Jasper Lyle

The Kafirs, athirst for blood, afraid to attack the camps, had gone roaming about for days seeking whom they might devour. Here, in this lovely and sequestered spot, a group of Gaikas had halted with their cattle; a solitary white man suddenly appeared among them—he was alone, unarmed—miserable wretch that he was!—he was in search of freedom in the beautiful desert. They rushed upon him, seized him, and, pinioning his arms, fastened him to the tree, and sat down before him to deliberate how he should die by their ruthless hands.

Reader, he understood their language!

He heard them, and was powerless.

They were all of one opinion.—

He should be killed by slow torture!

But how?

And then they talked together, and the victim, for the first time in his life, called on God to have mercy upon him, the sinner.

And Zoonah was there—Zoonah, who, in early youth, had been fostered and kindly trained by white men, and taught who God was, and how all the beautiful and pleasant gifts of earth came from God—and Zoonah mocked him, and cried aloud—

“Is your God black or white?”

Then all was still again, and it was decided how he should die; and they took their assegais, and drew a red circle round his throat, and sat down to see the beginning of their work, sharpening their weapons, and bidding the young boys take good aim at the quivering and bleeding form with their knob-kierries. Some of the women came, and looked shyly at him at first, and so went away, and danced and returned; and it was at this period of the tragic drama that a girl caught sight of a carbine in the bush above, and shrieked her warning—

“The soldiers!—the soldiers!—and the Fingo dogs!”

They fled, but left their victim no chance of life from his fellow-men.

Jasper Lyle was quite dead when they unbound him from the oak, down the bark of which the blood streamed from his mangled limbs.

It was riven by lightning afterwards, and, till Mr Trail had it cut down, stood all white and ghastly, an unsightly memento of the convict’s awful death.

The hour fixed for Gray’s execution passed by—the world was already dead to him; but had Mr Trail, the kind, the thoughtful, the unselfish, forgotten him?

How clear are the heavens! how serene and still! how balmy the autumnal breeze of Kafirland.

Hark to the sullen roar of artillery close at hand! It shakes the darkened hut of the poor prisoner.

Cries of anger and defiance disturb the silence of the majestic hills; men rush by with clattering arms.

The dusky host has gathered on the mountain slopes; they hover about in clouds. Gray recognises the well-known challenge, “Izapa!” it is answered by a volley of musketry. Again the deep-mouthed guns open wide their fiery throats, and a hearty English cheer announces that shot and shell have told upon the savage foe.

But the wild war-cry rings out shrill and strong again; it draws nearer, and is answered by the Fingoes.

Gray could see but little from the aperture of his hut. He noticed though that the Kafirs, emboldened by their superiority of numbers, came muzzle to muzzle with the infantry; they grappled with the soldiers, they snapped their reed-like assegais in two and gave back stab for stab; they gibbered, they leaped, they dropped as if dead into the bush, only to rise the next moment and wound their adversaries in the back; they came bounding down the hills in fresh bodies, among which the British artillery soon began to make havoc; but, for those that fell, numbers started from behind the rocks and shrubs, and dashed forward to the onslaught.

They stepped into the open ground. Up rose the warlike Fingoes from beneath their shields! Their spears glittered in the glowing sun; the mass extended, it spread east and west, and they advanced to the charge.

Slave and master meet in the deadly strife! How the dark eyes of each glare with vengeance and detestation! but the Fingoes not only know the warfare of their enemy, they also fight with the skill and coolness of the British. They will die rather than yield, for they feel that to surrender were worse than death.

And they do conquer, before the outlying picquets posted in the mountain glens, by the experienced orders of Sir Adrian Fairfax, emerge from their ambush to meet the retiring warriors.

It was a deadly struggle. The Kafirs, beaten back from the encampment, hoped to find safe shelter in their strongholds; but Sir Adrian’s policy was as deep as their own. He, too, had had his spies scattered through the land; and albeit these specious savages had sworn to sit still—had humbled themselves like dogs, and sworn by the bones of their dead chiefs to keep faith, he knew that when they professed most they meant least; and, on being informed that Sir John Manvers’s large force was scattered, and that some of the burghers had anticipated their dispersion, and were about to depart, he hurried his march, after closing his treaties with the Boers, whom he contrived also to conciliate, and made such an admirable disposition of his troops that the Kafirs were deceived completely.

The soldiers, dispersed among the kloofs, appeared to the Gaikas to be making roads and hewing wood: they little knew that, at a certain sound of the bugle, they would be up and ready at any hour of the day or night.

Hundreds of the enemy were left dead, after the action, near Sir John Manvers’s camp: and, alas! many a family in England, whose best sympathies had been enlisted in favour of this “ill-used race,” “driven from their land”—“a peaceful, inoffensive people, asking only grass for their cattle,” mourned the loss of a gallant son or brother shot down or assegaied by these cunning and untameable beings.

And all day long, and through the dark night, the wailing cry of women mourning for their dead resounded in the mountains, and, lo! from the British camp the triumphant chorus of the Fingoes answered it.

The enemy were beaten, and councils were held, and the warriors crawled to the feet of their “white Father,” and prayed to be forgiven as little children!

But melancholy experience teaches us the value of a Kafir’s word!

A little pyramid marks the spot where, on the evening of that fatal day, a funeral party of British soldiers dug a grave for the comrades who had fallen in the fray.

There are other monuments around it, for a town stands now where long lines of tents dotted the green-sward, and a church is rising in the midst. Within it is a grand monument to the memory of Sir John Manvers, who died ere the body of his murdered son was brought into the encampment.

Divided in their lives, are they united in eternity?

Within the encampment there were no great signs of the struggle which had taken place on the preceding day. On the contrary, there was an unusual stillness about it, for short and conclusive as had been the battle, the heavy wings of Death had cast a dark shadow on the scene, which had its influence on all. The cottages were closed, there were no people at work in the gardens, men spoke apart and in whispers, and, though morning was in her prime, a stillness like that of night prevailed.

Presently, there came forth from the tents soldiers fully accoutred; then their officers; next Sir Adrian Fairfax and his staff. All wore the same grave aspect.

But the brilliant uniforms, the glittering arms, the waving plumes, made a dazzling array, as the troops fell in and formed three sides of a square.

Nine or ten men stepped out from the rest.

Beyond the soldiery, were the Fingo warriors, seated on the turf; and a few Kafir women and children looked from the hills upon the scene, which they could not understand, for, with arms bound, and head uncovered, there walked into the square a young man, whose whole air and aspect bespoke him anything but a malefactor—a rebel doomed to die: it was Gray!

Mr Trail was with him. The prisoner advanced with steady step, but the flush of shame overspread his face, as he felt that the gaze of hundreds was fixed upon him. He would have read sincere and sorrowful pity in that gaze, had he seen it, but his eyes were fixed upon the ground.

Anon, there swelled upon the air that solemn march for the dead that thrills to the very soul when we hear it. The sudden burst of the drum startled the prisoner, and he looked up. He saw his coffin borne before him; he moved on mechanically to the time of the wailing music; he passed the long lines of soldiers; he did not lose his presence of mind. As he drew near Sir Adrian Fairfax, he raised his eyes for an instant, and lifting his fettered hands, bowed on them. Frankfort’s heart beat with the dread of being overcome to tears; Colonel Graham brushed the drops away from his eyes, and one young soldier fainted in the ranks.

All at last was ready; the drum ceased to beat.

The prisoner’s eyes were bound; it was observed that he cast one long, lingering look upon the bright and lovely scenes around him, ere this was done.

He wished to take a last look of earth!

He was told that some moments would be allowed him for prayer at the last. He pressed Mr Trail’s hands within his own, and the good minister left him.

The lightest whisper might have been heard while the prisoner was absorbed in prayer. He never moved when the firing party knelt down, although their arms and accoutrements broke the silence sharply. The officer in command of this party uttered the word, “Ready!” in a voice so clear that it penetrated to the farthest in the ranks.

Did Gray hear it? None could tell.

“Present!”—he heard that, for he lifted his head and dropped his hands before him, awaiting the fiery shower of musketry.

Still, not a movement in those disciplined ranks!

“Prisoner!”

It was another voice that spoke.

The General had bid the party wait his order to fire, and, lest any fatal error should occur, had warned the men, that he should step before them to address the prisoner.—“Remember,” said Sir Adrian, “if you do not strictly adhere to my orders, you will shoot me.”

None but the firing party and Mr Trail were prepared for this pause in the ceremonial.

“Prisoner—”

Gray remained kneeling, but bent his head in recognition of the voice addressing him.

“The offence of which you were found guilty on the —th of – should have been punished yesterday by death; but the events of that day delayed your doom. Extenuating circumstances induced your merciful judges to reconsider your case, and finally to accept your own assertions as evidence in your favour. God is the judge of your word, whether true or false. In the name then of Him, who loves mercy better than sacrifice, I entreat you to redeem your past errors by a deep repentance. Prisoner, rise!—you are pardoned!”

Some one removed the bandage from Gray’s eyes—the light dazzled them—he could see nothing; but, though faint and powerless, he knew it was in Mr Trail’s kind arms that he reclined.

He heard the clattering arms of the dispersing soldiers, and the drums and fifes beating merry time in marching off the ground, but he felt utterly unable to help himself. He was lifted up—he fainted as they carried him away, and on reviving, found himself in the little room he had occupied in Mr Trail’s cottage.

But it was strangely metamorphosed—a carpet covered the hitherto matted floor, snowy curtains shaded the small windows, there were books on the table, and a glass with wild flowers, and, beside the sofa on which he leaned, stood a lady tall and fair, who looked to him like some ministering angel.

It was Lady Amabel Fairfax.

Peace was proclaimed in Kafirland—peace for a time.

There were busy artificers on the camp-ground; fortifications were in progress, and traders were opening their stores. Everything gave promise of establishing a thriving town; wagons were winding down the green slopes of the western hills, and fine herds of cattle and flocks of sheep and goats were passing through on their way to fresh pasture-lands.

A cumbrous and old-fashioned, but comfortable, English carriage with four fine horses stood at the gate of the Daveneys’ cottage. Ormsby, somewhat wasted by his wounds—happily the one on the temple, was but a cut from a passing assegai—led Lady Amabel to her equipage, and Mr Daveney followed, leading Eleanor in deep mourning. Major Frankfort stood at the gate with Sir Adrian; he gave his hand to Lady Amabel—she felt it tremble.

He could not see Eleanor’s face, it was closely veiled; they had never met since that fearful night at Annerley, but now she held her hand out to him. He heard her utter the word “Farewell.”

Sir Adrian shook hands with him, and Lady Amabel leaned forward to say “God bless you.”

But Frankfort answered not a word.

“Farewell.” In after-years, in the deep solitude of midnight, on the sea, in the still noon of summer days in English woods, where he loved to cast himself beneath the umbrageous oaks, and dream of Kafirland, that soft and sorrowful voice still whispered “Farewell.”

Lady Amabel retired with her young and mourning guest to the shades of Newlands. Eleanor never accompanied her friend to the busy scenes of Government House. Her father and mother soon established themselves in a lovely spot within a day’s journey of Cape Town, and here she hoped to find that seclusion and repose, which she had vainly sought before.

Marion and Ormsby were married, and embarked for England; soon afterwards, Lady Amabel and Eleanor bade them adieu, as they stepped into the boat awaiting them in the treacherous waters of Table Bay; poor Marion’s cheeks were flooded with tears.

Eleanor was calm and pale, but it seemed now as though she never could weep.

Lady Amabel longed to see some change in her demeanour, but nothing seemed to move her. The evening after her sister’s departure she sat so still within the embrasure of a window, that her kind friend thought she must be asleep; but no, the large mournful orbs were fixed on the darkening heavens in which the sentinel stars were mustering their radiant hosts. Her thoughts were not of earth—they were with her angel boy—her lost Francis—that link between herself and the mysterious world, of which we know nothing, save that there is no sin there, and therefore no sorrow.

The dwelling purchased and improved by the Daveneys commanded a magnificent view of the sea.

Eleanor sat in one of her mournful reveries, as was usual with her at eventide. In the daytime she resolutely employed herself—mechanically, if possible. She never sang now, but she would play whole pages of difficult music, then work in the garden; walking, or riding for miles with her father, filled up the afternoons; but the evening time was truly the dark hour with her. She loved best to be alone at this time.

So there she sat, her book dropped listlessly on her knee, and her melancholy gaze fastened on the shining waters of the moonlit ocean, that washed the rocky boundary of the grounds she had helped to fashion and to plant with orange-groves.

Her father and mother were in an adjoining room; she heard a door open, and some one, not of the household, spoke in a low voice; but she recognised it—it was May’s.

She went to meet him, and give him welcome; the poor little bushman cried and laughed with joy.

And Fitje came, and Ellen, and they sat down in the doorway, and said they would stay, if they might. May was going to Cape Town, and would come back again, and be gardener and groom, and everything, if Daveney would have him.

“Going to Cape Town?”

“Yes, with Master—Master Frankfort.” They were travelling by land from Algoa Bay, and had come to see the Knysna River, and May had a letter for the Bass. It contained an inclosure.

Eleanor retreated into the other room.

Eleanor’s Note to Frankfort.

“Most generous Friend,—

“I love you too well to take undue advantage of your kindness. Return to England; there, earlier and happier impressions may be revived; and although I would not have you forget me, think only of the unfortunate Eleanor as one whose hopes are fixed on Heaven.

“Farewell.”

The Trails, weary with the repeated aggressions on their property in Kafirland, came nearer the civilised districts of the Cape; they established a mission and a school within a few miles of the Knysna River. A young assistant of Mr Trail’s attracted the notice of all the farmers’ daughters around, but he paid no heed, did “that handsome young teacher,” to the bright glances aimed at him. He seldom entered the houses of the richer settlers, except in cases of sickness, when Mr Trail was absent from home.

The Vanbloems had returned to an old family farm, which they had deserted in the hopes of bettering themselves by seeking “larger pastures;” they were wiser than their rebellious brethren, for, instead of flying beyond the boundary, they retreated to their original settlement, and contented themselves with less land but surer ground. I speak of the elder Vanbloem, with whom Frankfort and Ormsby made acquaintance in their first days of travelling.

Gray—for he was the young teacher—had resolved one day on asking Mr Trail to make some inquiries of Amayeka, albeit he dreaded the issue of such inquiry.

Poor Amayeka!—Surely the younger Vanbloem’s had not deserted her; but she might have been taken from them by violence.

That day old Vanbloem came to tell Mr Trail that his son’s wagon was outspanned in a valley an hour’s ride from the station; he and some neighbours were going to meet him, would Mr Trail go too?

The party passed the mission station that evening; there were horsemen and wagons, quite a cavalcade—for some one from every family had gone out to welcome the new-comers, returning to the land of their forefathers.

It was dusk when Mr Trail returned home; Gray started on hearing his master’s voice.

“Master”—so he called the missionary—“master, are there bad tidings?—has she survived the fury of her people?”

“Come hither, Gray,” said Mr Trail; “Amayeka is here.”

Meek and trembling, poor Amayeka had seated herself on the lowest step of the stoep; her head was bent low, and her cloak drawn around her.

“Amayeka,” said Mr Trail, “rise, and come in.”

She shook her head, and crouched lower.

“Master,” whispered she, “I am ashamed—”

“Amayeka,” said another voice beside her.

Mr Trail had prepared her to meet her lover.

He left them together.

Next day a group entered the chapel of the mission station; it was said there was to be a wedding—a strange wedding; the young English teacher was to be married to a Kafir girl—it was quite true.

At first the settlers in the neighbourhood turned away their heads when the young teacher and his dusky wife passed them by; but Amayeka was so humble, so industrious, so neat, what could be said against her?

Mrs Trail helped her to establish a school. To look into her room on Sabbath nights, and see her the centre of a crowd of children, would do your heart good. She is no longer young—at thirty the women of her race are old—but her voice is musical and girlish as ever; and were you to hear her and her husband leading the Evening Hymn, you would never recognise, in the grave and neatly-dressed catechist and his wife, the young unhappy pair whom I once introduced to you sitting forlorn and wretched by the riverside in Kafirland, with the eyes of the Wizard Amani glaring at them from his ambush.

Ormsby’s patrimony was large; his family at first were disposed to receive his wife with hauteur—they were among that class of English owls who fancy themselves eagles, especially in their own county.

Ormsby took possession of his fine estate, and left the army, glad that he had been a soldier for many reasons; but, above all, because he had thus been given the means of finding a fair and happy-tempered wife in Kafirland. He made his sisters welcome to Ormsby Park, and they confessed, among their country friends, that she was to be “tolerated.”

Frankfort’s cousin, the Duchess, the former friend of Mrs Daveney, begged to be introduced to young Mrs Ormsby at a ball, and asked affectionately about her mother’s welfare. The Duchess was childless, had led “the most monotonous life in the world;” she was dying to hear of Kafirland.

“Did the people there live on the white men they killed in war time? and how was it that Marion was so fair, and would Mr and Mrs Daveney ever come to England again?” etc.

“Yes; Marion expected them to spend a year with her, and, after that, they would return; for her father and mother had many interests and occupations in Southern Africa which they would not wish to give up.”

“Interests and occupations!”—the Duchess yawned, and begged Mr Ormsby to find her carriage, and “was glad the ball was over; but it was marked by one pleasant fact, that of meeting Marion, the daughter of her old friend.”

They shook hands cordially.

“Who on earth is the Duchess of M— shaking hands with so heartily?” said the member’s wife.

“Mrs Ormsby, of Ormsby Park.”

“Oh! yes; the uncle is dead, and has left young Ormsby seven thousand a year, has he not?”

“Nine, they say,” replied the other speaker.

“Dear me, how fortunate!—his wife is pretty, rather; I should like to know her.”

Summer was dying in all her pomp, the woods of Ormsby were arrayed in their mantles of green and gold and crimson and rich brown; the shadows from the old oaks were lengthening on the grass, when the lodge-gates were thrown open to admit the carriage which had been sent to Portsmouth to meet the voyagers from Kafirland.

A touch of the old ambitious feeling thrilled through Mrs Daveney’s heart, as the elegant equipage swept along the noble aisles of horse-chestnut trees and beeches, through which the mansion, with windows illuminated by the setting sun, showed fair and stately.

But Eleanor’s face was opposite, revealing its mournful history of past suffering. It had lost its look of anxiety, and something like pleasure shone in the large dark orbs as they caught sight of Marion’s home, and her sister and husband, with Marmion between them, in the open doorway, waving their handkerchiefs.

Who thought that, instead of an embowered porch, rudely built and thatched with rushes, they now met beneath the stately colonnade of a noble mansion!

Oh! those precious meetings, when the sea has long divided us.

The cultivated lands of England! the fields crowded with reapers! the heavily-laden wains—women and youths and children singing along the roads, as if rejoicing in the plentiful harvest; the noble woods, stretching afar, and glowing in the mellow light of autumn!—all contributed to bring repose to Eleanor’s soul. She lived a new life—she seemed to begin a new career in a new world. Here she was indeed at peace—no fearful storms, no savage war-cry, no dread of an enemy stalking in and making desolate the hearth! The space between her and the past seemed suddenly widened.

Sir Adrian and Lady Amabel were of the party; there were no strangers—neighbours there were none within five miles.

The events of former years were scarcely ever alluded to; Marion’s twins were painfully like their little cousin buried in the African desert; but no one spoke of him. The children lived almost in Eleanor’s room.

One evening, after she had gone upstairs to dress for dinner, these little creatures detained her till the second bell rang. Her hair was hanging over her dressing-gown, and, finding that she could not possibly be in time, she ran to Marion to say she would join the little circle at tea.

“Marion! Marion!”—but Marion had gone. Ormsby’s study door was open; there was a light within! She called to him—no answer.

The children ran up to her; they threw the door wide open; two wax-lights were burning on the table, and before the fire stood Frankfort.

And for the first time for many long years Eleanor uttered a cry of joy.

She forgot that she was in her dressing-gown, that her hair hung disordered about her, that the children were half-frightened at the sight of a stranger.

Frankfort opened his arms again to her—

“Never again to part, Eleanor,” said he.

“Never, never,” she answered.

He strained her to his breast, and her tears of unutterable joy mingled with his kisses.

“Nurse—nurse Abbot, here is Aunty crying, and a strange gentleman kissing her. Oh! nurse, do come here.”

But nurse Abbot drew the twins from the corridor into their nursery, and kept them there as long as she thought proper.