Jasper Lyle

Accustomed to his cold manner, his aide-de-camp had, on the convict’s arrival, placed before Sir John the document from Colonel Graham reporting the outlaw’s capture.

“You may go, sir,” said Sir John, on receiving this dire intelligence; and he did not lift the paper, on which he recognised the handwriting, until the canvas screen dropped between him and the young officer.

He opened it and tried to read it through; the letters swam before his eyes, they turned blood-red, they blazed like characters of fire, the paper fell to the ground, and for the first time in his life the strong man fainted away.

A very few minutes sufficed for the hasty review Sir Adrian took of the assembled forces, and profiting by Colonel Graham’s offer of his marquee, he retired thither, and sent at once for Mr Daveney.

Frankfort, who, with the General, awaited the Commissioner, wrung the hand of his friend in silence, and all four entering the tent, where some refreshment had been hastily spread, Colonel Graham informed Sir Adrian of the apprehension of the rebel convict.

Frankfort was a stranger to the old colonel, who was fortunately too much occupied with matters of duty to notice the death-like hue which suddenly overspread the young man’s face. At a signal from Sir Adrian, Mr Daveney drew Frankfort into the air, but he turned from the sight of the busy camp. At this moment the Commissioner’s attention was attracted towards a little cavalcade of a couple of wagons drawn by mules, and attended by a mounted escort of one of the town levies: it passed the guard-house, and was directed by a soldier to the dwelling of Mr Trail.

Anon, a messenger hastened across the square, and announced the arrival of Lady Amabel Fairfax. The messenger was fortunately Ormsby, who knew by Frankfort’s expression of horror and surprise, that he had learned the tidings of the day. Daveney hurried off; neither of the young men spoke. They strode on till a thicket shut the camp from their sight, and, descending a bank, cast themselves on the turf.

“Where is Eleanor?” asked Frankfort.

“Do you see those willows?” said Ormsby, pointing up the little rivulet; “the tops of them wave just below her window. She has been almost dead, but is better and more resigned, for she thinks—”

“That he is still dead?” said Frankfort; and, in the bitterness of his heart, he added, “Would to Heaven he were!” The next moment he prayed God to forgive him, and, burying his face in his hands, groaned aloud.

“She believes,” replied Ormsby, “that he has again escaped.”

“Lady Amabel arrived!” exclaimed Sir Adrian, in great surprise, as Mr Trail entered Colonel Graham’s tent with the information.

“Arrived—impossible! have you seen her?”

“I have, sir.”

“Now, then, thank Heaven,” said Sir Adrian! “had I known yesterday that my wife was travelling, I should have been less able for the work I had before me. Mr Trail, it may be well to inform you that, in spite of this calm, which apparently pervades the whole of Kafirland, the Gaika warriors are assembling in the mountains, and my trusty Fingoes have warned me that they are meditating an attack on the camp. I have long had the idea that Sir John Manvers was not so prepared for mischief as myself and I hastened hither; but I have distributed my forces I hope advantageously; and although we may not keep the enemy out altogether, we may check his advance, and meet it with caution. It is time that I conferred with Sir John: it is strange that I should have received no message from him.”

The three gentlemen left the marquee. Colonel Graham bent his way to the tents of his regiment; the other two directed their steps to the canvas pavilion. A military surgeon met them at the door—dismay was painted on his face.

General Manvers lay as dead upon his camp bedstead—his jaw dropped, his cheek sunken, his eyes glaring and fixed. He had been found in this state by his servant. The document relative to Lyle was crushed between his fingers.

While Sir Adrian stood beside this rigid object of despair, the eyelids quivered, a faint sigh stole from the blue parted lips, and some low words were breathed, not uttered, but Sir Adrian distinguished them.

“My son! my son!—my first-born! Save my miserable son Jasper!”

The sudden surprise of seeing Sir Adrian Fairfax caused the unfortunate man to start up; he was bewildered—looked first at one, and then at the other, of the two kind men who leaned over him. The surgeon was utterly in the dark as to the cause of this sudden seizure.

Greatly disturbed at what he saw, deeply anxious about his wife, and keenly alive to the responsibilities of his command, Sir Adrian was anxious to withdraw, but Sir John held him firmly by the hand.

“Fairfax,” said the latter, “I must speak with you alone.”

The interview lasted but a few minutes. Dr E—, who had only retired to a tent close at hand, was speedily summoned again. “I am obliged, you see, Dr E—,” said Sir Adrian, “to leave this unfortunate gentleman. I fear he will disclose to you much of a history which it will shock you to hear, but I leave him, I know, in honourable hands, and his valet is faithful. The sentries had better be removed beyond ear-shot of the marquee. You are aware that there are symptoms of a warlike nature among the Gaikas in those hills; but, come what may, you must not leave Sir John. Delirium, I have little doubt, will supervene, for he is fearfully excited, and, alas! there is no earthly comfort for him. In a word, the convict who has been brought within our lines to-day is his son.”

The good surgeon stood confounded. Low moans struck on his ear—then a bitter cry; he had only time to send for the valet and a trusty sergeant before the patient was wild with delirium.

Miserable man! we must leave him; his pride is humbled to the dust—he weeps aloud, and implore his servant to intercede, to pray for his son, his first-born son.

Sir Adrian Fairfax did not seek his wife till he had made a minute inspection of the defences of the camp. He entered the guard-house. A thrill of anguish pierced his very soul at sight of the heavily-barred door of the convict’s cell. All was still within.

The day was more than half spent ere the general had time to greet the Lady Amabel. Mr Trail’s cottage was appropriated to her use, but the kind and gracious woman had found her way to Eleanor’s little white-washed room. Still equipped in her riding-dress, she reclined on cushions spread upon the floor.

She looked like some fair lily, beaten by the storm. Her riding-hat was laid aside, and her hair, still beautiful, hung disordered about her face, which had lost in loveliness of outline, but had preserved all its grace and sweetness of expression.

She silenced her husband’s tender reproof at having undertaken such a journey without his knowledge or permission. “Permission, dear love!” said she; “I did not ask for what I knew you would not grant, and it has been my great pleasure to surprise you in this beautiful desert. Besides,” she added, with a grave face, “truth to tell, I hastened my journey in consequence of news gathered by the way by my trusty Klaas, the Hottentot.

“Preferring my travelling accommodation to the discomforts of the little village inn at B—, where we halted last night, thirty miles from this, I sent Klaas to the mission station, for Mr M—, who I knew would give my people milk and vegetables; but Klaas, hearing on his way that Mr M— was absent, descended towards a Kafir Kraal in the valley. You know how cautious he is—he never trusts a Kafir in time of peace, so he crawled on his hands and knees to a bush crowning a height, where he stopped to reconnoitre. He was horror-stricken, when, on looking down upon the location, he saw two murdered Englishmen lying among the stones and thorn-bushes, and, at a little distance from them, sat a council of Kafirs. He waited till it grew dusk, and then crept down to listen to their conversation. He brought me back the fearful intelligence, that all the Kafir servants in the colony are to be mustered this day, by the Gaika warriors, in the mountains.—Ah! I see,” exclaimed Lady Amabel, looking from her husband to the Commissioner, “that this is no news to you. Gracious Heaven! is it possible that these fearful savages are likely to come down upon us? Oh! Adrian, Adrian! I am glad I have come.”

“There spoke the true soldier’s wife,” said the General; “but I trust we are too well prepared, for the enemy to approach our lines; they may harass us in many ways. They have already, I understand, swept off our cattle from the hills.”

But all day long the wary foe, from his mountain fastnesses, watched the proceedings in the British camp. All idea of attacking it was given up for the present, and, at the close of day, several Kafirs, graceful, gentle, dignified, and smiling, came to offer milk and corn and wood for sale.

Lady Amabel, who had never seen these wild beings before, looked from the garden at the dusky groups mingling with the soldiery, and could scarcely be persuaded that these were the people meditating a fiery onset with the burning brand and the gleaming assegai upon the camp they entered like messengers of peace.

Men and women, however, were armed with the weapons used by their race of old.

Despite this fair seeming on the part of the Gaika Kafirs, every preparation was made for their reception in hostile array. All day long scouts had been seen skimming along the ridges; much of the cattle belonging to the burgher camps had been carried off, and here and there glimmered a telegraphic fire.

No member of Mr Daveney’s household retired to rest: the night was spent much as I have described one on a similar occasion at Annerley. Still there was a certain feeling of security in being surrounded by a large, well-disciplined garrison, well prepared.

Wearied with her journey, and attired in a loose morning robe; Lady Amabel reclined on a camp chair; Eleanor was seated on the cushions at her feet, and both had dropped into an uneasy slumber, when they were awakened by the echoes of the morning gun.

No sign of scouts upon the ridges, no smoke from dying signal-fires; all was still, calm, and peaceful in the outer world. The heavens shone serene and clear, the sun careered in brightness along the hills, and the busy camp was soon astir.

And so passed another day. Kafir men and women and children again came among the soldiery, bartering and chattering and laughing; you would, indeed, have thought they were the “pastoral and peaceful race” described by some deluded men.

The door of Gray’s hut was closed that day, and none saw him but Mr Trail.

Midnight went by; the camp was hushed in deep repose, though the ear at intervals was startled by the challenge of a sentry, or the rattle of muskets, as the officers on duty went their rounds, and, fatigued with the excitement and harass of the previous hours, most of the community, except the watchful sentinels, were hushed in sleep. Even Sir John Manvers’s delirium had yielded to the anodynes administered, and he lay stupified and still, watched by Dr E— and his servant.

But Eleanor, who had longed to be alone, and who was too wretched to fear for herself, sat with the Book of Consolation before her, in her little chamber. The sofa-bed was undisturbed, her light burnt low, and she had just unfastened her hair to bind it up again ere she lay down to rest, when the flame of her candle flickered in a sudden current of air. In the room were two tiny windows, scarcely two feet square, at right angles with each other. That to the east was uncurtained and was lighted by the coming dawn; she looked up at the one opposite to her; it was open, and a face filled it as a picture would fill a frame.

It was the face of her husband—and the large full eyes were fixed upon her in a fashion that riveted her own as though attracted by a rattle-snake. They had not met since that fearful night when, with throbbing heart and bleeding feet, Eleanor had rushed from her home to the sanctuary of the mission station.

Each looked in silence at the other. Only a minute passed away, there was a low growl from the hound Marmion, a foot pressed the ground below the eastern window, and the dread presence vanished.

She heard the willow boughs breaking, Ormsby’s dog barked furiously, hurried footsteps again passed her window, and before she had strength to rise, Fitje with Ellen in her arms crept quietly into the room.

Voices sounded through the cottage, in the garden,—the dog’s angry bark retreated up the ravine, the whole camp was roused, and the cry went along the lines—“The prisoner has escaped.”

With his usual tact and presence of mind, though death stared him in the face, Jasper Lyle had contrived to conciliate the young sergeant on guard so far, that the latter did not turn a deaf ear to the man who, though he knew him to be a rebel, he believed to be brave and adventurous. Lyle asked but few questions, and these in a careless way. He ascertained that Sir John Manvers was “like to die, he was so ill;” that Sir Adrian was in command, and that the family of the Commissioner, Mr Daveney, was living in a cottage within five hundred yards of the guard-house.

Sir John Manvers ill—delirious! Had the blow told? Sir Adrian in command! He was the last man to punish by death, if it was possible to avoid such an extremity. Life might be spared, but there would be no more freedom for Jasper Lyle. Gray convicted—condemned!—how, then, could he expect favour? Something like a spasm of remorse touched his heart as he thought of the young deserter. His wife!—was she so near?

There are moments in the lives of evil men over which good angels hold their sway. Gray and Eleanor!—were they not his victims? He would fain have said a good word for one,—a strange desire arose to see the other.

He had not been an hour in his prison ere his quick eye had descried a possible means of escape.

The walls were of stone, the roof of shingles, the loop-hole a mere narrow slit high up in the wall. Lyle drew his bedstead near it, he stood up and looked out; he could see the southern plains and part of the encampment, he could hear the reliefs passing too and fro; he listened and distinguished the parole, “Albany.” He rubbed his hands with glee, he examined the loop-hole, and discovered that no coping-stone supported the roof. A bar of iron from his bedstead would remove the shingle overhanging the loop.

He sat down upon the bedstead in a desponding attitude. When the sergeant entered with the afternoon meal, the prisoner was weeping.

Fortune favoured Lyle. The sun set in heavy clouds, torrents of rain began to fall, the sentry who paced below the loop-hole retired to his box in the angle of the building, the thunder roared, the lightning flashed, and the convict worked amid the din of the elements. Every now and then he listened at the door; in the pauses of the storm he could hear the sleepers in the guardroom breathing hard; he went to work again, the roof had rotted from the effects of the rainy season, it gave way, and Lyle raised his head through the aperture.

In another instant he had slid down the wall, and was on the turf.

The sentry was within a few paces of him, but the wind, coming from an opposite direction, blew the blinding rain in the soldier’s face. He was wide awake, though, and, on finding something was astir not far off, uttered the usual query, “Who goes there?” The steady reply of “Friend,” and the countersign “Albany,” were sufficient; the sentry imagined it was some officer passing from one tent to another; the convict plunged below the bank in rear of the guardroom, which was on a line with the Daveneys’ cottage; and, scrambling on till he came to the group of willows, sprang into the garden, and saw before him a window. A light shone through the muslin curtain.

It readily yielded to his touch; he looked in—his pale, sorrowful-looking wife was before him.

What a contrast with the turmoils through which he had passed, with the wild uncertainty which made his bosom throb, was the sight of this grave, sad, innocent woman, alone in the stillness of dawn, with her Bible beside her!

It was so totally unlike what he had experienced since he had first known her, that he was softened, though confounded, at the sight. He wanted words; he felt as if he could have said something kind, but did not know how.

Ah! the scorched and fiery ground of the sinful man’s mind hath no resting-place for the angel’s foot. The good spirit halted on the threshold; nevertheless, Jasper wore a look unusual to him, and when it had passed away, it haunted Eleanor like a vision. Her memory of it was touched with something like compassion, and it was well that it was so.

The cry was raised, “The prisoner has escaped.”

The morning broke cold and chill, and the vapours hung about the hills, as the little force of Cape cavalry and its infantry supports were mustered, ere they started on the spoor of the convict, with orders also to reconnoitre the ground haunted by the enemy. It was May who had discovered the spoor.

Devoted to the Daveneys, and especially attached to Eleanor, he had built for himself a little pent-house, a lean-to, beneath the eastern window of her room. In this he, and Fitje, and Ellen, and Ormsby’s gallant hound—May’s friend and playmate—all slept at night. May was always ready to accompany the Commissioner in his rounds; he was at hand any moment during the twenty-four hours; he was as watchful as the hound. Although he had never enlightened Fitje on the subject of Eleanor’s miserable connection with Lyle, he had followed her through her whole history, and a vague sense of dread for her sake hung about him as soon as he learned that her tormentor had re-appeared in the shape of Lee the convict.

On the night in question, May, like a true bushman, was too much disconcerted by the commotion in the elements to sleep. He never could banish the idea, entertained by his race, that evil spirits were working mischief in the stormy air; and he had just turned round upon his mat, comforted by the streaks of daylight penetrating the shed, when his quick ear detected a foot-fall to which he was unaccustomed—

“By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes,” thought May, in words not unlike the text; and, creeping from the shed, he saw a tall, dark form between him and the white wall of the cottage.

Lyle’s ear, almost as keen as May’s, was disturbed by the bushman’s movement, stealthy as it was; the next instant the hound sprung out. The convict swung himself down the bank by the bough of one of the willows, and, lifting a stone, cast it with such sure aim at poor Marmion, that he fell lame on the spot. Still the beast managed to follow him up the ravine, and May tracked the steps from bush to bush till Marmion sank down whining piteously, and holding his bleeding limb up with an imploring look that May could not resist.

He returned to the house, informed his master of the route taken by the convict, and honour left no alternative to Mr Daveney but to report it to the commanding officer of the party of soldiery about to start in search of him.

It was the fate of Frankfort and Ormsby to be of this party; but whatever they felt on the occasion was not expressed between them. Doubtless each had the same wish—never again to behold the miserable being, who spread sorrow and dismay wherever he went.

But the advanced guard of gallant Fingoes has entered the defile; the troops proceed with cautious steps and muskets loaded, for, peradventure, many a dusky head is peering out from behind the green tufts and rocky masses that make the way so steep and toilsome.

The sun poured a flood of golden light upon a scene so fair, that it should have been peopled by beings as guileless as our first parents when tenants of Eden. It was an open tongue of land stretching from the kloof through which the troops had passed, and planted by the graceful hand of nature with those clumps of bush which give to African scenery the air of a noble park. On the one side a mountain, wooded from the base to the summit, rose majestically to the clouds, all golden-tinted with the radiance of the east; on the other rose a krantz, abrupt and rugged, the white rocks standing out in strong relief from the dark foliage of the yellow-wood trees, among which the monkeys were chattering, and swinging by their long tails from bough to bough. The foot of this grand barrier was watered by a stream clear and still, being gathered into pools between the rocks; and over the shining waters hung groups of willows, weighed down by the oblong nests of those pretty birds which most dread the snake, sure denizen of the loveliest nooks in Southern Africa.

There were cattle drinking at the stream, and these were unattended by their guards, as usual. It was this circumstance which made the Hottentot soldiers in advance halt, and keenly examine the locality.

A slight elevation concealed part of this little prairie from the soldiers, who, with May and three or four Fingoes, plunged into some intervening bush to reconnoitre. Those in rear dropped behind the embowered rocks, and kept strict silence till ordered by the commanding officer, Frankfort, to advance upon the enemy, who was soon discovered.

Half way down the slope stood a noble grove of trees; interspersed among these were several Kafir women and boys, all carrying assegais and knob-kierries, and all in a state of excitement; for, although silent, they were dancing in their strange way upon the flowery turf, and waving their weapons aloft with wild gesticulations. A few aged Kafirs contemplated the scene with manifest satisfaction, but grinned a noiseless applause; and far down were gathered some sixty or seventy Kafirs, ranged in a semicircle round a stately oak. They had been sitting in council, and rose at the very instant Frankfort’s eye fell upon them.

They were, however, unconscious of being overlooked; they stood up, cast aside their karosses, and began to dance a solemn measure, which soon changed to the wildest gestures. They leaped high in the air, swung themselves round and round, brandished their spears, and presently a low hum of voices ascended the bank, and swelled into a chorus.

A great pile of sticks was gathered round this tree, and Frankfort began to believe that they were performing some heathenish rite, when a sharp, clear whistle issued from a clump of euphorbias and mimosas on the right, and a yell from the women proclaimed that the soldiers were discovered.

It was not ground on which Kafirs would make a stand under any circumstances, and it was not their policy to fire the first shot. They began to retire slowly, as if peaceably disposed, and retreated to the krantz; but, as they went, the boys cast their knob-kierries at the oak-tree, and raised a shout of defiance to the troops, who showed themselves on the green ridge. Finally, the savages collected in a body near the pools, and, casting back a shower of assegais, disappeared with their cattle among the yellow-wood trees.

The echoes of that savage yell rang far and wide, but a dead silence ensued; the Cape cavalry galloped down the slope, and poured a volley of musketry amid the trees and cliffs; they were answered by the shrill war-cry of Kafirland, and in a few minutes they beheld the savages and their cattle on a ledge of rocks far beyond the white man’s reach. The savages uttered one derisive shout, and vanished.

It was useless to attempt to follow them. The first signal of defiance was given, there was no further doubt of hostility; but the troops were left upon the lovely prairie without an enemy.

Many a gallant fellow lay bleeding on the flowery turf; Ormsby was stretched beside one of the pools, the blood poured from an assegai-wound in his side; his soft shining hair was matted with gore from another in the temple.

A horrible object presented itself to the troops as they faced about, carrying their wounded up the slope; it was the figure of a white man bound with thongs to the oak, round which the faggots had been piled, but happily not ignited. The arms were stretched out, and fastened to two wide-spreading branches of the noble tree; the feet rested on the sticks, which it had been intended should blaze beneath them, and there were the marks of heavy blows upon the fine athletic limbs; the face was distorted, the eyes glared in their sockets, and the body was transpierced by assegais.