villa, had only lately been built, and was as comfortable and commodious as any town-built villa, and as good looking too. A verandah surrounded the house, affording a shady seat at any time of the day; a convenience which is greatly valued in this country, especially in December and January, when it is too hot and close to remain indoors with any sort of comfort.
The rooms inside were comfortably furnished, each spare bedroom being provided with a feather bed, wash-hand stand, chest of drawers, surmounted by a mirror, and a couple of chairs. Of course the bedroom of the father and mother of the house was the bedroom par excellence, and was furnished in style. The dining-room possessed an expanding dining-table and a suite of morocco covered chairs, also mahogany sideboard, and a few pictures—sea views—mounted in gilded frames, adorned the walls.
But the room on which the most money and care had been lavished was the sitting-room. An upright piano in one corner faced an American organ in the opposite corner; a thick carpet covered the floor, on which was distributed a satin-covered drawing-room suite and table to match; a whatnot and book cabinet occupied the two corners not filled by piano and organ; innumerable vases, ornaments and nick-nacks completed the decorations, as far as the furniture was concerned. As to the walls, they were reserved for the family portraits—grandfathers and grandmothers, both paternal and maternal—fathers and mothers ditto; and then came two grand life-size portraits of the present head of the family and his wife, flanking a family group of the whole existing family.
The house overlooked a fine valley, through which flowed a rivulet of bright clear water, from which was irrigated the grand orchard and ornamental trees which occupied the whole stretch of ground lying between the rivulet and the house. This orchard was the pride and care of the mother of the house, who was assisted by a ‘Cape boy’ (bastard), who in turn was assisted by two or three Kaffirs in the care of the orchard. She had taken particular pride in ordering fruit trees and vines of the best and latest varieties, as well as roses and flowering shrubs and ornamental trees, such as her neighbours had never seen before, from the Cape and Natal. Of course, the father of the house had enough to do, even with the assistance of the sons, in looking after the numerous lands lying lower down the fertile valley, and then he had the care of the large herd of cattle and sheep grazing on the surrounding hills; besides which cares, he had lately been busy planting timber and fodder trees. Lately he even had to do without the assistance of his two sons, as one was studying for some profession in Edinburgh and the other at Bloemfontein, O. F. S., while he himself had lately been elected a member of the Volksraad, and was thus obliged to spend four months of the year in town, assisting at the council of the nation.
This particular farmer had not always been so well off as now. When he first married he had this farm—inherited from his father—a couple of hundred sheep, a dozen or so of cows, a waggon, and one span of oxen. He and his wife went to live on this farm with no capital whatever to work this uncultivated and houseless farm. He set to work, built a hartebeest house (mud house), composed of three little rooms—kitchen, dining-room and sitting-room combined, and a little bedroom. Together they worked and economised, saving every penny they could, made kraals, planted trees, sowed the lands, made irrigation furrows, and tended their flock of sheep, until they got fairly well off and saved enough even to buy another half farm adjoining theirs.
The discoveries of gold came, gold was found on the lately bought half farm, and was sold for £20,000 cash, with a quantity of shares in the company buying it. Thus prosperity came, and our former struggling, hard-working Boer, who had to put his own shoulder to the wheel and work hard himself, if he wanted anything done, could take matters easy and enjoy himself.
What did he do now—live on the fat of the land and let others do the work? No. Just here I want to point out a peculiarity which I have noticed in our Dutch farmers in the Transvaal.
In the boom for gold farms, many a formerly struggling farmer has suddenly found himself a rich man, selling his farm, or one of his farms, for from £10,000 to £100,000 or more, and yet, amongst them all, I do not know of one of them that has given up his former simple mode of life and leads a retired easy life. They may build a larger, finer and more comfortable house, furnish it better, be more lavish in their hospitality, but their former occupation is never given up. Still they sow their lands, still they tend their flocks, still the season’s yield of wool is taken to town, and from the proceeds thereof the household requirements are provided. A progressive farmer will spend some of his thousands to improve his farms, his implements and his stock, but his occupation is kept, with few exceptions. Even members of the Government, who formerly farmed, keep their farms going, visiting them now and then, even though they could not attend to them themselves. Even so with the particular farmer we have been describing. His wealth increased his responsibilities and cares, but in nowise decreased his work.
We have given this description of a farmer of the wealthier classes; we would give his name, but it would serve no purpose, it might only displease him, as he, in common with most of his race, dislikes publicity. Let it suffice that the description given is from life.
CHAPTER XXII
A TALK ON BEES
Steve and his friends were received with the greatest cordiality; first, because Steve was known to the family and liked by them, and secondly, because hospitality is natural—in fact, seems born in a Boer. You will arrive at a farmhouse—poor or rich—you are one of the so-called hated nation—a rooi nek (nickname given to Englishmen because their tender skin causes their necks to blister and turn red in the hot South African sun, literally meaning ‘red nek’)—unknown; at the door you meet a youngster just able to talk. You will dismount. This premature young man will come up to you with an air of—playing the host about him, will take hold of your hand, give it a shake, and say,—
‘Wil Oom nie afzaal nie?’ (Will uncle saddle off?)
Yes you will.
‘Well, then, uncle can walk just right in and have a cup of coffee; I will see to the horse.’
Well, as I said, our young friends were well received, and soon found themselves seated around a supper table, as well laid and as well provisioned as man’s heart could desire in such a locality. Roast beef, stewed guinea-fowl, leg of venison, stuffed with bacon and baked vegetables, salads, etc., custard pudding, blanc mange, fresh butter, cheese, etc., washed down with coffee, and such coffee as only a Tante knows how to brew, and that Java coffee too. After supper, the party adjourned to the sitting-room, where they were soon followed by the Tante, after she had seen to the servants getting their food, and the remnants of the supper had been safely put away.
‘Now, Stephaans,’ said she to Steve, ‘you or your friends must come and look at a bee-hive that a winkelier (shopkeeper) made me buy in town last week. It is one of those new-fangled patent things. Its inside is full of pieces of wood—goodness only knows what for. They say it is better than just an empty box for the bees. I don’t understand it. Do you or any of your friends understand it?’
Now Steve saw a chance to distinguish himself in the way he liked to do—by being useful. Apiarian books had been among his favourite studies, so he knew all about it, having always kept one or more hives for study and also for—honey.
‘Well, Tante, if you will send for the hive, I shall explain all about it to you.’
The hive came, and Steve surprised even his companions by the learned dissertation he gave on bees and bee-keeping. He surprised the simple old gentleman and his lady almost into disbelief, when he told them the queen was the mother of all the bees in the hive; that she was only a fully developed female bee, reared from the self-same egg from which the worker bee is raised, and that she is only made a queen by over feeding and by giving her more space to grow out in in the cell. That the drones, or, as they called them in Dutch, water-carriers, are not water-carriers, but that they are, in fact, great, lazy, good-for-nothing male bees, who love to live on what the females earned in the fields, and absolutely refuse to do any work (as so many of their sex, even in the human race, delight to do); that, in fact, they were unable to do any work—not being built that way; but were only called into existence to be husbands to the young queens, which may be raised during the season for the purpose of sending out swarms, and thus obey the command of the Creator when He said, ‘Go forth and multiply.’
But their surprise reached its climax, when he told them that he could make the bees manufacture a queen for themselves, should they be queenless, by simply giving them eggs or larvæ to make her from; that, in fact, he could force them to make as many queens to his order as he liked by simple manipulation, and that he could thus make three or four swarms of bees out of one in a season. He tried to explain to them all this, and by explaining the why and the wherefore, he soon got them to believe and understand him. He also showed them how to fix and wire the wax foundation in the frames, and thus spare the poor bees a lot of work; also told them how, by the use of an extractor, they could extract all the honey from the combs without breaking the comb, and thus save the bees the time and expense of wax to rebuild it. ‘All you have to do is to replace the empty comb in the hive, when the bees refill it.’
The Oom and Tante were especially pleased when it was explained to them that by the use of the modern hive they were spared the cruel necessity of destroying any of the young bees or brood, when taking the honey out, or, as it is truthfully called, robbing the hive, and that the honey reserved for the use of man was pure, without young bees or pollen (bee bread).
From bee-keeping the conversation drifted to gardening, vegetable and flower, as well as fruit culture, in all of which Steve was an adept. He told the Tante of so many new modes of grafting and pruning, that she exclaimed he talked like a book.
In this way it happened, that Steve gained the friendship and respect of all the country people he came across. He could talk to them of things they understood and which interested them—matters concerning their everyday life.
CHAPTER XXIII
GOOD SHOTS
After a good night’s rest and a hearty breakfast, our friends once more resumed their journey, being anxious to get farther away from town, where there would be a greater probability of getting something to shoot at.
About three o’clock in the afternoon they reached another acquaintance of Steve’s, and were received with an almost effusive welcome.
The family consisted of Oom Ignatious, Tante Letta, Ignatious, junior, eldest, Daniel, second eldest, and Lettie, junior.
Oom Ignatious (pronounced Ignaas) was a spare, slightly grey old man, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, partly from hard work and partly from a weak chest. He was a kindly old man, uneffusive, but always had a smile and a kindly word for friend or enemy. He never lost his temper—at least, not visibly, whatever his inward feelings might be; when annoyed he hardly showed it. He always remained civil and kind, but was ever firm and strong in upholding what he considered right.
Tante Letta was fat, fair, and forty. Her estimated weight was three hundred pounds. She had never been weighed; when asked, she objected on the ground that it was only desired to ‘drijf de spot met mij’ (to make a laughing-stock of me). But with all her weight she was a good old soul. Everybody loved the old lady for her goodness. She could never do enough for you to show her hospitable inclinations. She was always bustling about, causing wonder and surprise to all how she could remain on her feet all day in spite of her great weight. When you did manage to persuade her to sit down and have a chat, she simply charmed you with her kindly, smiling, fat, double-chinned face.
The two sons were both big giants of young men, straight as a die, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, healthy-looking and strong, handsome in face and figure, with curly light brown hair, clean-shaven cheeks, but wearing light handsome moustaches. Finally, as to moral character, they were their father and mother’s children in deed as well as name. But little Lettie was the angel of the house. I can’t describe her with sufficient power to place her before the reader as I knew her. I will attempt, but I know it will be a failure, and will give the reader only a bare idea of her looks. Tall, slender, with a graceful willowy carriage, what a poem in her walk, in her every movement and look! What sweetness in those large star-like eyes, gleaming like dark-coloured diamonds under the long-lashed eyelids. The lines of the face, the shape of nose and chin, I cannot describe, I simply give in; I know not to what style it belonged; I only know they were—Beautiful. The mouth I can and will describe. It was made to kiss. The long hair was worn loose, and flowed in waves down to the waist in a dark, massive cloud. The dress was a loose, simple gown, fitting the form sufficiently close to show the perfections of the figure; smart costumes would only mar such a figure.
Steve will never forget the walk he took alone with Lettie to the flower garden that afternoon; to him she was the fairest flower that ever he had seen.
Reader! to prevent any future disappointment, I must here state that Lettie is not going to be the heroine of this story; that Steve is not going to marry her, or even to fall madly in love with her. He admired and liked her, but after this visit she passes out of his life; we shall hear no more of her. I have tried to place her before the reader as I still see her in my mind’s eye, as a type of the better class of Boer girls, whose figure has not been spoiled by bad taste and knowledge of dressing, and, alas, by hard work too. For many a poor farmer is obliged to help himself with the labour of his girls for want of servants; and thus their shoulders become bent through constant stooping and hard work, and their figures spoiled and ruined.
I have been told of a certain farmer who ploughed, sowed and reaped his lands with the aid of four girls; while one tended the sheep, one the oxen, one led, and one drove the span of oxen pulling the waggon. And thus he had to do all his work with only the assistance of his daughters. He had been blessed with a troop of girls, and not one boy. And as to native labour, since the gold mines are offering such high wages, the poor farmer must consider himself lucky if he can get any at all; while many cannot afford to pay a price sufficiently high to keep their boys from going off to the gold mines. Thus it is that we see so many ill-figured Boer girls. But for all that, I do believe that amongst the Boer women are to be found some as handsome as any in the world. The faint attempt at a description of Lettie is not drawn from the imagination, but is exactly as she was known to the writer.
It was amongst this family that our party of hunters now found themselves.
As I have said, they were welcomed most heartily, their horses were soon stabled and themselves led into the house and refreshed with coffee and cake.
Oom Ignatious, not having had the luck as yet to sell a gold farm, had to content himself with a moderate-sized farmhouse of the old Dutch style, mainly built by himself and friends. It consisted of a dining-room, hall and sitting-room combined (nothing unusual), three bedrooms—one bedroom for the old people, one for Lettie, and one for the boys—and a kitchen—five altogether.
Oom Ignatious’s wealth consisted of his oxen and sheep and in what he managed to raise from his lands, on all of which he contrived to live comfortably without any waste or want, but without having much surplus over at the end of the year.
When Oom Ignatious heard that they were out for the purpose of killing something, he told Ignatious, junior, and Daniel to leave the work they were at and show them the haunts of certain oribe and steenbuck that they knew of.
Our party of greenhorns failed to bag anything in spite of repeated attempts. The young Boers showed them buck after buck quietly grazing in the long grass, but, standing or running, our young friends missed every shot. At last Keith said, ‘These young fellows are laughing at us, the bucks are too far away, you can’t hit them at such a distance.’ The young Boers, who knew a few words of English, understood this, but said never a word, and kept on making themselves as agreeable as possible to Keith with their scant knowledge of English.
At last, they were on their homeward way, no game in their bags, when suddenly Ignatious pulled Keith by the arm, enjoined silence, and pointed to a distant rise in the level plain and said,—
‘Do you see that oribe lying there against the butt?’
‘Where? I do not see anything but grass.’
‘There, don’t you see where I am pointing?’
‘No, old chappie, you do not come it over me, there is nothing there.’
‘Well, give me your gun.’ He had left his gun at home not to spoil the sport of their guests.
Keith gave him the gun with the remark that it was only a waste of ammunition. Ignatious knelt on one knee and rested his arm on the other, took aim and fired, something bounded in the air at the spot pointed out and fell down again and nothing more was seen. Ignatious quietly handed Keith his gun back and led the way towards the spot. Daniel was holding Steve’s gun in his hand admiring the workmanship of it, when, as they approached the spot, a buck was seen running from it. Everyone shouted, ‘There it goes,’ and ran in a slanting direction as if to intercept it when a shot was heard. Once more the buck bounding into the air several feet, fell down to rise no more. It was Daniel who had fired this time and killed the buck on the run. They went towards it, cut it up, took out the intestines and shouldered it, when Ignatious said, ‘Now let us go and get the other one.’
‘Which one?’ said Keith.
‘Why, the one I shot.’
‘But this is the one you shot at?’
Ignatious laughed quietly and said,—
‘The one I shot will never run again; I shot him just behind the shoulder.’
Keith stared at him and thought he was being fooled again, so did not say anything more, but followed Ignatious, only to be led to a dead oribe, shot dead through the heart—the bullet had penetrated the buck just behind the shoulder, as Ignatious had said he intended it to do.
Keith thought to himself, ‘I wish I could fire a shot like that, and be as sure of it too. Why, it was three hundred yards away if it was one.’
CHAPTER XXIV
ANOTHER TRY
After a pleasant evening and a good supper, our party went to bed, Steve and Theron occupying the bed of the old people, while Harrison, Steve’s cousin and Keith took possession of the boys’ room; those who were thus ejected, satisfying themselves with a shake down on the floor of the dining-room and kitchen respectively. At whatever sacrifice, the guests must be made comfortable!
It had been arranged that the visitors should have another try at those oribe, but this time under the guidance of the old man himself, as the young men had arranged to leave after breakfast for the kerk plaats (farm on which a church is built, and where periodical services are held).
They would have stayed to oblige their guests, but two fair ones expected them there; the arrangement had been made to meet there, and even the claims of hospitality could not induce them to disappoint two loving hearts.
Everyone on a farm is too busy before breakfast to go shooting; the sheep had to be counted out of the kraal and sent to the veld, cows had to be milked, and all the work of the farm had to be set going and to be seen to first; therefore the party could not leave till after breakfast for the veld.
Ignatious and Daniel had to ride out to an outlying station before starting for their own particular trip. After breakfast, Steve was standing talking on the stoop to Lettie, waiting for his party to get ready. Ignatious and Daniel had just saddled their horses, and were saying good-bye to Steve and his party, as they would very likely be still away when Ignatious and Daniel returned from the out station, when they would immediately leave for the kerk plaats.
‘What fine fellows these brothers of yours are,’ remarked Steve to Lettie. ‘You ought to be proud of them.’
‘So I am. I only hope that if ever I marry, I may get a man as good as they are for a husband.’
‘Daniel is going to get married soon, is he not?’
‘Yes, within three months, probably. Do you think he looks sickly, or unhealthy?’
‘No; on the contrary, I think he looks remarkably healthy and strong. Why do you ask?’
‘Because, a few days ago, I came into his room; he was looking at the photo of his intended; tears were in his eyes. I asked him, “What is the matter?” He replied that he loved her so much, and that yet she would never be his wife. “What! never your wife!” I said, “and you are going to be married in a few months to her; what do you mean?” He replied that he felt it in his heart; he did not know why, unless he should die before the time came. And then he told me that I was to take his Bible, if he should die, and his sweetheart his new hymn book, and other things he told me to give to mother and father, as well as something for Ignatious. The foolish boy, as if he were going to die so soon; the idea is ridiculous; and yet, if he should die, I don’t know what we should do without him.’
‘Oh, you need not fear for him, he is strong and healthy enough to outlive us both.’
No more was said, and Steve did not think much of what was said, but he had reason sooner than he could have thought, to recall this conversation.
At last they started, and all hoped to have better luck than the day before. Steve was a fairly good shot at a target, in fact he was (like most South Africans) a born shot; but he had never had a chance to practise rifle shooting at a distance at real game, but he was a good hand at bird shooting with a shot-gun. Ever since he was a boy of twelve, he used to scrape his pennies together to buy powder and shot, and go pigeon-shooting with an old muzzle-loading shot-gun, which had formerly belonged to his father, and a good hand he learned to be at it by such practice. It was one of the few kinds of sport he enjoyed; he loved shooting. For the above reasons, Steve longed to bring down a real antelope of some kind, but he was doomed to disappointment. The game was too shy, and kept at a distance, requiring a really good shot to bring them down. Theron was the only one to kill that day. After a long walk in the hot sun and among the trees, Theron succeeded, by taking a good steady aim (and being told what sight to put on by Oom Ignatious) at a buck standing broadside on, unaware of their presence, in bringing it down. Oom Ignatious refused to shoot, as he said he did not like to spoil their sport, but inwardly he thought that, after the previous day’s occurrence—of which he had been told by Steve—it would be too unkind to humiliate the poor young greenhorns by a display of his accurate aim, for he knew that with him to shoot was to kill. The sun was hot and heavy, thunder-clouds were beginning to rapidly cover the sky, so it was determined to return home as fast as possible before the heavy storm, which was surely coming on, broke on them.
CHAPTER XXV
A TERRIBLE THUNDER STORM
Reader, have you ever taken note of the signs of a heavy African thunder storm coming on? Have you felt the awful depressing heat, which seems to make the heart feel too faint and languid to beat? Have you noted the awesome, mysterious twilight that seems to settle over the earth? A moment everything appears to be alive and joyous; birds are singing, cattle bellowing, all nature murmurs a pæan of gladness for life. In another moment everything seems to hide itself and hush its breath. Not a murmur is heard, not a leaf rustles, not a breath of wind is felt. It is the calm before the storm. Now the suspense seems to be agonising; it gets darker and darker. Suddenly the leaves seem to rustle out of very fear, as if they longed to break the silence, for they rustle, and yet not a breath of wind is felt. Then gradually you hear an ever-increasing roar at a distance. My God! what a crash is that! It is the first clap of thunder that breaks over your head, seeming to strike near you, all around you; you feel that you are not safe, you long for shelter, for company, for somebody to share your terror. Such a thunder storm seems to make cowards of the bravest. It is an invisible enemy; an irresistible danger seems to threaten you, to surround you, to search you out, hide where you will. If you never prayed before, you feel as if you would like to pray now. Deny it if you will, hide it if you might, look as brave as you can, yet I tell you you do feel awed when the thunder of heaven seems to speak to you with the voice of an angry God.
After that first clap, the silence is broken, the storm is on you. Clap after clap of thunder strikes around you. The lightning seems to blind you. The trees bend to the ground before the great force of rushing air, and those that will not bend must break, and come crashing down, crushing everything underneath them, and obstructing the paths and roads.
The rain seems to come down, not in drops, nor in sheets either, but in one continuous mass. You can hardly draw your breath because of the wind and rain; and in a moment you find yourself wading in six inches, ten inches, twelve inches of water on the level plain. Woe to the flock of sheep that finds itself in the least hollow or depression between two butts or rises of the rolling plain. They are drowned where a few moments before they stood on dry veld, seemingly safe against any flood. Such was the storm our friends found themselves in now. They could do nothing but pull their hats over their eyes and plod and wade wearily along. Wet to the skin in a moment, their clothes clinging most uncomfortably to them, the house seeming to recede farther and farther away as they struggled on; even the much-prized buck which Theron had shot was dropped and left lying in the veld. Their only desire was to get home; to get at least a roof between themselves and this terrible thunder.
Thank God, it is passing over at last. It did not last long, but while it did last it was terrible!
Now it gets lighter and lighter. The blue sky peeps out gradually larger and larger on the western horizon—the direction from which the storm had come—at last, even the sun comes out again. And everything peeps forth again. The lambs begin to play, the calves gallop and frolic about, the birds sing merrier than ever; and the trees—they can only weep tears of joy that the cruel wind does not bend them down so cruelly any more. Now the storm is raging towards the east, its distant rumbling is heard, and the clouds look piled up in black and blue masses in that direction.
Now our party is able to walk again; the water has gathered in the hollows and rivulets. By choosing high ground, progress can be made.
They were nearing the house when they saw a man approaching towards them in a slanting direction. What can be the matter with him? Surely such a storm was sufficient to sober the most intoxicated man on earth? And yet this fellow must be drunk. See how he staggers; sometimes he drops on to his knees, and clasps his head between his hands, and even at this distance they can hear him sob as if his heart was breaking. He rises once more, sees them approaching now near by, he cries out aloud, stretches his arms towards them in a supplicating manner. They hear the agonising words escape from him. Oh, my brother? The old man turns as pale as death. He recognises his eldest son, as did the rest. Oom Ignatious rushes forward; he reaches his son just as he drops down in a dead faint. His father lifts him, holds him in his lap, and cries,—
‘Oh, my son, my son, what has happened? Oh, my God, see how he is scorched! Oh, horrible, his clothes are crumbling as if burnt; his skin comes off. Oh, my God, have pity upon a poor father, and spare my son.’
The young man opens his eyes once more and murmurs, ‘My brother, my brother,’
‘Where is your brother, Ignatious?’
‘Over there,’ he replied, pointing to a round hill commanding the rest of the valley.
‘I’ll go to him,’ said the old man. ‘Is he hurt, too?’
‘No, father, you must not go. Steve will go with his friends. You must go with me to mother to prepare her for the terrible tidings.’
‘What terrible tidings? Ignatious, that you are wounded?’ queried the old man.
‘No, father. I am terribly scorched, but I may yet recover; but poor Daniel—oh, my father, that I should live and he die when we were side by side.’
‘What—dead!—dead!—my Daniel dead? You cannot know what you are saying; you are delirious from your wounds.’
‘No, my dear father, I fear me he is dead. Take courage; you must be strong and help us to comfort mother; come.’
The old man seemed to make a strong effort, rose and helped to raise Ignatious.
‘You are right, my son. Your mother must be our first care; come.’
He begged Steve, with tears in his eyes, to go and find Daniel while he went home with Ignatious, who could scarcely stand.
‘I will send a cart or waggon at once to bring him home, if you will only wait there and do unto him as if he was your own dead brother.’
Steve and his four companions went, and what a sight met their eyes!
CHAPTER XXVI
’TIS THE WILL OF GOD
The hill on which they found themselves was the highest point of the rolling plain. On it were scattered masses of ironstone. Whether there was any kind of metal present in the soil of the hill, or whether it was because it was the highest spot in the neighbourhood, Steve could not determine, but he later on learned that this was a favourite spot for the lightning to strike down on.
What they saw was this—
Two horses, dead and all twisted up as if they had no bones in their bodies, indescribably horrible to see. Entangled with one horse, a man’s body was seen. When they lifted him up by the arms, his head dropped backwards between the shoulders, as if his neck was composed of only skin and soft flesh. His hat and most of his clothes were carbonised, and his flesh, where exposed, was scorched and burnt in crooked lines. But let us draw a curtain, ’tis God’s work; His ways are inscrutable.
The body was conveyed, in a waggon (sent for the purpose), home.
When the body was carried into the house, the mother of the dead man cast off all restraint and threw herself in a passion of weeping upon the corpse, and had to be dragged away by main force from the awful sight of the mutilated body of her son.
To cut a gruesome story short, the body was buried the following day at midday. Steve and his companions came over from a neighbouring farm, where they had gone the afternoon of the accident, as so many relatives and friends had come to assist the bereaved family that they thought it well to leave and relieve the house of the care of stranger guests.
Poor Ignatious was in a precarious condition; his life was despaired of for some time. But he recovered in the end. But poor Tante Letta; the shock was too much for her; she nearly followed her boy to the grave, and was delirious for months afterwards. Oom Ignatious spanned in his cart, on the doctor’s advice, and rode from neighbour to neighbour for weeks, every day giving his wife change of scene and faces. By this means, she gradually recovered a shadow of her health and reason. But the beautiful motherly smile, which formerly dwelt on her face, was gone for ever. She is now the tender care of little Lettie, and is waiting patiently for the time when her God will call for her, and take her to her beloved son. God comfort the poor old lady!
CHAPTER XXVII
A DANGEROUS FORD
The day of the funeral was Sunday. Steve and party took leave of the sad household, and the following day went farther on.
Keith was moved by the kindness and godliness of the family he had just left. ‘These Boers are not such a bad and uncivilised people as they are made out to be by their enemies; in fact, I wish Englishmen were more like them. What surprises me in them is their quiet, simple, unboastful manner, and their extreme kindness to strangers such as I am.’
‘You will find exceptions to every rule,’ Steve replied. ‘You will find boasters and bad people amongst them as amongst all other peoples. But, as a people, they are true Christians, leading a life as near as they can to what their Bible teaches them their lives should be. Their Bible is their law, and by that standard they act and judge all things. It is true they have some prejudices, likes and dislikes, which is to be deplored; but even in that they injure no man. They have the making of a great people in them, and I am proud to be of their race.’
During the Monday, our friends moved on quietly, their conversation was hushed, they spoke of serious matters; and the usual lively and sportive conversation prevailing amongst a party of young men out by themselves, was entirely absent.
The road they were travelling ran through a vast plain, black as night. The fire, prevalent at this season, had burnt up every blade of grass. The farmers usually burn the grass down just before the first summer rains come on, so as to have the grass come out young and tender for their flocks. And as soon as rain has fallen, and the grass is growing, they move out of their winter quarters in the bush veld, and come back to their houses on the high veld, which, during the winter, are left under the care of, perhaps, one member of the family, or a native servant whom they can trust, or is left to take care of itself.
The party travelled on all day, and came only at midday to a house, where they could obtain a little soaked mealies for their horses. All the other houses they had come to were deserted, as the families were still in the bush veld, and they had been unable to procure a mouthful of forage for their horses. They themselves were all right, for they had a good stock of provisions, but the poor brutes were starving.
After the feed of mealies, the horses put a little spurt on again during the afternoon, but soon the want of food again made itself felt.
The young men began to feel anxious. If the horses got no food, they could not pull the cart; and to remain stuck in such a black and uninhabited plain, with no shelter from the hot sun, would be decidedly unpleasant.
They had been directed to a farm where they would find good people at home, as well as forage for their horses and game for their guns, and were pushing on to reach this place. But on this bare, black plain many roads crossed and recrossed. It was a regular network of roads running from farm to farm. They became confused as to which road they should take and which leave. They soon realised the fact that they had lost their road, and were going at random. The danger now began to get serious. Their horses were dragging wearily along, and could scarcely keep up a semblance of a trot, and would soon give in altogether. The poor brutes had been in harness most of the day, and that on a mouthful of mealies only. But what could they do? They must keep on to reach shelter for themselves and food for the horses. Night is coming on; ’tis only twilight now, and twilight does not last longer than thirty or forty minutes here. Soon they will be unable to see the road, and will be forced to span out on this barren, inhospitable veld.
‘Hurrah! I see a light, and what is more, the dim outline of trees, and I do believe a house,’ cried Steve.
‘But where the dickens is the road?’ cried his cousin. The road seemed suddenly to disappear on the hard, unimpressionable soil. But all jumped down and went in search of a road.
Going a little forward, they discovered that they were by no means out of the difficulty yet. A river lay between them and the light, and what is more no drift was visible. The banks were steep, and no cart could pass it, and a deep zee koe gat (wallowing pools of sea-cows) occupied the whole visible stretch of the river. They ran up against the stream and soon came to what appeared to be a sort of drift. But what a drift.
On examination they found it to be an old disused drift or ford. Wash-aways of one foot to a foot and a half crossed the steep road, going down into the river. And in the river itself large round stones three feet high lay piled up one against the other on the only place where a cart might have passed. What were they to do now? No other drift seemed near. Stay there they could not, and darkness was settling down on the land.
They stood looking in dismay at this drift. The opposite side was not crossed by wash-aways, but seemed to be almost one large precipice in itself. But still, with good horses, once there, they might be able to mount it. But how to get there?
‘Well, I do not see the use of standing talking here; we cannot stay here—cross we must—let us act!’ said Steve.
‘But we cannot cross here,’ cried Harrison. ‘The cart would be smashed! So how can we act?’
‘I for one won’t drive through here; my life is not insured,’ said Steve’s cousin.
‘And I would not remain on the cart if you did,’ said Keith.
‘Well, undo the leaders and lead them across. I shall drive the cart over, but with the wheelers only. They seem to be steady and reliable, and fairly lively yet,’ said Steve.
The others stared at him, but he remained cool and calm, as all great natures do in the time of peril. He started undoing the leaders, as the others seemed in doubt whether to take him at his word or not, led them on one side, and handed them to Theron, who seemed the most collected of the others.
He got on the cart, spoke firmly but kindly to the horses, took the reins well and strongly in hand, as short as possible, and started down the precipitous road. When he got to the first drop or wash-away in the road, he made the horses climb down first, stopped them, then moved them forward step by step, holding them hard in the mouth, until the cart came on the edge of the drop. When the cart came to the edge, it dropped down, but gently, as the horses at this moment, pulled back firmly by Steve, pressed the wheels firmly against the side of the little precipice, and thus broke the fall, bringing the cart down with only a slight bump, without injuring it in the least.
In this way he climbed down all the dangerous drops, until he came to the river itself.
Here the danger seemed greatest. How to get across those great, big, round stones? But even across these he got, foot by foot, inch by inch, making the horses pull the wheels out against the round sides of the rocks, and back it down gently on the other side. Thus he went from rock to rock. Sometimes the wheels jumped from rock to rock, when they were near enough; sometimes the cart seemed on the point of tumbling over into the zee koe gat alongside, when one wheel was on top of a rock and the other down between two others. But the worst of all was the feet of the poor tired horses amongst these great, big, round boulders. Sometimes one or the other would slip down on its knees, only to be picked up gently by the firm hand at the reins; sometimes their feet would stick fast between two rocks, but by moving only one step at a time, and keeping his horses quiet, Steve found himself at last in front of the steep wall on the other side. Now he fully saw how steep it was, and, worst of all, it was heavy sand. Will the poor, tired horses ever manage to get out of this hole? Should the horses lose their footing or give in for a second, when half-way, the cart would drag them down, and all would come down in a broken mass—horses kicking, stones obstructing—and, perhaps, the whole would go down into the zee koe gat, which would mean almost certain death to the man finding himself entangled in this mass. But there is no time for hesitating now. He is in, and must get out. It is nearly quite dark now. After giving the horses a moment to breathe, he let go the reins, shouted to them to go, and lashed them until they flew forward in terror, right against the steep wall. Now they are half-way up—my God! they are slipping in the sand! For a moment they seemed to go down. No! up they go again. They pant and bend, but up they go; and at last, the cart stands on level ground again.
Now only Steve discovers that he is pouring wet; the sweat is simply running from him. He is trembling all over from excitement; his mouth is parched. He steps down, quiets the horses, gets a drink from the water canteen, and wipes the sweat from his eyes and is himself again. He is soon joined by his companions, leading the two other horses. They had been standing looking on as if paralysed. They expected to see the cart sink into ruins every moment, and their admiration was unbounded when they saw him guide the vehicle over obstacle after obstacle, safe and sound. When they came up to him, they generously congratulated him, in unmeasured terms, for his pluck and skill; and, to the end of their trip, when they came to dangerous places (which was often enough), they made him take the reins, to the disgust of his cousin.
Well now, at last they could go to the house they had seen at a distance. It is true it is dark and no road visible, but the light still shone and invited them on; and after such a drift crossed, surely they can find their way across the level plain, even though it be dark. Steve led the way on foot, and soon they found themselves in front of the house they had seen.
But their hopes appeared dashed to the ground again.
‘Seems to me this is a poor show, and it strikes me we will have to camp outside after all.’
They had come to the poorest of poor houses. A low, small mud house. It must be one of the poorest farmers in the district.
The barking of the dogs had brought the inmates out of the house by this time. The following dialogue took place.
‘Good evening, Oom.’ (Steve spoke).
‘Good evening, Neef.’ (Nephew).
‘Who lives here, Oom.’
‘I do!’
‘May I ask Oom’s name?’
‘Certainly, young man; my name is Zarl Venter.’
‘Will Oom have a shelter for us to-night.’
‘Young friend, I have never turned a stranger away from my door, even though I am poor; and hope I never will. If you are satisfied with the best we have, which is not much, you are welcome.’
‘Thank you, Oom; we have food, but we should like a shelter as it looks like rain, and a little food and shelter for our horses.’
‘Food and shelter for yourselves, I have already told you you are welcome to the best we have. As to your horses, I have no stable, but those big trees are as good as any stable if it does not rain very much. As to forage, my son has a little; you must ask him.’
‘We will pay him for it, uncle.’
‘Speak to him yourselves.’
The horses were soon tied up and fed, and our young men found themselves in a low room, barely furnished, with a few chairs and a table. Supper was on the table, and consisted of coffee and bread ad lib, nothing more.
The young fellows stared at each other. They were hungry, and only bread and coffee. True, it was nice, fresh, delicious home-made bread; but bread and coffee was no supper for a hungry townsman. True they had plenty of nice tinned meats and fish on the cart, but on its being suggested in a whisper to Steve by his cousin, he shook his head. He had no wish to humiliate the poor old people by bringing food to their table, after they had offered them the best they had. So after their frugal meal, they retired to bed. They slept on the bed of the old couple themselves; who, as Oom Ignatious and his wife had done, slept on the floor to accommodate their stranger guests. The son had a little nest of his own, but one too poor to offer to these city folks.
The four had to make themselves as comfortable as they could on the large double bed of the old people, by lying crosswise. At any rate, the bed was perfectly clean.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A CHANGE OF ROUTE
The party rose early next morning, fed the horses, and held a consultation. They learned that they had passed the farmhouse to which they had been directed, far to the right. They were told by Oom Zarl Venter that they would find very few people at home on their present course, as in that direction nearly everybody was in the bush veld with their cattle.
‘But if you want game, why don’t you go to the bush veld. There you will find lots of game as well as people.’
‘But it is too far away from here.’
‘Not at all, you can be in the bush veld to-morrow if you choose, tired as your horses are.’
He further told them that they might go as far as Mijnheer Stienberg’s place, just this side of Kameelpoort, and the following day pass through Kameelpoort, when they would be in the outskirts of the bush veld, and just in the right place for pheasants and partridge shooting.
‘But is there no place half-way between this and Mijnheer Stienberg’s place where we might obtain forage for our horses?’ asked Steve.
‘Yes, there is a place. Old Silas Prinsloo lives there—but—’ and the old man smiled, ‘he is very Kwaai’ (bad-humoured).
‘Too Kwaai to sell us some forage for our horses?’
‘Well, you see, some Smouses cheated the old man several times, and if you are taken for Smouses (traders or hawkers), you must look out and get out of his way; and he seems to suspect all strangers with a cart laden as yours is for Smouses.’
‘Well, we will try at all events,’ said Steve.
They set out, well directed as to which roads to take and which to leave; and after the previous day’s predicament, took good care to go right.
After several hours’ travelling, they arrived at a house which, from the description they had heard, they correctly surmised to belong to Oom Silas Prinsloo. They halted in front of the door. An old man with a stern countenance was leaning over the bottom half of the door, surveying them with a threatening and severe cast of countenance. He did not speak.
‘Good-day, Mijnheer!’ began Steve.
‘Good day!’
‘Who lives here, Mijnheer?’
‘What has that got to do with you?’ severely.
‘Oh, nothing, Mijnheer. Only I thought Mijnheer Silas Prinsloo must be living here, who, I have been told, would be kind enough to sell us some forage for our horses.’
‘I don’t keep forage for every cheating Jew of a Smouse who may come to cheat me. You had better go; I don’t want to buy anything, and my dogs are very Kwaai (fierce).’
‘We are not Smouses, Mijnheer, we are going to the bush veld for a little shooting and want to buy a few bundles of oats for our poor tired horses.’
‘And what may your name be?’ he asked, still suspecting.
‘Stephaans Joubert, Mijnheer.’
‘From where do you come?’
‘From Pretoria.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘At G——, Cape Colony.’
‘At G——, Cape Colony? That is where my parents come from, and my great grandmother was a Joubert. We must be related then, surely?’
The ice was broken, the old man came out, shook hands, accepted Keith’s tobacco pouch, filled his pipe, and assisted to outspan the horses, led the way to the stable, and, hey presto! the horses were contentedly chewing plenty of good oats. The party was invited into the house and coffee brought forth, while poor Steve had for a full long hour to explain the genealogy of his house, and hear that of the host explained; and the old man succeeded in explaining how they were related. Steve did not exactly understand the conversation, but from the old man’s use of words, such as cousin in the third and fourth degree ‘to my grandmother,’ and so forth, he thought it must be somewhere in Noah’s time that the relationship commenced. However, as the pretended relationship helped to feed the horses, he did not complain. After an hour’s good feed, the horses were once more inspanned, and, much to Steve’s relief, his new-found relative was left behind, in spite of urgent appeals from the said relative to spend the day there.
They arrived early in the afternoon at Mijnheer Stienberg’s, and were well received by the family. The old man and his wife were emigrants themselves from the Cape Colony, and belonged to the most progressive class of farmers. A good governess was kept for the boys and girls, and the farm work was carried on progressively and at a good profit.
The young men enjoyed a real pleasant social evening with the governess and the girls, who were all good musicians and had splendid voices. The young fellows, who all liked music, joined them in several songs, but enjoyed most to lie back in their easy-chairs and listen to the fresh voices of the girls singing Dutch and English ballads and hymns. Thus they occupied themselves until a late hour, after which they went to bed and enjoyed a good night’s sleep. An early start was made the next day, for all were anxious now to reach the bush veld.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE BUSH VELD
After half-an-hour’s travel, Kameelpoort was reached, and on emerging on the other side, our friends found stretched out before them hills and valleys covered by trees and bushes. It seemed to them, as they stood high above these valleys and hills, that the earth appeared to sink lower and lower the farther northward they looked. It was really so. They were standing on a range of hills separating the high from the low veld. The high veld is a bare, undulating plain, covered with grass only. The low veld is covered with bush and trees, ranging from low dwarf bushes to the high majestic yellow wood, and other large varieties of trees. The farther north you go, the lower you descend, and the warmer it becomes, so that in mid-winter you have a mild pleasant climate, but in summer only natives and game can exist.
Under the trees and in the open glades a high, sweet grass grows—splendid feeding for cattle and sheep in winter. Thus it is that all farmers do not consider themselves well off before they have a farm or two on the high veld for summer, and a farm in the bush veld for winter pasturage.
After descending into the valley before them, our party reached a stream where were encamped about ten families of farmers, some of whom Steve knew. The usual welcome was accorded them.
We shall describe the winter quarters of one of these families, which are all alike more or less, some better some worse.
If the family has two full tent waggons, so much the better, then they have two bedrooms ready. In each a comfortable Kartel (bedstead without legs) is tied, and a feather bed made on it.
Between the two waggons, one or two tents are stretched, one serving as another bedroom, and the other as a dining-room.
In front of the tents and waggons an enclosure is made of marsh or river reeds. In the enclosure thus formed, a floor of mud and cow dung is laid, which makes a smooth, hard floor. On one side of the enclosure a fireplace is made, being a circle large enough to contain all the pots of the family, enclosed by a ridge of mud three or four inches high, to keep fire and ashes within bounds. This is the kitchen, and also the sitting-room of an evening, when all would gather round the fire, and the events of the day would be talked over. This enclosure is always kept neat and clean.
Steve and his party found a good company of sportsmen in the community here encamped. As it was still early, a party was got up to go shooting. They started about four o’clock.
A good bag was made. We shall relate only one incident of the afternoon. Steve found himself with the boaster of the company; he was named William. His stories of his skill in shooting were marvellous. Steve was considered by him as a greenhorn, and thus a suitable party to be stuffed with yarns of miraculous shots that he—William—had at various times made. Steve listened quietly and thought he should like to see a few of these accurate shots. They arranged to shoot turn by turn. The guns were all shot-guns, as they were only out after partridge, koraan and pheasants.
The first of the two to shoot was William. He got a fine shot at two pheasants, as they hid themselves behind a tuft of grass, or thought they did, for they were still plainly visible. William fired and—missed. Of course it was an accident, something the matter with the gun. Steve’s turn came next; and a good turn he got. They came to a pool of water; walking quietly up, four koraan were seen standing in a line. William whispered to Steve to let him fire, as Steve was sure to miss, and he would guarantee to bring down, at least, two. Without answering, Steve took aim and fired—and killed all four.
William boasted no more after that in the presence of Steve.
CHAPTER XXX
ANECDOTES
Steve and William returned home to find the rest of the party gathered in consultation. Keith had strayed from his companion and guide, and could nowhere be found.
He had gone in chase of a lot of guinea-fowl, and had disappeared in the bush, and could not be found again. He was searched for, and shouted for, but in vain.
The present consultation was to arrange plans to go in search of him. Steve and William, on their arrival, were told of the situation, and immediate preparation was made for a search-party, composed of all the males in the encampment. They started westward, and after half-an-hour’s brisk walking, and continued shouting and bell-ringing, they heard a gun fired to the north. It was agreed among all present that it was a signal of distress from Keith. A reply shot was fired to let him know they were near. The result was a continuous fire of shots from the direction in which the first shot had been heard.
‘Oh, he is all right,’ said Harrison; ‘he is having a grand old time amongst the guinea-fowl. He is not lost after all, he has only been following the guinea-fowl up, and, I suppose, he has succeeded in driving them into a corner at last, and is killing them one by one at his leisure; at least, that seems to be the case from the number of shots he is firing.’
All laughed, for they understood this to be a joke at Keith’s expense, for, of course all knew those shots were meant to guide them to the lost man, and were by no means fired at guinea-fowl.
Although a reply shot was fired now and again to let Keith know that help was coming, he seemed to be determined to let them know where he was, for he kept on firing, apparently as fast as he could pull out empty cartridge cases and put full ones in again.
Guided in this way, they soon came up to the place where Keith was standing. When they came up he looked thoroughly disgusted with himself and everybody else. But he felt awfully glad, as he afterwards expressed it, to see them. He confessed to having really been afraid to spend the night in the bush; nameless terrors came before his mental vision, and, said he, ‘If I felt so dreadfully lonely and afraid, when I knew I could not be far away from the camp, what must one’s feeling be to be really lost in the bush? It must be awful—ugh!’
‘But how did you manage to lose yourself?’ asked someone.
‘Well, you can’t understand it before you get lost yourself; I always thought I would never lose my bearings, wherever and however situated I might find myself. But when I had given up the chase of the guinea-fowl, and I wanted to retrace my steps, I could not for the life of me determine which way I had come. I was not sure which way the camp lay, and as the sun had gone down, I could not say which side was north or south. I climbed a confounded thorn tree, and after I had perforated myself with thorns, and got as high as I could, I was rewarded for my pains by seeing the tops of other thorn trees, and nothing else. I got down and ran in the direction in which I thought the camp might lie, and after running a distance I thought it must lie in another direction, so I kept running in one direction and another. I was so excited that the sweat was pouring off me in streams. At last I was so tired that I thought I had better sit down and rest, and on a little calm reflection, I saw that I was a fool for running about in this way, and that I was only tiring myself, and probably running farther and farther away from the tents, so I sat down and waited.’
‘But I say, Keith,’ chimed in Harrison, ‘how many cartridges have you left in your belt?’
‘Not one; why do you ask?’
‘And how many guinea-fowl have you killed?’
‘You go and bury yourself!’ retorted Keith, who saw whither Harrison was leading him, and that he was trying to raise the laugh against him.
The party returned to the camps, and after a hearty supper of venison, storm jagers (dough nuts) and fresh butter, Keith got his spirits back, and joined in the laugh against himself for losing himself so easily; it was considered a good joke by the Boers, who could find their way in the darkest night in the bush and never get lost.
After supper, pipes were lighted, and all the men folks (as well as some of the younger women folks) of the whole encampment gathered around the large fire in one of the largest enclosures to indulge in chat and anecdote. The fire was glorious. Timber was plentiful. Once the fire was burning well, two or three tree stumps were put on, and the fire would keep burning on this solid mass of fuel till next day.
This gathering just suited Steve. He had been in such gatherings before, and loved to hear the anecdotes of the hunting field, as well as the battlefield, told by grey-headed men around the fire of an evening.
After one tale and another had been told by individuals of the junior members, Steve turned to one of the seniors, who was known to be on intimate terms with President Kruger, and said,—
‘I suppose even the President was fond of hunting in his younger days, Oom Simon?’
‘Yes, he was a noted lion hunter; I have heard a story or two of his doings as a lion hunter, but I have never asked him about the truth of it, so you need not believe it, but I will relate it to you.
‘The first was when he and another man were suddenly attacked by a lion one day. They were both unarmed, as they did not expect to find lions or dangerous beasts of prey in the vicinity. The President had his hunting-knife on his hip, and that was all. Suddenly they nearly stepped on a lion lying in the tall grass; the lion sprang up, and before he could get out of the way, the President’s companion found himself under the lion, with the teeth of the brute closing in his shoulder.
‘The President sprang to his companion’s assistance, drew his knife, seized the lion by the throat, and stabbed him in the heart two or three times. The lion then let go his hold, and fell dead.’
‘But, uncle, is not that almost an impossible thing to do, to seize a lion by the throat and stab him to death.’
‘Under ordinary circumstances it would be almost impossible, but you must know that when a lion bites into the flesh of his victim and feels the warm blood in his mouth, he seems to enjoy it so much that he always closes his eyes for a few moments, and lies perfectly quiet to enjoy himself. If you think that impossible, you might think this still more so. The President had one day walked far ahead of his waggon in the hunting field. He had again left his heavy gun in the waggon. He was standing on a rise, waiting for the waggon—coming on far behind—and resting, when he saw two lions, a male and female, coming on full speed towards him from an opposite direction to the waggon. They were charging direct on him, the lion in front, the lioness some distance behind. The President saw it was no time to show funk and run. To run away on foot meant death. He did the best thing he could under the circumstances. He stood up and faced the charging lion, and looked him firmly and fiercely in the eyes. The lion came within a few paces of him, then stopped, looked him in the eyes for a moment or two, hesitated for a second, then turned and ran away with his tail between his legs. The lioness, who had by this time come up, looked after her flying mate in surprise, seemingly wondering at his giving his prey up so easily. Then she looked at the President in a searching way, as if she sought for the danger which had driven her mate away. She caught the menacing eye of the President, stood spell-bound for a moment as if mesmerised, then turned and followed her lord and master.’
‘Well, I can well believe that, for I have often heard that the President possessed the power of mesmerism in a natural way, although he only seems to exercise it in an unconscious way. And I believe that if a man does possess such a power, he ought to, with his wonderful firmness of will, amounting almost to obstinacy.’
‘No, I do not think he is obstinate,’ replied Oom Simon, ‘but he never determines upon anything unless he is firmly convinced that it is the right thing to do; and then, when once his mind is made up as to what is right or wrong, he stands by his opinions to the end, even if he falls by them.’
‘He must be a religious and serious old man,’ remarked Steve in a way, as if he wished to draw out old Simon. ‘He never jokes or laughs, it appears to me.’
‘That is because, I suppose, you only see him in public. If you see him in private amongst his friends, especially when travelling, he is very fond of his joke. He is certainly very religious, he fears his God, and is a true Christian. But he loves a joke nevertheless.’
‘I remember once we were travelling together. We were amusing ourselves with conundrums; at last the President said,—
‘“I will give you a riddle now. There is a kraal built of high stone walls. A troop of asses wish to get into that kraal, for the lions are roaring around them, and safety is to be found in the kraal. How will they get in? Over the wall they cannot; and through the gate they may not go. How are they to get inside?” said he, turning to old Mijnheer van Heerden, a member of our party.
‘“I know not?” replied Mijnheer van Heerden.
‘“Then you are as stupid as the asses themselves, for they knew not how to get in either.” Of course Mijnheer van Heerden had to join in the laugh too. He was nicely caught, ha! ha! ha!’
‘Talking of being nicely caught?’ said Oom Hendrik, another senior of the party. ‘I once knew a wild fellow who always liked to play practical jokes. His name was Petrus. One day he met a minister, looking gentle, meek and mild, and also a little green, but looks are sometimes deceptive, as you will see. He went up to the minister and said to him, “Mijnheer, do you practice as well as preach the Bible?”’
‘“I hope so, my friend,”’ was the reply.
‘“The Bible says, ‘If a man should strike you on the left cheek, turn to him the right cheek, that he may strike that also.’” And he gave the minister a good slap on the left cheek. The minister quietly turned the right cheek to him; he was a little disconcerted at this, but struck it in a half-hearted sort of way, and said, “Yes, I see you do practice as well as preach.” But it was the turn of the minister now, who said,—
‘“Yes, but wait a bit, my friend, the Bible also says, ‘That by the same measure that ye shall measure others with shall ye also be measured by.’” And the minister took his coat off, and set to, and gave Petrus the best thrashing he ever had in his life.’
CHAPTER XXXI
LION STORIES
Steve saw that the conversation was drifting out of the desired channel, so he turned to Oom Simon again, and said,—
‘But did you ever have a narrow escape from a lion, Oom Simon?’
‘Well, I had a narrow escape once of being thoroughly frightened. We had been out for a lion hunt during the day. We found one, or rather he found us, for the first we saw of him was when he was mounted on the back of one of our horses. He had bounded out of a clump of marsh reeds, and sprung right on top of the horse, fastening his teeth in the neck of my poor hunting horse. We shot him. I gave him a bullet behind the shoulder, from the left, and my brother one through the loins from the right. We skinned him, and took the skin to camp.
‘That night I was standing near the enclosure, when one of the boys suddenly threw the lion’s skin close to the dogs standing near to me. The dogs must have thought it was a live lion. They howled and growled as they usually do when a lion is near. And one of them, as big as the lion himself, was so frightened that he ran against me in the dark. It was so dark I could not see, and I thought it must be the lion himself. I can tell you it took my breath away, I got such a schrik (sudden fright), and it was some moments before I was sure there was no lion between my legs, but only a dog.’
‘I got a bigger schrik than that one day,’ said Oom Klaas, another old man, who had been quiet up till now. ‘I had shot a red buck one day. I hung him up a tree, in the bush, and went for the waggon to take the game to the camp. I came back with the waggon following at some distance, having left my gun at the waggon, as I had only a short time before left the spot, and did not expect any lions to be there so soon. Judge of my surprise, when I came within sight of my game, to see two lions pulling at it. They saw me, and one ran to the right. I crept round the bushes in an opposite direction. I was continually looking round in the direction towards which I had seen one of the lions go, expecting the other one would follow in the same direction, so I did not look in front of me, but always behind, in order to see him if he should charge me from behind. Suddenly something ran up right against me, throwing me right on my back. In a flash I saw it was the other lion, with the red buck in his mouth; he had gone round by the other way, and thus came upon me in this unexpected way; fortunately he had the buck in his mouth. So that he saw me as little as I saw him, thus the result—that we collided in this unexpected way. I can tell you I did get a schrik. I could just shout, Haai you schelm, as I lay upon my back. But fortunately for me his mouth was occupied in holding the red buck, and so he could not bite, and when the shock came, he was as much surprised and frightened as I was. He dropped the buck and fled.’
There was amongst the company an old man, named Oom Frans (I omit all family names as these reminiscences are all true; and giving fictitious names will serve no purpose). This old man had gone through many vicissitudes. One day he was felling a tree. It was very heavy. The tree fell and caught four of his fingers in such a way that withdrawing them was impossible. He had only one companion with him. Nobody else was within two days’ journey. His companion could not move the tree stump a hair’s breadth. What to do now? He got out his knife and asked his friend to cut the fingers off. But the man had not the nerve to do so, and refused his friend’s entreaties to amputate the fingers. Oom Frans got wild; he lost his temper at such womanishness. He took the knife and cut his own fingers off himself. It was his right hand. The writer has often shaken that stump of a hand, and wondered at the nerve displayed by the old man in cutting off four of his own fingers with an ordinary pocket knife.
This old man now quietly said,—
‘I once had a narrow escape from a lion. It is many years ago now—’
Here Oom Hendrik interrupted him by saying,—
‘No, Neef Frans, these young fellows are keeping us out of our sleep, and we old folks get up early. Stephaans and his friends are going to stay over to-morrow, I suppose, as Stephaans himself has had too good success with the koraan to leave them without another try, and I expect Mijnheer Keith would like to be revenged on those guinea-fowl. So you had better postpone your story, or we shall have no adventures to tell them to-morrow night. Good-night, all friends,’ and off walked the old chap, followed by the rest of the party, who had all been feeling rather sleepy during the last half-hour; for I can recommend to whoever may read this no better remedy for insomnia than a tramp after guinea-fowl, or after a lost chum in the bush.
CHAPTER XXXII
DANGERS OF THE CHASE
The party took full advantage of their further delay the following day, and a fairly successful bag was made.
In the afternoon all the farmers who could manage to get away from the cares of their folds joined them. Each of the visitors had one or more guides, some of the junior farmers acting as such, so as to prevent any more straying or getting lost. A point was agreed upon where all would meet at a certain hour to compare notes.
The programme was carried out in full. They all met, and after a rest had been taken, and success or non-success had been communicated, they all left together to return to the camp.
Suddenly they came upon two men lying under a tree. At a distance they took it to be two men sleeping in the veld, but on approaching it was seen that they were lying in too uncomfortable a position to be sleeping.
An investigation was made, when it was found that they were dead.
It was an old man of about fifty years of age and a young man of about twenty years. There was a family resemblance, which hardly left a doubt of their being father and son.
‘How can this have happened?’ remarked an old man, closely examining the corpses. ‘It can hardly be murder, as I find no wound in them; it might rather be poison, for see how discoloured their faces look. What could they have been eating to poison themselves?’
‘They have been eating kambaroo, father,’ said a young man. ‘See, there is half a bulb lying next to them.’
‘That is not kambaroo,’ returned the old man, examining the bulb. ‘This is a poisonous bulb. Nobody who knows kambaroo would eat this bulb for it. The poor fellows must have heard of it, or known it very slightly, to make such a sad mistake. I wonder who they are!’
‘I know them, father.’ said the young man. ‘I found the nine sheep we lost last week at their tent. The sheep had got mixed with theirs in the veld. They are strangers from the high veld, and nobody knows them here. Their tent is about an hour’s ride on horseback from here.’
‘Poor fellows, I am very sorry for them and their families. Koos, you and Jan go and span in the cart and take them to their tent; and let the veld cornet know. If you can do anything for the poor families, do so, and if necessary, you can stay there till to-morrow and assist to get ready for the funeral. We shall all come over to-morrow to see what can be done to help the widow and orphans.’
This was done, and the party returned to the tents saddened at the sight; and the old patriarchs took the opportunity to point out to the younger men how transient and uncertain life is, and that it behoved them to be prepared at all times to meet their God.
Supper was partaken of silently and soberly. At the usual evening service, which few of our genuine old Boers ever omit, an earnest prayer was offered up for those who had that day been made fatherless and husbandless.
After supper, when sitting round the fire, smoking, and drinking coffee, the spirits of the party seemed to rise sufficiently for Steve to remind Oom Frans of his interrupted story of the night before.
‘I do not mind telling you the story, Stephaans,’ replied the old man, ‘but remember we must have no unseemly hilarity after having met death face to face only a few hours ago.
‘Well, as I said, it is now many years ago, when one night the lions attacked our camp and carried away a full-grown bullock. The next day we went in search of them. The grass was very high, and we did not see them until we came right upon them. There were eight of them. I was in front of our party, and when I sighted the lions, their leader was in the act of springing towards me. I fired at him as he jumped, and it turned out afterwards that it was a most lucky shot, as I had shot his lower jaw bone away. But the shot did not stop his tremendous spring, and he came down on top of me. I can tell you I have seen some heavy bullocks in my time, but I felt, as I lay under that lion, that he must weigh more than any two bullocks put together; he felt so awfully heavy as he lay on me full weight, as if he meant to crush me for disabling his biting instrument. But I did not know then that I had shot his jaw away, so I expected every moment to feel his dreadful teeth closing in on my flesh. But I felt glad when I heard several shots, and the lion rolled off me in his death agony. Thank God that his jaw was shot away. We shot all eight of those lions that day; and our cattle had peaceful nights for a long time after.’
‘A lion may be dangerous, especially when wounded or hungry,’ said Oom Koos, another member of the community. ‘But you have always at least a chance of disabling a lion when he is charging you. The most dangerous animal, however, when infuriated, is a black rhinoceros. There is no stopping the direct charge of a black rhinoceros. The most accurate shot from the front hardly affects him; and woe betide the man who is charged by him, even a horse can scarcely keep away from him in the bush.
‘I saw a black rhinoceros once kill a man. We were tracking the rhinoceros in the bush, and had separated for the chase, when suddenly I heard a rushing sound in the bush near by, and a cry for help. I ran as fast as I could towards the spot, and from behind a stout tree, I saw the maddened animal actually dancing on his victim. Poor Neef Piet, he was almost too shattered and soft to pick up for burial; he had a sad death. I shot the beast dead, but too late.’
‘It is true a black rhinoceros is dangerous when wounded, or out of temper,’ said Oom Hendrik, ‘and a wounded or hungry lion is to be avoided. It is also a fact that a tiger is to be dreaded more than the last two, for he is agile and quick, and no coward like the lion. I will bet that the President will never stare a tiger out of face; for he gives no time, he simply charges right out, and almost before you see him. But even a tiger will hardly attack a man after he has once sprung at him and missed, unless wounded, in which case—look out. I have more than once fallen down flat when a tiger sprang at me, when he would go right over me, and then he will just run on, and never think of renewing his attack. But even this trick requires skill and very quick movement. I once saw a Hottentot perform this trick. He was not quick enough. The tiger caught hold of him with his claws, just above the eyebrows, as he ducked, and tore his scalp right over his head, so that it hung like a cap behind him. We re-covered his bald pate with the scalp, and sewed it on, after which it grew on splendidly, leaving just a slight mark where it had been torn.
‘Well, I say these animals are all dangerous; but I always managed to escape them safe and sound in my wanderings and different hunting trips, either by killing them, or managing to discourage them from following me, or avoiding them somehow.
‘But has any one of you ever been chased by a wounded wildebeest? I have been; and you may believe me, I would rather face any living creature on earth than a beast like that again. It happened in this way. We had sighted a troop of wildebeest one afternoon early. There were four of us. We rode down upon them and fired. I had killed one of them, when I saw a fine bull with the best pair of horns I had ever seen on the head of a wildebeest before. I desired those horns, and when the herd separated, I followed this particular bull. The rest of the party each followed a beast of his choice, thus we were soon separated.
‘I had not followed my fine bull long when I got a chance for a shot, and wounded him. It was a bad shot. I had wounded him in the shoulder, just sufficiently to draw blood without disabling him in the least. I rode off to one side so as to avoid the charge which I knew would come. I looked back, and saw the bull was in full chase of me. I realised my danger. It was not the first time I had shot wildebeest. I put my horse to the highest pace I dared amongst the bushes and trees, but the bull seemed to be able to turn much quicker amongst the trees than my horse could. I saw my only chance was to make for the open country. I did so, and when I had once gained the open veld I soon gained upon my pursuer. I congratulated myself upon being now safe, and was thinking it time to halt again and take a shot at the bull, who was coming on at full speed, two hundred yards behind—for a wildebeest never gives up a chase while his enemy is still in sight once he has his temper up—when my horse trod in a hole, and threw me over his head as he fell. I fell, but was uninjured. I ran towards the horse to try and pick him up, as he still struggled on the ground, lying upon his left side, when I saw at a glance that his leg was broken. My gun had flown out of hand, and I could not see it anywhere as the grass was rather tall.
‘What to do now? Not a tree near, and the bull was only seventy yards away. I could see his blazing eyes as he came on towards me. His horns, which had tempted me so, seemed poised ready to toss me up into the air, as only a wildebeest knows how. At this moment I saw a porcupine hole not far away. It seemed large enough to hold me, and, even though it was not deep, it would suffice, so long as I could keep out of reach of those terrible horns. I sprang towards the hole and crept into it. It was just large enough for me to lie in it, with my head pressed into a hole a little deeper at one end and my feet into a similar one at the other end. The hole seemed to have been originally two holes, with the intervening wall broken down, but not so deep as the two original holes. Into these two holes I hung with my head and feet, while my body was resting on the wall between, which was broken down just deep enough to leave my body slightly below the surface of the surrounding ground. The wildebeest bull was on me. I heard him snorting and tramping about where my horse was lying, and by the fall of a heavy body which I heard, I judged that he had completed the ruin of my hunting horse by tossing him. Now I heard him come towards me. I felt his hot breath on my back. What will he do now? I knew I was out of reach of his horns. Will he have sense enough to tread on me, and thus revenge himself by breaking my back? No; he knew a trick worth two of that it seemed. What do you think he did? He started licking me. Any harm in that? Have you ever seen the tongue of a wildebeest? It is as rough as a rasp, and as hard as a horn. At first I did not think much of his scratching my back with his horny tongue, but he had soon worn through my shirt, which was the only upper garment I had on at the time. Oh Lord! what a sensation it was when first his tongue reached my bare body; it was terrible. But you can easily feel what it was like by taking a coarse rasp and rasping your bare body. My God, I shall never forget that quarter-of-an-hour’s torture I endured that day. It felt as if he was tearing pieces of flesh out of my bare back. Soon the blood was streaming down my sides, and the blood seemed to make him madder than ever. Every time he tore his tongue through my lacerated flesh a shiver of horror and pain passed through my body. I prayed to God as I had never prayed before to let me die. When the horror and pain became too much for me to bear, I fainted. If I had not fainted I suppose I would either have died or gone mad. When I came to myself I was lying on my side; somebody was pouring water over me and down my throat. My companions had looked for me, had discovered my horse and the maddened bull, and shot the latter. They found me in the hole where the bull had been standing engaged in his fiendish work. They thought I was dead. But I recovered, and lived to dread the sight of a wildebeest. I have the horns of that brute still to-day at home. I have been offered £15 for them as they are such a splendid pair, but I will never sell them, and I will never risk a single-handed fight with a wildebeest bull again.’
Steve and his companions felt their hair almost stand on end as they listened to the horrible tale.
‘You were one of our party that day, Neef Frederick,’ said the old man, turning to a companion. ‘Have I spoken the truth?’
‘That you have, Neef; I could take my oath on it,’ was the reply. ‘And what is more, I one day saw my uncle killed by just such another wildebeest. We also had a chase after an old bull. We were three. We shot and wounded him. He turned and stood at bay, and chased my poor old uncle, and as he was in a line with my uncle from us we dared not fire for fear of hitting my uncle. In a moment he came up to the old man, as his horse was not very good, and rather slow. He caught the horse with his horn between the hind legs, and tossed him forwards, hind legs in the air. As the horse was tossed forward my uncle dropped backwards, and was caught upon the horn of the bull. The horn penetrated just under his chin, in an upward direction, passing out on the top of his head. When we came up we shot the bull. But my uncle was a dead man!’
After a little further conversation on the peculiarities of game and their habits, the party broke up, and all retired to bed.
CHAPTER XXXIII
SCHRIKRIGHIED
An early start was made the next day to proceed on their trip, as the plan was not to stay at any one place more than two days so as to enable them to see as many places and people as possible.
Early in the afternoon they arrived at the camping place of a party of transport riders, who were spending a month in the bush veld to recruit their worn-out draught oxen. They were a rough-and-ready lot, but a merry and entertaining party withal.
They were very hospitable and kind, taking the young holiday-makers to the best coverts for birds and game. But what amused Steve most of all was that one of the party was one who schriked.
Before proceeding, I must explain what is meant by this word.
The dictionary translates schrik to mean fright, dread, terror, horror. But this hardly explains what is meant by the term here. Here it is meant to represent a combination of ticklishness and schrikishness, if I may be allowed to use the words in such a manner.
In South Africa, one often meets with persons who are thus affected in various stages. Some need to be touched under the arms, when they will shout out as loud as you like, and jump as high as you please. Some will be affected in the same way by being shown certain animals or insects, composing their particular dread, such as a spider, a frog or mouse. To others you need but to suddenly mention their particular objects of dread to make them act as if they were mad.
To others, again, the worst of all—after having once startled them and put them on the qui vive, you may stand at any safe distance, and in a sudden, sharp, commanding tone, order them to do or say what you please, and they simply cannot resist doing as you say.
This disease, as one may call it, is generally acquired by being over tickled in your youth, or receiving a bad fright, as the reader may gather from the recitals of the victims themselves further on. To some people it is a serious burden to be thus affected, as the amusement caused by their doing all sorts of ludicrous things at the will of everyone, tempts everybody to make them schrik, and the continual shock to the system causes them to tremble all over, and to feel an excess of nervousness not at all conducive to good health. The writer has known a strong healthy young man thus affected, to faint on being tickled under the arms while being held down.
Steve delighted in these comical persons, who would be so stupid as to do what you tell them, or say out loud what you whispered to them, simply out of schrik. But he always took care not to make an abuse of the amusement; for as soon as he saw his victim getting too excited, he would soothe him and spare him further for the time being.
The victim in this particular instance was named Piet. They were sitting having their dinner. Each was holding his mug of coffee in one hand; the kettle was empty; no more coffee to be had unless the kettle was first boiled. One of the transport riders looks round and winks, and says suddenly,—
‘Piet, throw that mug away.’ Away goes the mug, coffee and all.
Steve sees how the land lies, and joins in the laugh, seeing some fun ahead.
After Piet’s cup had been replenished by getting a portion from each of the other cups, he thought, ‘Now I shall be able to finish my meal,’ when he received the command, ‘Jump up, Piet.’ He jumped up as ordered, dropping both cup and food this time. He stood looking comically and disgustedly at his nice venison steak lying in the ashes, while the others were splitting their sides with laughing. Steve, of course, laughed as much as anyone else, and more so—it was so foolish to throw your food away like that.
After once more sharing food and drink with the others, he was allowed to finish his meal. After dinner, some Kaffir women came to the camp to sell stamp mealies (shelled maize). Some were bought and Piet was requested to pay. He took out his purse, opened it, and took out a shilling to pay the girl, when
‘Give her the purse,’ came the order.
‘De, de’ (here, here), cried poor Piet, forcing the purse full of silver into the hands of the astonished black lady.
He was allowed to take back his purse, put it in his pocket, when once more came the order,—
‘Shake hands with her.’ He seized the black girl’s hand and shook it heartily, only to drop it in disgust, and call for soap, muttering something about, ‘This is too much, shaking hands with the dirty, greasy thing; soap will hardly wash the stinking grease off my hand again.’ The others were lying on their backs shaking with laughter, and holding their sides. The black woman had never been so astonished. Never had a white man offered to shake hands with her before.
‘Take off your hat to the lady,’ once more heard Piet. He took off his hat and made a profound bow to the staring sable woman. The next moment he took off his hat again and tramped upon it, as if the hat was to be blamed for being lifted in greeting to a nigger.
He was allowed to take a breath now, as the others felt it would be fatal for them to laugh any more. Steve felt as if his cheeks would never take their normal position again; they had been stretched out of position so much from laughing.
Presently the oxen came in to be kraaled for the night. Speelman—an old Hottentot—the herder, came up to the fire to be rationed.
Steve and his party had not seen Speelman before, as he had been in the veld all day herding the cattle. He was a short, pot-bellied old sinner, with a round bullet head, and a face, all wrinkles, which seemed as if made of elastic when he drew it into his broad, hypocritical smile, as he came towards Baas Piet and asked for some baccy.
Piet took out his span of tobacco, cut off a few inches, and handed it to Speelman, when one of his friends named Daniel shouted slang (snake).
Speelman bounded into the air, and made Piet schrik too as he came down again, and catching hold of Piet round the body, hung there, kicking and howling. ‘Help, baas, help, slang, slang.’ And as he hung and kicked, Piet struggled and shouted, the one seemed as excited and frightened as the other.
The scene was too much for mortal man to stand. Steve fell on the ground, and rolled about on the grass as he laughed. He had to close his eyes. He felt, if he looked longer on the ludicrous scene, he would break something; his sides had already been abnormally strained. When he opened his eyes, Piet and Speelman were arguing the matter out.
‘If you hang to me again with those dirty paws of yours I shall kick you.’ Piet was saying in disgust.
‘But, baas, how can I help it, when Baas Daniel frightened me so? Please give me some other tobacco, baas; mine fell, and I can’t find it,’ he said supplicatingly.
‘Ask Baas Daniel; he made you lose yours, and now he can give you some other.’
‘Oh, please, Baas Daniel, give poor old Speelman some other tobacco, I have had nothing to smoke all the afternoon.’ said the old hypocrite, as he went and stood in front of Daniel. Piet saw his opportunity was come for revenge. He shouted,—
‘Speelman, kiss Baas Daniel.’
Speelman rushed forward and caught hold of Daniel, and tried his level best to approach his already smacking lips to the lips of Daniel. The woods rang with the roars of laughter as the young fellows saw the biter bitten in this unexpected manner. Daniel caught hold of Speelman by the throat, and even then he had great difficulty to keep the dirty smacking lips of the Hottentot away from his, for Speelman had again, for the second time, heard Piet’s command to ‘kiss Baas Daniel.’ At last Daniel succeeded by main force to throw the Hottentot away from him.
At first Daniel was inclined to resent the trick played on him by Piet, but he was told that he had done as much to Piet, or nearly so, in causing Piet to shake hands with the Kaffir woman; and he had to acknowledge the truth of it and join in the laugh against himself.
When Steve recovered from his last fit of laughter, he called Speelman to him, emptied his pouch in his hand, and said,—
‘Now, Speelman, tell me what makes you so disrespectful to your baas as to try and kiss him?’
‘I can’t help it, baas, I am so schriking. When I am told to do anything, I do it.’
‘But what makes you do so?’
‘Baas, when I was a boy I one day fell asleep under a tree. When I awoke, a snake was partly coiled round my neck, and part of it was coiled on my breast; and when I saw and felt it, I schriked so I thought I should die. I jumped up and tore the snake from me, and ran away as fast as I could, until I was so tired I could run no more. After that, baas, if you only say snake to me, you can make me do whatever you like.’
‘Snake,’ called out Steve’s cousin at this moment.
‘Where? Where? Where?’ shouted Speelman, dancing and jumping about.
‘Stand on your head,’ shouted Keith. He hardly expected his order to be executed, and was surprised to see Speelman fall down and stand on his head, kicking his heels in the air, while he shouted, Slang, slang (snake, snake).
Steve now interposed, and said that they had had enough fun out of Speelman for once. They ought to let him rest now and take breath.
The rest of the evening was spent in yarning and storytelling generally, after which all went to bed.
CHAPTER XXXIV
STUCK IN THE MUD
The following day, Steve and his three companions had good sport amongst the guinea-fowl and other birds.
The transport riders had left early in the morning, each with a good load of firewood for the Pretoria market, as their month of inactivity was at an end, and they had once more to begin work. It had been agreed that the party with the cart should start about ten o’clock from the night’s camping place, after having had a turn at the guinea-fowl, etc., and as the waggons started at seven, the cart would catch up with them somewhere about noon, when they could once more have dinner together.
As agreed so done. Steve and his companions came speeding towards the drift, beyond which, it had been agreed, the waggons would outspan, and get dinner ready. As they came nearer, they heard an uproar of oxwhips clapping, and men shouting. When they arrived on the scene they saw that one of the waggons was stuck in the drift.
All the other waggons had crossed safely, but the last one, the most heavily laden, and having the weakest span of oxen, had sunk deep in the mud of the drift. The water was no more than two feet deep, but the mud was nearly as deep in itself.
The occupants of the cart saw at a glance that there was no chance for them to pass while the waggon occupied the narrow drift. They, therefore, left Harrison in charge of the cart, and went forward to see how matters proceeded. They found the waggon sunk to the nave in the mud. The oxen were panting and struggling to pull through the mud. Their leader was pulled hither and thither as they swayed to and fro in their efforts to pull out. The men, half naked, were struggling about in the water, talking to the oxen, and clapping their whips. But in vain, the waggon would not budge an inch.
The youngsters from town thought this struggling about in the water trying to extricate a waggon stuck in the mud fine fun, so they took off their clothes, and joined the party of transport riders in the water.
Steve and his friends soon discovered that the pleasantest part of the fun was to sit, perched on top of the waggon, and watch the efforts of the others to urge the oxen forward.
There was a lull. Another span of oxen had been sent for to hook on in front. Speelman, who had been the liveliest in his efforts to get forward, was standing alongside of the hind oxen. He was almost naked, having just a remnant of a shirt on. He looked like a dusky mermaid of the waters, he moved so rapidly about; he was now under the oxen, now right under the trek chain; he seemed to be everywhere.
‘I say, Speelman, did you see any snakes this morning?’ asked Steve.
‘No, baas, don’t want to see ’em,’ said Speelman, suspiciously looking about him, as if he expected to see snakes in the water.
‘Jump on the ox,’ cried Keith; and in a second Speelman was astride of the kicking bullock.
‘Stand on your head in the water,’ cried Keith again, not expecting to be obeyed in this. But Speelman ducked into the water, head foremost, and only the tips of his legs were seen above water, kicking furiously.
‘You shouldn’t do that,’ said Steve, laughing. ‘It is dangerous; he might get drowned.’
He remained down so long, and the kicking became so furious, that Steve became anxious. He shouted to him to get up, but Speelman could not hear him.
‘By Jove! his head must be sticking in the mud,’ he cried, and jumping down, he seized Speelman by the legs and pulled him up. Assisted by Keith from the waggon, the poor old Hottentot was dragged on to the seat of the waggon. The poor old fellow presented a most comical face when pulled up. He was drawing in great breaths, to get his steam up again, while he spat the black mud out of his mouth. His whole head, eyes, ears and all were thickly coated with the black, sticky mud, while his pepper corn hair had disappeared under a coating of the same black, smooth pomade. It appears that his head really did stick in the mud.
‘You must not do that again, baas; poor old Speelman would have been drowned if the baas had not pulled him out,’ said he to Keith.
As to Keith, he and his companions had been too frightened to laugh at this exhibition of Speelman’s funniosities. He gave Speelman half-a-crown, and told him to go and wash the mud out of his mouth at the canteen beyond the drift. At this moment the extra span of oxen arrived, was attached to the front of the regular span, and with a Trek, trek, haai you schelm, vat zou blik schottel, the waggon moved forward, and was soon outspanned with the rest on the other side of the drift. The cart followed over, and soon the whole party was partaking of the regular bush veld fare—venison steak, leg of venison, broiled guinea-fowl, and storm jagers (dough cakes).
Speelman followed the advice given him by Baas Keith, and after having imbibed a pint of peach brandy, was as merry as a cricket, and was none the worse for his immersion, except, perhaps, that he was a little more pot-bellied than usual from the quantity of water he had drunk while standing on his head in the drift.
After dinner, Steve and his party took leave of the transport riders with mutual expressions of good will and hopes of meeting again.
In this way they proceeded from camp to camp. Many parties of farmers were met wintering with their herds in the bush veld; and all they had to do was to decide at which encampment they would outspan, or at which they would spend the night, which was mostly decided by the party of farmers who could give the most favourable report as to the game in their neighbourhood.
They had various success. One day, perhaps, they had the best of sport, the next day, perhaps, they failed in bringing down a single head of game. But on the whole, they were perfectly satisfied with their trip. We shall relate only one more incident of their holiday trip. It was the last day; that evening they hoped to sleep in Pretoria again. They were speeding along merrily. It was still forenoon, and Pretoria was hardly four hours distant, so they had no doubt of reaching home before night. It had rained severely the day before along the track of country on which they were then travelling. Suddenly they turned into the main road from the warm baths, and now they had reason to regret the rain of the day before—they were in the famous turf veld.
They had not proceeded far before the turf began to tell severely on the pace of the horses. At first they slackened their speed only a little, but soon they were going at barely more than a walk. The sticky black soil was coating the wheels to such a degree that the spokes gradually became nearer and nearer to each other, until the wheels had no spokes, but became a solid mass of black turf. All that the travellers could do was to halt and scrape off the worst part of the mud, when for a time they were able to go on again at a slightly better pace. Full advantage was taken of any unbroken veld, where the heavy waggons had not yet cut up the soil into furrows and ridges of soft black soil. But these patches were scarce, as every driver of waggon or cart generally turns out of the beaten track into the grass alongside, and in course of time the quarter or half mile strip of country, which is supposed to be left unfenced along all roads as feeding ground for trekking herds, becomes so cut up that very little choice is left the traveller as to where he shall steer his weary beasts.
The young men were wearily and dejectedly plodding along, dismounting now and again to scrape the wheels, when they came to a waggon standing in the middle of the road—deserted. The oxen were still inspanned and seemed waiting for their owner. No fear of their running away; how could they? Their own feet were invisible, a round mass of black turf—twice the usual size of ox feet—was all that was visible where their feet ought to be, while the wheels of the waggon seemed to be made of solid chunks of mud—no spokes, no rims, no naves being visible.
‘Well, this is funny,’ remarked Harrison; ‘a waggon without owner. There is something wrong here; nobody would leave their waggon inspanned like this—untended.’
‘Yes, it is queer,’ answered Steve. ‘But I fancy there is the owner coming on,’ said he, pointing to a man visible in the road about half a mile farther on.
‘It may be the owner, but he is not coming, but standing, evidently waiting for the party I see farther on.’
‘Why, the nearest one is a woman,’ said Keith, ‘the other one is a man; but I wonder what is the matter with them? They both remain standing on one spot, but they are gesticulating like mad.’
They soon approached the first party they had seen. It was a woman. She was an elderly old lady, very stout in the beams, and one would have thought, even under ordinary circumstances, she must find it difficult to walk any distance. She appeared to be standing on two lumps of turf, but—they were sticking to her feet. Every step she took increased the size of the lump, until at last she was obliged to stop, she could drag her burden (which, unlike that of Christian, was attached to her feet) along no more.
‘Well, I’m blessed if it is not old Mrs M’Kwaire,’ cried Steve.
‘And who may she be?’ queried Keith.
‘Why, she is Mrs M’Kwaire,’ he replied, laughing. ‘She is an old lady of Dutch extraction, married to an old Irishman, both characters in their way—very comical and amusing as a rule; it is most amusing to set old M’Kwaire’s tongue a-wagging by mentioning Home Rule. If you once start him, you may go away for half-an-hour and come back to find him still talking to some imaginary antagonist about Home Rule and the wrongs of Ireland.’
‘Hillo, Tante, why don’t you ride on the waggon?’ cried out Steve, as they stopped alongside of her.
‘That is what I would like to do,’ she replied, ‘but that foolish Pat would get down to pick up a yoke skey lying in the road, when he remained stuck, and, as the oxen would not stop, I, like another fool, got down to help him while the oxen walked on with the waggon to where it is now standing. And now I am sticking between Pat and the waggon; I can’t get to him, he cannot get to me, and neither of us can get to the waggon.’
The young fellows could not help bursting into loud roars of laughter at the ludicrousness of the scene. They halted as near to the old lady as possible, and helped her on to their cart and drove on to where Pat was standing, talking and swearing all the time.
‘Well, old Stick-in-the-mud,’ cried Keith, ‘it seems the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, and Mahomet can’t go to the mountain; what does Mahomet intend doing now?’ All laughed at this sally.
‘Begorrah, sor, ye niver would lave a pore old mon ’ere.’
‘No, I am afraid that would be another wrong to old Oireland. Well, Pat, if Ireland can get out of her troubles as easily as you, I would advise you to get back to her, and stand for the first election of president, king, or emperor, whatever your new constitution would call your chief ruler. I think you stand a good chance.’
‘Come along, Keith, that is enough for one day, you are getting too humorously clever,’ said Steve. ‘Give us your hand, Pat, and jump up if you can.’
But Pat could not jump. He had to be dragged into the cart, and was thus able to sit down and scrape his feet clean again.
Pat and Mrs Pat were driven back to their waggon, and left behind to proceed to their farm, while the party in the cart proceeded on their way to Pretoria, where they arrived just as darkness was closing in.
‘There is one thing I would like to remark now that we are home again,’ remarked Keith. ‘And it is just this. I have been converted. I had always been impressed with the idea that the Boers are half savage, exclusive, inhospitable and unkind to strangers, especially to Englishmen. I have seen my error. I do not believe there is a country in the world where one would receive such kindness, consideration and hospitality as we have received during our trip. I for one reckon myself as the friend and champion of all Boers from to-day.’
‘You are right,’ said Harrison. ‘When we started, I hardly believed Steve’s promise of hospitality from all and sundry, and fully expected to have rough times of it, and I have been agreeably disappointed at the kindness shown us by all.’