From Billabong to London

by Mary Grant Bruce

GOOD-BYE TO DURBAN.

NORAH and her father left their patients sound asleep, after luncheon, and went out to Umgeni on the top of an electric tram—seeing Kaffirs innumerable, in gala Sunday dress, and, at the end of the long run, the shallow, winding river that seems to be always cutting for itself new channels among its mud-flats. A long bridge crosses it; they stood there, watching the bare-footed native boys who strolled through the river rather than trouble to climb up to the bridge.

“So much more sensible!” said Norah, envying them openly.

They found a hotel with a big garden sloping down to the river, and little tables with basket-chairs scattered about it. Two were in the shade of a big clump of bamboo; and there they had tea, and watched the queer, cosmopolitan crowd that filled the place—travellers, passengers from all the ships lying at the Point, soldiers and sailors, and the youth and beauty of Durban itself, out for the afternoon. The Indian waiters flitted about, busy and noiseless. There were long-legged birds in the garden, walking with ridiculous solemnity near the river-bank; and a big wire-netted house that held innumerable pigeons—exquisitely marked birds, whose cooing filled the air. Plants and flowers grew there which they had never seen; and there was a tree with tiny red-and-black seeds like jewels.

They strolled further up the winding road, and came to Umgeni village itself, where almost every coloured race seemed to nourish together. The deep bush grew on both sides of it, right up to the straggling street. All the people were out in front of their houses.

“Aren’t they the nicest children!” Norah uttered.

They were everywhere—cheery babies just able to crawl; mites of two or three in bright scraps of clothing; and bigger children who played their own solemn games without paying much attention to the strangers. One ridiculous person of perhaps four years came strutting down the middle of the street after his mother, his small form framed in a gigantic yellow umbrella, which he held open behind him. The best of all, they found in a patch of grass under a tree—half a dozen mothers with tiny babies, who tumbled about in every direction.

“Could I photograph them, do you think?” Norah asked.

“I don’t suppose they would mind,” her father replied. “We’ll ask them.”

To ask was one thing, but to get an answer, another. The Kaffir ladies were rather alarmed, and plainly regarded the small black box Norah held as a very bad kind of magic. They caught up their babies, and jabbered together, while Norah stood, half-laughing, making no attempt to photograph them without their permission. Help came in the person of a brisk rickshaw “boy,” who took in the situation at a glance, and explained to the anxious mothers that the white young lady merely wished to pay them and their children a high compliment in making a picture of them—whereupon the mothers subsided immediately, and held up the fat, brown scraps of humanity, who struggled wildly, like babies all the world over before a camera, while their anxious parents addressed to them the Kaffir equivalent of “Look pleasant, please.” The rickshaw “boy” stood by, beaming like a full moon, and uttering words of encouragement. Afterwards the travellers engaged him and his rickshaw—a contingency which he had probably foreseen; and they jogged lazily back to Durban, arriving at the hotel towards evening. Two tall figures, rather sheepish and pale-faced, rose from verandah lounges and came to meet them.

“You bad boys!” Norah exclaimed.

“Do you think you two should be out of bed?” Mr. Linton asked.

“Rather!” Jim answered firmly. “We stayed there until they brought us tea—but they didn’t bring half enough food, so we got up and went to find more. We’re all right.”

“It sounds as though you were!” Norah said, laughing. “How are the bruises?”

“Oh—a bit stiff. Exercise is the best thing for them.” The subject was evidently sorer than the bruises, and Jim changed it, demanding an account of their day.

“I’ve a letter from the captain,” Mr. Linton announced, when they all met at breakfast next morning. “The ship is leaving earlier than we thought—we have to be on board at noon.”

“Bother!” said his hearers, as one man.

“It’s a bore, but there are compensations. The warship we saw at the Point is going ahead of us to Cape Town—and that means no war precautions for a few days.”

“Open port-holes!” said Norah, blissfully. “Deck lights—no more stuffy saloon! Lights in one’s cabin——!”

“Which you’re sure not to need, since you can have it,” Wally interpolated.

“I’ll have it, anyhow,” said Norah, laughing. “It would be almost worth toothache!”

“I thought you would be pleased,” her father said. “There is also a letter from the police department, Jim, stating that their inquiries about your friends of yesterday have been fruitless. They have hunted up the house, but, as you suspected, the birds had flown.”

“Oh, they’re up-country by this time!” Jim said.

“So the police think. They say they may be able to track them by means of the list of stolen property we gave them, but it’s hardly likely.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Jim answered. “I shouldn’t be here to identify anything, and unless I could get my hands on the man who hit me I don’t know that I’m thirsting to hear of his being caught.”

“Only gore would satisfy us!” murmured Wally.

“Just so; failing gore, there’s not much satisfaction in hearing that they’ve put the poor brute in prison—except to teach him to let unsuspecting white people alone in future. I suppose that ought to be done,” Jim said, reflectively.

“Decidedly it ought—but the police don’t see much chance,” said Mr. Linton, folding up the letter. “Has any one any wishes as to occupying the morning?”

“I don’t know if you’ll think us a little insane,” Jim said—“but Wally and I consider that our honour, or what’s left of it, is, to a certain extent, at stake. We want to find that native market!”

“My dear boy, haven’t you had enough of that particular hunt?” asked his father, looking at his bruised face.

“It’s really harmless,” Jim explained. “We’ve been asking the manager; he says the place is quite near the city, and any rickshaw fellow knows it—we can choose one sufficiently ornamental to be respectable this time. And it’s an interesting place—he says Norah ought to see it.”

“Oh—can I go? Joyful!” said Norah, delightedly.

“Well, if it’s really all right, we’ll tackle it,” said Mr. Linton. “The doctor said it was a place to visit, I remember. We’ll send off our luggage to the ship at once, and then we’ll have a free hand.”

A spectacular figure awaited them in the road when they came out a little later, ready for exploration.

“I told you that gentleman had attached himself to the family,” said Norah, laughing. “Look—he’s just beaming at you, Jim!”

The Zulu “boy” who had befriended them the day before stood at attention, his broad, black face lit from ear to ear by a smile of welcome. His scarlet and white adornments were spic-and-span, and his headgear even more glorious than before.

“Gen’lemen allright?” he queried, as the boys approached. He cast a keen eye on their still visible signs of battle.

Jim nodded.

“Thanks to you for bringing us home, my friend, we are,” he said. “You know the native market?”

The Zulu grinned. “Oh, yes, sar!”

Jim hailed another rickshaw, and the four travellers boarded them and trotted off. Never was there to be seen anything so proud as the boys’ Zulu. He had evidently made up his mind that he belonged to them, and had betrayed some anxiety until certain that they were to be his passengers; but when this point was satisfactorily decided, he gave vent to the pride that was in him, and pranced off like a high-stepping circus horse—throwing out his feet, resplendent in a new coat of white paint, with his head well back, his feathers streaming, and his whole bearing full of vainglory.

“He looks as if he wanted to say ‘Bayété!’—whatever that means. And he certainly thinks he owns the road,” Wally said, watching the magnificent figure.

“I wish he’d moderate his transports,” Jim said, laughing. “He’s making every one look at us—and I prefer not to attract undue attention with a pair of black eyes like these—to say nothing of much sticking-plaster. However, I suppose it’s no good talking to him in English, and I don’t want to hurt the poor chap’s feelings—but this sort of thing makes one feel like a circus procession. One only needs a band and an elephant, to be complete!”

The “boy,” however, calmed down presently, and merely showed the depth of his emotion by going at such a pace that the other rickshaw steed fell far in the rear, and was justly indignant at his compatriot’s unreasonable energy. They raced through the town, and for a time followed the streets through which the boys had strolled the day before; but instead of turning into the poorer quarter, a turn brought them to a wide road where many mule-carts and shabby rickshaws blocked the way. Before a big building was a collection of smarter rickshaws—but their Zulu attendants were nowhere to be seen.

“That the market?” Jim called to his “boy.”

The Zulu paused.

“No sar—that eating-house. Gen’lemen like to see it? Market next door.”

“We might as well,” Jim said. “Wait for us.” Mr. Linton and Norah appeared, and they dismounted.

Within the big building Kaffirs squatted on the ground, working with wire at the native bangles that every South African traveller knows. Some were plaiting the wire into sjambok handles, in intricate patterns, laying the bands of wire among strands of raw-hide, or capping the finished handle with an elaborate “Turk’s head”; others had piles of bangles on the ground beside them, in all sizes, from those fitted for babies’ wrists to the big circlets worn above the knee. The work was wonderfully fine.

“I’m really glad to see those fellows,” Mr. Linton observed. “So much ‘native’ work is really made in Birmingham or Germany nowadays that one never knows what is genuine.”

“No,” said Wally. “One of my girl cousins was out with a camping-party in the wilds when she was staying in British East Africa, and they came across a few natives who offered curios for sale—rough carvings, bits of ivory, and things like that. Enid was awfully keen on genuine things, and jumped at the chance—as she said, you don’t often find the really untutored savage in these times. One of the things she bought was a big ivory bangle. I think she got it from a woman who was wearing it. Enid was very proud of it. She said it was so real.”

“It certainly should be, bought in those circumstances,” said Mr. Linton.

“It should. She was very annoyed on the voyage home when one of the officers rather doubted it. So they had a bet—he was to put a match to it, and pay up if nothing occurred. But when he applied the match poor Enid’s ‘ivory’ sputtered and went up in flame—and behold, there was no more bangle!”

“Celluloid!” Jim grinned.

Wally nodded. “Made in Birmingham or some such place, and shipped out by the gross to the untutored savage. Hollow world, isn’t it?”

Norah had bought bangles—fresh from the maker’s hand—and they turned away. A long table ran down the centre of the building, with rough benches drawn up to it; and here sat numbers of Kaffirs and Zulus, breakfasting. Many were of the rough coolie type, dressed in ordinary clothes; but here and there a blaze of colour marked the smart rickshaw steed—and in one corner where half a dozen were eating together their rainbow head-dresses were like a flower-bed, the brighter because of the dinginess all round them. On a separate table were immense bowls, heaped with steaming masses of curry and rice and weird-appearing stews. A man would come in and sit down, calling impatiently; and in an instant a native waitress would bring him a gigantic helping, supply him with an iron spoon, take his payment—a small copper coin—and rush off to a newcomer.

“You’d live cheaply here,” Wally remarked, watching a native boy attack a heap of curry like a miniature mountain.

“Yes, but you wouldn’t live long,” Norah answered. “Did you ever see such poisonous-looking food? I don’t think I want to watch this—it’s rather like the zoo at meal times. Let’s find the market.”

A stream of people going in and out guided them to the bazaar. It was almost entirely Indian, so far as the stalls were concerned, though the people who thronged it were of many nationalities. There was an impression of light and colour and cheerfulness. Indian women in bright draperies went up and down, many carrying tiny wise-eyed babies. There were stalls for the sale of native jewellery—gaudy, tinselled stuff that looked appalling as it hung to tempt the passer-by, but somehow became exactly the right thing when worn by the dark-eyed coloured women. It was mingled, however, with cheap jewellery of the kind that England and Germany turn out by the ton—and this did not fit in anywhere, but stood out among the native wares, blatantly vulgar. Then there were stalls for post-cards, and for strange religious pictures—gaudy representations of temples and gods and sacred animals; others covered with weird cooked foods, in bowls and dishes, and with cakes and high-coloured sweetmeats—all appearing, to Australian eyes, extremely unpleasant and indigestible, but apparently devoured with amazing appetite by the children who thronged the bazaar. Almost more interesting were the vegetable stalls, since here were piled such growths as the Australians had never heard of; curious green, twisted things like French beans run mad, masses of salad materials, equally novel, and oddly-shaped gourds of different colours.

Nobody took much notice of the Billabong party. Tourists were nothing new, and every one was too busy to trouble over them. Chattering, buying and selling, gossiping and eating, went on incessantly, with no time to spare from the business of the moment; it was evident that the market was the great occasion of the day to most of these cheery, chattering people. It was too crowded to keep together. Wally and Norah strolled on ahead, while Jim and his father paused to look at a stall devoted to the sale of different kinds of dried grain, not one of which they had ever seen before.

“Steady, old lad,” said Wally, stooping to pick up a fat black baby whose mother had placed it by the side of the path, giving it a horrible-looking cake to keep it occupied. A stray dog had annexed the cake, and the baby, staggering after it in helpless wrath, had fallen in the midst of the path, and lay there among the hurrying feet, uttering shrill cries.

“I’ll get it another,” said Norah, swiftly departing. She came back, gingerly carrying the delicacy, which the baby accepted gravely. The mother bore down on them, evidently anxious, but relieved by her offspring’s contented face.

“He’s all right,” Norah told her, smiling—the mother understanding the smile more than the words. Norah put a penny into the little hand not occupied by cake, and they strolled on, turning out of the crowded part towards a less frequented corner where they could see Mr. Linton and Jim.

“What rum beasts babies are!” said Wally, meaning no disrespect. “Some of ’em—the brand one knows—have to be brought up in prams by nurses, all sterilised and disinfected and germ-proof; and others tumble round in the dust among dogs, like that jolly little black imp, and grow up just as strong. I don’t understand it; I suppose I’m not meant to.”

“It is queer,” Norah admitted. “I suppose it’s what they’re used to.”

“But a baby can’t be awfully used to anything—except howling!” dissented Wally. “And these kids——”

“Block that man! Block him, Wally!”

Jim’s voice rang out over the din of the market as Wally had heard it many a time on the football field at school—and he swung to answer it just as he had learned to obey it there. A big Zulu was charging down the path; he saw Wally’s tense face, realised how thick was the crowd beyond him, and turned up a side alley. Jim put his hand on a long table and vaulted across to cut him off. He braced himself as he landed; then his left hand shot out and took the Zulu neatly on the point of the jaw. The big black crumpled up into a heap, and in a moment Jim and Wally were on top of him.

The market boiled as an ant-heap boils, stirred up by a careless kick. People came running and shouting, blocking every passage; many with threatening faces, looking angrily at the white lads and the struggling Zulu. Then two soldiers in khaki forced a way through the crowd.

“Guess this is where we lend a hand,” said one, securing the wrists of the prisoner in a workmanlike grip. “That was just about as neat a hit as ever I seen. I’d like to know who taught you, young feller. Lie still now, will you?” and the Zulu subsided, muttering unpleasant things.

“Get hold of a policeman, will you?” said Jim. “Wally, you go.”

“Oh, he’s wanted, is he?” said the second soldier, sitting comfortably on the Zulu’s legs. “I thought you seemed to know him.”

“I ought to,” Jim answered. “He gave me this pair of black eyes yesterday.”

The soldier whistled.

“No wonder you was anxious for him,” he said. “Well, I guess you’ve paid him back—he won’t eat comfortable for a week.” Then Wally and two native policemen came back through the chattering throng, and Jim handed the prisoner over to the care of the law.

They made a procession to the police-station, the Zulu maintaining a sullen silence, while a crowd gathered and followed them. Jim’s rickshaw “boy,” who had evidently learned the whole story from the hotel, was a centre of attraction—he dragged his empty chariot behind Jim, loudly explaining the matter to those about him, and proclaiming his undoubted belief in Jim’s chieftainship. The hero of the moment nursed badly-bruised knuckles and looked as unhappy as his prisoner.

At the station matters were swiftly dealt with—law in Durban did not believe in detaining a party of white tourists over a native case. A white-haired old Scotchman, authoritative and kindly, put swift questions.

“Ye canna identify any of y’re property, I suppose?”

Jim grinned.

“If you take off his tie you’ll find ‘Jones & Dawson, Melbourne,’ branded on it,” he said.

“Eh, but it’s so,” said the inspector, examining the adornment in question, which the native policemen had swiftly removed from the prisoner’s collarless neck. “Wull ye be wantin’ it back?”

“I will not,” said Jim, hastily. “Give it to him, with my blessing when he comes out—and I hope you won’t be hard on him, sir.”

“H’m. Ye’re a fulish young man,” said the inspector, severely. “Just because ye’ve got in a bonny wee hit on the jaw, ye’re satisfied—but there’s law an’ order to be kept, an’ me to see it’s done. D’ye think I want the next pair of eejiotic young Australians laid out in a stable?” Whereat Jim and Wally blushed, and interceded for the prisoner no more.

They signed various legal documents, and at length escaped.

“I don’t want him punished, poor wretch,” said Jim; “that smite on the jaw made me feel like a Christian lamb. But I suppose it’s got to be done.”

“Well, I didn’t get in at all, so I don’t feel half so godly,” returned Wally. “I think he’s well out of the way, and I only wish we’d caught his mate—the gentleman who attended to my head in the rear.”

“My sentiments, entirely,” Mr. Linton remarked. “And now we’ll get back to the ship. I trust every port isn’t going to supply us with as many sensations as Durban!”