Tales of South Africa

At four o’clock upon the second afternoon following this camp-fire council, the three Englishmen rode and led their tired and battered horses into the outskirts of Tapinyani’s kraal, that singular native village, planted by the only considerable permanent water in the immense waste of the Central Kalahari. Tom Lane knew the place, and they passed straight through the straggling collection of beehive-like, circular, grass-thatched huts, until they reached the large kotla, or enclosure, in the centre of the town, where Tapinyani’s own residence stood. Skirting the tall fence of posts and brushwood, they passed by an open entrance into the smooth enclosure of red sand, and then, as they reined in their nags, a curious, and to them intensely interesting scene met their gaze.

Just in front of the chief’s hut was gathered a collection of natives, some nearly naked – save for the middle patch of hide common to Kalahari folk – others clothed about the shoulders in cloaks or karosses of skin – pelts of the hartebeest, and other animals. In the centre of his headmen and councillors – for such they were – seated on a low wagon-chair of rude make, the gift of some wandering trader, was Tapinyani himself, a spare, middle-aged native of Bechuana type, clad in a handsome kaross of the red African lynx. In his hands Tapinyani held a sheet of large foolscap paper, concerning which he seemed to be closely questioning the tall white man standing at his side. This white man, a huge, broad-shouldered, heavily-built person, somewhat fleshy of figure, notable for his florid face and huge black beard, was none other than Puff-adder Brown himself. Bulking in size and stature far above the slim-built Bakalahari people around him, the man stood there in his flannel shirt-sleeves, his great black sunburnt arms bared to the blazing sunshine and crossed upon his chest, his heavy face shadowed by a huge broad-brimmed felt hat, easily dominating the simple assemblage of desert folk. Near to his elbow, in trade clothes, stood his wagon-driver, a dissipated-looking Basuto.

“By George! we’re just in time,” said Lane, as he dismounted with alacrity from his horse, and turned the bridle rein over its head. “Come on, you fellows!”

His companions needed no second word to dismount, and in another second or two they were marching side by side with Lane across the kotla to Tapinyani. Each man carried a sporting rifle, into which, in view of emergency, a cartridge had already been thrust. They were quickly across the forty paces of red sand, and now stood before the astonished group.

“Greeting! Tapinyani,” said Lane, speaking in Sechuana to the chief, as he moved up near to him. “I hope all is well with you and your people. What do you do here with this man,” indicating Brown, “and what is the paper you have in your hands?”

The Chief explained that the paper was a grant of a piece of land which the trader wanted for the purpose of running cattle on.

“How much land?” asked Lane.

“Enough to feed two hundred head of cattle and some goats,” replied the chief.

“And how much are you to receive for this?”

“Six guns, ammunition, and some brandy,” was the answer. “I am glad you have come,” pursued Tapinyani; “I know you well, and you can advise me in this matter.”

He handed the paper to Lane, who, holding up his hand to check a protest on Puff-adder Brown’s part, ran his eye rapidly over the document.

“Just as I thought,” remarked Lane, addressing Tapinyani. “By this paper, if you sign it, you hand over practically the whole of your country, its timber, and any minerals there may be in it, to this man. The thing’s an impudent fraud, and I advise you to have nothing to do with it.” He spoke still in Sechuana, so that all the natives standing round understood him well. Puff-adder Brown, too, who was well versed in native dialects, perfectly comprehended his words.

Under the changed aspect of affairs, the man had seemed half irresolute. He had not expected this sudden appearance after the precautions he had taken, especially at the poisoned pool. But while Lane and the chief had rapidly exchanged words, his gorge had been steadily rising, his face took on a deeper and a darker red, and the great veins of his huge neck swelled in an extraordinary way. Well had he been christened Puff-adder Brown.

“Wait a bit, chief,” he blurted out in the native tongue. “These men are liars, every one of them. Don’t believe them, the swines! There is nothing in that paper you need be afraid to sign. Why, they are after a concession of land themselves.”

“Tapinyani,” rejoined Lane, “let me tell you something more about this man. He is a liar and a scamp, and worse. He cheated your friend, the chief Secheli, years ago. He fought against Mankoroane, and stole a lot of his cattle, and would have stolen his country if the English had not interfered. Take the word of an old friend, and have nothing to do with that paper.”

Puff-adder Brown made a motion as if to strike at the speaker, but Tapinyani just at this instant opening his mouth to speak, he stayed his hand.

“I will not sign the paper to-day,” said the chief. “I will think the matter over again. I will speak with my headmen, and we can meet again to-morrow.”

Puff-adder Brown’s face was ablaze with passion. He saw that his plans were now utterly wrecked, and he glared round upon the assembly as if seeking some object upon which to vent his rage. Probably Lane would have felt his first attack; but, as it happened, Joe Granton, his countenance spread in a broad grin of delight, stood nearest. Upon the instant the enraged man raised his arm, and dealt Joe a heavy back-handed blow in the mouth.

But it so happened that in Joe, Puff-adder Brown had attacked the most doughty opponent just now to be found near the tropic of Capricorn. Cockney though he was, Joe was a well-trained athlete, strong as a horse, and in hard condition. During his five years’ career in the City he had been a great boxer; for two years he had been middle-weight amateur champion; he had forgotten nothing of his smartness; and now, with that blow tingling in every nerve of his body, and the blood trickling from his nether lip, he turned instantly upon the big trader. Almost before the man knew it he had received Joe’s vicious doubled fist upon his right eye with a drive that sent stars and comets whirling before his vision. It was to be a fight, and the two men now faced each other and sparred for an opening.

“Keep back! keep back!” cried Lane.

The astonished Bakalahari people spread out, or rather retreated, into a wide circle, and the battle began.

Now, despite that ugly knock over the eye, Puff-adder Brown rather fancied himself in this affair of fists. He was big and bulky, and three good inches taller than his opponent; he could deal a sledge-hammer stroke now and again, such as had seldom failed to knock out quarrelsome Boer adversaries, and he was very mad.

He went for Joe Granton, therefore, with some alacrity, and lashed out heavily with his long arms and enormous fists. But whether in parrying, at long bowls, or at half-arm fighting, Joe was altogether too good for his adversary. Time after time he planted his blows with those ominous dull thuds upon the trader’s fleshy face; now and again he drove into the big man’s ribs with strokes that made him wince again. In the second bout, it is true, Joe was badly floored by a slinging round-arm drive; but he was quickly on his legs again, and, after a little sparring for wind, none the worse. Few of the Puff-adder’s infuriated hits, indeed, touched the mark. In seven minutes the big freebooter was a sight to behold. Blood streamed from his nose; his eyes were heavily visited; bumps and cuts showed freely upon his streaming countenance; his wind was going.

“Now, old chap,” whispered Hume Wheler to his friend, during a short pause for breath by the combatants, “you’ve done magnificently. You’ve got him on toast! Go in and win. It’s all up with the Puff-adder!”

There was only one more round. Brown was a beaten man, his muscles and wind were gone, and he had been severely punished. He at once closed. In some heavy, half-arm fighting, Joe, still quite fresh, put in some telling work. His fists rattled upon his opponent’s face and about his ribs. Finally, getting in a terrible rib-binder, he deprived his man of what little breath remained to him. The man staggered forward with his head down. Joe delivered one last terrible upper cut, and six feet of battered flesh lay in the dust at his feet, senseless, bleeding, and hopelessly defeated.

Meanwhile the natives had been looking on upon a contest the like of which they had never before seen. Their “ughs!” and ejaculations indicated pretty correctly their astonishment. Chief Tapinyani seemed rather pleased than otherwise. For a mild Bakalahari he was a bit of a fighting man himself – with his native weapons. Under Lane’s directions Puff-adder Brown was carried to his own wagon, and there revived with cold water, washed, and put to rights. After he had, by aid of strong applications of brandy and water somewhat recovered his shattered senses, Lane gave him a little sound advice. He warned him to clear out of the place by next day. He told him that after the vile poisoning incident at the fountain – an attempt which might very well have murdered a whole expedition – any return to British Bechuanaland would result in his instant arrest. And he finally gave him to understand that any act of treachery or revenge would be carefully watched and instantly repelled by force. His advice was taken to heart. During the night the discomfited filibuster trekked from the place, and took himself off to a part of the distant interior, where, to broken and dangerous scoundrels, a career is still open.

During the next few days the wagon and oxen were got safely to the town, and some progress was made in preliminary negotiations for a concession to Lane and his party. Finally, at the close of a week, after the endless discussion and argument so dear to the native African, Tapinyani set his royal mark, duly attested and approved by the headmen and elders of his tribe, to a grant of 300,000 acres of pastoral land – part of that huge and unexplored tract of country over which he hunted and nominally held sway. The considerations for this grant were a yearly payment of 100 pounds, a dozen Martini-Henry rifles with suitable ammunition, a “salted” horse worth 90 pounds, six bottles of French brandy, a suit of store clothes, a case of Eau de Cologne, and a quantity of beads and trinkets. These terms may, to the uninitiated mind, seem not highly advantageous to the native side; yet, measured by the considerations in other and far vaster South African concessions in recent years, and remembering that the land granted was at present waterless, remote, and almost totally unexplored, they were fair and equitable.

This business settled, Tapinyani now turned his thoughts to the trial of his new horse and rifles. He had once possessed an old broken-down nag, bought from a swindling Namaqua Hottentot, and he knew a little of guns and gunnery. But he was unskilled in the use of either. His people badly wanted giraffe hides for making sandals and for barter; the animals were plentiful in the open forests a day or two north of the town; they must have a big hunt forthwith.

Accordingly, the horses having, meanwhile, under the influence of Kaffir corn, plenty of water, and a good rest, recovered some of their lost condition, a day or two later the hunting party sallied forth. Keen Masarwa Bushmen, half famished and dying for a gorge of flesh, trotted before the horsemen as spoorers; while well in the rear a cloud of Tapinyani’s people hovered in the like hope of meat and hides. For a whole day the party rode northward into the desert; they found no giraffe, but spoor was plentiful, and they camped by a tiny limestone fountain with high hopes for the morrow. At earliest streak of dawn they were up and preparing for the chase. Tapinyani was stiff and sore from unaccustomed horse exercise, yet he had plenty of pluck, and, clad in his canary-yellow, brand-new, store suit of cords, climbed gaily to the saddle.

In an hour they were on fresh spoor of “camel”; a troop had fed quite recently through the giraffe-acacia groves; and the whispering Bushmen began to run hot upon the trail. Just as the great red disk of sun shot up clear above the rim of earth, they emerged upon a broad expanse of plain, yellow with long waving grass. Save for an odd camel-thorn tree here and there, it was open for some three miles, until checked again by a dark-green belt of forest. Half a mile away in their front, slouching leisurely across the flat with giant strides, moved a troop of nine tall giraffe – a huge dark-coloured old bull, towering above the rest, four or five big cows, and some two-year-old calves. Well might the hearts of the two younger Englishmen beat faster, and their palates grow dry and parched. Neither had seen giraffes in the wild state before, and here at last was a towering old bull, whose tail, if it could but be secured, would amply satisfy Kate Manning’s commands. Hume Wheler meant killing that giraffe, more, probably, from a feeling of natural rivalry than anything else. Joe Granton had at heart a much deeper interest in the chase. He was in truth in very serious earnest about Kate Manning; the coveted trophy might mean all the world for him.

The four men set their horses going at a sharp gallop, and had run two hundred yards before the tall game had spied them. Here, unluckily, Tapinyani’s horse put its foot in a hole, came down with a crash, and sent its rider flying yards upon the veldt. His loaded rifle, carried, native fashion, at full cock, exploded, and the startled giraffes glancing round saw danger, and instantly broke into their ludicrous rolling gallop. Up and down their long necks flailed the air, in strange machine-like unison with their gait; quickly they were in full flight, going great guns for the shelter of the forest ahead of them. Now the three Englishmen rammed in spurs, set their teeth, and raced their nags at their hardest. To kill “camel” there is only one method. You must run up to them (if you can) at top speed in the first two or three miles of chase, else they will outstay you and escape. Force the giraffe beyond his pace, and he is yours.

But in this instance the dappled giants had too long a start. The ponies were not at their best, and the forest sanctuary lay now only two miles beyond the quarry. Ride as they would, the hunters could not make up their lee-way in the distance. Once in the woodlands the giraffes would have much the best of it. The two clouds of dust raised by pursued and pursuers rose thick upon the clear morning air, and steadily neared the forest fringe. Now the giraffe are only two hundred yards from their sanctuary, the lighter cows, running ahead, rather less. The horsemen are still nearly three hundred yards in rear of the nearest of the troop. “Jump off, lads, and shoot!” roars Tom Lane, as he reins up his nag suddenly, springs off, and puts up his rifle. The other two men instantly follow his example. Two barrels are fired by Lane, but the distance is great, that desperate gallop has made him shaky, and his bullets go wide.

Hume Wheler, quicker down from his horse than his friend, fires next at the old bull, lagging last; he, too, misses clean, and shoves another cartridge into his single sporting Martini. But now even the old bull is close upon the forest, into whose depths the rest of the troop are disappearing, and he, too, is within easy hail of safety. Before Hume can fire again, Joe Granton has put up his sight for 350 yards and aimed full; he draws a deep breath, pulls trigger, and in the next instant the great dark chestnut bull falls prone to the earth, and lies there very still. Never again shall he stalk the pleasant Kalahari forests never again stretch upward that slender neck to pluck the young acacia leafage!

“My God, Joe! you’ve killed him,” gasped Hume Wheler.

“Bravo!” chimed in Tom Lane, wiping his brow; “whether you fluked him or not, it was a wonderful shot. You’ve got Kate Manning’s tail right enough.”

Now Joe, it must be frankly admitted, was not a good shot; either of his friends could give him points in the ordinary way. Here was an extraordinary stroke of luck! Speechless with delight, flushed of face, and streaming with sweat, his eyes still fixed upon the piece of grass where the bull had gone down, he mounted his horse and galloped up. The others followed in more leisurely fashion. Joe was quickly by the side of the great dappled giraffe. Taking off and waving his hat, he turned his face to his friends and gave a loud hurrah. Then, first whipping out his hunting-knife and cutting off the long tail by the root, he sat himself down upon the dead beast’s shoulder to await their coming. At that instant a strange resurrection happened. Whether roused to life again by the sharp severing of its tail, or by a last desperate stirring of nature, the giraffe – not yet dead after all – rose suddenly from its prone position, and, with Joe clinging in utter bewilderment to its long neck, staggered to its stilt-like legs. For another instant the great creature beat the air in its real death-agony, staggered, staggered again, and then, with a crash that shook the earth, fell truly dead. In that terrible fall Joe Granton was hurled upon his head, and, as his comrades rode anxiously up, lay there apparently as void of life as his gigantic quarry. In his hand he still clutched desperately the tail upon which he had so firmly set his mind.

From the shock of that fall Joe Granton sustained heavy concussion of the brain, and had to be carried with much care and difficulty back to Tapinyani’s town. Hume Wheler, with infinite solicitude and care, superintended this operation, while Lane stayed out another two days in the veldt and shot three giraffe for the chief and his people. Hume Wheler himself had the satisfaction of bringing down his first and a good many more “camels” at a subsequent period.

A fortnight’s careful nursing at Tapinyani’s restored Joe Granton to something like his normal health. In due time the expedition returned, after a tedious and even dangerous trek, to Vryburg.

Whether it was, in truth, the coveted giraffe’s tail that settled the business; whether it was the dangerous accident Joe had suffered in her behalf; or whether Kate Manning had not for some time before had a tender corner in her heart for Joe Granton, is scarcely of consequence. Certain it is that, not long after the presentation of the precious trophy, a question that Joe put to Kate was answered in a way that made him extravagantly happy.

The members of the Tapinyani syndicate sold their concession very well during a boom in the South African market, and Joe Granton’s share enabled him to set up cattle ranching in handsome fashion. He and his wife live very happily on a large farm given to them as a portion by Mr Manning. Here they have made a very charming home of their own. The great black switch tail of the bull giraffe hangs on the dining-room wall, plain evidence of the curious romance in which it had been involved.

Hume Wheler, who, with Tom Lane, occasionally drops in upon them during his periodical trips from the interior, often chaffs his old friends upon that celebrated trophy. “Ah! Mrs Joe,” he says, on one of these occasions, as he takes one of her two youngsters on his knee and looks up at the tail. “Your husband captured you by a magnificent accident. There never was a bigger fluke in this world than when the old fraud knocked over that big ‘camel.’”

Chapter Nine.

Vrouw Van Vuuren’s Frenchman

It was not until the second time I stayed with him that old Cornelis Van Vuuren began to open his heart, and to pour fitfully into my ears, from the rich storehouse of his memory, many a strange tale of veldt life. I had been fortunate enough to render some little service to a son of the Van Vuurens, far up in the hunting veldt; and these kindly, if somewhat uncouth, South African Dutch folk do not lightly forget such matters. When I passed through the Orange Free State on my way to Natal, in the year 1880, I stayed for a night at the Van Vuurens’ farm. The good people received me with the greatest hospitality, and Cornelis pressed me to stay longer. I was unable to do so at that time; but later, on my way up-country, I outspanned at Nooitgedacht, and stayed several nights.

That name, Nooitgedacht (never give in), bestowed years ago upon the farm, well indicates the strong and stubborn character of old Cornelis Van Vuuren, its owner. There were some springboks and blesboks running on the place – remnants of those mighty herds of game which formerly blackened the Free State plains.

During the daytime I shot a few head of buck – I wanted some blesbok heads as specimens – and at evening, after supper, as we sat out beneath the warm starlight, Cornelis would open up, and yarn to me in a way that, until you know him well, the Boer seldom manifests to the rooinek (Literally, Red-neck – a Boer name for Englishmen).

What experiences the old man had had! In his youth he had been a great hunter, and had followed the elephants far into the interior before Gordon Cumming’s time. In those days ivory was plentiful throughout the north of the Transvaal. Many and many a rich load of tusks had Cornelis brought down-country. One of the first to penetrate into the Sabi River country and Gazaland, he had reaped a rich reward. So well had he done, that by 1863 he had practically retired from the hunting veldt, having amassed enough money and cattle to settle down on one of the best farms in the Free State. Here, at the time I knew him, he was living in a roomy, comfortable farmhouse – one of the best Dutch homesteads I have entered. Groves of fruit trees flourished round about; the well-tilled “lands” grew enough grain for a pastoral farmer’s needs; upon the 10,000 acre run large herds of cattle, sheep, goats, and horses flourished. Most of the children had grown up, and been duly married off long since. Only Franz Van Vuuren, the youngest son, whom I had met up-country, now lived with his parents.

By the second evening, as we sat at supper, old Cornelis and I had become fast friends. The old man knew from his son that I had shot pretty successfully in Mashonaland; and, in the old Dutch fashion, his simple soul went out at once to a hunter – especially to one who had done Franz a kindly turn. It was a warm evening in November. Vrouw Van Vuuren – a broad-faced, white-haired, portly old dame, still keen-eyed, brisk and sharp with her native servants – sat at the head of the table, endued with a clean print gown and her best black silk apron in honour of my coming. In front of her stood the great coffee urn. Her capacious feet, enveloped in soft velschoens, rested, spite of the warmth of the African evening, upon one of those curious chafing stools – a footstool filled with hot embers – so common in Boer houses. Franz sat at one side of the table, I at the other. Old Cornelis was at the top. I see him now in memory as he stood reverently pouring forth one of those long Dutch prayers, without which no good Boer will begin his meal. He was a magnificent old fellow, far better looking than the average run of Free State or Transvaal Boers. Cornelis Van Vuuren stood a good six feet in his velschoens, and, although now seventy years of age, was still erect and strong as an ancient oak. His thick masses of white hair – not too well trimmed – and his snowy beard well set off his strong, massive features. And the old man’s bright blue eye – merry, alert, and penetrating – showed that the fire of life still burned strong within that great old frame. Well might he be called by his fellows, “Sterk Cornelis” (strong Cornelis). I had often heard of the old man’s reputation far up in the interior – of his clear courage and unflagging resource; for Cornelis had been in many a tight place, whether in hunting or in native wars. Few men, even among the great English hunters, had been more reliable at need, whether facing an infuriated bull elephant, or standing up to a wounded and snarling lion – two of the most dangerous foes, I take it, that a man may expect to confront in Africa.

As we sat at the evening meal, the pretty Cape swallows, in their handsome livery of blue-black and rufous, flitted in and out of the chamber, through door or open window, hawking incessantly at the plague of flies, or sitting sometimes upon the top of the open door, cheeping their brief, cheerful song. As in many Boer houses, the Van Vuurens had fitted up, for cleanliness’ sake, directly under the swallows’ nests, which were fastened between the central roof timber and the reed thatch, immediately over the table, a broad, square, flat piece of wood. Thus the swallows never trouble the farmer; and, in return for a kindly toleration, the pretty, tame creatures do their best to rid the homesteads of those plagues of flies which are found at most cattle kraals near a Dutchman’s house. Sometimes I have seen the little, confiding creatures, as old Cornelis sat outside upon the stoep, with legs comfortably outstretched, stoop for an instant upon his shoe, and, like lightning, pick off some fly that had rested there.