Not very rapid travelling! True; something less than a mile an hour; but be it remembered that the travellers had to make their way by starlight through an unknown country; up hill and down dale, over “bosch” and “bron,” through deep, rugged, watercourses, and (twice) across rapid streams; keeping all the while a sharp lookout least any of the savage beasts, whose howlings and roarings made the night hideous, should spring upon them as they passed along. Of water, they happily found abundance; but all they had to eat during that wearisome tramp were the green mealies they had taken from the dead Caffres; they certainly might have killed some small birds or even animals, but then they dared not light a fire to cook them, and had no mind to devour raw flesh.
The ninth morning of their journey brought them to a grassy plain watered by a clear, shallow stream, which bubbled over a pebbly bed. This plain was bounded on the north by a long range of lofty mountains exhibiting a magnificent front, clothed with overhanging woods, diversified with hoary rocks, and steep buttresses of green turf.
“Look yonder, Tom!” cried Frank Jamieson, gazing with admiration and thankfulness on the view before; “there are the Storm Bergen! By this time to-morrow I trust we shall be on the far side of them.”
Chapter Twenty Three.
Crossing the Storm Bergen—A Scene of Slaughter—Tom’s last adventure—“Out of the Wood” at last!
Nearly opposite to the spot where the travellers had halted, the Storm Bergen were pierced by a narrow “poort” or valley, presenting a gloomy and terrific aspect of solitude. Through the “poort”—and winding in and out amongst huge boulders of moss-covered rock and beneath frowning precipices, past wild and gorgeous hollows rank with semi-tropical vegetation so peculiar to those regions—a rough track led to the open country north of the range.
Anxious to pass through the mountains before nightfall, our hero and his companion—after a very short rest, and a mouthful of mealie—entered the “poort,” and followed the tortuous path until the sun rose high in the heavens, and its burning rays beat down into the valley with cruel force; then, unable in their debilitated condition to stand the fierce heat, they came to a halt, and concluded to rest until the cool of the evening.
“This has been a tramp!” exclaimed Tom Flinders, dropping on his knees beside a tiny rivulet, that bubbled and sparkled across their path, and lapping up the cool, clear water, like a thirsty hound. “’Pon my life,” he added, when he had quenched his thirst, “there’s nothing to be compared to ‘Adam’s ale,’ when one is really parched! I say, Frank,” he went on in more serious tones, “we’ve a lot to be thankful for.”