Slowly Junkie picked his way up the ragged path towards the gnarled tree. The leopard, scarcely believing in his good luck, licked his lips. Rapidly the Bushman and his men descended the same path.
They rode on horses—stolen horses, of course. The leopard heard the clatter of hoofs and looked back. Junkie drew nearer to the gnarled tree; the leopard looked forward. Never was savage beast more thoroughly perplexed. Anxiety glared in his eyes; exasperation grinned in his teeth; indecision quivered in the muscles of his tail. Just at that moment Booby caught sight of his spotted skin. Had the leopard been less perturbed he would have been too wise to allow his carcass to appear. A poisoned arrow instantly quivered in his flank. It acted like a spur; with an angry growl and a clear bound of no one knows how many feet, he re-entered the jungle and fled to the mountains.
Petrified again, Junkie remained motionless till the Bushmen robbers rode up. Booby knew that his leopard was safe, for a poisoned arrow is sure to kill in time, so he did not care to hasten after it just then, but preferred to continue his approach to the white man’s habitations. Great, then, was his amazement when he all but rode over Junkie.
Amazement was quickly succeeded by alarm. His knowledge of the white man’s ways and habits told him at once the state of affairs. The appearance of Junkie in the company of “tigers” and baboons, was, he knew well, a mere juvenile indiscretion. He also knew that parental instincts among white men were keen, and thence concluded that discovery and pursuit would be immediate. His own plans were therefore not only defeated, but his own safety much endangered, as his presence was sure to be discovered by his tracks. “Let’s be off instanter,” was the substance of Booby’s communication to his brethren. The brethren agreed, but Booby had lived among white men, and although his own particular master was a scoundrel, there were those of his household—especially among the females—who had taught him something of Christian pity. He could not leave the child to the tender mercies of wild beasts. He did not dare to convey him back to the cottage of Kenneth McTavish. What was he to do? Delay might be death! In these circumstances he seized the horrified Junkie by the arm, swung him on the pommel of his saddle, and galloped away up the kloof and over the mountains into the deepest recesses of Kafirland.
When Mrs Scholtz awoke that morning, rubbed her eyes, looked up and discovered that Junkie’s crib was empty, she sprang from her bed, perceived the open lattice, and gave vent to an awful scream. In barbarous times and regions a shriek is never uttered in vain. The McTavish household was instantly in the room, some of them in deshabille—some armed—all alarmed.
“Oh my!—oh me!” cried Mrs Scholtz, leaping back into bed with unfeminine haste, “he’s gone!”
“Who’s gone?” asked McTavish.
“Junkie!”
“What! where? when? how? why?” said Mrs McTavish, Jessie, and others.
Mrs Scholtz gasped and pointed to the lattice; at the same time she grasped her garments as a broad hint to the men. They took it hastily.
“Come, boys, search about, and one of you saddle up. Go, call Groot Willem,” was the master’s prompt order as he turned and left the room.
Six Hottentots, a Bushman, and a Bechuana boy obeyed, but those who searched sought in vain. Yet not altogether in vain—they found Junkie’s “spoor,” and traced it into the jungle. While two followed it, the others returned and “saddled up” the horses. Groot Willem chanced to be on a visit to the Highlanders at the time.
“What a pity,” he said, coming out of his room and stretching himself (it was quite an impressive sight to see such a giant stretch himself!) “that the hunters are off. They might have helped us.”
The giant spoke with good-humoured sarcasm, believing that the urchin would assuredly be found somewhere about the premises, and he referred to the departure of an exploring and hunting party under George Rennie, which had left Glen Lynden the previous day for the interior.
But when Groot Willem with his companions had ridden a considerable way up the kloof, and found Junkie’s spoor mingling with that of baboons, he became earnest. When he came to the gnarled tree and discovered that it was joined by that of horses and Cape tigers, he became alarmed.
A diligent examination was made. Drops of blood were found on the ground. The leopard itself was ultimately discovered stone dead in a thicket with the poisoned arrow in its side, the horse-spoor was followed up a long way, and then it was pretty clearly seen that the child had been carried off by marauders of some sort.
Of course a thorough search was made and pursuit was immediately instituted. Groot Willem and McTavish pushed on promptly to follow the spoor, while men were sent back to the glen for a supply of ammunition, etcetera, in case of a prolonged search becoming necessary.
The search was ably planned and vigorously carried out; but all in vain. Junkie had departed that life as thoroughly as if he had never been, and Mrs Scholtz remained at Glen Lynden the very personification of despair.
We shall now turn to the exploring party which had left the Baviaans River on the previous day.
About this time the rumours of war among the natives of the vast and almost unknown interior of the land had become unusually alarming. A wandering and warlike horde named the Fetcani had been, for some time past, driving all the other tribes before them, and were said at last to be approaching the Winterberg frontier of the colony. In order to ascertain what foundation there was for these reports, as well as to explore the land, the party under Rennie was sent out. Among those who formed this party were Charlie Considine, Hans Marais, Sandy Black and his satellite Jerry Goldboy, Andrew Rivers, Diederik and Christian Muller, and the tall black-bearded hunter Lucas Van Dyk, besides Slinger, Dikkop, and other Hottentots and Bushmen.
“This is what I call real enjoyment,” said Considine, as he rode with Hans, somewhat in advance of the cavalcade;—“splendid weather, magnificent scenery, lots of game big and little, good health and freedom. What more could a man wish?”
“Ja,” said Hans quietly; “you have reason to be thankful—yet there is more to wish for.”
“What more?” asked Considine.
“That the whole world were as happy as yourself,” said Hans, looking full at his friend with a bland smile.
“And so I do wish that,” returned Considine with enthusiasm.
“Do you?” asked Hans, with a look of surprise.
“Of course I do; why do you doubt it?” asked his friend, with a perplexed look.
Hans did not reply, but continued to gaze at the mountain-range towards which the party was riding.
And, truly, it was a prospect which might well absorb the attention and admiration of men less capable of being affected by the beauties of nature than Hans Marais.
They were passing through a verdant glen at the foot of the mountains, the air of which was perfumed with wild flowers, and filled with the garrulous music of paroquets and monkeys. In front lay the grand range of the Winterberg, with its coronet of rocks, its frowning steeps, its grassy slopes, and its skirts feathered over with straggling forest,—all bathed in the rich warm glow of an African sunset.
“You have not answered me, Hans,” said Considine, after a pause. “Why do you think I am indifferent to the world’s happiness?”
“Because,” replied the other, with an expression unusually serious on his countenance, “I do not see that you make any effort—beyond being good-natured and amiable, which you cannot help—to make the world better.”
Considine looked at his friend with surprise, and replied, with a laugh—“Why, Hans, you are displaying a new phase of character. Your remark is undoubtedly true—so true indeed that, although I object to that commonplace retort,—‘You’re another,’—I cannot help pointing out that it applies equally to yourself.”
“It is just because it applies equably to myself that I make it,” rejoined Hans, with unaltered gravity. “You and I profess to be Christians, we both think that we are guided by Christian principles—and doubtless, to some extent, we are, but what have we done for the cause that we call ‘good,’ that is good? I speak for myself at all events—I have hitherto done nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“My dear fellow,” said Considine, with a sudden burst of candour, “I believe you are right, and I plead guilty; but then what can we do? We are not clergymen.”
“Stephen Orpin is not a clergyman, yet see what he does. It was seeing what that man does, and how he lives, that first set me a-thinking on this subject. He attends to his ordinary calling quite as well as any man of my acquaintance, and, I’ll be bound, makes a good thing of it, but any man with half an eye can see that he makes it subservient to the great work of serving the Saviour, whom you and I profess to love. I have seen him suffer loss rather than work on the Lord’s day. More than once I’ve seen him gain discredit for his so-called fanaticism. He is an earnest man, eagerly seeking an end which is outside himself, therefore he is a happy man. To be eager in pursuit, is to be in a great degree happy, even when the pursuit is a trifling one; if it be a great and good one, the result must be greater happiness; if the pursuit has reference to things beyond this life, and ultimate success is hoped for in the next, it seems to me that lasting as well as highest happiness may thus be attained. Love of self, Charlie, is not a bad motive, as some folk would falsely teach us. The Almighty put love of self within us. It is only when love of self is a superlative affection that it is sinful, because idolatrous. When it is said that ‘love is the fulfilling of the law,’ it is not love to God merely that is meant, I think, but love to Him supremely, and to all created things as well, self included, because if you can conceive of this passion being our motive power, and fairly balanced in our breasts—God and all created beings and things occupying their right relative positions,—self, although dethroned, would not be ignored. Depend on it, Charlie, there is something wrong here.”
The young Dutchman smote himself heavily on his broad chest, and looked at his friend for a reply.
What that reply was we need not pause to say. These two young men ever since their first acquaintance had regarded each other with feelings akin to those of David and Jonathan, but they had not up to this time opened to each other those inner chambers of the soul, where the secret springs of life keep working continually in the dark, whether we regard them or not—working oftentimes harshly for want of the oil of human intercourse and sympathy. The floodgates were now opened, and the two friends began to discourse on things pertaining to the soul and the Saviour and the world to come, whereby they found that their appreciation and enjoyment of the good things even of this life was increased considerably. Subsequently they discovered the explanation of this increased power of enjoyment, in that Word which throws light on all things, where it is written that “godliness is profitable for the life that now is, as well as that which is to come.”
Chapter Twenty.
Treats of the Delights, Dangers, and Distresses of the Wilderness
“Afar in the desert,”—far beyond the frontier settlements of the colony, far from the influences of civilisation, in the home of the wild beast and the savage, the explorers now ride under the blaze of the noontide sun.
They had passed over mountain and dale into the burning plains of the karroo, and for many hours had travelled without water or shelter from the scorching heat. Lucas Van Dyk, who guided them, said he knew where water was to be got, but there was no possibility of reaching it before evening. This announcement was received in silence, for not a drop of the life-giving fluid had passed the lips of man or beast since an early hour on the previous day, and their powers of endurance were being tried severely. The insupportable heat not only increased the thirst, but rendered the hunters less able to bear it. All round them the air quivered with the radiation from the glaring sand, and occasionally the mirage appeared with its delicious prospects of relief, but as the Dutchmen knew the ground well, none were deceived by it, though all were tantalised. Compressing their lips, and urging their wearied cattle to the utmost, they pushed steadily on, no sound breaking the stillness of the desert save the creak of a waggon-wheel or the groan of an exhausted animal.
At last Charlie Considine sought to relieve his feelings by conversation.
“This is one of the unpleasant experiences of African travel.”
Hans Marais, to whom the remark was made, replied “Ja,” but as he added nothing more, and looked stern, Charlie relapsed into silence.
Ere long one of the weaker oxen fell. The party halted a few minutes, while the Hottentot drivers plied their cruel whips unmercifully, but in vain. One more merciful than the drivers was there—death came to release the poor animal. Immediately, as if by magic, vultures appeared in the burning sky. From the far-off horizon they came sailing by twos and threes, as if some invisible messenger, like death himself, had gone with lightning-speed to tell that a banquet awaited them.
No time was wasted; a brief word from the leader sufficed. The dying ox was released from the yoke that had galled it so long, and the party proceeded. Before they were a mile off the ox was dead, its eyes were out, its carcass torn open, and the obscene birds were gorging themselves. Before night it was an empty skeleton covered with a dried hide! Not many hours would suffice to remove the hide and leave only the bleaching bones. Such remains are familiar objects on South African roadsides.
That evening, according to their leader’s prophecy, water was reached. It was a thick muddy pool, but it sufficed to relieve them all, and a night of comparative comfort followed a day of suffering.
Next morning, just after breakfast, a herd of springboks was observed, and several of the more eager of the party dashed off in pursuit. Among these was Considine, Hans, Andrew Rivers, and Jerry Goldboy. The two last were always first in the mad pursuit of game, and caused their placid Dutch friends no little anxiety by the scrapes they frequently ran themselves into.
“Follow them, they’ll get lost,” said Van Dyk to a group of Hottentots.
Two of these, Slinger and Dikkop, obeyed the order.
The antelopes were on a distant sandhill in the plain. There were two groups of them. Riven and Jerry made for one of these. Becoming suddenly imbued with an idea worthy of a hunter, Jerry diverged to the right, intending to allow his companion to start the game, while he should lie in wait for it under the shelter of a bush. Unfortunately the game took the opposite direction when started, so that Jerry was thrown entirely out. As it chanced, however, this did not matter much, for Jerry’s horse, becoming unmanageable, took to its heels and dashed away wildly over the plain, followed by Dikkop the Hottentot.
“Mind the ant-bear holes!” shouted Dikkop, but as he shouted in Dutch Jerry did not understand him, and devoted himself to vain endeavours to restrain the horse. At first the animal looked after itself and avoided the holes referred to, but as Jerry kept tugging furiously at the reins it became reckless, and finally put a fore-leg into a hole. Instantly it rolled over, and the hunter flew off its back, turning a complete somersault in the air.
A low shrub grows in the karroo, called the ill-tempered thorn. It resembles a mass of miniature porcupine quills, an inch or two in length, planted as thickly as possible together, with the needle-points up and bristling. On one of these shrubs poor Jerry alighted!
“Oh! ’eavens, this is hagony!” he groaned, jumping up and stamping, while Dikkop almost fell off his horse with laughing.
To hide his mirth he bolted off in pursuit of Jerry’s charger, which he soon caught and brought back, looking supernaturally grave.
“We will rejoin the ’unters, Dikkop,” said Jerry, in the tone of a man who endeavours to conceal his sufferings.
“Ja, Mynheer,” said Dikkop.
Whatever Jerry Goldboy might have said, that Hottentot would have replied “Ja, Mynheer,” for he understood not a word of English.
Jerry mounted with an ill-suppressed groan and rode back to the party, leaning very much forward in the saddle, while Dikkop followed, showing the white teeth in his dirty black visage from ear to ear.
Rivers soon afterwards returned with a springbok behind him, but there was no appearance of Considine or Hans. As, however, the latter was known to be an experienced traveller, no anxiety was felt for them, and the main party proceeded on its way. When night came they found that a well, on which they had counted, was dried up, and were therefore obliged to lie down without water. Several shots were fired after dark to guide the absent ones, but no reply was made. Still, those in camp felt no anxiety, knowing that Hans was quite able to take care of himself.
And so he was, truly, but he could not take care of a hot-headed youth who was as eager as Jerry in the chase, and much more daring.
At first he and Considine ran together after the springboks; then Hans got near enough, dismounted, and shot one. While he was busy fastening the carcass on his horse, Considine continued to pursue the others; going at full speed, he was soon far away on the horizon. Still Hans would have been able to see him if he had not got among some scattered groups of mimosa-bushes, which were sufficiently large to conceal him. When he remounted and looked around, his friend was not to be seen. He saw a few springboks, however, racing on the horizon in the direction in which Considine had galloped, and concluded somewhat hastily that they were pursued by his friend. Away he went, therefore, but soon discovered that he was mistaken. He turned then, and rode quickly back, blaming himself for not having followed the footprints of his friend’s horse. This he now did, and at last came up with him, but at so late an hour, and at such a distance from the line of march, that a bivouac in the plain was inevitable.
“Oh, Hans,” he said, “I’m so glad you’ve found me! I had no idea that one could get so easily lost in an open plain.”
“You’ve had enough experience too, one would think, to have remembered the vastness of the karroo,” said Hans, dismounting and making the fastenings of the springbok more secure, “A man soon dwindles to the size of a crow in plains like this, when you gallop away from him. Men not accustomed to them misjudge distances and sizes in a wonderful way. I remember once being out hunting with a fellow who mistook a waggon for a springbok!—But come, mount; we must ride on to a better camping-place than this, and be content to sleep without blankets to-night.”
“I hope the camping-place is not far off, for I’m parched with thirst,” said Considine, mounting and following at a smart gallop.
“I’m sorry for you,” returned Hans, “for you’ll see no water this night. To-morrow we’ll start early and get to the waggons by breakfast-time.”
This was depressing news to Considine, for the heat of the day and exertions of the chase had, as he expressed it, almost dried him up. There was nothing for it, however, but patience.
About sunset they came to a place where were some old deserted huts. In one of these they resolved to pass the night, though, from certain holes in the side, it was evidently used at times as an abode by beasts of prey. Having flint and steel, they made a fire, and while thus engaged were serenaded by the distant and dolorous howls of a hyena and the inharmonious jabberings of a jackal.
“Pleasant company!” observed Considine as he roasted a steak over the fire.
“Ja,” replied Hans, who, being a more expert cook, was already busy with a rib.
The melancholy hoot of an owl seemed to indicate that the animal kingdom agreed with the sentiment, and the young men laughed. They were not, however, disposed to talk much. After a silent supper they lay down and slept soundly, quite oblivious of the prowlers of the night, who came, more than once, near to the door of the hut.
It was late next day when they awoke. Hans likewise missed his way, and though he afterwards discovered his mistake, they found it impossible to regain the track of their companions before sunset. All that day they were compelled to travel without tasting a drop of water, and their poor horses became so fatigued as to be scarcely equal to more than a walking pace. As Hans knew that water was not far off, he pushed on after sunset, so as to have the shorter distance to travel to it in the morning.
“It is very tantalising,” he said, drawing rein when the darkness of the night rendered travelling almost impossible, “to know that our friends cannot be far off, and yet be unable to reach them.”
“Hadn’t we better fire a shot?” asked Considine.
“Not of much use, I fear, but there can be no harm in trying.”
The shot was fired and was instantly replied to by a tremendous roar from a lion, apparently close to where they stood. No wood was near them to make a fire, nothing but tufts of grass; they therefore pushed on towards a range of dark mountains as fast as their jaded steeds would go.
“Halt a moment,” said Hans in a low voice.
They stopped and listened. The approach of the lion in rear was distinctly heard.
“We cannot escape from him, Charlie,” said Hans, as they again urged their horses onward, “and in the dark we cannot take aim at him. Our only chance is to reach yonder pass or glen that looms like a black cleft in the hills, and clamber up some precipice, whence we can pelt him with stones.”
He spoke in quick, earnest tones. They soon entered the gorge and were greeted by the grunt of a baboon and the squalling of its young ones, which helped to increase the savage aspect of the towering cliffs on either side. They had not proceeded far when the lion gave another tremendous roar, which, echoing from cliff to cliff, gave the luckless hunters the feeling of having got into the very heart of a lion’s den. No suitable place to scramble up being found, they pushed madly on over a track of sand and bushes, expecting every instant to see the monster bound upon them. But the defile was shorter than Hans had supposed. On issuing from it they were cheered by the moon rising bright in the east, and found that their enemy had ceased to follow them at that point. Still, though weary, and with their tongues cleaving to the roofs of their mouths, they continued their march for several hours, and lying down at last, they scarcely knew how or there, they went to sleep with a prayer for protection and deliverance on their parched lips.
The weary wanderers passed that night in a very paradise, bathing in cool streams and slaking their thirst nearly, but never quite, to the full. There was always a peculiar desire to drink again, and, even then, to wish for more! Heavenly music, too, sounded in their ears, and the sweet shade of green trees sheltered them.
It was daybreak when they were roused from these delights by a hyena’s howl, and awoke to find that they were speechless with thirst, their eyes inflamed, and their whole frames burning.
Saddling the horses at once, they rode forward, and in a couple of hours reached a hill near the top of which there was a projecting rock.
“Don’t let me raise your hopes too high,” said Hans, pointing to the rock, “but it is just possible that we may find water there.”
“God grant it!” said Considine.
“Your horse is fresher than mine,” said Hans, “and you are lighter than I am—go first. If there is water, hail me—if not, I will wait your return.”
With a nod of assent the youth pushed forward, gained the rock, and found the place where water had once been, a dry hole!
For a few minutes he stood gazing languidly on the plain beyond the ridge. Despair had almost taken possession of his breast, when his eye suddenly brightened. He observed objects moving far away on the plain. With bated breath he stooped and shaded his eyes with his hand. Yes, there could be no doubt about it—a party of horsemen and bullock-waggons! He tried to cheer, but his dry throat refused to act. Turning quickly, he began to descend the hillside, and chanced to cough as he went along. Instantly he was surrounded by almost a hundred baboons, some of gigantic size, which came fearlessly towards him. They grunted, grinned, and sprang from stone to stone, protruding their mouths and drawing back the skin of their foreheads, threatening an instant attack. Considine’s gun was loaded, but he had lived long enough in those regions to be fully aware of the danger of wounding one of these creatures in such circumstances. Had he done so he would probably have been torn to pieces in five minutes. He therefore kept them off with the muzzle of his gun as he continued the descent. Some of them came so near as to touch his hat while passing projecting rocks. At last he reached the plain, where the baboons stopped and appeared to hold a noisy council as to whether they should make a great assault or not. He turned and levelled his gun.
“Come,” thought he at that moment, “don’t do it, Charlie. You have escaped. Be thankful, and leave the poor brutes alone.”
Obeying the orders of his conscience, he re-shouldered his gun and returned to his friend, whom he found reclining under a low bush, and informed him of what he had seen. The young Dutchman jumped up at once, and, mounting, rode round a spur of the hill and out upon the plain. In an hour they had overtaken their comrades, but great was their dismay on finding that they had long ago consumed every drop of water, and that they were suffering from thirst quite as much as themselves.
“Never mind,” said Lucas Van Dyk; “let me comfort you with the assurance that we shall certainly reach water in a few hours.”
The hunter was right. Some hours before sunset the oxen and horses quickened their pace of their own accord—sure sign that they had scented water from afar. Shortly after, they came in sight of a stream. The excitement of all increased as they pushed forward. They broke into a wild run on nearing the stream; and then followed a scene which is almost indescribable. The oxen were cast loose, the riders leaped to the ground, and the whole party, men, oxen, and horses, ran in a promiscuous heap into the water.
“Wow, man, Jerry, hae a care; ee’ll be squizzen atween the beasts,” said Sandy Black, as the active Jerry passed him in the race.
The Scot’s warning was not without reason, for next moment Jerry was up to the knees in the stream between two oxen, who, closing on each other, almost burst him. Easing off, they let him drop on hands and knees, and he remained in that position drinking thankfully. The whole place was quickly stirred up into a muddy compound like pea-soup, but neither man nor beast was particular. They struggled forward and fell on their knees—not inappropriately—to drink. One man was pushed down by an ox, but seemed pleased with the refreshing coolness of his position, and remained where he was drinking. Another in his haste tumbled over the edge of the bank and rolled down, preceded by an impatient horse, which had tripped over him. Both gathered themselves up, somehow, with their lips in the water,—and drank! Young Rivers, happening to gain the stream at a point where oxen and horses were wedged together tightly, tried to force in between them, but, failing in this, he stooped to crawl in below them. At that moment Slinger the “Tottie” gave a yell in Dutch, and said that a horse was trampling on him; whom Dikkop consoled by saying that he was fast in the mud—and so he was, but not too fast to prevent drinking. Meanwhile the Dutchmen and the knowing ones of the party restrained themselves, and sought for better positions where the water was clearer. There they, likewise, bent their tall heads and suggested—though they did not sing—the couplet:
“Oh that a Dutchman’s draught might be
As deep as the ro–o–olling Zuyder-Zee!”
The limit of drinking was capacity. Each man and beast drank as much as he, or it, could hold, and then unwillingly left the stream, covered with mud and dripping wet! Oh, it was a delicious refreshment, which some thought fully repaid them for the toil and suffering they had previously undergone. The aspect of the whole band may be described in the language of Sandy Black, who, beholding his friends after the fray, remarked that they were all “dirty and drookit.”