Chapter Twenty Three.
Crossing the Storm Bergen—A Scene of Slaughter—Tom’s last adventure—“Out of the Wood” at last!
Nearly opposite to the spot where the travellers had halted, the Storm Bergen were pierced by a narrow “poort” or valley, presenting a gloomy and terrific aspect of solitude. Through the “poort”—and winding in and out amongst huge boulders of moss-covered rock and beneath frowning precipices, past wild and gorgeous hollows rank with semi-tropical vegetation so peculiar to those regions—a rough track led to the open country north of the range.
Anxious to pass through the mountains before nightfall, our hero and his companion—after a very short rest, and a mouthful of mealie—entered the “poort,” and followed the tortuous path until the sun rose high in the heavens, and its burning rays beat down into the valley with cruel force; then, unable in their debilitated condition to stand the fierce heat, they came to a halt, and concluded to rest until the cool of the evening.
“This has been a tramp!” exclaimed Tom Flinders, dropping on his knees beside a tiny rivulet, that bubbled and sparkled across their path, and lapping up the cool, clear water, like a thirsty hound. “’Pon my life,” he added, when he had quenched his thirst, “there’s nothing to be compared to ‘Adam’s ale,’ when one is really parched! I say, Frank,” he went on in more serious tones, “we’ve a lot to be thankful for.”
“We have that, old fellow,” was Frank Jamieson’s hearty reply. “Our escape has been little short of a miracle.” Then after a pause he said, “But I fear our friends will have mourned for us as dead.”
“I’m afraid so,” rejoined Tom. “I only hope that Wilson hasn’t written to the pater, and reported me ‘killed in action;’ it might be the death of my poor mother to hear such news, in her delicate state of health. When do you think we shall reach Cradock?”
“That, of course, depends a great deal upon circumstances,” Frank answered; “but, barring accidents, I think we may fairly reckon on being there by this day week at the latest. You see, Tom, now we’re able to travel during the day, we shall get over the ground much more rapidly.”
“How far is Cradock from Ralfontein?” queried his friend.
“As the crow flies, something over a hundred miles; but the track, though a good one, is rather—halloa! what’s that noise?”
Frank’s attention was attracted by a rumbling sound, which might be likened to that made by a heavy slow train passing over a bridge just within earshot; a sound which grew louder every second, and was presently mingled with horrible shouts and yells that echoed and re-echoed through the valley.
“I know what that noise is!” exclaimed Tom, seizing the gun and springing to his feet.
“Caffres! we’re lost,” ejaculated Frank Jamieson, his face paling; “we’re lost, Tom!”
But Frank quickly recovered himself, and casting a glance around in the hope of discovering some hiding-place, his eyes rested upon a hollow—or small cave—in the cliff almost immediately over their heads, and about eight or nine feet above the path.
“There’s our chance! let us take refuge in that hole,” said he, catching Tom by the arm. “I’ll help you up first and hand you the gun and assegais; then you can haul me after you. Up you go, there’s not a moment to lose!”
So saying, Frank placed his body against the face of the cliff or rock, which was all but perpendicular, and Tom, without any hesitation, sprang upon his shoulders and clambered into the cave. The gun and assegais were next handed up, then Tom, lying down flat on his stomach, reached over the edge of the cave as far as he dare, and seizing his friend’s outstretched hands, hauled him up. The cave was just deep and wide enough for them to turn round, and just high enough to allow of their squatting on their haunches like a couple of Hindoos; the entrance was partially hidden by an overhanging bush.
Hardly had our friends concealed themselves, when—as though they had dropped from the clouds—a score of sinewy black forms appeared in the valley, and took up a position on either side of the track, directly beneath the cave; they were armed with assegais only, and did not present a very warlike appearance; in fact it was evident that they were of quite a different race to Sandilli’s dusky warriors.
“I don’t believe these fellows will molest us,” Frank Jamieson said with a sigh of relief. “They probably belong to one of the pastoral tribes inhabiting the country in the vicinity of Campbeldorp, and are now on a hunting expedition. Ha! I thought so.”
And as he spoke a vast herd of small deer—beautiful animals, graceful of form and of a light cinnamon colour on the back, with white bellies and legs—came leaping and bounding along the valley, pursued by a number of savages, all yelling and shrieking at the very top of their voices.
“They’re spring-bok,” said Tom, leaning forward to get a fair view of the deer. “I wish I had my double-barrel! A good juicy steak off one of those fellows wouldn’t come amiss, eh, Frank?”
“No indeed,” replied the other. “But, I say, old fellow, take care you don’t overbalance yourself. I wouldn’t trust too much to that bush.”
The leaders of the herd of deer were now almost abreast of the cave, and the sable hunters, who were lying in wait along the path, rushed in upon them. Then commenced a scene of slaughter; numbers of the affrighted spring-bok being slain by the assegais of the savages, whilst not a few fell down and died from sheer terror.
This cruel and unsportsmanlike butchery was at its height when, forgetful of his friend’s warning, Tom Flinders leaned forward to obtain a better view of the scene, and in order to preserve his balance he caught hold of the bush which overhung the entrance of the cave; but, as Frank had suspected, the bush was not very firmly rooted, and so of a sudden it gave way, and poor Tom pitched head first out of the cave and landed right on the shoulders of one of the savages, who fell sprawling amongst the spring-bok, with our hero on the top of him.
Now nine feet is not a very terrible distance to tumble (though, of course, a great deal depends on how a person falls—for there’s a knack in falling, as everybody should know), and Tom would probably have escaped with a few bruises, had he not unfortunately rolled from off the prostrate savage right in front of another, who was in the very act of spearing a spring-bok; the consequence was that his sharp weapon took effect in the biped instead of the quadruped; that is to say, poor Tom received a severe wound, the assegai-head being driven clean through his leg from side to side, an inch or two above the knee-cap.
The sudden and startling appearance of a white man in their midst so electrified the hunters that they stood stock-still, and allowed the spring-bok to dash onward through the valley without attempting to stop them; thus the greater number of the herd would certainly have galloped over Tom’s body, and probably have injured him not a little, had not Frank Jamieson dropped down from the cave, and rushing forward dragged his friend out of harm’s way. Tom was indeed badly hurt, and when Frank drew the assegai from the wound the pain was so sharp that the poor fellow fainted right away.
The blacks—to the number of fifty or sixty—now crowded round, and one of them—who appeared to be in authority—addressed Frank in broken English, volunteering his assistance, and assuring him that he had nothing to fear.
“My name is Ntlororo, and I am captain of a kraal,” said he. “My tribe is at peace with our white brethren, and we will help you in your trouble.”
Frank thanked the chief most warmly, and inquired how far distant his kraal might be.
“Twelve miles,” Ntlororo replied. “But my hunters shall carry your friend thither,” he quickly added, seeing his “white brother’s” face fall considerably. “We will start at once.”
He then gave some orders to his men, who commenced to collect the spring-bok they had slain, whilst Frank, with Ntlororo’s aid, bound up Tom’s injured leg. As soon as the stricken deer were all collected, a rough litter was formed of assegais covered with a kaross; on to this Tom was lifted, and the whole party quitted the scene of slaughter and marched up the valley—Frank Jamieson (forgetful of his fatigue and hunger in his thankfulness and excitement) walking beside the litter. The spring-bok were carried on the shoulders of the hunters, who kept up a sort of triumphant chant as they trudged along.
They were soon clear of the mountain, and three hours’ march brought them to a green savannah, plentifully intersected by the spoor of cattle; which showed Frank Jamieson that they were not any great distance from the kraal. Another half-hour’s “heel and toe,” and the party came in sight of a cluster of ant-hills dotting a grassy slope leading down to a small river, beyond which lay the kraal.
But it was not the sight of the native village that drew forth an exclamation of astonished delight from Frank Jamieson’s lips!
No, indeed! He scarcely noticed the bee-hive-shaped huts, for his eager eyes were fixed upon a couple of large bullock-waggons outspanned on the banks of the river.