“Shure, Misther Weston, we’re nearly at the top,” said Patrick Keown encouragingly, “and thin you know, sorr, we’ll go down the other side noice and aisy.”
“A little too ‘aisy,’ perchance,” muttered Weston. “Facilis descensus!”
At length the highest point of the ascent was reached; but this proved the most hazardous part, as the track swept round a precipitous ledge jutting out from a spur of the mountain, so narrow that it hardly allowed six inches grace to the wheels. Along this dangerous path the carts were taken at a snail’s pace; the one containing Captain Jamieson’s goods and chattels leading the way; whilst the other (which, save for a few articles used when outspanning, was empty) followed at an interval of twenty paces; the mules going very gingerly, for, surefooted though they were, it was no easy matter for them to keep on their legs.
At this critical moment a large bird swept down from its nest in the overhanging cliff, and with a piercing cry flew close over the tilt of the hinder cart. Now, as ill-luck would have it, “Kicking Jan” was one of the four mules attached to this cart, and no sooner did that contrary and troublesome animal hear the bird’s shrill call than he stopped dead; then down went his head and up went his heels. This unseemly behaviour set the other mules plunging and kicking, and before Black William, who had charge of the team, could quiet them, the cart was upset, and fell half over the ledge; the wheel-mules coming down on their sides at the same time.
Another plunge—a violent struggle—a wild snort of terror! and over the precipice rolled the cart, carrying the wheelers with it.
The moment “Kicking Jan” and the other leader felt the traces jerked and then tighten, they ceased kicking, and strained every nerve to retain their footing. But their efforts were in vain! The weight the poor brutes had to sustain was too much for them; they were dragged over the side of the ledge, and down went the cart and its team: down—down—down; crashing through trees and bushes and striking against rocks in their headlong descent; down they fell to the very bottom of the precipice!
Horrified at this terrible catastrophe, the Major and Mr Weston ran back and found Black William lying in the middle of the narrow path; a broken “reim” clenched in his hand.
“Are you much hurt?” inquired Major Flinders, picking him up.
“Not mine vault, baas,” blubbered the Hottentot with a frightened stare; “not mine vault.”
“No, no, William,” said his master; “we know that. You did all you could. Are you hurt?”