The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier

by Bertram Mitford

  VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

  SPOEK KRANTZ.

  It is Sunday.

  Ride we behind the horseman who is picking his way down a stony paththrough the ever present bush, making for yon thatched building downthere in the hollow. A low, rough shanty, built in the roughest andreadiest fashion, and of the rawest of red brick. Three windows,cobwebbed and cloudy with many a patched-up pane of blue or brown paper,admit light and air, and a door made to open in halves. A smalleredifice hard by, with tumble-down mud walls and in a state of more orless rooflessness, does duty as a stable, and in front of the two anopen space slopes down a distance of one hundred and fifty yards to theriver, whose limpid waters dash and sparkle over their stony bed,between cactus-lined banks--the stubbornly encroaching and well-nighineradicable prickly pear. Opposite rises a great cliff, whose base andsides are set in the greenest and most luxuriant of forest trees, butwhose brow, like its stern face, is bare of foliage and stands out inhard relief against the sky. There seems no reason why this cliffshould be there at all, seeing that the hill would have been far moresymmetrical without it, unless in its wild irregularity it were destinedfor the purpose alone of giving a magnificent--if a trifle forbidding--frontage to the ill-looking and commonplace dwelling-house. On allsides the towering heights rise to the sky, shutting in this beautifuland romantic spot which might be a veritable Sleepy Hollow, so far doesit seem from the sights and the sounds of men. But it must be confessedthat its beauty and romance are utterly thrown away upon its presentoccupant, who is wont to describe the place as "a beastly stifling holeout of which I'd be only too glad to clear to-morrow, by Jove; but thenone can't chuck up the lease, you know, and it isn't half a bad placefor stock, too." It rejoices in the inviting name of Spoek Krantz(Ghost Cliff), and is held in awe and terror as an unholy anddemon-peopled locality by the superstitions natives, as well as by thescarcely less superstitious Boer; and gruesome tales are told ofunearthly sights and sounds among the rocky caves at its base; shadowyshapes and strange fearful cries, and now and again mysterious fires areseen burning upon its ledges in the dead of night, while the mostcareful exploration the next morning has utterly failed to discover thesmallest trace of footprint or cinder. Native tradition has stamped thespot as one to be avoided, for the spirit of a mighty wizard claims itas his resting-place. Even by day the place, shut in by its frowningheights, is lonely and forbidding of aspect.

  But utterly impervious to supernatural terrors is he who now dwells inthe haunted locality. The grim traditions of a savage race are to himas mere old wives' fables, and he laughs to scorn all notion of anyawesome associations whatever. He would just like to see a ghost, thatwas all, any and every night you pleased; if he didn't make it livelyfor the spectral visitant with a bullet, call him a nigger. Yes, hewould admit seeing strange lights on the cliff at times, and hearingstrange sounds; but to ascribe them to supernatural agency struck him asutter bosh. The lights were caused by a moonlight reflection, orwill-o'-the-wisps, or something of that sort; and the row, why, it wasonly some jackal yowling in the krantz, and as for getting in a funkabout it, that would do for the niggers or white-livered Dutchmen, butnot for him. Tradition said that there was a secret cavern in thecliff, but the entrance was known to very few even among the nativesthemselves, and only to their most redoubted magicians. Certain it isthat no Kafir admitted knowledge of this, and when questioned carefullyevaded the subject.

  And now, as the horseman we have been following emerges from the bush onto the open space surrounding the low-roofed, thatched shanty, a man isseated in his shirt-sleeves on a stone in front of the door, intentlywatching something upon the ground. It is a large circular glass cover,such as might be used for placing over cheese or fruit; but to a verydifferent use is it now being put. For imprisoned within it are twoscorpions of differing species--a red one and a black one--hideousmonsters, measuring five inches from their great lobster-like claws tothe tip of their armed tails, and there they crouch, each upon one sideof its glass prison-house, both, evidently, in that dubious state aptlyknown among schoolboys as "one's funky, and t'other's afraid."

  "Hold on a bit," called out the man in the shirt sleeves, but withoutturning his head, as the trampling of hoofs behind him warned of theapproach of a visitor, "or, at any rate, come up quietly."

  "Why, what in the name of all that's blue have you got there?" demandedHicks, dismounting; for he it is whom we have accompanied to thisout-of-the-way spot. "Well, I'm blest?" he continued, going off into aroar of laughter as he approached near enough to see the other'soccupation.

  "Tsh! tsh! Don't make such an infernal row, man, you'll spoil all thefun, and make me lose my bet."

  "What's the bet?"

  "Why, I've got five goats against that blue schimmel heifer of oldJafta's on these two beggars, that the black one'll polish off the red'un; but they are to go at it of their own accord, and now I've beenwatching them for the last half-hour, but the beggars won't fight,"replied the other, still without moving, or even so much as looking overhis shoulder.

  "Stir them up a bit," suggested Hicks.

  "Can't; it'd scratch the bet."

  "Where's Jafta?"

  "Oh, he wouldn't wait. Went away laughing in his sleeve. He'll laughthe other side of his mouth, the old _schelm_, when he has to fork out."

  "Well, you must have been hard up for some one to run a bet with. Anice little occupation, too, for a Sunday morning," replied Hicks, withsham irony.

  "Sunday be somethinged. There's no Sunday on the frontier. Hullo!"

  This exclamation was the result of a change of attitude on the part ofthe grisly denizens of the glass. Slack began slowly to move round thecircumference of his prison, in process of which he cannoned againstred, and Greek met Greek. With claws interlaced, the venomous brutesplied their sting-armed tails like a couple of striving demons, till atlength their grip relaxed, and red fell over on his back with his legsdoubled up and rigid.

  "Hooroosh! I've won," called out our new acquaintance, jumping upgleefully. "Hi! Jafta, Jafta!" he bawled, anxious to notify histriumph over his sceptical retainer.

  "Hold on; not so fast," put in Hicks, "t'other fellow's a gone coon,too, or not far from it. Look," he added, pointing to the glass.

  And in good sooth the victor began to show signs of approachingdissolution, which increased to such an extent, that in a couple ofminutes he lay as rigid and motionless as the vanquished.

  "Never mind, it all counts. He did polish off the other. Jafta, we'llput my mark on that cow to-morrow."

  "Nay, Baas," demurred that ancient servitor, who had just come up. Hewas a wiry little old Hottentot, with a yellow skin, and beady monkeyeyes, and as ugly as the seven deadly sins. "Nay, Baas, the bet's aneven one; neither thrashed the other. Isn't it so, Baas Hicks?"

  "Well, as you put it to me, I think the bet's a draw," began Hicks.

  "Oh, no, that won't do," objected Jafta's master, "the black did polishoff the red, you know. If he went off himself afterwards, it was owingto his uneasy conscience. That wasn't provided for in the agreement.But never mind, Jafta, you can keep your old `stomp-stert' this time."[Note 1.]

  The old Hottentot grinned all over his parchment countenance, and thenumerous and grimy wrinkles thereof puckered themselves like the skin ofa withered apple. He, and his two sons, strapping lads of eighteen andnineteen, constituted the whole staff of farm servants. No Kafir couldbe induced to stay on the place, owing to its weird associations; acircumstance which, according to its occupant, was not without itscompensating advantage, for the marauding savage, in his nocturnalforays, at any rate kept his hands off these flocks and herds. The oldfellow, however, was fairly faithful to his employer, though notscrupulously honest in all his dealings with the rest of mankind atlarge; the place suited him, and as for ghosts, well, he had never seenanything to frighten him.

  And now the jolly frontiersman, who has been driven to so eccentric aform of Sabbath amusement, rise
s, and we see a man of middle height,with a humorous and gleeful countenance; in his eyes there lurks amirthful twinkle, and every sun-tanned lineament bespeaks "a character."And he is a character. Always on the look-out for the whimsical sideof events, he is light-hearted to childishness, and has a disastrousweakness for the perpetration of practical jokes--a vein of humour farmore entertaining to its possessor than to its victims--and game to betupon any and every contingency. He is about thirty, and his name isJack Armitage.

  "Well, Hicks, old man," said this worthy. "Taken pity on my lonelyestate, eh? That's right; we'll make a day of it. Had breakfast?"

  "No."

  "More have I; we'll have it now. Er--Jafta!" he shouted, "Jafta! Wheelup those chops. Sharp's the word."

  "Ya, Baas. Just now?" called out that menial, and from the kitchensounds of hissing and sputtering betokened the preparation of asucculent fry.

  "Just now! Only listen. Why, he'll be twenty minutes at least."

  "Not he," said Hicks; "he's nearly ready, I can smell that much."

  "Nearly ready! Give you a dollar to five bob he's twenty minutes fromnow. Is that on?" he inquired, putting out his watch to take the time.[Rix dollar, 1 shilling 6 pence.]

  "No, it isn't. I'm not going to encourage your disgraceful and sportingproclivities," was the reply, as they entered the house. Threepartitions boasted this domicile--a bedroom, a sitting-room, and thekitchen aforesaid. Of ceiling it was wholly guiltless, the sole canopyoverhead being plain, unadulterated thatch; and the mud floor, plasteredover with cow-dung, after the manner of the rougher frontier houses,gave forth a musty, uninviting odour, which it required all the ingressof the free air of Heaven to atone for. A large, roomy wooden press,and a row of shelves, with a green baize curtain in front, stood againstthe whitewashed wall, and in the middle of the room a coarse cloth waslaid upon the wooden table, with a couple of plates and knives andforks. Armitage dived into the press and produced a great brown loaf, atin of milk, and a mighty jar of quince jam.

  "Hallo! the ants are in possession again," said he, surveying the jar,whence issued an irregular crowd of those industrious insects--tooindustrious sometimes. "Never mind, we can dodge them; besides, theyare fattening. Ah, that's right, Jafta,"--as that worthy entered with adish of fizzing chops in one hand and a pot of strong black coffee inthe other. "Now we can fall to."

  "By the way, I shall have to go back soon," said Hicks. "I only came tosee if any of those sheep we lost had got in amongst Van Rooyen's, andthought I'd sponge on you for a feed whilst I was down this way."

  "Oh, that can't be allowed; I thought you had come to help a fellow killSunday. Hang it, man, don't be in a hurry; stop and have some riflepractice, and then we can take out that bees' nest down by the river.Ah, but I forgot," he added, with a quizzical wink. "Never mind, myboy; I don't want to spoil fun, you'll be better employed at home."

  Hicks was sorely puzzled. He was a good-natured fellow, and could seethat the other had reckoned upon his company for the day. Yet he hadhis reasons for wanting to get back. "Look here, Jack," he said, atlength, "I'll tell you what we'll do. I'll hold on here a little andhelp you to get out that bees' nest, then you can go back with me andwe'll get to Seringa Vale just nicely in time for dinner. Will thatdo?"

  "All right," assented the other, "that'll do me well enough. I've hadnothing but my own blessed company for the last fortnight, except for aDutchman or two now and again, and a little jaw with my fellow creatureswill do me a world of good. By the way, is that chap Claverton stillwith you?"

  "Yes. How d'you like him?"

  "Oh, he seems good enough sort, but about the most casual bird I eversaw. He was down here one day; did he tell you about it? No! Well,then, a couple of Dutchmen came in--Swaart Pexter and his brotherMarthinus--and Swaart, who is one of your bragging devils and `down on'a `raw Englishman' like a ton of bricks, after yarning a little whilepoints to Claverton, who was sitting over there blowing a cloud in hiscalm way, and says rather cheekily: `Who's that?' I told him. `Can hetalk Dutch?' was the next question. `Don't know,' says I. `How longhas he been in this country?' says he. `Tell him a year,' saysClaverton, quietly, without moving a muscle. I told him. `A year!'says Pexter, turning up his nose more cheekily than before. `A year andcan't talk Dutch yet! He must be _domm_,' [stupid]. ThereuponClaverton looks the fellow bang in the eyes, and says in Dutch, `Can youtalk English?' `No!' replies Pexter, with a stare of astonishment.`And how long have _you_ been here?' `Been here!' says the other, witha contemptuous laugh at this--to him--new proof of the other fellow'sgreenness. `Why, I was born here.' `How old are you?' goes onClaverton in a tone of friendly interest. `Forty-seven last May,' saysthe Dutchman, wondering what the deuce is coming next. `Forty-sevenlast May!' repeats our friend, calmly knocking the ash out of his pipe.`That is, you have been in this country forty-seven years, and can'ttalk English yet. Well, you must be _domm_!' I roared and so didMarthinus. `Got you there, old chap,' says I. Swaart Pexter lookedrather shirty and tried to laugh it off, but Claverton had him. Hadhim, sir, fairly--lock, stock, and barrel. Well, after a while we wentoutside and stuck up a bottle at four hundred yards to have some riflepractice. The Dutchmen are first-rate shots, and I--well, a buck or anigger would be anything but safe in front of me at that distance--but Igive you my word that none of us could touch that bottle. When we hadfired a dozen shots apiece and nearly covered the beastly thing withdust, and ploughed up the ground all round it as if a thunderbolt hadfallen, out saunters Claverton with a yellow-backed novel in his fist.`Doesn't your friend shoot?' asks Marthinus. `Suppose so,' says I.`Have a shot, Claverton!' `Don't mind,' says he, taking over my gun. Icould see a malicious grin on Swaart's ugly mug, and hugely was hepreparing to chuckle over the `raw Englishman's' wide shooting.Claverton lay down, and without much aiming--bang--crash--we couldhardly believe our eyes--the bottle had flown. By Jove it had. `Welldone,' says I, `but do that again, old chap'; yes, it was mean of me, Iallow, but I couldn't help it. `Don't want to do for all your bottles,Armitage,' says my joker as quietly as you please, as I sent the boy tostick up another, and I had just time to start a bet of five bob withMarthinus in his favour when--bang--and, by Jove, sir, would you believeit? that bottle shared the fate of the first. Well, we _were_astonished. `Aren't you going to shoot any more?' says Marthinus,handing over the five bob with a very bad grace. `Too hot out here,'replies he, sloping into the shade of the house; and diving his noseinto the yellow-back again, leaves us to our bottle-breaking or ratherto our attempts at the same, for I'm dashed if we touched one afterthat. After the Pexters had gone I says, `Look here, old chap, we'llhave a quiet match between ourselves, five bob on every dozen shots--youshall give me odds.' `My dear fellow,' says he, `odds should be theother way about. I shan't touch that bottle again three times if Iblaze away at it the whole morning.' `The Lord, you won't,' says I;`never mind, let's try.' He did, and was as good as his word, andhanded over fifteen bob at the close of the entertainment, having hitthe mark twice to my seven times. `And how the deuce did you pink itbefore--twice running can't be a fluke, you know?' I asked, when we haddone. `Well, you see, those louts were bent on seeing me shoot wide, soI held straight just to spite them,' was his cool answer. But didn't hetell you all about it?"

  "Not a word," said Hicks. "He just said he had been down here, and acouple of slouching Dutchmen had looked in and tried to take a rise outof him, but didn't manage it."

  "Well, he is a rum stick and no mistake. What's in the wind now?" andas the trampling of hoofs fell upon the speaker's ear, he got up hastilyand made for the door, knocking over a wooden chair in his progress, andtreading on the tail of a mongrel puppy which had sneaked in and waslying under the table, and which now fled, yelling disconsolately."Here come two chaps," he went on, shading his eyes from the sun's glareand looking out into the _veldt_. "Dutchmen--no--one is--David Botha, Ithink; t'other's Allen--no mistaking him. Wheu-uw! Now for some fun,Hicks,
my boy. We'll make him help us with the bees' nest, and if youdon't kill yourself with almighty blue fits, call me a nigger."

  The two drew near. The Boer with his stolid, wooden face, slouch hat(round which was twined a faded blue veil), and bob-tailed and ancienttail-coat, was an ordinary specimen of his class and nation. TheEnglishman, however, was not. He was rather a queer-looking fellow,tall and loosely-built, with a great mop of yellow hair and an absentexpression of countenance. His age might have been five orsix-and-twenty. He had not been long in the colony, and wastheoretically supposed to be farming. On horseback Allen was quaint ofaspect. His seat in the saddle would not have been a good advertisementto his riding-master, putting it mildly, and he invariably rode screws.Moreover, he was great on jack-boots and huge spurs.

  "Good day, David," said Armitage, as the Boer extended a damp anduncleanly paw. "Hallo, Allen! you're just in the nick of time. We arejust going to get out a bees' nest, and you must come and bear a hand."

  "But--er--I'm not much use at that sort of thing. Botha will help youmuch better."

  "Won't do, old chap--won't do," said Armitage, decisively. "In thewords of the poet, `Not to-day, baker!' So come along."

  Allen's jaw fell. If there was one thing on this earth he hated, it wasdepriving the little busy bee of the hard-earned fruits of his labours,not on humanitarian grounds--oh, no--but the despoiled insects had aknack of buzzing viciously around the noses and ears of the depredatorsand their accomplices in a way that was highly trying to weak nerves, tosay nothing of the absolute certainty of two or three stings, if nothalf-a-dozen. He glanced instinctively towards David Botha as thoughmutely to ask: "Why the deuce won't _he_ do?" But that stolid Boer satpuffing away at his pipe, and showed no inclination to come to therescue.

  "Hicks, give Allen one of those big tins to put the honey in while Ihunt up some brown paper to make a smoke with," said Armitage, as theywent into the house. It had been arranged that Allen should hold thereceptacle for the honey, otherwise he would inevitably have sloped off.

  They went down to the river bank, Armitage leading the way. A keg fixedin the fork of a small tree constituted the hive, and the busy insectswere winging in and out with a murmuring hum. Armitage divested himselfof his coat so that the bees shouldn't get up the sleeves, as he said,and slouched his hat well over his face and neck; then with a chisel heremoved the head of the keg, while Hicks ignited the brown paper andmade the very deuce of a smoke.

  "Not much in it--quite the wrong time of year to take it," saidArmitage, as the waxen combs in the hive were disclosed to view. "Nevermind, they'll make a lot more. Oh-h!" as one of the outraged insectsplayfully stung him on the ear. "Come a little nearer, Allen;" and hethrew a couple of combs into the tin dish, while Hicks stood close athand plying the smoke with all the energy of a Ritualistic thurifer.

  "Oh-h--ah!" echoed Allen, in dismal staccato, as he received a sting onthe hand, and another on the back of the neck.

  "Hang it, man, don't drop the concern!" exclaimed Armitage, pitchinganother comb or two into the large tin; nor was the warning altogetherill-timed, for poor Allen was undergoing a _mauvais quart d'heure_ witha vengeance, ducking his head spasmodically as the angry insects"bizzed" savagely around his ears, and all the time looking intenselywretched under the infliction.

  And in truth the fun began to wax warm. Armitage's hat was invisiblebeneath the clusters of bees which swarmed over it, while others werecrawling about on his clothes. Now and then he would give vent to anejaculation, as a sting, inflicted more viciously than usual, toldthrough even his hardened skin; but he kept on manfully at his task,cutting out the combs and depositing them in the tin, while the air wasfilled with buzzing angry bees and suffocating smoke.

  "Think we've got enough now," he said at last, drawing his face out ofthe cask, and quickly heading up the latter. Allen, to whom this dictumwas like a reprieve to a condemned criminal, gave a sigh of relief, andbegan to breathe freely again. But his self-gratulation was somewhatpremature, for at that moment a bee insinuated itself into his thick,frizzly-hair just above the neck, and began stinging like mad. Crash!Down went the tin containing the honey-combs, while the victim dancedand capered and executed the most grotesque contortions for a moment;then, in a perfect frenzy, away he rushed to the nearest point of theriver--a long, deep reach--where he plunged his head into the water, andlosing his centre of gravity, ended by incontinently tumbling in, whilethe spectators were obliged to lie down and indulge their paroxysms ofuncontrollable mirth to the very uttermost.

  "Oh, oh, oh-h-h!" roared Armitage. "P-pick him out, some one; I'm n-notequal to it." And he lay back on the sward and howled again.

  And in good sooth the warning came none too soon, for at that point thecurrent flowed swift and deep, and poor Allen, what with his exertionsand the weight of his jack-boots, was in a state of dire exhaustion, anda few moments more would have put an end to his hopes and fears. Hicksand the Dutchman, who had managed to recover themselves, ran down to thewater's edge, and shouted to him to seize a branch which swept thesurface, and at length the involuntary swimmer was fished out and stooddripping and shivering, and looking inexpressibly foolish, on the bank.

  "Oh-h, Lord! oh, Lord!" roared Armitage, bursting out afresh as hepicked up the fallen tin, and gathered up the fragments that remained."I never saw anything to beat that, by the holy poker I never did! Comealong, old man. We'll tog you out while I get out some of these stings.The brutes must have been under the impression that I was a jollypincushion, and have used me accordingly."

  "Dud--dud--don't think I'll go up to Seringa Vale to-day," stutteredAllen, as soon as he recovered breath. He feared the chaff which heknew full well awaited him on the strength of this latest escapade.

  "Nonsense, man! We'll tog you out in no time, and then we'll all rideover together and have a jolly day of it," said Armitage.

  Allen yielded, and was speedily arrayed in various garments which didn'tfit him. The jack-boots were inevitably left behind, to the greatconcern of their owner, for there was no possibility of their being drybefore sundown at the earliest. Towards noon the horses were broughtround and saddled, and having locked up the house the three started,while the Dutchman took his leave and rode off home to regale his_vrouw_ and _hinders_, and his cousins and his aunts, with the story--highly coloured--of the "raw Englishman's" discomfiture.

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  Note 1. "Stump tail." Taillessness is frequent among colonial cattle--the result of inoculation.