VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
"LIKE THUNDERBOLT FROM A CLEAR SKY."
"Drive on, Piet, Mopela! Sharp's the word; don't give them time tothink. Look alive, now!"
The speaker is Mr Brathwaite; the scene the wash-pool. A long line offleecy backs is moving over the _veldt_, propelled by the shouts ofthree or four Kafirs, whose naked bodies glisten in the sun as theyadvance swiftly behind the flock, brandishing their red blankets andwhistling shrilly. For it may be that the leaders of that sturdy massof fat wethers, over a thousand in number, may take a sudden freak intotheir woolly heads, and refuse to go any further when once within that_cul de sac_ of thorn-fence gradually narrowing down to an outlet, andthat outlet the water--which will mean that each particular animal mustbe thrown in separately, not once, but four or five times. Thereforethey must be kept on the move and run down as quickly as possible. Oncethey begin jumping all will follow, but should the foremost happen tojib, then the morning's work will be a hard one indeed.
A pleasant spot is this; bush and open _veldt_ about in equalproportion. Yonder, across the river, rises a ridge of high groundwhose slopes are well wooded, and over the wash-pool, which consists ofa long, smooth reach, the finks are flitting about their pendulous,swaying nests, and twittering in the sunshine; while that shadowy krantzoverhanging the stream further down echoes back the long-drawn piping ofspreuws and the "coo" of a solitary dove.
Mr Brathwaite and his two lieutenants are evidently got up forbusiness--rough shirts and trousers and broad-brimmed hats, the last avery necessary safeguard, for the morning, though still young, isunconscionably warm.
"Don't think these will give us any trouble, they always take to thewater like ducks. It's the next lot, the ewes, that are brutes to funk;and once on that tack the devil himself won't make them jump. Bles, you_schelm_!" he exclaims, with a crack of his whip to hasten the decisionof the _voerbok_, who is slackening pace dubiously at the entrance tothe _cul de sac_. The old goat gives a start and resumes his course,trotting down towards the water; the sheep stream after him, and beforehe has time to think better of it, even if so disposed, his woollyfollowers press so closely upon him that there is no help for it; hesprings from the rock into the water, about two feet and a half beneath,and the whole flock hastens to follow by threes and fours, and swimmingacross emerges dripping on the other side. Indeed, so fast do theypress forward that it becomes necessary for some one to stand at thewater's edge and check them, lest they should injure themselves or theirneighbours by jumping upon each other's backs.
"That's how I like to see them jump. Fine sheep like that ought neverto want throwing in," says the old farmer, watching his well-bred flockwith some pride.
On they come, their drivers keeping them well at it, and in a short timethe last jumps in. The whole lot are through and scattering slowly overthe _veldt_ on the other side, the steam arising in clouds from theirdripping fleeces.
"Bring them on again," calls out Mr Brathwaite, after a little time hasbeen given them to rest and get warm again. The animals are driventhrough at a shallow place lower down the river, and brought round tothe jumping place again. Then they are headed once more for the water,going through this time even better than the first.
"Hallo!" cries Hicks, running down to the edge and scrutinising thesurface all alive with panting heads and spongy fleeces. "One's down.Yes, there it is," pointing to four kicking legs above the surface, butwhich immediately disappear. "In with you, Mopela--Piet--look sharp!"The first addressed pretends not to hear, but Piet, throwing aside hiskaross, takes a header, and as he reappears he just catches sight of thedrowning animal. In a twinkling he has seized it, and holding its headabove water, he strikes out for the bank, dragging his cumbersome andstruggling burthen. The animal had been suddenly taken with a fit andgone under--an occurrence which now and then happens, and but for Hicks'promptitude would have been drowned. As it was, it lay upon the ground,and after some gasping staggered to its legs, tottered a little way,then lay down again, and finally picked itself up and began nibbling alittle grass, and in a few minutes had quite recovered.
The operation is repeated in precisely the same way as at first, andafter the flock had been through four times, it wore a very differentappearance to what it had done before; every fleece looking almost snowywhite by contrast as the animals are slowly driven off to their ordinarypasturage, nibbling as they go.
"Piet, go and tell Umgiswe to bring on his lot," says Mr Brathwaite."There are under five hundred, and it won't take us very long," he adds,for the benefit of his lieutenants, "that is if they jump well. 'Tisn'ttwelve o'clock yet, so there'll be lots of time for them to dry."
Twenty minutes' rest, and then a sound of approaching bleating told thatthe other flock was at hand.
Then arises a deafening and hideous din as the sheep are driven into the_cul de sac_. Yelling, and shouting, and whistling, white and blackalike contributing towards the general row, waving karosses, crackingwhips, and beating the ground with branches. The _voerbok_spasmodically rushes on ahead, plunges into the water and swims through;but the sheep, suddenly deserted by their leader, stop half-way down thepassage, and, in spite of the pressure from behind, and the earsplittingshindy, steadfastly refuse to budge.
"We've bungled it somehow," says the old farmer, in a cool,matter-of-fact tone. "No use bothering them any more just now. Bringround the goat, and we'll try again."
Two of the Kafirs start off on that intent, but it takes some time to"collect" the truant, who runs hither and thither, bleating idiotically.At last he is brought back to his post of honour at the head of theflock; the driving and the row recommences, and the goat leaps into thewater manfully; but he is leading a forlorn hope, indeed, for not one ofthe sheep will follow him--devil a sheep--though they are on the brinkof the water. There they stick, firmly and stubbornly.
"Come on, Claverton, we must pitch some of them in," cries Hicks, andthe two promptly shove their way through the closely-wedged flock, whichstands packed like sardines, wheezing and panting in the heat. In atwinkling they have seized half-a-dozen of the obstinate brutes andshied them in; but the rest show no signs of following, and so they goon, till at last they pause, breathless and bathed in perspiration, fortwo of the Kafirs to take their places; and finally, by relays oflabour, the whole flock is through.
"Whew! but that's warm work," exclaims Claverton, as, after a shortrest, the word is given to bring them on again. "Perhaps they'll jumpthis time."
His conjecture proves correct. Whether it is that they find theirplunge cool and refreshing on this hot day, or that they are tired ofresistance, or a little of both, is uncertain; but as again, amidwhistling and din, the stupid animals are driven down to the water'sedge, they follow their leader, at first gingerly and by twos andthrees, and then so fast that Hicks takes up his position at the jumpingplace to check them; in process whereof, having imprudently got too nearthe edge, he is upset bodily into the water, and disappears from mortalview, to emerge, spluttering and puffing and making awful faces, as hescrambles up the bank, dripping like a half-drowned rat.
I know of nothing more funny than the sudden and unexpected descent ofany one into deep water. The utter woefulness, combined with anindignant air of injured innocence, which the sufferer's countenanceinvariably assumes on emerging, should make a cat laugh; anyhow, nothinghuman can stand against it. And the savagely furious way in which thepatient hisses between his chattering teeth, "What the devil is there togrin at?" While the _tout ensemble_, his garments clinging to hisshivering carcase, is in no wise calculated to invest his justexasperation with the majesty of outraged dignity.
Poor Hicks formed no exception. Everybody was convulsed; one of theKafirs to such an extent, that he could do nothing but roll on theground in the exuberance of his glee, though he managed to recoversufficiently to dart out of the way just in time to avoid a mighty kickaimed at his nether quarters by the infuriated object of his mirth.
"There's something for you to grin at, you sooty son of a Cheshire cat!"exclaimed Hicks, savagely; but, as we have seen, he missed his aim, andin a minute had recovered all his wonted good humour.
The sheep gave no more trouble, but went through after that as if theyliked it. Two or three turned over in the water, and were rescued aspreviously described, while one died; but these accidents wereinevitable, and soon the flock was straggling away across the _veldt_ toits feeding ground--white, clean, and freshened up.
When they reached home, the dining-room table was strewn with lettersand newspapers. The postbag, which was fetched from the nearest agencyonce a week, had just arrived, and as they entered, Mrs Brathwaite wasreading a letter aloud for the public benefit. The writer stated herintention of profiting by an unexpectedly early opportunity, andavailing herself of a long-standing and oft-repeated invitation to visitthem at Seringa Vale, in about a fortnight from then, and subscribedherself: "_Lilian Strange_."
"Poor thing!" said Mr Brathwaite. "We'll soon bring the roses back toher cheeks. A couple of months of this splendid air, and she'll be thatstrong and sunburnt they Won't know her when she goes back."
And the kindly, hospitable old couple went on discussing theirprospective visitor and her joys and sorrows, past, present, and tocome; projecting all manner of schemes for making her stay an enjoyableand a happy one.
There was one present whom this letter had set thinking, and that wasClaverton. The name seemed familiar and yet not, for he couldn't forthe life of him fit it to an individual.
"Lilian--Lilian Strange--Lilian," he kept repeating to himself. "Nowwhere the deuce have I come across that name before? Lilian--it's apretty name, too. No, I can't remember for the life of me." He couldsee the writing as the letter lay open on the table. It was ratherlarge and very distinct, but not masculine. But neither it nor memoryseemed to aid him, and he gave it up.
"What is she like, aunt?" asked Ethel. "And what sort of age is she?Young or middling?"
The old lady laughed. "Young or middling? Gracious me, child. She'sonly twenty-three, is sweetly pretty, and has the loveliest eyes I eversaw."
"Present company excepted--ahem!" cut in Hicks, thinking he had said anexcessively smart thing, and colouring and looking an ass on thestrength of it.
"We must make her enjoy her visit," went on Mrs Brathwaite. "Poorgirl, I feel so sorry for her. Her mother is dead, and her stepfatherwas a country gentleman in England and a wealthy man. When he died allhis property went to his own family, and Lilian was left without apenny. Her relations on the stepfather's side were not kind to her, andshe was thrown on the world to get her living as best she could, and nowshe's teaching."
"Universal refuge for the destitute," murmured Ethel. "What brought herout here?"
"A ship," chimed in Hicks, intent on being funny. But Ethel lookedangrily at him, and he collapsed.
"She came out as a companion to some lady," answered Mrs Brathwaite."Then the McColls at Port Elizabeth engaged her to teach their children,and a nice handful she must find them. I fancy her health has ratherbroken down. She looked anything but strong when we saw her last June."
"It'll be a great nuisance," said Ethel afterwards to her sister whenthey were alone together, "to have to be always trundling this girlabout. She'll probably give herself no end of airs and try to patroniseus all."
"I don't know," answered Laura, "I have an idea she'll be rather nice.Her letter reads like it."
"Perhaps so," rejoined Ethel, a little ashamed of her inhospitablespeech; "let's hope so, anyhow."
In due course the shearers arrived, and all being ready, operations werebegun at once. No more long rides or bushbuck bants or anything of thekind, time was too valuable; and for about three weeks Mr Brathwaiteand his two lieutenants had their hands full in superintending andotherwise furthering that most important phase of farm routine--shearing; and from rosy morn till dewy eve, and often till late withinthe latter, were they strictly on duty.
Yes, those were busy times indeed. There were the Fingo shearers to beset to their work and kept to it, wool bales to be pressed and sewn up,rationing to be attended to, and a hundred and one things, large orsmall, to tax the mind and employ the hand. Moreover, a sharp eye hadto be kept on the natives aforesaid, lest in their laudable anxiety tomake the largest possible tally, they should inflict grievous bodilyharm upon the animals under operation, and haply remove the cuticle aswell as the fleece. But those there employed were old hands at thecraft, and gave no trouble to speak of. They would clip away by thehour, chatting among themselves in that seemingly disjointed way whereinthese people are wont to exchange gossip. Now and then they varied thepastime by humming a barbarous tune on about three notes, whose terriblemonotony would be distracting were it not that the ear gets accustomedto the wretched crooning, even as to the hum of a threshing machine orthe ticking of an obtrusive clock, but through this, as through allother sounds, the clip, clip, clip of the shears went steadily on, frommorning till night, from day to day.
"I've just had another letter from Lilian Strange," said MrsBrathwaite, one evening towards the close of the busy time abovementioned.
"What does she say?" asked the old settler, who was nodding in a roomyarm-chair, tired with the heat and exertion of the day.
"She says she won't be able to come to us this week after all, becausethe McColls have put off their start. She may have to wait another tendays in consequence."
"H'm. Don't know that it isn't just as well. It would have beendifficult to send for her during shearing time--means two days away fromhome. Hicks might have gone to fetch her, or Arthur, but they are bothwanted here. Naylor's busy, too, and so is Jim. Yes, it's just aswell, as things go."
"She thinks she will have an opportunity in about a fortnight, whichwill save us the trouble of sending."
"Well, that's better still. Besides, who's going to bring her?"
"She doesn't say," answered Mrs Brathwaite. "She only promises to letus know."
To one, at least, of the auditors of this dialogue, the postponement ofthe expected guest's arrival was not a source of unmixed grief. Thatone was Ethel. She would not own to herself that so commonplace afailing as jealousy had anything to do with it; still the fact remainedthat they were all very jolly together as it was. "Two's company,three's a bore," applies in principle to circles, and now it washorribly likely that this Miss Strange would be, from Ethel's point ofview, _de trop_. Her aunt had spoken in warm terms of the other'sbeauty and attractiveness. But Ethel herself was conscious of thepossession of a larger share of those commodities than most people. Hadthe other been of the colourless and inane order she could havetolerated her--bore as she might be. As matters stood, however, it wasnot in feminine human nature that Ethel should be prepared to welcomethe unexpected guest with open arms.
"What has become of Arthur?" asked Mrs Brathwaite, as they sat down tosupper.
"Oh, he'll be here in a minute," said Hicks. "I left him yarning withXuvani. He says the old chap's teaching him Kafir, and I'll be hangedif ever I knew a fellow pick it up so quickly. He didn't know a wordwhen he came here, but Xavani says he must have really, and was keepingit dark. He let drop two or three idiomatic expressions which showedthat he must have known something about the language or the structure ofit."
At that moment the door opened, admitting the object of theirdiscussion.
"Late, I'm afraid," he said, sliding into his place. "That long-leggedhumbug, Ntyesa, swore he had left his jacket in the shearing-house, andI had to go and unlock it again for him. Awfully sorry."
"Mr Claverton can't tear himself away, even at half-past eight," saidEthel, maliciously. "He will soon be quite glued to the wool bales."
He glanced up with an amused look. "While there is light, there iswork--in shearing time," he replied.
"Bother shearing time!" rejoined she, pettishly. "I wish you'd be quickand finish it. We can't get about at all, because there's no one tota
ke us. Laura and I have wanted to go over to Thirlestane, and toJim's, and a host of places, but we can't. We are just as much shut upin here as you are in there. Aren't we, Laura?"
"Ha--ha--ha," laughed her uncle, with whom she was a prime favourite,and who spoilt her outrageously. "You'd better come and give us a hand,Ethel. You and Laura. We shall get it over ever so much sooner then.You shall have six shillings a hundred. Eh?"
"They oughtn't to have more than five, because they don't bring theirown shears," cut in Hicks.
"They've got nail-scissors, though," murmured Claverton.
"Ah, I could see you were going to say something horrid," cried Ethel.
"There are those two sparring again," was Laura's comment, "as usual."
Now there was a good deal more underlying Ethel's impatience with theshearing time than appeared on the surface. It deprived them of theirusual escort on their journeyings abroad, even as she had said, and withher own particular body-guard on those occasions she found herself lessand less able to dispense. And yet, as her sister had just remarked,they two were always at daggers-drawn. She had begun by cordiallydetesting this man, as she thought. In reality, there had been more ofresentment than of dislike in the matter. She had resented hiscoolness, his utter indifference to her charms, his way of treating herlike a spoilt child; laughing at her petulance, and turning off her mostpointed shafts on an impenetrable shield of mild satire, mingled withsurprised amusement. She, Ethel Brathwaite, at whose shrine, when sheshone in the society of the capital, all crowded and fell down andworshipped, to be thus treated! She counted, among her sworn admirers,more than one whose name was in many mouths, who boasted much-prizeddecorations, well and fairly won, and yet here on the distant frontierthis man, whom, in reality, no one had ever heard of, treated her with asort of good-humoured indulgence! And in spite of it--shall we notrather say, because of it?--she was not angry with him. It was a newthing to find one who, instead of looking up at, if anything, lookeddown to her; and to the wilful little beauty the change was positivelyrefreshing. Then how helpless she had been in his hands on one or twooccasions--that of the storm, for instance, and the subsequentterrifying episode--and he had not been wanting. There were many menwithin and without the circle of her admirers whom she could snubcapriciously and ruthlessly tyrannise over, but Arthur Claverton was notone of them, and this she knew full well. And now she had discoveredthat his society was becoming very necessary to her, and what had forcedthat discovery irresistibly upon her mind was the announcement, twoweeks ago, of the arrival of a new character upon the stage whereon sheand one other were the chief actors. Verily it seemed to Ethel as if abomb had emanated from that harmless-looking postbag, and was destinedshortly to explode in their midst.
Then had come the shearing, and, except on Sundays, from dawn till dark,Mr Brathwaite's two lieutenants found the whole of their time taken up.In the middle of the day they would come in, by turns, to get theirdinners, but it was a case of off again directly after. No more longrides home in the twilight, or quiet strolls in the sunny afternoon, atleast not for some time to come, and then--another would have appearedon the scene, thought Ethel, with a dire presentiment that those timeswhich now she looked back on with a sinking kind of regret would nevercome round again. Will it be better for her--for both of them--if theydo not? We shall see.
She is looking bewitchingly pretty to-night as she sits throwing herbright shafts of laughter and mockery at those around, and at Clavertonin particular--at the latter, indeed, to such an extent as to call forthLaura's remark. But a very close observer might have detected a kind oflatent wistfulness beneath the brilliant, lively manner, and only thenif he had specially looked for it.
"So you have been trying your hand at shearing, I hear, Mr Claverton?"she said.
"I have."
"How did you get on, and how did you like it?" asked Laura.
"Hicks will best tell you how I got on. As for liking it, theoccupation would be a wholly delightful one had a beneficent Providencebut seen fit to arrange the small of one's back upon hinges. By theway, Armitage wasn't here to-day, was he? We could have sworn we heardthat laugh of his; couldn't we, Hicks?"
"No; he hasn't been here--and a good thing too," rejoined MrBrathwaite. "He'd only have got playing the fool, or something. Hecarries that habit of his rather far at times. You heard what he didover at Naylor's the year before last?"
"No. What was it?"
"Well, Naylor was hard at work with his shearing, and one day, inturning out a lot of old hurdles to fence in the yard with, they cameupon a snake--a thundering big ringhals--and killed it. Jack Armitagedropped in just afterwards, and Edward showed him the snake, rathercrowing over having killed such a big one. Jack said nothing at thetime, but a little while after, when they were all in theshearing-house, they heard a yell, and a big black brute of a ringhalscame scooting in among them all, and there stood that villain Jack inthe door, grinning and chuckling, and nearly splitting his sides withlaughter."
"The beggar!" said Claverton. "Did he scare them?"
"Didn't he! You never saw such a commotion as it made. The shearersgave one `whouw,' dropped their sheep, and made for the door with arush--they're mortally afraid of a snake, you know--and there were sheeprushing about the place half shorn, and kicking against the shears whichthe fellows had let drop, and making a most infernal clatter. And theniggers were all crowding to get out, and raising a hubbub, and all therest of it. The worst of it, though, was that they got so mad that theyone and all struck work--flatly refused to come back--and it was sometime before Naylor could persuade them to."
"The mischief! And what did Jack do?"
"Do? Jumped on his horse and rode away, laughing fit to kill himself.Naylor was very savage with him though, and now he vows he won't haveJack on the place at shearing time, not at any price. By the way, thatlong fellow, Ntyesa, was one of them. You ask him to-morrow if heremembers the snake in the shearing-house."
The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier Page 13
