Chapter Thirteen.
Two years after—Rumours of war—Good news for Tom—Mr Weston makes an interesting proposal.
Nearly two years have passed since the events recorded in the previous chapters, and our hero is once more the guest of Captain Jamieson. The Westons, too, are at Ralfontein, likewise Patrick Keown and the faithful Hottentot, Black William.
But not Major Flinders?
No; the Major is away in England with his wife and daughters, and many months must elapse before Tom can hope to see their faces again.
But let us “hark back,” and see what has happened since George Weston was so nearly done to death by the tree-leopard.
In the spring of 1845 Mrs Flinders was suddenly seized with a sharp attack of illness which for some time entirely baffled the skill of the Cape Town doctors; and when, after weeks of anxiety and watching, they seemed to get the better of the disease, the poor lady was left almost at death’s door. Days went by without the patient showing any appreciable signs of improvement, and at length the doctors were obliged to confess that though they had checked the disorder they had by no means conquered it. The plain truth was, they were altogether out of their depth.
Said the pompous and portly Dr Brownjohn: “Major, you must, I fear, take our interesting patient to England, and—ha—and—”
“Seek better advice,” interrupted plain-spoken Mr Spike, his brother-medico. “We can do nothing more, my dear sir. The case is beyond us, I’m grieved to say.”
“And—hum!—and, I was about to say, the sea voyage may possibly benefit her,” continued the great M.D., looking “prussic acid and strychnine” at his candid colleague. “As my young friend Spike suggests,” he added after a pause, “you might consult some well-known London physician. Sir Timothy Glauber and Doctor Peter Bolus are both eminent men—very eminent men, I may say; you could not do better than seek their valuable advice.”
“But will my poor wife be able to stand the voyage?” the anxious husband inquired, glancing from one doctor to the other. “She is lamentably weak, you know.”
“True—very true!” assented Brownjohn, pursing his lips. “But let us hope for the best—yes, my dear sir, let us hope for the best! While there’s life—while there’s life!—hum! Pray, what is your opinion, Mr Spike?”
“That it is her only chance,” bluntly responded Mr Spike. “And hark ye, Major, take Mrs F to Newman—John Newman of Saint Margaret’s Square. He is not a fashionable doctor, but there’s not a more clever fellow in the whole College of Physicians, and what is better, he has had wonderful experience in intricate cases. If any man can pull your wife through this illness it is John Newman!”
And thus it came to pass that Major and Mrs Flinders started for England by the next steamer, their daughters accompanying them.
Now shortly before this trouble befell the Major he and Mr Weston (after much consideration and careful weighing of pros and cons) had, with the approval of Mrs Flinders, made up their minds to migrate to Ralfontein and enter into partnership with Captain Jamieson; and the former was on the point of closing with a most advantageous offer for Rustenburg Farm, when his wife’s illness upset their plans and drove all other ideas from their heads.
In fact, nothing more was said concerning the projected migration until Doctors Brownjohn and Spike advised that Mrs Flinders should be taken to England. The Major then suggested that (as the above-mentioned offer still held good) Rustenburg should be sold forthwith, and that the Westons and Tom should proceed to Ralfontein as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made. To this proposal Mr Weston gave a ready consent; and accordingly he, Gracie, and the two boys, attended by Patrick Keown and Black William, started for Ralfontein a fortnight after the mail steamer sailed from Table Bay; and at the time the present chapter opens they had been with the Jamiesons upwards of six months.
And now we can go ahead with our “plain unvarnished tale” without any more “backing and filling.”
It is a chilly evening in the early part of the Cape autumn, (March, April, and May are the autumn months in South Africa), and Captain Jamieson and his family are gathered round a blazing castange hout fire in the general sitting-room of Ralfontein House. The captain looks anxious and fatigued, as well he may do, for he has just returned from Graham’s Town, whither, ten days before, he was summoned by the Lieutenant-Governor of the Eastern District to attend a “palaver” with some troublesome Caffres; and he has ridden upwards of 100 miles over a difficult country in less than fourteen hours—not bad work for a man who will never see sixty again!
“So we’re in for another Caffre war!” Frank Jamieson said when his father informed them that the result of the “palaver” had been far from satisfactory. “That makes the third in sixteen years, to say nothing of minor affairs.”
“I suppose the Caffres have grown ‘fat’ again,” observed young James.
“‘Fat!’” exclaimed Mr Weston; “in the name of all that’s sensible, what has their growing fat got to do with their going to war?”
Captain Jamieson and his sons laughed at their friend’s astonishment, and the former replied:
“You must know, my dear Weston, that our Cape wars rarely arise from political causes, but chiefly from a desire on the part of the young men of the various tribes to distinguish themselves and earn the coveted title of ‘warrior.’ When a tribe has been some years at peace with its neighbours the number of young men increase; this they call growing ‘fat,’ or, in other words, becoming ready to take the field. Once in this condition the young men never rest until they find a pretext for going to war either with us or their neighbours.”
“And what pretext have they now?” inquired Miss Janet.
“A very simple one, my dear. Two Caffres, warriors of some standing in their tribe, were lately caught in the act of stealing an axe from a Beaufort storekeeper. They were secured, committed by the magistrate, and in due course were sent down to Graham’s Town with some other prisoners to stand their trial at the criminal court—their escort consisting of five or six civil constables. Now the highroad between Fort Beaufort and Graham’s Town runs close along the Caffre border; and before the constables had gone many miles they were suddenly attacked by a party of Gaikas, who had crossed the border with the express purpose of rescuing their fellow-tribesmen. The escort appear to have made a stout resistance, but, overcome by their weight of numbers, they were forced to beat a retreat and leave their prisoners in the hands of the victorious Gaikas. Now it so happened that the warriors who were the cause of this attack were handcuffed to two Hottentots; and their rescuers, not being able to unfasten the handcuffs, and being pressed for time, deliberately murdered these unhappy men, and, cutting off their arms at the elbow-joints, set their rascally friends at liberty.
“When the lieutenant-governor was informed of this outrage he at once sent a message to the chiefs of the offending tribe, and demanded that the two prisoners should be brought back and the murderers of the unfortunate Hottentots surrendered. But the young ‘amadodas’ of the tribe were eager for war, and, their counsels outweighing the counsels of the older men, the government message was treated with contempt.
“A ‘palaver’ was, however, subsequently arranged for; and last Wednesday the lieutenant-governor, the senior officer at Graham’s Town, and I started for the Block Drift mission station to meet the Gaika chiefs. They arrived at the appointed time, attended by a large body of warriors outnumbering the lieutenant-governor’s escort by ten to one.
“That the treacherous scoundrels meant mischief I am certain, but Captain S— who commanded the escort placed his men so judiciously that they made no attempt to attack us; and though the meeting was most unsatisfactory, at any rate it broke up without a rumpus—which was more than I expected. War, of course, is imminent; for it is absolutely necessary that the government should bring the refractory chiefs to order, otherwise our prestige will be seriously damaged throughout South Africa.”
“I suppose we shall have it all our way, Captain Jamieson?” said Tom Flinders, now a strapping young fellow of eighteen, with an incipient moustache and whiskers. “These Gaika fellows won’t make much of a stand against our troops.”
“The Gaikas and their allies are brave men, Tom, and fight well,” was the reply. “Indeed, my experience of Cape warfare is that at first the Caffres have it all their own way, though in the long run they succumb to our superior discipline and resources. Take the advice of an old campaigner, and never despise your enemies.”
“Shall you have to go out this time?” asked Janet Jamieson wistfully, putting her arm round the captain’s neck. “I hope not, dear father!”
“I am afraid so, my girl,” he answered gently. “The Lieutenant-governor has offered me the command of a force of volunteers and burghers, and I could not well refuse it.”
“And what about us?” cried the young men in a breath.
“You cannot all go, boys,” interposed Miss Jamieson, the tears starting into her bright eyes. “Who is to look after the farm and defend us in case of attack?”
“Janet is right,” said her father. “Ralfontein must not be left unprotected, for we cannot tell how far this war may spread or how long it will last.”
“You must allow me to accompany you, Jamieson,” Mr Weston struck in; whereupon Miss Janet started and the colour left her cheeks. “I shall be content to serve as a simple volunteer.”
“My dear Weston, I am relying on your taking command here,” rejoined the captain, looking askance at his daughter. “But let me tell you my plans. In the first place,” he went on, “the lieutenant-governor has offered provisional ensigncies in the Cape Mounted Rifles to Tom Flinders and Frank, on the—”
“Hurrah!” shouted Tom, who, in spite of his incipient whiskers, was as great a boy as ever; “won’t the pater be pleased!”
“On the condition,” resumed his host, smiling at the interruption—“on the condition that they serve a few months with my ‘commando,’ in order to establish a claim on the government. I have accepted this offer on their behalf; so they must go with me. I shall also take Patrick Keown, as he will be useful in assisting me to drill my ‘irregulars’ into something like soldiers. So you see, my dear Weston, you must remain at Ralfontein and take charge of the place, with George and James and David as your lieutenants. I hope you will not refuse the trust.”
“What say the young ladies?” was Mr Weston’s rejoinder. “Are you content to serve under my orders, Miss Janet?”
“If papa wishes it,” answered Miss Janet demurely.
“Then so be it,” laughed Weston; “I accept the responsible post of commandant of Ralfontein. When do you start for the seat of war?”
“Not for some days,” responded the captain. “Whilst at Graham’s Town I did a stroke of business—sold thirty horses to the government. A sergeant’s party of the Rifles are to fetch them in the course of a week or so, and I propose to return with them. And that reminds me I have accepted, in part payment for the horses, a brass six-pounder field-piece, with eighty rounds of canister, grape, and shell. The escort will bring it up with them. Should you have to defend the farm, you will find this gun of considerable service.”
The captain and Mr Weston sat up talking long after the others had sought their couches, and before they retired to rest Mr Weston told his friend that he had formed an attachment for Janet Jamieson.
“I did not intend to broach the subject until I had consulted with Matthew Flinders,” said he; “but after your request that I should remain in charge of your property and family during your absence, I felt in honour bound to mention it. In spite of the disparity in our ages, I cannot but think your daughter returns my affection. If such is the case, are you willing to give her to me?”
And as Captain Jamieson had no objection to offer, but on the contrary appeared well satisfied that the “course of true love should run smooth,” Mr Weston next morning asked Miss Janet to be his wife; to which tender question the young lady, with a becoming blush, said “Yes.”