A Frontier Mystery

by Bertram Mitford

This fellow was something of a mystery, and was not keen on answering questions, but I gathered that his name was Jan Boom, at least that was the only name he would own to, and that he was a Xosa from the Cape frontier—far enough away in all conscience—who had drifted up to these parts. I suspected he had “drifted” out of gaol, and that before the time appointed to him for compulsorily serving the Government had expired; but with this I didn’t concern myself at all. He was first-rate at working with oxen and that was all I cared about.

Falkner Sewin, contrary to my expectations, had given no trouble to speak of. He would grumble outrageously at first when I turned him out before it was light so as to be ready for the earliest possible trek, and on one occasion turned nasty. He hadn’t come along as my servant, he fumed, and wasn’t going to take orders from me. So I reminded him that it was no question of taking orders, but he had even gone so far as to promise to do all he was told. I pointed out further that I hadn’t asked him to help me in any way, but that if he was going to do anything to hinder me why there was nothing to prevent him changing his mind and finding his way home again: we had not come so far that he would meet with any great difficulty in the way of this. He saw I meant what I said, and after sulking for half a day he climbed down, which was as well, for if there was one thing I intended it was to be skipper of my own ship. All the same he was destined to prove a mighty handful before I’d done with him.

We trekked easy the first few days, for the grass was not so green as it might have been, and I wanted to avoid pushing my oxen while the waggons were loaded at their heaviest, and so far had met with no adventures. The first was to come, and it came in this wise.

We had crossed the Blood River, and after an extra long morning’s trek had outspanned on one of the small tributaries of that stream. We had not seen many people hitherto, and the demeanour of such as we had seen was strange; not exactly hostile, but sullen, and as different as possible to the light-hearted, good-humoured cordiality I had always found on previous trips into the Zulu country.

Perhaps this had something to do with the extra caution I laid upon Falkner, when having resolved to take advantage of our halt to ride over and visit a neighbouring chief with whom I had former acquaintance I saddled up with that intent. I took my boy Tom along, more because it enhances your prestige to move about attended than for any use I had for him, but Falkner couldn’t come to any harm. Jan Boom the Xosa, spoke fair English, in case any of the natives should visit the outspan, and their speech require interpreting, and the other driver Mfutela, seemed a reliable man. Surely, one would think, there was no room for Falkner to get into any mischief here.

I was away about three hours. When I came in sight of the camp again, Tom, who was trotting by the side of my horse, said something that made me start.

I spurred forward. The outspan was hidden again by another rise in the ground. Topping this here is what I saw.

Standing forth, in an attitude of the noble art of self-defence, was Falkner Sewin. His fists were clenched, and his rolled up sleeves showed a really magnificent display of brown and corded muscle. Confronting him was a big Zulu, equally muscular, and armed with a formidable knobkerrie and a small shield. For “gallery” but with their backs to me, squatted in a semi-circle about thirty more Zulus.

Annoyed as I was, for the life of me I could not but feel interested. Both the contending parties were watching each other intently and it was clear that so novel a mode of fighting had appealed to this warlike people to the extent of their allowing their adversary fair play instead of rushing him by weight of numbers. I had seen the same kind of thing among them before, notably on that occasion when Tyingoza’s son had accepted the invitation to head a sort of flying invasion of the opposite side. But now, as then, they were destined to forget the strict rules of fair play when blood was up.

The Zulu was waltzing round Falkner, but the latter beyond turning to face him never moved, and his adversary seemed in no hurry to come within reach of those formidable fists. Then, goaded perhaps by the jeers of his comrades, who were tiring of a fight wherein no blows were struck, he feinted at his adversary’s head, then quick as thought threw up his shield and made a terrific sweep at Falkner’s leg beneath it.