The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier

by Bertram Mitford

  VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER FOUR.

  SERINGA VALE.

  One round, black speck high up yonder on the stony hillside. There hesits--the large old baboon; wary sentinel that he is, keeping jealouswatch over the safety of the nimble troop under his charge, which,scattered about amid the bush, is feasting upon succulent roots andother vegetable provender afforded by its native wilds. And from hislofty perch he can descry something unwonted immediately beneath--dangerpossibly, intrusion at any rate--and he lifts up his voice: "Baugch-m!Baugch-m?" The sun blazes in a blue, cloudless sky, darting down hisbeams with a fierceness and vigour somewhat premature this lovelyafternoon of an early South African spring day, and all nature is atrest in the drowsy stillness now broken by that loud, harsh cry. Acliff rears its perpendicular face from amid the bush-covered slopes,which, meeting at its base, form a triangular hollow. From the brow ofthe cliff rises a rugged steep, thickly grown with dark prickly aloes,whose bristling shapes, surmounted by bunches of red blossom, sproutupwards from the dry, stony soil. The tiniest thread of a streamlettrickles down the face of the rock, losing itself in a pool beneath,which reflects, as in a mirror, cliff, and overhanging bushes, and bluesky. A faint cattle track leading down to the water betokens that in aland of droughts and burning skies even this reservoir, remote andinsignificant, is of account at times; but to-day here are no cattle.The long-drawn piping whistle of a spreuw [of the starling species]echoes now and again from the cool recesses of the rock; the hum of beesamong the blossoming spekboem and mimosa; the twittering of the finks,whose pear-shaped pendulous nests sway to and fro over the water as thelight-hearted birds fly in and out--all tell of solitude and of thepeace of the wilderness. Here a big butterfly flits lightly on spottedwings above the flowering bushes; there, stalking solemnly among thestones, an armour-plated tortoise seems to be in rivalry with a hornyand long-legged beetle as to which of them shall be the first to reachthe other side of the small open space.

  "Baugch-m! Baugch-m!"

  Two round black specks high up there on the stony hillside. Theresounding call is answered, and the two guardians of the troop sitthere, a couple of hundred yards apart, looking down into thesequestered nook below.

  The sleeper moves, then rolls over on his back and draws hisbroad-brimmed hat right over his face.

  Clearly he does not intend rousing himself just yet. The sun's beamsstrike full upon him, but he feels them not; evidently he is indisposedto let even the monarch of light interfere with his siesta. A fewminutes more, and, with a start, he raises himself on his elbow andlooks around.

  "By Jove, how hot it is! I must have been doing the sluggard trick tosome purpose, for the cliff was full in the sun when first I pricked forthe softest plank here, and now it's throwing out a shadow as long as anattorney's bill of costs. Past four!" looking at his watch. "Now for apipe; then a start."

  He picks himself up out of the pass, yawns and stretches. The tortoise,which had already stood motionless, its bright eye dilated with alarm,now subsides into its shell, hoping to pass for one of the surroundingstones; its scarabean competitor likewise is equal to the occasion,after its own manner, and falling over on its side, with legs stiff andextended, feigns death industriously. Meanwhile the aloe-dotted steepoverhead is alive with the loud warning cries of the disturbed baboons,whose ungainly but nimble shapes--some fifty in number--may be seenmaking off helter-skelter up the hill, to disappear with all possibledespatch over the brow of the same.

  "Noisy brutes!" grumbles the wayfarer, shading his eyes to watch them."But for your unprincipled shindy I could have done a good hour's moresnooze with all the pleasure in life. If only I had a rifle here--evena Government Snider--it would go hard but that one or two of you wouldlearn the golden art of silence."

  Look at him as he stands there just six foot high in his boots--well-proportioned, broad-shouldered, straight as a dart. The face is ofa very uncommon type, with character and determination in its regular,clear-cut features; but a look of _insouciance_ in the eyes--which areneither grey nor blue, but sometimes one, sometimes the other--neutralises what would otherwise be an energetic and restlessexpression. The mouth is nearly hidden by a drooping, golden-brownmoustache. In the matter of age the man would have satisfied a censuscollector by the casual reply, "Rising nine-and-twenty."

  Colonial born you would certainly not pronounce him. Yet not a touch ofthe "rawness" of the greenhorn or "new chum" would you descry, even ifthe serviceable suit of tancord and the quality of the saddle and ridinggear lying on the ground did not betoken a certain amount ofacquaintance with colonial life on the part of their owner.

  He draws a rough cherrywood pipe from his pocket, fills and lights it,sending forth vigorous blue puffs which hang upon the drowsy air. Hestands for a moment looking at the sun, and decides that it is time tostart.

  "Now, I wonder what has become of Sticks. The old scamp is given toerring and straying afar just when wanted. When I don't require hisservices he'll fool about the camp by the hour."

  Sticks was his horse. That estimable quadruped had at one time beenaddicted to "sticking," an inconvenient vice of which his present ownerhad thoroughly cured him.

  Our wayfarer strolls leisurely to the ridge which shuts in the hollow,and looks around. Then a reddish object amid the green bush, somehundreds of yards further down, catches his eye. It is the object ofhis search; and, with one hand thrust carelessly into a pocket, he makesfor the errant nag and returns leading his steed to the waterhole, whereclouds of yellow finks scatter right and left, vociferously giving ventto their indignation at being thus invaded.

  And now, having saddled up, he is on his way. Steeper and steeper growsthe ascent; the bush meets here and there over the narrow path, nearlysweeping the rider from his saddle, and the horse, blinded now and thenby a thick branch of spekboem flying back in his eyes, makes an approachto a stumble, for which he is not to blame, for the track is ruggedenough in all conscience. At length the narrow path comes to an end,merging into a broad but stony waggon road.

  But--excelsior! The bay steps out at a brisk walk, ascending ever therough road which winds round the abrupt spurs of the hills like a ledge,mounting higher and higher above the long sweep of bush-covered slope,where, among the recesses of many a dark ravine, thickets of"wait-a-bit" thorn, and mimosa, and tangled underwood, afford retreat tothe more retiring denizens of the waste--the sharp-horned bushbuck andthe tusked wild pig, the hooded cobra, and the deadly puff-adder. Andbeneath those shades, too, in the still gloom, the spotted leopardcreeps stealthily upon its prey, and the howl of the hyena and theshrill yelping bay of the jackal resound weirdly through the night.

  "It's waxing chilly. Up, old Sticks!" ejaculates the traveller, with alight tap of his riding-crop. The horse picks up his head and scramblesalong with new zest. A few minutes more and he is standing on the topof the _randt_ [the high ground or ridge overlooking the valley of ariver] for a brief blow after his exertions, which his heaving flanksproclaim to have been of no mean order, while his rider is contemplatingthe fresh scene which opens out before his gaze. For the wooded countryhas been left, and now before him lies spread a panorama of broad androlling plains, dotted capriciously here and there with clumps of bush.A lovely sweep of country stretches away in many undulations to thewooded foothills of a beautiful mountain range which forms a backgroundto the whole view, extending, crescent-like, far as the eye can travel.The snow-cap yet resting on the lofty peak of the Great Winterbergflushes first with a delicate tinge and then blood-red; many a juttingspur and grey cliff starts forth wondrously distinct, while the foresttrees upon a score of distant heights stand soft and feathery, touchedwith a shimmer of green and gold from the long beams of the sinking sunas he dips down and down to the purpling west.

  The stranger rides on, enjoying the glorious beauty of this fairlandscape--never fairer than when seen thus, in the almost unearthlylustre of a perfect evening. A steinbuck leaps out of the grass, andafter a brief ru
n halts and steadily surveys the intruder. Down in thehollow a pair of blue cranes utter their musical note of alarm, andstalk rapidly hither and thither, as though undecided about the quarterwhence danger threatens, and the cooing of doves from yon clump ofeuphorbia blends in soft harmony with the peaceful surroundings as in avesper chant of rest.

  And now a strange group appears over the rise in front. It is a Kafir_trek_. Two men, three women, and some children, driving before themtheir modest possessions in live stock, consisting of three cows (onewith a calf), and a few sheep and goats. The men wear an ample blanketapiece thrown loosely round their shoulders, but other clothing havethey none, with the exception of a pair of boots, which however, eachcarries slung over his shoulder, preferring to walk barefoot. The womenare somewhat less scantily clad, with nondescript draperies ofblanketing and bead-work falling around them. Each has her baby slungon her back, and carries an enormous bundle on her head, containing potsand pans, blankets and matting--the household goods and chattels; forher lord disdains to bear anything but his kerries, or knobsticks, andmarches along in front looking as if the whole world belonged to him.Some of the elder children are laden with smaller bundles, and even thecows are pressed into the service as porters, each having a long roll ofmats fastened across her horns, and two or three mongrel curs slinkbehind the group. All Kafir garments are plentifully bedaubed with redochre, an adornment frequently extended to their wearers, giving themthe appearance of peripatetic flower-pots.

  "Naand, Baas!" [Note 1] sing out the men as they meet the traveller,and then continue in their own tongue, "Nxazela." [Tobacco.]

  No bad specimens of their hardy and supple race are these two fellows asthey stand there, their well-knit, active figures glistening like bronzein the setting sun. They hold their heads well up, and each of theirshrewd and rather good-looking countenances is lighted by a pair ofclear, penetrating eyes. The stranger chucks them a bit of the covetedplant, and asks how much further it is to Seringa Vale.

  "Over there," replies one of the Kafirs, pointing with his stick to thesecond rise in the ground, about two miles off. With a brief good-nightthe horseman touches up his nag and breaks into a gentle canter, whilethe natives, collecting their stock--which has taken advantage of thehalt to scatter over the _veldt_ and pick up a few mouthfuls of grass--resume their way.

  The sun has gone down, and the white peak of the Great Winterberg towersup cold and spectral to the liquid sky, as the horseman crests the ridgeindicated, and lo--the broad roof of a substantial farmhouse liesbeneath. Around, are several thatched outbuildings, and the whole ischarmingly situated, nestling in a grove of seringas and orange trees.There is a fruit-garden in front of the house, or rather on one side ofit, though it may almost be said to have two fronts, for the verandahand the _stoep_ run round the two sides which command the best andwidest view, while another and a larger garden, even more leafy andinviting-looking, lies down in the kloof. Close to the homestead arethe sheep and cattle kraals, with their prickly thorn-fences, into oneof which a white, fleecy flock is already being counted, while another,preceded by its _voerbok_ [Note 2] is coming down the kloof, urged on bythe shout and whistle of its Kafir shepherd. The cattle enclosure isalready alive with the dappled hides of its denizens, moving about amongwhom are the bronzed forms of the cattle-herd and his small boys, whoare busily employed in sorting out the calves and shutting them up intheir pen for the night, away from their mothers, so that these maycontribute their share towards filling the milk-pails in the morning.Behind the kraals stand the abodes of the Kafir farm servants, eight orten beehive-shaped huts to wit, and stepping along towards these,calabash on head, comes a file of native women and girls who have beento draw water from the spring. They sing, as they walk, a monotonouskind of savage chant, stopping now and then to bawl out some "chaff" tothe shepherd approaching with his flock as aforesaid, and going intoshrill peals of laughter over his reply.

  The traveller draws rein for a little while, till the counting-inprocess is accomplished, then rides down to the kraal gate anddismounts. A man turns away from giving some final directions to theKafir who is tying up the gate--an old man, over whose head at leastseventy summers must have passed, but yet stalwart of body and handsomeof feature, with hair and beard like silver. He is dressed in the roughcord suit and slouch hat of the ordinary frontier farmer, and in hishand he carries a whip of plaited raw-hide. His clothes have a timewornappearance, and his hands are large and hard-looking; but, in spite ofthe roughness of his aspect and attire, you need only look once intoWalter Brathwaite's face to know that you were confronting a man ofgentle blood.

  "Good evening," he says, heartily, advancing with outstretched handtowards the stranger. But a curious smile upon the tatter's face causeshim to pause with a half mystified, hesitating air, as if it were notunfamiliar to him. "Why, no. It can't be. Bless my soul, it is,though. Why, Claverton, how are you, my boy? Glad to see you backagain in Africa," and he enclosed the younger man's hand in a stronggrip. "But come in; the wife'll be delighted. Here, Jacob," heshouted, in stentorian tones which brought a young Hottentot upon thescene in a twinkling, "take the Baas's horse and off-saddle him."

  Passing through a hall, garnished with trophies of the chase, bushbuckhorns, and tusks of the wild pig, and a couple of grinningpanther-heads, they entered the dining-room, a large, homelikeapartment, plainly but comfortably furnished.

  "Here, Mary, I've brought you a visitor," said the settler, as theyentered. "You remember Arthur Claverton?"

  A tall old lady, whose kindly and still handsome face bore unmistakablesigns of former beauty, rose from a sewing-machine at which she had beenworking, with a start of surprise.

  "What! Arthur? Why, so it is. But I should never have known you,you're so altered. Ah, I always said we should see you out here again,"she continued, shaking his hand cordially.

  The stranger smiled, and a very pleasant smile it was.

  "Well, yes, so you did, Mrs Brathwaite; but at least I have the facultyof knowing when and where I am well off," he said, really touched by thegenuine warmth of his reception.

  "So you've been all over the world since we saw you last--to Australiaand back?" she went on. "And then the last thing we heard of you wasthat you had gone to America."

  "I attempted to; but Providence, or rather the blunder-headed lookout onboard a homeward-bound liner, willed otherwise."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Why! that the said idiotically-handled craft collided with ours, twodays out, cutting her down to the water's edge and sinking her inthirteen minutes. I and twenty-four others were picked up, but the restwent to Davy Jones's locker. There weren't many more of them, though,for it was a small boat, and I was nearly the only passenger."

  "Oh! And you didn't try the voyage again?" said Mrs Brathwaite, insubdued tones. She was colonial born, and in her own element as brave awoman as ever stepped. In the earlier frontier wars she had stood byher husband's side within the laager and loaded his guns for him, whilethe conflict waxed long and desperate, and the night was ablaze with theflash of volleys, and the air was heavy with asphyxiating smoke, and thedetonating crash of musketry and the battle-shouts of the savage foe,and had never flinched. But she had a shuddering horror of the sea, andwould almost have gone through all her terrible experiences again ratherthan trust herself for one hour on its smiling, treacherous expanse.

  "Well, no; I didn't," he answered. "I took it as an omen, and concludedto dismiss the Far West in favour of the `Sunny South.' So here I am."

  "Ah! well," put in the old settler. "Perhaps we'll be able to find yousomething in the way of excitement here, if that's what you were insearch of, and that before very long, too. All isn't so quiet here asthey try to make out. I've lived on the frontier, man and boy, all mylife, and I can see pretty plainly that there's mischief brewing."

  "Is there? I did hear something of the sort on my way up, now I thinkof it; but I had an idea that the days of war were
over, and that JackKafir had got his quietus."

  "Ha! ha! Had you really, now? Why, bless my soul, the Kafirs are farmore numerous than ever; they outnumber us by fifty to one. They hateus as much as ever they did, and for some time past have been steadilycollecting guns and ammunition. Now, what do they want those guns andthat ammunition for? Not for hunting, for there's next to no game inall Kafirland. No, it is to put them on an equal footing with us; andthen, with their numbers, they think to have it all their own way.There's mischief brewing, mark my words."

  "It wouldn't mean a scrimmage among themselves, would it? They might beanxious to exterminate each other," ventured Claverton.

  The other smiled significantly, and was about to reply, when theconversation was interrupted by the entrance of supper and--Hicks.

  The latter was one of those young Englishmen often met with on colonialfarms, learning their business in the capacity of assistant, or generalfactotum; and who may be divided into two categories: those who takekindly to the life and throw themselves thoroughly into it and itsinterests, and those who don't, and leave it after a trial. Our friendHicks may be placed in the former of these. He was a strong, energetic,good-tempered fellow, who loved his calling, and was a favourite witheverybody. He had served three years in the Frontier Mounted Police,and had been two with Mr Brathwaite, and, by virtue of so much hard,healthy, open-air life, was twice the man he had been when he left hisfather's Midlandshire parsonage five years previously.

  "You were asking if the Kafirs might not be preparing for a fight amongthemselves?" resumed the old settler as they took their places at thesupper-table, which looked cheerful and homelike in the extreme. He hadgot upon a favourite hobby, and was not to be diverted from a congenialride. "There isn't the slightest chance of it, because they know verywell we shan't let them. We prefer encouraging them to hammer away atus."

  "Pickling a rod for our own backs?" remarked Claverton.

  "Just so. By patching up their tribal disputes we check just so muchsalutary blood-letting, and foster hordes of lazy, thieving rascalsright on our border. Even if the sham philanthropy, under which wegroan, obliges us to sit still while the savages grow fat on our stolencattle and laugh at us, the least it could do would be to allow them tocut a few of each other's throats when they have a mind to."

  "The Home Government, I suppose?"

  "That's it. A parcel of old women in Downing Street, ruled by ExeterHall and the Peace Society. What do they know about the Colony, andwhat do they care? After British subjects have been murdered andplundered all along the border, an official is sent to inquire into it.Of course the chiefs all pretend ignorance, and throw the blame onsomebody else. Then follows great palaver and buttering over. Thechiefs are told to be good boys and not do it again, and are givenwaggon-loads of presents--and a treaty is made. A treaty! Withsavages--savages whose boast is that they are a nation of liars. Can'tyou imagine the wily rascals sniggering in their blankets, and wonderinghow much longer they are going to allow themselves to be governed bysuch a race of milksops!"

  His listeners could not forbear a laugh.

  "I can tell you it's no laughing matter to be burned out of house andhome three times as I have been," went on the old man, "and that throughthe sentimental cant of our rulers. No; coddling savages doesn't do--never did do, and never will. Treat them fairly and with the strictestjustice; but, if you are to rule them at all, you must do so with astrong hand."

  Walter Brathwaite had, as he said, lived on the frontier, man and boy,all his life; for he was a mere child when his father, tempted by theinducement of free grants of land, had transferred the family fortunesto the shores of Southern Africa in the early days of the settlement ofthe Cape Colony. His youth and earlier manhood were passed amid thehardships and obstacles of an emigrant's life. And also its dangers--for the tribes infesting the rugged and difficult country which then wasKafirland, were wont to lay marauding hands on the settler's flocks andherds--nor did the savages scruple about adding murder to pillage.Still the emigrants throve; for those were the days of good seasons andhealthy flocks and herds--when pasturage was plentiful and succulent,droughts were infrequent, and disease almost unknown. Three successivewars at short intervals swept away the fruits of the unfortunatesettlers' toil; but they managed to pick up again, and now, at thisperiod of our narrative, it is twenty years since the last of these, andthere are once more the same signs of restlessness among the tribeswhich the experienced remember to have heralded former outbreaks. So ifWalter Brathwaite expresses strong distrust of his barbarous neighbours,it is not without ample justification. He has done good service, too,in the time of need; has fought valiantly and ungrudgingly on behalf ofhis adopted country, and whether in peace or in war has ever enjoyed therespect and good opinion of his fellows. In truth, right justly so.Gifted with strong, practical common sense; his straightforward natureabhorring anything in the shape of humbug or meanness; of a thoroughlykind-hearted, genial disposition and open-handed to a degree, he is asplendid specimen of the colonist who is also by birth and tradition atrue English gentleman; and now in the latter years of his long, useful,and honourable life, he is an object of esteem and affection to all whoknow him--and they are many.

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  Note 1. Dutch, "Evening, master." Dutch is nearly always employed inthe Cape Colony for intercourse with the natives, comparatively fewfrontiersmen, even, being well versed in the Kafir language.

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  Note 2. "The goat which goes before."--A goat is always used instead ofa bell-wether on the Cape sheep farms, and so accustomed do the flocksbecome to their leader that it is a hard and toilsome business to inducethem to enter their fold without it.