Diamond Dyke / The Lone Farm on the Veldt - Story of South African Adventure

by George Manville Fenn

That huge whip, too, had been such a clumsy thing to handle, but highly necessary, for without it he would never have reached the end of his journey. Then at night there had been the same outspanning to see to; the feeding of the bullocks; the collection of wood and lighting of as big a fire as he could contrive, to cook his food, boil his coffee, and, finally, make up to scare off wild beasts. In addition to this, a thorn protection ought to have been made to keep off danger from Breezy, but that was impossible; and hour after hour Dyke had sat in the darkness, where the cob’s rein was made fast to the wagon tail, and, gun in hand, had watched over the trembling beast, keeping him company when the distant roaring of lions was heard on the veldt, and the bullocks grew uneasy.

Little sleep fell to Dyke’s lot by night; but in the daytime, when the bullocks were going steadily along the track, which they followed willingly enough for the most part, the boy’s head would sink down upon his breast, and he would snatch a few minutes’ rest, often enough to start up and find the wagon at a standstill, and the bullocks cropping some patch of grass or the tender shoots of a clump of bushes.

Then on again, with at times the great whip exchanged for the gun, and some bird or another laid low, so as to find him in extra provisions by the way. Once, too, he managed to hit a little buck.

A long, doleful, and weary journey, without meeting a soul, or being passed. On and on, over the never-ending plain, often despairing, and with the oxen groaning, empty as the wagon was, for the sun flashed and was reflected up with blinding force, and there were moments when Dyke grew giddy, and felt as if he must break down.

But those were only moments. He set his teeth again, and trudged on or rode, thinking of Joe waiting patiently away there in the lonely, corrugated iron building, tending the ostriches, and feeling in perfect confidence that the journey would be achieved, and the necessary stores brought back.

There were moments, though, when Dyke brightened up, and told himself that he would do it if he tried till to-morrow morning; and at such times he laughed—or rather tried to laugh—for it was rather a painful process, his face being sore and the skin ready to peel away.

But at last, after escaping danger after danger by a hair’s-breadth, the great weariness of the almost interminable journey was coming to an end, for, far away in the distance, there was a building visible through the clear air. He could see a broad stretch of green, too, looking delightful with waving trees, after the arid wilderness through which he had passed; and now, in spite of his great fatigue, Dyke plucked up courage, for the building must be Oom Morgenstern’s farm, and in an hour or so the traveller felt that the first part of his journey was at an end.

Once or twice a feeling of doubt troubled him, but that soon passed off, for reason told him that he could not be wrong—this must be the point for which he had been aiming.

The bullocks began to move more briskly now, for they could see green pasture in the far distance, and there was a moister feeling in the air, suggestive of water not far away.

So Dyke’s task grew lighter, and an hour or so later he could see a big, heavy, grey man standing outside an untidy-looking building, littered about with cask and case, and who saluted him as he halted his team: