Volume One—Chapter Twenty Two.
The Bushman’s Cave.
Christmas has come and gone, bringing with it, contrary to expectation, peace instead of a sword. The dreaded outbreak, by some inexplicable turn of events, has been averted, and instead of deluging the land in blood, and scattering rain and desolation broadcast, the tribes are, in their own expressive idiom, “sitting still,” and the frontier is at peace.
No one can tell exactly how this welcome turn in the tide of affairs came about. Whether it was that the different sections of the Amaxosa race distrusted each other, suspicion being a leading trait in the savage character, and were unable to coalesce; or that they deemed the time not yet come when they could venture to strike a blow with any hope of success; or whether the counsels of the peace-loving party in the nation—the older men, who had everything to lose and nothing to gain by war, and who, moreover, had learnt by sad experience of former struggles, the futility of embarking in such undertakings—prevailed, no one can say for certain. Some contended that with the prospect of such a thriving good season before them, the Kafirs could not afford to throw it away, for the recent rains had made the land to blossom like a rose. Anyhow, the natives were tilling their mealie gardens, and the more well-to-do of them were laying out cash in the purchase of ploughs and other agricultural implements, which certainly did not point in the direction of hostilities. Christmas was past, and once well over Christmas without an outbreak, there was no fear of war this year, at any rate. So said the old frontiersmen, and they ought to know. Anyhow, at that moment, the tribes within and beyond the colonial border were more quiet and settled than they had been for some years past. Stock-stealing had decreased with a rapidity bordering on the miraculous, and daring outrages, which a month ago had been waxing alarmingly common, were now absolutely unknown.
So peace reigned, and with it its twin blessing, plenty. In the gardens the trees groaned beneath their weighted branches; yellow apricots, with a warm red flush through their golden skin as they turned lovingly towards the sun; velvety peaches, rosy-cheeked and fragrant, dragged down the branches, or lay scattered upon the earth in lavish profusion. Up among the purple figs, the spreuws were having a rare good time, but nobody grudged even those mischievous birds their share, for was there not abundance for all? And the long green pears hanging on the drooping boughs, which swept as in a natural harbour round the wooden seat at the foot of the tree, what a luscious refection they promised in two or three weeks’ time, when they should have felt a little more sun, to those who would avail themselves of that cool, shady retreat!
In the fold, as in the lands, plenty reigned. The flocks and herds were fat and well-liking, for the grass was abundant and good; and, strengthened by the sweet and nutritious pasturage, the animals remained free alike from the ravages of disease or tick, and the better able to stand against the attacks of those insidious foes, that they were in excellent condition and likely so to remain; for, as if in compensation for the widespread havoc it had wrought, the great flood, besides washing away many impurities, both in noxious herb and insect, had thoroughly permeated the long parched-up soil, softening it to a depth of many feet. It had done more than this, for it had broken up the long continuation of settled drought; and periodical showers, soft and penetrating, had fallen from time to time since, so that the land had lost its brown, sun-baked aspect, and lay everywhere green and well watered, luxuriously reposing in the rich, generous glow of the Southern summer.
And now we shall transport the reader to a deep wooded valley, similar to many of those already described, though it would be hard to find one to equal it. It is a romantic and beautiful spot. At the upper end is a deep pool, some thirty yards across, and pear-shaped. Into this, when there is a rush of water in the stream, falls a really magnificent cascade; when there is not, well—there is the rock, perpendicular, black and shining, a film of water silvering down it to plunge into the pool beneath with a pleasant, cool tinkle. As you stand facing the cascade or its lofty wall of shining rock, on the left hand, starting sheer out of the depths of the pool, is a mighty cliff, rising up in rugged tiers or ledges—which afford root-hold to a profusion of mosses and trailing plants, with here and there an aloe—to a height of two hundred feet. Just below the exit of the pool these natural terraces all culminate in a jutting angle of the cliff, which protrudes, sharp and awful in its unbroken perpendicularity. On the right hand is also a cliff, but it stands back, leaving a slope of forest trees and bush between it and the water’s edge. The exit from the basin discloses a lovely view—with the jutting cliff, above mentioned, as a foreground—of the valley, whose wooded slopes, undulating in spurs, either culminate in a precipice, or cleave the blue sky with a line of feathery tree-tops.
But to-day there is not a rush of water in the stream above, though there is enough to fall into the pool with a resounding plunge, and to carry off a clear, sparkling stream at the pointed end of the pear-shape. The cascade is not in force; if it were, the merry party gathered around its base would be constrained to put up with some less inviting resting-place, for it would fill all the hollow with a cloud of showery spray—thick, penetrating as rain. The place is in an outlying corner of Jim Brathwaite’s farm, and, sure enough, there sits jovial Jim himself, in a shady corner beneath the rock, his legs dangling over the water, a pipe in his mouth, and in his hand a fishing-rod. Other pipes and other fishing-rods surround the water-hole, “the fool at the other end” of each staring stolidly and apathetically at the water or watching his float with a despairing eagerness begotten of hope deferred, according to temperament. But the fish are either replete and satisfied, or cursed with the wiliness characteristic of their species, for not a float shows any sign of agitation. One rod, indeed, is submerged even to the second joint, while its manipulator, George Garrett—a stolid-looking youth of twenty-one—is occupied lying on his back upon a ledge of rock blowing rings of tobacco smoke skyward, and no one seems very keen on the sport. A line of blue smoke, curling beneath the cliff on the more open side of the pool, betokens “camp.”
It may as well be stated that the gathering is nominally a fishing picnic. I say, nominally, for no one is idiotic enough to suppose for a moment that the fishing part of it will turn out aught but the veriest farce, for the day is hot and cloudless, and the still depths of the water are glassy and translucent.