Jasper Lyle

Ormsby drew back with a start as the bushman lifted the reptile, which he had discovered, with its back broken, but with some remains of life, for it reared itself up, and fixed its filmy eyes on the young officer’s face; but Frankfort stepped briskly forward, and crushed its head.

Instinct roused the Kafir from his heavy slumber as May waved his assegai over him; but stupified, and sensible only of intense pain, he sunk back with a sullen air, keeping, however, a steady gaze on May.

This page only partly readable; about an inch down the right, missing.

“Poor wretch!” said Frankfort, “he must not, if we can help him. I have the cure of snake-bites; May, fetch the medicine-chest in my wagon.”

May took the proffered key, from which a shrill whistle ere he went in search of which, however, he put less faith tha Fitje’s coctions of herbs, which she had prepare as soon as she, good-hearted little that the young Kafir had been wounded tile. Plenty of healing roots and herb the spot—for God often plants the ai snakes most abound—and very soon t and his wife were at their task of huma ing Zoonah’s wound; May, while i bestowing on his patient a variety of ep Hottentot, Dutch, English, and Kafir la.

The savage understood the reality though it was not in his nature to trac or respond to its sympathies by gratitude gloom was on his countenance at having thus, like a wild beast, in the hunters submitted to the surgery; and, the t dressed, raised himself against the tru and stared from one to the other of the him.

“May,” said Ormsby, who held a hand, “what has made the rascal follow him.”

Zoonah, who understood English, knew, cast his eyes upon the turf, and bushman’s translation of the question.

After duly considering the answer h and accepting the cigar, he answered in language—

“Zoonah is the white man’s dog, they journey in the same path.”

To which assertion May added in “lies.”

Problem ends here.

“Ask him,” said Frankfort, “why he followed stealthily.”

“Because I was alone, and thought the Hottentots would kill me,” said Zoonah.

“He lies,” added May.

“Where are you going?”

“To my people—I left my heart in the bush,”—meaning his wife.

“Why did you leave Vanbloem?”

“He sent me away.”

“Why did you try to steal arms from the master’s wagon?”

“I do not understand you.”

Zoonah’s stolid air convinced Frankfort, too, that it was of no use to question him. It was evident that May was right—he was a spy on his way to his own chief’s kraal, and, as the bushman observed, it was useless to waste words upon a liar.

“He’s born liar—he’ll die liar; he’s born blackguard, and he’ll die blackguard.”

And, with this last truly English vituperative, May left the thicket, and went to prepare his master’s breakfast.

He had tied up the dogs and kept watch himself all night, lying in the long grass between Frankfort’s tent and Ormsby’s wagon, and had seen Zoonah, just as the moon was waning, winding himself along in snake fashion, till he reached the young officer’s sleeping-place, in which he was wont to spend part of the day, reading and smoking, with “pistol, sword, and carbine,” slung above him.

Doubtless, Zoonah had long had his attention fixed on these particular objects, and allowing the cavalcade to pass the open plains, had come up with it as soon as it was fairly bivouacked in the embowered nook selected by May. Here he awaited his opportunity to plunder.

But Kafirs have a dread of what they cannot see—a house, a tent, or a wagon, may always, they believe, contain some mysterious agency of evil, and hence, on Ormsby’s instinctively clutching the pistol the Kafir dropped it in terror, which was increased by a movement of May’s. The wily bushman, though, had no mind to throw the Kafir off his guard; the roar of the river proved that it was impassable; in the rear were the inhospitable plains of sand, the Kafir must ere this have exhausted such provision as he could have carried from Vanbloem’s, and would therefore not go far; and, in a word, May resolved not to alarm the little camp until obliged to do so.

The result was, that Zoonah traced his way to the thicket where the bushman had left a decoy, in the shape of scattered bread and meat, and an apparently empty bottle.

“I watched that bush yesterday evening,” said May, when explaining his devices to Frankfort; “for though I laughed at Master Ormsby, it’s always right to be ‘primed and loaded.’ Well, I watched that bush closely, because, whenever the birds lighted on it, they flew away and would not stop a minute. Some came there to roost in their nests—but no, off they went, came back again, and then away—‘Ah!’ says May, ‘some one spenning (lurking, hiding) there, I know;’ so I was glad to see Master Ormsby tie Marmion to his wagon, while we were hunting the porcupine, and I told old Piet to lie between that and the tent, where I made a good fire. This schelm little thought we went off so far; but I gave Fitje the long pistol ready loaded, and told her to fire it, if she was frightened—but she was not,” added May quietly, “and lay down as soon as she heard the dogs coming home with us. I tied them up as soon as I had fed them, and so now, if the sir pleases, I’ll reim the prisoner.”

“Reim the prisoner?” said Ormsby; “what does he mean?”

“Tie him to the wagon wheel, master,” answered May, “and keep him there, till we can get rid of him handsomely.”

Probably, May’s ideas about getting handsomely rid of Zoonah were rather vague; at any rate, he had no idea of trusting him in the smallest degree, and he was greatly astonished when Frankfort observed, “Nay, nay, we won’t bind him; he looks half-starved.

“Poor wretch; we may make him earn his living by being useful—it is no business of ours if he chooses to leave Vanbloem, we cannot send him back—he is but a savage, and we must be kind to him.”

“Right, master,” replied May, after grave consideration; “but he’s a thief, as well as a liar, so take care.”

So saying, they left Zoonah in the leafy covert.

May put no trust in Zoonah, and such was Fitje’s dread of him, that she would not lie down to rest, unless her husband laid his gun beside him.

The sportsmen decided on crossing the river as soon as it was fordable; and Zoonah, rejoicing in contributions of tobacco, cigars, and provisions, was happy, after Kafir fashion, lying on the soft turf, and contemplating, with a longing eye, the cattle he professed to guard, but hoped to steal from the men who had saved his life, and now fed him, and treated him with kindness.

Although May heartily despised Zoonah, he was always in good humour with him; for there is nothing in nature more cheery and good-humoured, though hot-tempered and keenly alive to injury, than a bushman, caught young, and tamed and educated by real Christian people.

Three or four evenings after the incident described, as Frankfort and Ormsby sat by the river, after the last meal of the day, anxiously comparing the depth of water with a certain mark they had drawn on a jutting rock, their attention was diverted by an earnest “talk” going on between May and Zoonah.

The latter was deriding May’s idea of Umtiko (God). Zoonah, finding disguise was useless, now conversed in excellent English. May’s suppositions were right. He had been educated at Shiloh; but the care bestowed on a Kafir seldom answers the humane purpose intended. Savage he is, and savage he will he, unless, indeed, the age of miracles is not past and gone.

“You say that Umtiko is good,” said Zoonah; “how do you know it?”

May pointed out the benefits we derive from God.

“How do you know they come from him? Did you ever see him?”

“He is invisible.”

“If he is so good and so glorious, why does he not show himself? The teachers are always telling us about God; but first, a Kafir never believes what he does not see, and next, the teachers say that all men are liars; how, then, can they expect us to believe them?”

“But the teachers do not tell you this without proof.”

“Where is the proof?”

“In the beautiful world, where all things are given for our good, and where the wicked are unhappy.”

“Who do you call wicked?”

“Those who commit sin,” replied May.

“Sin!” said Zoonah, after examining the ground,—“sin means pleasing one’s self.”

Before May could answer, Zoonah went on: “You cannot believe in the existence of what you cannot see.”

“You do not see the wind,” interposed May. Zoonah went on in his own language, May translating sentence by sentence.

“You cannot take the word of one man, whom you have never seen nor heard,” answered the cunning Kafir, “against the wishes of all men. The invisible God you talk of says, ‘Obey me, and do nothing that pleases yourself.’ The visible man says, ‘Enjoy earth, and all that belongs to it, and be happy.’ On one side is a chance of another world if we punish ourselves in this; on the other is pleasure, ease, and our own will, under laws made for man by man. You English have a woman chief; even she never sees the God you speak of. You know not even whether he is black or white.”

At this point, Ormsby, who had drawn near, burst into a thoughtless and irreverent laugh, and Zoonah, at this, satisfied that he had the best of the argument, rose, and wrapping his kaross around him, ascended the bank, and followed the cattle to the outspan.

The east was faintly streaked with a crimson line next day, when May came to rouse the sleeping Ormsby, and call him to an early breakfast, which he had prepared, that the sportsmen might cross the river, which at last was fordable for men and horses, although the depth of mud in its bed rendered it impassable for wagons. It was possible to carry over such provisions as would last them till they reached the Orange River, where final arrangements would be made for treking at once into the depths of the long-desired hunting-grounds.

The idea of change pleased Ormsby, and he readily assisted in the necessary preparations. With his usual want of foresight and discretion, he had begun to make a pet of Zoonah; and, forgetting how dependent he and Frankfort were on the integrity and sagacity of May, amused himself with the idea that the latter was jealous; but the kind-hearted bushman was utterly unconscious of this, and worked away with his usual aptitude and good humour, keeping, too, a close eye on Zoonah’s movements when the cattle came in at sunset.

And now, to Frankfort’s surprise, May permitted the Kafir to assist him in making up sundry packages for the trek over the river, soon to be carried on their own heads as they swam the stream; for May was ever humane, and strove to lighten the weights on the pack-horses.

Two leather bags were soon filled. Zoonah’s dark eyes glistened at the goodly store scattered about the ground,—canisters of powder, a pocket looking-glass, bundles of cigars, and manifold articles delightful to a Kafir’s sight; he gladly helped in the task of tying up the bags, and after adjusting one on May’s head, and lifting one to his own, he proceeded with the Bushman to the edge of the stream. The rest of the cavalcade were to cross the river whenever they could do so with safety; and Frankfort, ascertaining that all was ready, took his horse well in hand, and plunged into the clear and rapid current, Ormsby following. By Frankfort’s desire, May was to attend as guide and groom, and on second thoughts, he consented to let Zoonah follow, deeming it unwise to leave him with the cattle.

Both sportsmen’s horses breasted the torrent gallantly. Ormsby, despising May’s injunctions, had nearly floundered in a sea-cow’s hole; but the opposite bank was safely reached, and both gentlemen, dismounting to rest their panting steeds, sat down to watch the transit of May, Zoonah, and the dogs.

The bushman and Kafir, side by side, were already midway between the banks, and, in thorough good-fellowship, exhibited their skill and daring in buffeting the element through which the horses had passed with less ease.

Frankfort watched the race—for such it seemed—with some anxiety, for it called forth equal strength and courage on the part of both the swimmers. Ormsby laughed heartily at the “dodges” each took to circumvent the other, when suddenly, as if caught by the current, Zoonah was whirled round and round, sunk, rose again, keeping his burden safe supported by one hand, and in another moment struck boldly out with the right arm and vanished, to the horror of Frankfort, who gave him up for lost, and the dismay of Ormsby, who had seen Zoonah pack many articles of which he stood in need.

May swam gravely on, paying little heed, beyond a grin, at Zoonah’s disappearance; and even Frankfort reproached him severely for triumphing, as he believed, in his own sagacity, at Ormsby’s expense.

“I told the sir,” said the bushman, when he recovered breath on landing, “that Zoonah was thief as well as liar, but Master Ormsby only laughed.”

“You should not have intrusted him with a package of such value to us just now,” said Frankfort.

“I obey Master Ormsby,” answered May, beginning to shiver.

“Go and get some dry clothing on you,” said Frankfort; and May rose to do as he was bid, first laying the package, untouched by wet, at Ormsby’s feet.

The latter kicked it from him with an oath.

“It is all right, sir,” said the bushman, patiently lifting it up again; “all your powder and other things quite safe. I let Zoonah pack ’em up, but changed the bags, while Fitje gave him his sopie; he’s got a lot of rubbish packed up in the other. I thought it best to let him go. I knew he would, as soon as he thought he had got something worth taking. Ah! the schelm, he’ll swim for the next hour. I should like to see him open his prize;” and Frankfort and Ormsby laughed as heartily as May himself.

On, still on. Each succeeding day drew our travellers far from the settlements of the English colonists, and Ormsby, by degrees, began to try and reconcile himself to an expedition from which there was no fair means of retreating.

Soon the broad and refreshing waters of the glorious Orange River, lying in lake-like beauty between its richly-wooded borders—the graceful shelter of the fine trees that grew luxuriantly near its banks—the murmuring sound of distant falls—the delicious lounge on the smooth turf, selected as the halting-place for at least a week, that horses and cattle, as well as men, might repose, were all enchanting to our sportsmen, to whom the scene was as new as agreeable.

The Orange River forded, our sportsmen at length looked down upon the “happy hunting-grounds.” But it was not now as in the time when Mr Trail rescued May from the dwellings in the rocks.

As the white man’s footprints had advanced, the game had retreated to the deeper solitudes of the wilderness. Herds of gnoos and bucks occasionally swept across the plains, and May pointed out a drift where lions sometimes came down to drink; but there were no companies of these kings of the desert—no sentinel giraffes—no midnight echoes from the trumpet-signal of wandering elephants.

It was a grand panorama, and as, while May off-saddled, our sportsmen cast themselves on the grass of a natural platform overhanging the scene, a fine buck started out of a bush, and passed them by with head erect, eyeballs strained, and limbs quivering with terror and dismay. The rifles of both sportsmen were brought to the shoulder at one instant, and in another, the beautiful animal was stretched upon the turf, dying the plants, which enamelled it, in blood.

The horses secured, away went May—greedy fellow—to kindle a fire; Frankfort and Ormsby took out their couteaux de chasse, and the former, ere he drew his blade across the neck of the creature, paused with some compunction at having killed his game with so little credit to himself as a sportsman, two rifle-balls having lodged in the head of the buck when only a few feet from his destroyers.

He paused, I say, and, casting his eyes upon the valley, drew Ormsby’s attention to various species of smaller game, which, roused from their coverts by the crack of the rifles, were speeding in hot haste across the plain; gnoos, zebras, and bucks of manifold kind, all at once gave life to the green valley far below the travellers’ reach; and Frankfort had scarcely had time to point them out, when a noble lion, with eyeballs of flame and mane erect, sprung at a single bound from his covert in the cliff above, and, in silent majesty, placed his huge paw upon the neck of the slaughtered deer, his gleaming orbs fixed in steady gaze on the astonished countenance of Frankfort.

He uttered no sound—the lashing of his tail against his sides was the only proof this magnificent lord of the manor gave of his displeasure at the intrusion of poachers on his territory. His frown was terrific, and said plainly, “This is my property by royal right, and here I stand to defend it.”

How long this scene lasted was never computed by the sportsmen—Frankfort always admitted that they left the lion master of the field, and declared that Ormsby was as ready as he to dive into a bush and climb a path they would not have attempted “under ordinary circumstances.”

Not long after this adventure their plans and prospects assumed a totally different aspect to what they had anticipated; a simple incident proved the straw that turned the balance, and caused them to turn their backs upon an expedition to which one, at least, had looked forward with the prospect of a year’s sport and travel.

At dawn, one roseate morning, a yell from the dogs awoke May in time to discover a poor little porcupine scuffling back to his hole. Up jumped Ormsby, who would not wait for May’s attack with a short assegai, which he had at hand; lifting his foot, he laid the quarry sprawling on the ground, but not before the animal had driven one of his natural weapons into the thoughtless young man’s foot; darting the quill, sharp as a needle, with all his force, the creature left it two inches deep in the instep, and would have returned to the attack, but that May, with a stirrup-leather, laid the enemy dead.

Ormsby sat down upon a block of granite, in great agony, and the bushman, after a deliberate survey of the jeopardised limb, remarking, with a gravity that startled even Frankfort, that “the sir must lose either his leg or his boot,” opened his clasp-knife, and skilfully and deliberately cut the boot open, then applying his fine but useful teeth to the quill, he tugged at it bravely, and drew it out with a jerk. A clear jet of blood bubbled up from the wound, and Ormsby fainted with the pain.

The inflammation which followed was so great as to preclude the possibility of riding far, and as, fortunately, the wagons were only five miles in the rear, Frankfort deemed it wisest to return to them at once, as he well knew Piet would not move in haste.

Everything was as they had left it two days previously, although the obstinate old wagoner had been told to follow as soon as the sore-footed oxen had recovered, and they were now fit for their work. There sat Fitje, stitching at her patchwork petticoat; there lay the herd-boys beside the green-bordered vley; and there sat old Piet, in the glow of sunlight, smoking his pipe.

Chapter Seven.

Light in the Wilderness

Ormsby was thoroughly discomfited by his accident, and his impatience, and unwillingness to apply the remedies prescribed by Fitje, duly aggravated the inflammation: he would walk, he would bathe, and at last was fairly laid prostrate for two or three days.

Utterly disgusted, and intensely pained by the jolting of the wagon, he listened one morning with complacency to May’s information, that there was a Dutchman’s farm at the foot of a long, low hill in front. The sun shone down upon the settlement, which at that distance looked fair and pleasant; but May said it was but a desolate place within, for the master was heart-sore. He had lost five sons in the last war; he had but few cattle left; and whenever he began to till the land, he was told by his neighbours—there were none within twelve miles—that it was not safe to stay. The bushman had heard this two months ago from the Boer himself at Beaufort, when he came there, in his perplexity, to consult his fellow-colonists.

Frankfort immediately thought of helping this poor man in some way, and the cavalcade directed its progress towards the farm; but on reaching it, they found it abandoned—“Silent all and lone.” The house was empty, the doors and windows open, the garden desolate.

Both sportsmen agreed, that if this abandonment of the location was the result of a rumour of war, it was high time for them to think of rejoining their regiment instead of pursuing their expedition. Ormsby would fain have had the cavalcade halt here for the night; but May informing them that, if they would consent to advance three miles further, they would find a halting-place within only two hours’ distance of the settlement of Annerley, a property belonging to a retired British officer, Frankfort decided on moving on.

The party proceeded slowly forward, the character of the country changing at every step. The bush grew thinner; wide undulating plains, dotted with ant-heaps, and here and there a dump of dwarf mimosas, were spread before the traveller’s eye; and as the last rays of light gleamed in dying glory on the waste, several dark objects were descried moving in a body at speed.

Frankfort, by the aid of the telescope he carried, fancied he recognised European horsemen. A slight indentation of the ground hid them from his sight for a minute or two, and as they reached the elevation, the wide hat, ostrich feather, long roer (gun)—in short, the whole guerilla air, bespoke the Dutch border colonists of South-Eastern Africa.

At sight of the wagons, the party came galloping down the slope, and approaching Frankfort in breathless haste, announced that the new British commander of the forces, Sir John Manvers, had issued a manifesto desiring the chiefs of the Gaika and T’Slambie tribes to meet him in the neighbourhood of the garrison of Fort Beaufort, on the Kat River, on a certain day; that the chiefs had hesitated, asking for more time, to consult their councillors, which time was, of course, to be employed in making ready; that the war-cry had already faintly issued from the Gaikas, who only waited for the gathering of the tribes to shout it aloud from the Amatola mountains; and that, as soon as the warriors could be organised, an attack would be made upon the colonists.

This mounted troop of stout and determined Burghers had been despatched, by the commandant of a frontier outpost, to warn the farmers in the north eastern districts of their danger; and, being loyal to the Government, were proceeding, as far as they dared, to sound the alarm among all the landholders who were considered to be discontented, but as yet were not avowedly disaffected. These were expected to join a Burgher force, ready for action, if called upon; while the farmers near the colony were advised to put their homesteads in a state of defence; and if this was difficult, from want of hands, or faulty position, to establish lagers (bivouacs), and bring their families together, for the sake of security.

It was further stated, that the rivers were rising, and the enemy congregating along the bush-lined banks of the Fish River, ready to pounce on stray cattle or hapless travellers; the troops were mustering in the different garrisons, the new commander-in-chief was at Graham’s Town, ships with stores and reinforcements were daily expected at Algoa Bay, and the greatest cause for anxiety was the uncertain state of affairs among the Dutch beyond the Orange River. These, it was supposed, had been fully conciliated by the visit of the late governor, whose health had suffered from his fatiguing exertions in negotiating with the rebellious Boers in person. By these able negotiations peace had been established, and redress officially promised; but, strange to say, the arrival of Sir John Manvers had been the signal for another outbreak, and while Kafirland was up on one side of the Orange River, the Boers were inspanning their oxen on the other, and preparing sullenly to trek, roer in hand, and with wives, children, and all their property in a train, headed by one Vander Roy, a clever fellow, and as ambitious as he was determined and persevering. Having delivered this news, and refreshed themselves with sopies of French brandy, the young Burghers touched their hats, the officers bent over their horses’ necks, and were off at a hand-gallop.