Chapter Twenty Two.
Tells of Dark and Threatening Clouds, and War
The exigencies of our somewhat acrobatic tale require, at this point, that we should make a considerable bound. We shall beg the obliging reader to leap with us into the year 1834.
Hans Marais, moustached, bearded, bronzed, and in the prime of life, sits at the door of a cottage recently built close to that of his father. Beside him sits his wife—formerly Miss Gertrude Brook, and now as sweet and pretty a young woman as you would find in a month’s ride through a country where sweet pretty women were, and still are, very numerous in proportion to the population.
Whether it was that Hans was timid, or Gertie shy, we cannot tell, but somehow it is only three months since they began their united career, and Hans considers himself to have married rather “late in life.” Gertie, being now twenty-six, begins to think herself quite an old woman. It is evident, however, that this ancient couple wear well, and are sufficiently happy—if we may presume to judge from appearances.
“Gertie,” said Hans, patting the fingers which handed him his big Dutch pipe, “I fear that my father is determined to go.”
“Do you think so?” said Gertie, while a sad expression chased the sunshine from her face.
“Yes, he says he cannot stand the treatment we Cape-Dutchmen receive from the British Government, and that he means to give up his farm, take his waggons and goods, and treck away to the north, with the friends who are already preparing to go, in search of free lands in the wilderness where the Union Jack does not fly.”
“I must be very stupid, Hans,” returned his wife, with a deprecating smile, “for although I’ve heard your father discussing these matters a good deal of late, I cannot quite understand them. Of course I see well enough that those men who approve of slavery must feel very much aggrieved by the abolition, but your father, like yourself and many others, is not one of these—what then does he complain of?”
“Of a great deal, Gertie,” replied Hans, with an amused glance at her perplexed face, “and not only in connection with slavery, but other things. It would take hours of talk to tell you all.”
“But can’t you give me some sort of idea of these things in a few words?”
“Yes; at least I’ll try,” said Hans. “I need scarcely tell you that there has been a sort of ill-will in the Cape-Dutch mind against the British Government—more’s the pity—ever since the colony passed into the possession of England, owing partly to their not understanding each other, partly to incompetent and tyrannical Governors pursuing unwise policy, partly to unprincipled or stupid men misrepresenting the truth in England, and partly to the people of England being too ready to swallow whatever they are told.”
“What! is all the fault on the side of the English?” interrupted Gertie, with a laugh.
“Hear me out, wife,” returned Hans—“partly owing to foolish Dutchmen rebelling against authority, and taking the law into their own hands, and partly to rascally Dutchmen doing deeds worthy of execration. Evil deeds are saddled on wrong shoulders, motives are misunderstood, actions are exaggerated, judges both here and in England are sometimes incompetent, prejudice and ignorance prevent veils from being removed, and six thousand miles of ocean, to say nothing of six hundred miles of land, intervene to complicate the confusion surrounding right or wrong.”
“Dear me! what an incomprehensible state of things!” said Gertie, opening her blue eyes very wide.
“Rather,” returned Hans, with a smile; “and yet there are sensible Englishmen and sensible Cape-Dutchmen who are pretty well agreed as to the true merits of the questions that trouble us. There is the abolition of slavery, for instance: many on both sides are convinced as to the propriety of that, but nearly all are agreed in condemning the way in which it is being gone about, believing that the consequences to many of the slaveholders will be ruinous. But it is useless to go into such matters now, Gertie. Right or wrong, many of the Dutch farmers are talking seriously of going out of the colony, and my father, I grieve to say, is among the number.”
“And you, Hans?”
“I will remain on the old homestead—at least for a time. If things improve we may induce father to return; if not, I will follow him into the wilderness.”
“And what of Considine?” asked Gertie.
“He remains to help me to manage the farm. There is no chance for him in the present exasperated state of my father’s mind. He unhappily extends his indignation against England to Englishmen, and vows that my sister Bertha shall never wed Charlie Considine.”
“Is he likely to continue in that mind?”
“I think so.”
“Then there is indeed no chance for poor Charlie,” was the rejoinder, “for Bertha Marais will never marry in direct opposition to her father’s wishes. Heigho! ’Tis the old story about the course of true love.”
“He may change—he will change his mind, I think,” said Hans, “but in the meantime he will go off into the wilderness, carrying Bertha along with him. I would have gone with him myself without hesitation, had it not been that I cannot bear to think of tearing you away just yet from the old people, and I may perhaps do some good here in the way of saving the old home.”
Hans looked round with a somewhat mournful gaze at the home of his childhood, which bore evidences of the preparations that were being made by Conrad Marais to leave it.
That evening a large party of disaffected boers arrived at the homestead of Conrad Marais, with waggons, wives, children, goods, and arms, on their way to the far north. Some of these men were sterling fellows, good husbands and fathers and masters, but with fiery independent spirits, which could not brook the restraints laid on them by a Government that had too frequently aroused their contempt or indignation. Others were cruel, selfish savages who scorned the idea that a man might not “wallop his own nigger,” and were more than half pleased that the abolition of slavery and its consequences gave them a sort of reason for throwing off allegiance to the British Crown, and forsaking their homes in disgust; and some there were who would have been willing to remain and suffer, but could not bear the idea of being left behind by their kindred.
Next morning Conrad completed the loading of his waggons, placed his wife and children—there was still a baby!—in them, mounted his horse with the sons who yet remained with him, and bade farewell to the old home on the karroo. He was followed by a long train of his compatriots’ waggons. They all crossed the frontier into Kafirland and thenceforth deemed themselves free!
This was the first droppings of a shower—the first leak of a torrent—the first outbreak of that great exodus of the Dutch-African boers which was destined in the future to work a mighty change in the South African colony.
Hans and Gertie accompanied the party for several hours on their journey, and then, bidding them God-speed, returned to their deserted home.
But now a cloud was lowering over the land which had been imperceptibly, though surely, gathering on the horizon for years past.
We have said that hitherto the colony, despite many provocations, thefts, and occasional murders, had lived in a state of peace with the Kafirs—the only time that they took up arms for a brief space being in their defence, at Hintza’s request, against the Fetcani.
Latterly, we have also observed, the British settlers had toiled hard and prospered. The comforts of life they had in abundance. Trade began to be developed, and missions were established in Kafirland. Among other things, the freedom of the press had been granted them after a hard struggle! The first Cape newspaper, the South African Commercial Advertiser, edited by Pringle the poet and Fairbairn, was published in 1824, and the Grahamstown Journal, the first Eastern Province newspaper, was issued by Mr Godlonton in 1831. Schools were also established. Wool-growing began to assume an importance which was a premonition of the future staple of the Eastern Provinces. Savings-banks were established, and, in short, everything gave promise of the colony—both east and west—becoming a vigorous, as it was obviously a healthy, chip of the old block.
But amongst all this wheat there had been springing up tares. With the growing prosperity there were growing evils. A generous and well-meant effort on the part of Christians and philanthropists to give full freedom and rights to the Hottentots resulted to a large extent in vagabondism, with its concomitant robbery. The Kafirs, emboldened by the weak, and exasperated by the incomprehensible, policy of the Colonial Government at that time, not only crossed the border to aid the Hottentot thieves in their work, and carry off sheep and cattle by the hundred, but secretly prepared for war. Behind the scenes were the paramount chief Hintza, the chief Macomo, and others. The first, forgetting the deliverance wrought for him by the settlers and British troops in 1828, secretly stirred up the Kafirs, whilst the second, brooding over supposed wrongs, fanned the flame of discontent raised among the Hottentots by the proposal of a Vagrancy Act.
When all is ready for war it takes but a spark to kindle the torch. The Kafirs were ready; the British, however, were not. The settlers had been peacefully following their vocations, many of the troops, which ought to have been there to guard them, had been unwisely withdrawn, and only a few hundred men remained in scattered groups along the frontier. The armed Hottentots of the Kat River—sent there as a defence—became a point of weakness, and required the presence of a small force to overawe them and prevent their joining the Kafirs. At last the electric spark went forth. A farmer (Nell) was robbed of seven horses, which were traced to the kraal of a chief on the neutral territory. Restoration was refused. A military patrol was sent to enforce restitution. Opposition was offered, and the officer in command wounded with an assagai. Hintza began to retreat and plunder British traders who were residing in his territory under his pledged protection, and at length a trader named Purcell was murdered near the chief’s kraal and his store robbed. Then Macomo began hostilities by robbing and murdering some farmers on the lower part of the Kat River, and two days afterwards the Kafir hordes, variously estimated at from eight to fifteen thousand men, burst across the whole frontier, wrapped the eastern colony in the smoke and flames of burning homesteads, scattered the unprepared settlers, demolished the works of fourteen years’ labour, penetrated to within twenty miles of Algoa Bay, and drove thousands of sheep and cattle back in triumph to Kafirland.
Chapter Twenty Three.
War
It was at this juncture—the Christmas-tide of 1834, and the summer-time in South Africa—that a merry party was assembled under the shade of umbrageous trees that crowned a little knoll from which could be seen the blue smoke curling from a prosperous-looking homestead in the vale below. It was a party of settlers enjoying their Christmas festivities in the open air. Hans Marais and Charlie Considine were among them, but, feeling less inclined than was their wont to join in the hilarity of the young folks, they had sauntered into the shrubbery and conversed sadly about the departure of Conrad Marais and his family, and of the unsettled state of the frontier at that time.
While they talked, an armed band of savages had crept past them unperceived, and advanced stealthily towards the party of revellers on the knoll. Coming suddenly across the tracks of these savages, Hans cast an anxious look at his companion, and said quickly—
“Look here, Charlie—the spoor of Kafirs! Let’s go—”
The sentence was cut short by a wild war-cry, which was immediately followed by shouts of men and screams of women.
Turning without another word, the two friends ran back to the knoll at full speed, drawing their hunting-knives, which were the only weapons they happened to carry at the time.
On reaching the knoll a fearful scene presented itself. The Kafirs had already killed every man of the party—having come on them unawares and thrown their assagais with fatal precision from the bushes. They were completing the work of death with shouts and yells of fierce delight. Not a woman was to be seen. They had either been dragged into the bushes and slain, or had sought refuge in flight.
With a mighty shout of rage Hans and Considine dashed into the midst of the murderers, and two instantly fell, stabbed to the heart. Seizing the assagais of these, they rushed through the midst of their foes, and, as if animated by one mind, made for the homestead below. To reach the stables and get possession of their horses and rifles was their object.
The savages, of whom there were about thirty, were so taken aback by the suddenness and success of this onset that for a few seconds they did not pursue. Then, probably guessing the object of the fugitives, they uttered a furious yell and followed them down the hill. But Hans and Considine were active as well as strong. They kept well ahead, gained the principal house, and secured their rifles. Then, instead of barricading the doors and defending themselves, they ran out again and shot the two Kafirs who first came up.
Well did the savages know the deadly nature of the white man’s rifle, although at that time they had not themselves become possessed of it. When their comrades fell, and the two white men were seen to kneel and take deliberate aim at those who followed, the whole party scattered right and left and took refuge in the bush.
But the friends did not fire. These were not the days of breech-loaders. Prudently reserving their fire, they made a rush towards the stables, “saddled up” in a few seconds, and, mounting, rode forth at a gallop straight back to the blood-stained hillock. To rescue, if possible, some of the females was their object. Regardless of several assagais that whizzed close to them, they galloped hither and thither among the bushes, but without success.
“Let’s try yonder hollow,” cried Considine, pointing as he spoke.
The words had scarce left his lips when a host of some hundreds of Kafirs, with the shields, assagais and feathers of savage warriors, burst out of the hollow referred to. They had probably been attracted by the two shots, and instantly rushed towards the white men.
Hans Marais dismounted, kneeled to take steadier aim, fired, and shot the foremost warrior. Then, springing on his steed at a bound, he galloped away, loading as he went, and closely followed by his friend. Having reloaded, Hans pulled up and again leapt to the ground. This time Considine, appreciating his plan, followed his example, and both were about to kneel and fire when they perceived by a burst of smoke and flame that the farm-buildings had been set on fire.
In a straight line beyond, two other columns of dense smoke indicated the position of two neighbouring farms, and a third column, away to the right, and further removed from the line of the frontier, suddenly conveyed to the mind of Hans the fact that a general rising of the Kafirs had taken place. Instead of firing, he rose and remounted, exclaiming—
“Home, Charlie—home!”
At the moment a shout was heard in another direction. Turning round, they observed a body of a dozen or so of mounted Kafirs making straight towards them. To have killed two or four of these would have been easy enough to first-rate shots armed with double-barrels, but they knew that those unhurt would continue the chase. They therefore turned and fled in the direction of their own home. Their steeds were good and fresh, but their pursuers were evidently well mounted, for they did not seem to lose ground.
In the kitchen of Conrad Marais’s homestead Gertie stood that day, busily employed in the construction of a plum-pudding, with which she meant to regale Hans and Charlie on their return. And very pretty and happy did Gertie look, with her white apron and her dark hair looped up in careless braids, and her face flushed with exertion, and her pretty round arms bared to the dimpled elbows and scarcely capable of being rendered whiter by the flour with which they were covered.
A young Hottentot Venus of indescribable ugliness assisted in retarding her.
“The master will be here soon,” said Gertie, wiping the flour and pieces of dough off her hands; “we must be quick. Is the pot ready?”
Venus responded with a “Ja,” and a grin which displayed a splendid casket of pearls.
Just then the clatter of hoofs was heard.
“Why, here they come already, and in such a hurry too!” said Gertie in surprise, untying her apron hastily.
Before the apron was untied, however, Hans had pulled up at the door and shouted “Gertie!” in a voice so tremendous that his wife turned pale and came quickly to the door.
“Oh, Hans! what—”
“Come, darling, quick!”
There was no time for more. Hans held out his hand. Gertie took it mechanically.
“Your foot on my toe. Quick!”
Gertie did as she was bid, and felt herself swung to the saddle in front of her husband, who held her in his strong right arm, while in the grasp of his huge left hand he held the reins and an assagai.
Poor Gertie had time, in that brief moment, to note that Charlie Considine sat motionless on his panting horse, gazing sternly towards the karroo, and that a cloud of dust was sweeping over the plain towards them. She guessed too surely what it was, but said not a word, while her husband leaped his horse through a gap in the garden wall in order to reach the road by a short cut. Double-weighted thus, the horse did not run so well as before. Considine was frequently obliged to check his pace and look back.
The stern frown on the Dutchman’s brow had now mingled with it a slightly troubled look.
“Go on. I’ll follow immediately,” said Considine as he reined in.
“Don’t be foolhardy,” cried Hans, with an anxious look as he shot past.
Without replying, Considine dismounted, knelt on a slight eminence on the plain, and deliberately prepared to fire.
The pursuing savages observed the act, and when within about six or seven hundred yards began to draw rein.
Charlie Considine knew his rifle well; although not sighted for such a range, it was capable of carrying the distance when sufficiently elevated, and practice had accustomed him to long-range shots. He aimed a little above the head of the foremost rider, fired, and killed his horse. With the second barrel he wounded one of the Kafirs. At the same moment he observed that his late home was wrapped in flames, and that the cattle and sheep of Conrad Marais, which had been left in charge of Hans, were being driven off by the savages towards the mountains.
This was enough. Remounting, Charlie followed his friend, and was rejoiced to find on looking back that the Kafirs had ceased their pursuit.
“Strange,” he said on overtaking Hans, “that they should have given in so easily.”
“It is not fear that influences them,” returned his friend, with deeply knitted brows; “the reptiles know there is a pass before us, and they will surely try to cut us off. They know all the short cuts better than I do. Push on!”
Urging their horses to their utmost speed, the fugitives soon approached a more broken country, and skirted the mountain range through which the pass referred to by Hans led into level ground beyond. It was a narrow track through jungle, which was dense in some places, open in others. They were soon in it, riding furiously. At one of the open spaces they caught a glimpse of a mounted Kafir making towards a part of the pass in advance of them. Hans pulled up at once, and looked eagerly, anxiously round, while he pressed the light form of Gertie tighter to his breast.
“We must fight here, Charlie,” he said, as he made for a little mound which was crowned with a few bushes. “If you and I were alone we might risk forcing a passage, but—come; they observe our intention.”
A few bounds placed them on the top of the mound, where they took shelter among the bushes. These were scarcely thick enough to cover the horses, but among them was found a hole or crevice into which Hans told his wife to creep. She had barely found refuge in this place, when several assagais whizzed over their heads. Sheltering themselves behind stones, Hans and Considine looked eagerly in the direction whence the assagais had been thrown, and the former observed the ears of a horse just appearing over a bush. He fired at the spot where he conjectured the rider must be, and a yell told that he had not missed his mark. At the same moment his companion observed part of a Kafir’s form opposite to him, and, firing, brought him to the ground.
Seeing this the other savages made a rush at the mound, supposing probably that both guns were empty. They had either forgotten about or were ignorant of double-barrelled weapons. Two more shots killed the two leading Kafirs, and the rest turned to fly, but a gigantic fellow shouted to them fiercely to come on, and at the same moment leaped on Charlie Considine with such force that, although the latter struck him heavily with the butt of his rifle, he was borne to the ground. The triumph however was momentary. Next instant Hans Marais seized him, stabbed him in the throat, and hurled him back among his comrades, a lifeless corpse. Charlie, recovering himself, pointed his unloaded gun at the savages, who recoiled, turned, and fled back to the cover of the opposite bush.
“Now is our time,” said Hans, dragging his wife from the place of shelter. “Mount and make a dash before they recover.”
While speaking Hans was acting. In another moment Gertie was in her old place, Considine in the saddle, and the two men made a bold push for life.
It turned out as the Dutchman had conjectured. The Kafirs had left all parts of the surrounding jungle to join in the assault on the mound, and when the fugitives made a dash through them, only a few had presence of mind to throw their assagais, and these missed their mark. A few bounds carried Hans and Charlie once more in advance of their enemies, but the clatter of hoofs immediately afterwards told that they were hotly pursued.
There is no saying how the chase might have ended, if they had not met with a piece of good fortune immediately afterwards. On emerging from the other end of the pass, they almost ran into a small patrol of Cape Mounted Rifles, who, attracted by the shots and cries in the pass, were galloping to the rescue.
They did not halt to ask questions, but, with a hearty cheer and a friendly wave of the hand from the officer in command, dashed into the pass and met the pursuing savages in the very teeth.
Of course the latter turned and fled, leaving, however, several of their comrades dead on the ground.
During this early period of the war the whole defending force of the frontier consisted of only between seven and eight hundred men, composed of Cape Mounted Rifles and the 75th regiment, with a few of the Artillery and Engineers, and these had to be broken up into numerous small companies, who were sent here and there where succour was most needed.
With this little patrol, Hans, Gertie, and Considine bivouacked that night, and, travelling with them, soon afterwards reached Grahamstown.
The sight of the country as they approached was a sad one. From all quarters, men, women, children, vehicles, horses, cattle, and sheep, were crowding into the town as a place of refuge. At first the settlers nearest the eastern frontier, taken by surprise, fled to temporary rallying-points. These, however, had to be abandoned for stronger places of refuge. On entering the town they found that the greatest confusion and excitement prevailed. The church had been set apart as an asylum for the women and children, who had to put up, however, with the undesirable accompaniments of fire-arms and gunpowder. Public meetings were being held; picquets of armed citizens were being despatched to watch the main roads. All the houses were thronged to suffocation with refugees—white, brown, and black. The streets, squares, yards, gardens, and other vacant places were crowded by night, and the surrounding hills by day, with the flocks and herds that had been saved from the invaders, while the lowing and bleating of these were mingled with the sobs and wails of the widow and fatherless.
“What misery!” exclaimed Gertie, as she rode slowly through the crowds by the side of her husband, mounted on a horse lent her by one of the patrol, “Oh, how I dread to hear the news from home!”
Gertie referred to her father’s home, about the condition of which she knew nothing at the time.
“Where shall we go to seek for news?” she asked anxiously.
“To the barracks,” replied Hans.
“You need not be anxious, I think,” said Considine; “if anything very serious had happened, it is likely the patrol who rescued us would have heard some account of it before leaving Grahamstown.
“Don’t you think?” he added, turning to Hans, “that we had better inquire first at Dobson’s place?”
At that moment they were passing a large store, over the door of which was a blue board with the words “Dobson, Skyd, and Company” emblazoned in large white letters thereon.
The store itself presented in its windows and interior an assortment of dry goods, so extensive and miscellaneous as to suggest the idea of one being able to procure anything in it—from a silk dress to a grindstone. It was an extremely full, prosperous-looking store, and in the midst of it were to be seen, sitting on the counters, James and Robert Skyd, both looking bluffer and stronger than when we last met them, though scarcely a day older. James and Robert were the managing partners of this prosperous firm; Dobson and John Skyd were what the latter styled the hunting partners. Robert Skyd had recently married a pretty Grahamstown girl, and her little boy—then about one year old—was, so said his father, the sleeping partner of the firm, who had been vaguely hinted at by the “Company” long before he was born. Indeed, the “Company” had been prudently inserted with special reference to what might “turn up” in after years. At the time the firm was formed, it had been suggested that it should be styled Dobson, Skyd, and Sons, but as it was possible nothing but daughters might fall to the lot of any of them, “Company” was substituted as being conveniently indefinite. Dobson took precedence in the title in virtue of his having brought most capital into the firm. He had invested his all in it—amounting to three pounds four and nine-pence halfpenny. John Skyd had contributed half-a-crown, which happened to be a bad one. James brought nothing at all, and Robert entered it a little in debt for tobacco.
The great waggon of the hunting partners, loaded with hides, horns, and ivory, stood at the door of the store, as Gertie and her protectors passed, having just arrived from a successful trip into Kafirland, and fortunately escaped the outbreak of the war.
Fastening their bridles to one of its wheels, Hans, Gertie, and Considine entered. The first face they saw was that of Edwin Brook, into whose arms Gertie ran with a wild cry of joy.
“Why, Hans Marais!” cried James Skyd, jumping off the counter and grasping his big friend by the hand, while Robert seized that of Considine, “where have you dropped from?—But I need scarcely ask, for all the world seems to be crowding into the town. Not hurt, I hope?” he added, observing the blood which stained his friend’s dress.
“Not in person,” answered Hans, with a smile, returning his cordial grasp.
“And what of property!” asked Edwin Brook, looking round.
“All gone,” returned Hans sadly. “I rose this morning a reasonably wealthy man—now, I am a beggar. But tell me, what of your family, Mr Brook?”
“All saved, thank God,” was the reply. “Junkie, dear boy, who is the most active young fellow in the land, managed to—Ah! here he comes, and will speak for himself.”
As he spoke a tall strapping youth of about fifteen entered, opened wide his laughing blue eyes on seeing Hans, and, after a hearty greeting, told with some hesitation that he had chanced to be out hunting on foot in the jungles of the Great Fish River when the Kafirs crossed the frontier, and had managed, being a pretty good runner, to give his father warning, so that the family had time to escape. He did not tell, however, that he had, in a narrow pass, kept above sixty Kafirs in check with his own hand and gun until George Dally could run to the house for his weapons and ammunition, and that then the two held a hundred of them in play long enough to permit of the whole family escaping under the care of Scholtz.
“But,” said Edwin Brook, who related all this with evident satisfaction, “I am like yourself, Hans, in regard to property. Mount Hope is a blackened ruin, the farm is laid waste, and the cattle are over the borders.”
“And where is Mrs Brook?” asked Considine.
“In this house. Up-stairs. Come, Gertie is getting impatient. Let us go to see her.”
“Now, friends,” said Considine to the brothers Skyd, who had by that time been joined by the hunting partners, “there is a matter on which we must consult and act without delay.”
Here he told of Conrad Marais’s departure with the boers across the frontier, and added that if the party was to be saved at all it must be gone about instantly.
“You can’t go about it to-day, Charlie,” said John Skyd, “so don’t give way to impatience. For such a long trip into the enemy’s country we must go well armed and supplied.”
“I will brook no delay,” said Considine, with flushing countenance. “If it had not been for the necessity of bringing Gertie here in safety, Hans and I would have set out at once and alone on their spoor. Is it not so?”
Hans nodded assent.
“No, friends,” he said, turning to the brothers with decision, “we must be off at once.”
“What! without your suppers?” exclaimed Bob Skyd; “but to be serious, it won’t be possible to get things ready before to-morrow. Surely that will do, if we start at daybreak. Besides, the party with your father, Hans, is a strong one, well able to hold out against a vastly superior force of savages. Moreover, if you wait we shall get up a small body of volunteers.”