Rinaldi’s own end was a bloody one. He broke prison the night before his execution was to take place, was followed by mounted police into the Kalahari, and, as he refused to surrender, was shot dead in the scuffle that ensued.
To me, the strangest part of this tragedy lies in the fact that Strangeways’ death came to him, apparently, by the merest accident in the world. It is absolutely certain that Rinaldi had no knowledge whatever—until he set eyes on him at the camp fire that night—of Strangeways’ presence in Africa. Was it, indeed, pure chance—or was it, in truth, the subtle machinery of a remorseless fate—that induced him to take the desert road south, by Boatlanama? It was a still stranger accident—apparently—by which the mining party took the wrong route north, and trekked by the same westerly road upon which the two men had met. Accident—or inexorable retribution? That is a question I often ask myself.
Chapter Eleven.
Queen’s Service.
It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon of a desperately hot October day, 1899, in British Bechuanaland. The rains, although close at hand, had not yet fallen. For the last twenty-four hours the weather had been of that peculiarly oppressive kind, familiar in South Africa towards the end of the dry season. The wind came from the heated north-west, laden with the parched breath of a thousand miles of sun-scorched plains. Yet, strangely enough, around the little English farmstead on the Setlagoli River, the low forests of camelthorn acacia were, although untouched by moisture, already putting forth greenery and fresh leafage—even at this dire time of drought—against the coming of the rains.
May Felton, a pleasant looking, brown-eyed girl of nineteen, came out on the shadier side of the square, low, grass-thatched house, and stood beneath the shelter of the veranda, her face held up a little towards the air. She had come out for the third time within the hour to see if some faint breath of fresher atmosphere might not be detected towards sundown from out of that withering north-west breeze. Alas, there was none! It meant, then, another night of stifling discomfort within doors. The climate of this part of Bechuanaland is normally so clear, so brilliant, and so exhilarating, save for the few weeks before the summer rains, that this period of heat seems doubly trying to the settlers. May Felton sighed, and looked around. She had a kettle on the fire within doors, preparing against afternoon tea—a pleasant thought in this depressing hour—and, meanwhile, looked about her for a few minutes. The place seemed very dull. Her father and two brothers had ridden off three days since, driving before them all their cattle and goats, with the intention of placing the stock as far as possible out of the reach of the Transvaal and Free State Boers, just then raiding and free-booting across the border. Vryburg, some fifty miles south, was practically defenceless, and lay, too, in the midst of a Dutch farming population, already more than disaffected towards the British Government. Mafeking, forty or fifty miles to the north, thanks to Baden-Powell’s energy and military talent, was in a good state of defence, but was already practically invested by a strong Boer Commando.
May’s father, John Felton, was well known and liked by many of the Dutch farmers on either side of the border. But in the time of war and stress, which he saw close upon him, he knew well enough that friendly feelings would speedily give place to racial hatred, plunder, and marauding. He had, therefore, carried off all his stock, with the intention of putting them as far as possible beyond the grasp of raiding Dutchmen, at a remote run on the edge of the Kalahari, nearly a hundred miles away to the westward. This ranch belonged to an English Afrikander friend of his, and he had every hope that there his cattle—a goodly herd—and some hundreds of goats might be safe.
May looked round rather disconsolately upon the hot quiet landscape. The acacia groves which girdled in the little homestead, behind the dry river-bed, showed small signs of life. A grotesque hornbill sat in a tree near, gasping under the heat, as these birds do, occasionally opening its huge bill, crying “toc-toc,” in a curious yelping tone, opening its wings restlessly as if for air, and lowering its head. In a bush, on the left hand, a beautiful crimson-breasted shrike occasionally uttered a clear ringing note. Two hundred yards away, a scattered troop of wild guinea-fowl, returning to the last remaining pool in the now parched and sandy river-bed, after a day of digging for bulbs in the woodlands, were calling to one another, with harsh metallic notes, “Come back! Come back! Come back!”
May looked at the absurd hornbill, with its long yellow beak, and smiled faintly. Just at that moment it seemed almost as much exertion as she felt capable of in the withering heat. She leaned against one of the posts supporting the veranda, her slim, shapely form expressing in its listless attitude the relaxation of that melancholy hour. For two or three minutes she stood thus listlessly, then, remembering the kettle boiling within doors, bestirred herself and turned away. Just at that moment there came a faint cry from among the camelthorn trees on the right of the homestead. It sounded strangely like a man’s voice. She stood listening intently. In ten seconds the cry came again; this time it seemed more faint.
The girl threw off her langour upon the instant. “Seleti!” she cried, in a clear ringing voice, “Seleti, Tlokwaan!” (come here).
In two minutes Seleti, a Bechuana youth, clad in a ragged flannel shirt and a pair of his master’s discarded riding breeches, came shuffling round. She spoke to him in Sechuana.