Tales from the Veld

“How did you know it was the elephant you wanted?”

“How did I know! ’Cos I seed, that’s how, by the size of his hoofs and the plain writin’ that he’d only one tusk, same as my bull. That’s how! Friday I up and follered ag’in afore sunrise, and I tell yer I hadn’t gone mor’n half-an-hour before I diskivered that he were follerin’ me. Yes. I were standin’ to listen, and I yeard the rumbling of his stummick. I yeard it plain – and jes’ crawled along so’s not to crush so much as a dry leaf. I yeard that rumble ag’in – but blow me if I could see him, an’ I crawled an’ crawled, poking the big gun afore till the sweat it run down my back. There was the spoor and there was the rumble, but – there was no elephant. I began to feel shivery, and looked over my shoulder like a man does in the dark, and – by gosh! – I seed that red diamon’ gleamin’ out of the leaves behind me. An’ jes’ below it and on each side were two other gleamin’ objects – the eyes of the bull hisself. Well, he giv’ a scream, I rolled over – an’ the next I yeard he were thundering by, smashing down the trees and yelling out most horrible. Abe Pike didn’t stop there, I tell you. He jest sneaked off, and when he yeard the bull stand – which was plain to hear from the stillness – Abe he stopped to. I did that.”

“Why didn’t you go back and shoot him?”

“Sonny, you never had a railway engine runnin’ arter you, did you? Well, you try, and then settle with yourself whether your nerves would be worth much for a spell. No, sir; I didn’t go back to shoot him, but I found the biggest yellow-wood and I climbed up. That’s what I did, and that bull he found out. Yes, sir, he picked up my scent and he tree’d me. But, by gum, d’ye think he’d show hisself? No, gentlemen, he jes’ kep’ away in the thick o’ the bush, goin’ roun’ and roun’ an’ stopping sometimes for a blow. Once I saw the sparkle of the diamon’, when he was doin’ a spell o’ listenin’ and watchin’, and I pulled straight at it. I hit him hard, the ole cuss, an’ he fetched a yell an’ went smashin’ off. The sound o’ him runnin’ away did me good. I loaded up and picked up the blood-trail, and was goin’ so hot on that that I’m blowed if I didn’t a’most run inter him. I were slippin’ along, and from the corner of my eye I saw the point of his tusk on my left. The ole chap had turned on his spoor; but his tusk saved me, for I dodged roun’ a big tree and brought the gun up. D’ye think he’d charge? He jes’ slipped back by inches and stole away as silent as a hare, whiles I had my eyes gummed on the thick cover where he’d stood. He jes’ slipped away and made a circle to come on me from the rear. He did that, and if I hadn’t edged away to see better inter the cover he’d a nabbed me – for bymby I saw he’d gone, and on follering on the spoor I seed where he’d turned back. I tell you that gave me the creeps, and I made off for a small krantz near by where there’s a stream. I crawled inter a cave there and went off ter sleep, because of the tiredness in my bones; and Saturday mornin’ I woke up hungry an’ stiff in the j’ints, and I laid off for the camp. Blow me, if that blamed bull hadn’t been there ag’in. The kettle were clean gone this time, and all the other things was smashed to nothing – so there wasn’t a smell, let ’lone a mouthful. I were that savage I jes’ went hot-foot on the old boomer’s spoor ag’in, an’ this time he were travellin’. He went straight on for fifteen miles, over the ridge, inter a deep kloof – where he laid in grub – and then set off, nose on, for another five mile towards Alicedale, where he had a bathe in a pool. All this time I hadn’t seen even the flap of his ears, and I were still on his spoor, when I just flung myself inter a hump o’ grass and chawed on to a stick o’ biltong. Then I went to sleep, ’cos I couldn’t keep my eyes skinned, but the morning cold woke me in the small hours, and the fust thing I seed were a blazing eye looking at me outer the dark. It sparkled and flickered and blinked, with the red heart of it contractin’ an’ expandin’. In the drowsiness I lay there, thinkin’ ’twas the mornin’ star, when I yeard the rumble of a elephant’s inside, an’ I knew that ole bull were a standing over me; maybe had been standin’ there for hours waitin’ for me to wake so’s he could enjoy seein’ me shake.

“Afraid! Well, I think so. And the shakes went scooting up an’ down my backbone, an’ my heart nearly stopped and I could skasely breathe. Then I felt about for my gun with one hand, then with the other, and then with each foot; but, by gosh! the wepin weren’t there, an’ the cole chills were chasing each other up an’ down my bones, an’ the ole bull laafed in his stummick, while that busted red diamond glowered at me. I thought o’ poor ole Harkins flattened out, an’ I jest pulled the plug outer the powder-horn, then I got out the flint an’ steel, an’ lay there watching the outline of the ole cuss come clearer an’ clearer out of the darkness an’ saw the shine of his wicked little eyes. He laafed in his stummick ag’in, and the coil of his trunk came out. I got the flint ready over the powder, and the stir of my body made him suspicious. His big ears went out like sails, and he made a step forrard. Then I struck with the steel, an’ turned over on my back. He brought his trunk down ‘ker – whack,’ on my sitting place, rolling me over an’ over – and when I rubbed the dust outer my eyes I yeard him smashin’ through the trees. The puff and flame of the powder must ha’ skeered him bad, but I didn’t wait beyond a second to search for my gun, and I seed the stock one side of a tree and the barrel bent up a yard away. He had moved it away, and were waitin’ for me to wake. Then I lit out for the water an’ hid away. That was Saturday. On Sunday I took the back tracks, without a wepin or anythin’, and blow me ef that bull didn’t reg’lar hunt me. He did that, an’ in the afternoon he caught me up and druv me inter a big tree. I jes’ managed to reach the first bough when, ker-blunk, he came up ag’inst it an’ nearly shook me off. By gum! the way that bull went on was a caution. He let off steam through his nose, stamped his feet, dug his tusk in the ground, twisted his little tail, and butted that tree till its roots heaved up the ground. In his walk he wore down a circle as big as a cattle kraal, smashin’ all the trees down, and trampling the leaves and branches and trunks inter a mass. And every now and then he’d wheel round and come smash ag’inst my tree till he started the wound in his forehead where my bullet struck, an’ the blood poured down his face. I never seed such wickedness an’ temper, never, and I crawled up to the top branch, for the sight of him made me queer. All through that Sunday afternoon he kep’ up that smash-jamble, an’ in the night he fetched up some water outer his stummick an’ washed his face; then, with that diamon’ shinin’ red outer the dark, he stood there, still as a rock, keeping guard. That night I went empty in my head, an’ got back my senses in starts when I were slippin’. In the mornin’ I jest gave him my trousers.

“It was a inspiration, that’s what. A flash came inter my brain from the blue sky, an’ I gave him my trousers. Lor’, the scream he gave when he fell on ’em, trampled ’em, knelt on ’em, jabbed his tusk inter ’em, and then danced ’em outer sight through the mass o’ leaves into the yearth beneath. Then he kep’ on going away and comin’ back with a rush, till I got giddy, and fin’ly jest slithered to the ground. That time he didn’t come back, and I krept away outer the Addo bush, living on roots and leaves like a animile. That’s so. I got on a Wednesday to a Kaffir clearing, most like a wild beast, all kivered with ticks and sores.”

“And what became of the diamond?”

“Well, the Abe Pike Diamon’ Mining Company went to smash. That diamond’s still in the Addo bush, and if any o’ you would like to float the company I’m not sure but I wouldn’t jine you again. I guess that ole bull’s a hundred an’ fifty years old, an’ maybe he’s not so blamed active. So long!”

Chapter Twenty Four

How Abe lost his Water Barrel

Abe Pike was laying a new floor to his shed. He had at last, after many years, brought that wonderful structure to some semblance of a covered shelter, and now he was stamping down the red earth taken from ant-hills. This earth makes a firm floor, as it binds well and grows harder from use.

“Yes, sonny,” said the old man, “when animiles or insecks take a work in hand they do it better’n men. See this yer earth. Well, every grain of it’s been worked up by the jaws of a ant, and covered with a nateral mortar. It’s been all milled month in and month out, mostly after a fall o’ rain, each tiny pellet mined out o’ the smoking ground and carried by the little chaps way up the tunnels out inter the sunlight and glued to its place on the risin’ mound. An’ in the buildin’ of the dome them critturs don’t forget the chopped straw, and when they’ve carried their temple high above the groun’ they don’t forget, too, to narrow the circle till they come to the finishin’ peak. Yes, sir, I tell you, there’s more wonder in one of em ord’nary ant-hills than there is in the biggest cathedral ever built, an’ yet here I be spreading the remains of such works over the floor of this yer shed.”

“But ants always keep to the same designs, Abe.”

“Not they. In diffrent countries they have diffrent kinds o’ hills; but when they find the sort that’s best fitted for the climate they sticks to it, which is morn men do. No, sonny; the animiles an’ the insecks know what they start out to learn without goin’ to school for sixteen years, same as some young ones do that I know of, and then can’t tell a field of wheat from a barley crop. As for me, I’ve had no schooling; but I know how to do what I want to do.”

“How long have you been over this shed, Abe?”

“Lemme see. I laid the fust pole at the time of the big drought, maybe thirty years ago.”

“And when it’s finished?”

“Finished!” Abe left off stamping the red earth, and looked around with a strange expression. “I ain’t goin’ to finish it, sonny; no, what’s the use? When I begun that shed Abe Pike were a young man, and I seed under the roof of it when the work were done sacks o’ yellow wheat, piled up. The lands were young, I had a team o’ young oxen, there were young cows in the kraal, a good flock o’ sheep, an’ a crop of hopes in my head. That were thirty years ago, sonny, an’ the shed ain’t finished yet, and the cows is dead, the lands are poor, and Abe Pike don’t hope no more. I ain’t goin’ to finish this yer shed, not me; it’s all that holds me together. There’s a man buried in this yer shed.”

“What!”

“Yes, lad, that’s so. Young Abe is here – in the four corners, and under the ground, an’ in the roof, and the sides. Yes, young Abe hisself, an’ his sorrows, an’ his hopes, an’ his pride and laziness. I’ve worked him in these thirty years in loneliness, with the sound of the sea groanin’ in the air, an’ the hills lookin’ on, and the sky stretched abuv, workin’ him in slowly with nery an eye to watch, and what’s lef of him is this yer sun-dried karkus that’s standing afore you. That’s all.”

Abe Pike straightened himself and looked round at the drab veld, the grey hills, and the dark of the kloof where the forest trees were massed. Then he rested his hands on the handle of his stamper, and, so standing, gazed with a vacant expression before him, and watching him I seemed to see a long line of shadowy reflections of him, standing so with the same fixed look fastened on the empty veld. The hollow booming of the great waves solemnly breaking in endless succession alone broke the heavy silence.

“Did ever anything come out of the sea, Abe?” I asked, idly, as I gazed, like him, in a sort of spell, scarcely knowing what I meant.

“A many things,” said he, without moving. “Yes, sonny,” he continued, after a long pause; “a many, many things. When the evenin’ wind comes off the sea, and I been a-sittin’ outside the door, listenin’ to the waves and the different voices of ’em all blendin’, with now and ag’in a mighty bass note from the biggest of the seven brothers, as he rolled his shining crest – I’ve seed things come over the randt yonder, seed ’em come an’ melt away, often an’ often.”

“What things?”

“All manner o’ things, sonny; but I allow you won’t see ’em, as you ain’t had the trainin’. Night after night, year in year out, you must sit alone listenin’ in the stillness, and maybe you’ll year the voices I year an’ see what I see. But you couldn’t go through it – no, sonny! I bin frightened many a time so that I’ve got up and fetched the gun to make a noise – yes, that’s so; for there’s some things you can’t see, only feel, an’ they hard to bear. I seed a little boy once. Maybe he was young Abe Pike afore I knew him. A little chap with brown legs an’ curly hair an’ big eyes. He came drifting over the randt outer the sea, when its waves was jes’ murmuring sof and low, and I yeard him laugh as I watched him come, thinking he were a wild fowl. He lighted over there where that railed-in moss is a-growin’ – see how green it is in the dry of the yearth. That’s where his little naked feet touched the ground, and where he stood eyeing me with his big eyes and a sort o’ dew on his forehead where the curls came down. Then he laughed, and with his head on one side he came up to my knee an’ looked up at me. Yes, a little chap; an’ he came outer the sea to ole Abe Pike, sitting lonely out there on the door-step. Maybe if I’d a married I might a’ had a son like that, for he seemed to b’long to me, as he eyed me with a smile. Only onct he came, only onct; but, sonny, I feel the touch of his hands now, an’ by that touch I know I will meet him ag’in. He may a bin young Abe afore I knew him come back to see what I’d made o’ him, an’ but for the smile on his face I’d think he were grieved to see what a blamed failure I’d made outer him. Many a time I watched for him. Yes, sonny; I’ve sat in the quiet of the afternoon, listenin’ to the sea, and when I year the murmuring same as then I look for that little chap to come floatin’ up over the randt, an’ I keep the moss there wet when I have to go without water to drink in the drought. You ain’t laughing?”

“No, Abe, no. One of these wretched flies has got into my eye.”

“I made a boat for the little chap, ’gainst he came again, and a fishin’ line, and a reed pipe. We could ’a played many games together, him and me, but he only came onct.” Abe turned his face to the sea and stared wistfully. He was not yarning now, and I wondered at him.

“Yes,” he said; “I could a showed him many a bird’s nest if he’d a come, but maybe the white woman has kep’ him away. She’s bin here off an’ on for maybe six years. She came outer the sea, too, footin’ her way through the air – comin’ like a cloud or one o’ these big sea-birds that sails on the wind without a flap of his long, narrer wings. White, my sonny! – I never seed anythin’ so white, not even the sails o’ a ship with the sun on, or the inside o’ one o’ them shells folk use for tooth powder. She comes on me all o’ a sudden, and all I see is the gleam o’ her eyes – then she’s gone, leavin’ me here with my heart beatin’. Maybe she looks after the little ones, for when she comes there’s a queer noise in the waves over yonder ’s if a heap o’ girls were at play. Oh, yes; many things come outer the sea besides fish an’ otter an’ sich like – many things, sonny; an’ when I’m buildin’ this yer shed I stop workin’ to look for their comin’. Of late I bin expectin’ somethin’ mor’n ord’nary, but it ain’t come. Yes, I bin waitin’ for that little chap to take me by the hand. Got any tabak?”

I handed over the pouch, and saw that Abe had come out of the spell that had been on him.

“That water bar’l o’ mine’s all broken up.”

“How was that?”

“I’ll tell you how it happened. The dry weather druv the field-rats to the bar’l for water, which they fetched out by dipping their tails in. Many a time I seed ’em at it, an’ it weren’t long before a ringhals spotted the performance; so what’s he do but get inter the water, tail fust, through the bung, and watch for the rats to come an’ drink. My! He guv me a schreik when I went for a drink an’ saw his eyes gleamin’ up outer the green bough I poked in the hole to cool the water an’ prevent it shakin’ out. I lef him there, for I couldn’t see how to fetch him out; but, whiles I were sittin’ quiet in the evenin’, waitin’ for him to crawl out, up came along a percession of rats, with a ole grey-whiskered chap leading. He took a look at me, movin’ his nose, but I kep’ still, and he reared hisself against the bar’l. Next rat he run up, and the next over the two of ’em, till the third got over the swell of the bar’l and scooted to the bung-hole, backed round and popped in his tail, unsuspicious of that vicious crittur inside. Nex’ minit that rat were hollering out blue murder, for the snake grabbed him by the tail, and the other rats, they jes’ lit out for hum. Well, that snake he let go, but the rat he jes’ curled up and fell down in a kickin’ fit. Then the ringhals crawled out – the ugly five feet length o’ livin’ death – and there and then gorged the rat. Well, I let him be. Snakes is bad, and rats is bad. I let him be, and three days arter there were the blamed ringhals in my bar’l again. Blow me, if the same performance didn’t happen over ag’in, and some days arter I seed that partickler tribe o’ rats was gettin’ smaller, and, believe me, sonny, that ringhals had guv the news to another snake, for one evenin’ I seed two o’ their wicked-lookin’ heads jes’ inside the bung on the twigs. I were watchin’ for the tragedy – same as us’al – when – same as us’al – up come that ole grey chap on his own hook. He came to the bar’l, and sat up on his behind legs like a hare, twiddling his moustaches and twisting his nose. Then he backed off, and give a whopping spring, which landed him on a swell of the bar’l. Well, he weren’t takin’ any water, he weren’t; oh, no! He jes’ walked on his hind legs and took a peep inter the bung-hole. I guess he seed something, for he turned a back sumersault, jes’ as a vicious head came with a hiss at him. Well, I tell you that ole chap he scooted off, squeaking like a forty-shillin’ kettle. I sat there laughin’ at the skeer of that ’ere rat, but, by gum! I soon dropped grinnin’, for up along came the ole feller ag’in with a ’ole lot o’ rats behind him. When they drew near he gave them the word to stop, whiles he examined the bar’l all round. Then he spoke a few words, and the entire gang they went to the lower side of the bar’l and began to scratch away the yearth. Yes, sir, that’s what they done. They scratched away the yearth. Then the ole chap guv another word, an’ they got roun’ on the top side o’ the bar’l. Then they begun to shuv.”

“Nonsense!”

“I tell you; them rats they jist put their backs ag’in the bar’l and shuved for all they were worth; but ’twarn’t no go. They was too light. D’ye think they guv up the job – not they! The ole chap led ’em roun’ the bottom side, and they set to scraping more yearth away till the bar’l were almost undermined. Then roun’ they came ag’in, all squeaking, and one of the snakes popped his head out ter see what the noise were about. Nex’ minute he’d a’ bin among ’em, but the ’ole parcel o’ rats, maybe one hundred, guv another mighty shuv, and ’fore I could start up to prevent it that bar’l gave a list over, and then started. Once it started it jes’ flew down the slope, and went to pieces at the bottom with a smash. The snake that were hangin’ out were flattened dead, and the way them rats fell on his body were a caution. They were tearin’ it to pieces when, bilin’ with rage an’ hissin’ most furious, up came the other riptile. The rats then scooted – that’s so!”

Chapter Twenty Five

Abe Pike Scouting

“Yes!” said Abe, one afternoon, after he had been helping threshin’ wheat; “these newfangled machines bin smashing up all the good old customs that were the salt of country life. This yer thresher of yours may get through the sheaves with a lot of dust an’ rattle an’ smoke, but give me the old floor, an’ the oxen tramping out the ear, an’ the neighbours coming to the supper. Oh, yes! the old customs they brought the people together and made ’em soshiable and talk. Lor’ bless you, there ain’t no talking nowadays – only grunting.”

“Is that so?” said I, as I brushed the dust from my eyes.

“It are. No one talks now, ’cos of these yer machines, which does everything. Why, blow me! you can shoot a man with these new guns without ever seeing him.”

“I don’t know that it is any more satisfaction for the man shot to die with the knowledge that he knows who shot him.”

“Well, I do know. Take these yer talking machines I year on. What’s the good squeaking through a machine to a man, or maybe a girl, in the nex’ street when you can’t see the eyes of her, or the shape of her lips, or the expression, without which talking’s no account. Look here, sonny, you listen to what I tell you; these yer machines goin’ to turn out people same as pins, all o’ one pattern.”

“You’re a great talker yourself, Abe?”

“I’m not talking when I ain’t got nothin’ to say. When I seed the Colonel of the 94th up by Pluto’s Vale – ‘Who the blazes are you,’ he said, ‘and where the devil you come from?’ – I weren’t saying much, but I took a pull at his black bottle. He were one of the ole sort were the Colonel – grey an’ peppery, an’ stiff in the upper lip ’s if his face bin fixed in a iron mask. That’s the sort of man he were. ‘The Kaffirs is laying a trap for you,’ I said to him. ‘They darn’t do it,’ he said. ‘Lay a trap for the 94th! I never yeard o’ sich blamed impertinence,’ he said, twisting his grey moustaches, an’ glaring at me’s if I’d insulted him. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘if yure too proud to take advice, go an’ walk inter the trap like a blunderin’ porkipine, an’ you’ll get stuck full o’ assegais,’ I said. ‘You’re too free with your tongue,’ he said, gettin’ red in the face; so I walked out, but bymby he came over to where I sot by the fire, an’ he sot down ’longside o’ me. He talked an’ I ate, but at last he up an’ came to the point. ‘Can you scout?’ he said. ‘Mejum,’ says I. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a mejum scout with me. What I want is a fust-class scout.’ Well, sonny, I jes’ lit my pipe and took a puff. He looked at me under his eyebrows. ‘My scout tells me the Kaffirs have retreated,’ he said. ‘Soh!’ says I, and went on smoking. ‘Yes,’ says he, gettin’ angry aller a sudden, ‘and you’ve been giving me false news for the sake of getting a reward.’ Well, I jes’ pulled up my sleeve and showed him where I’d been stabbed. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, and riz up to go back to his tent. ‘Colonel,’ says I, laying hold of his sash, ‘if you want me to scout I’ll scout, and you can send a man along with me.’ ‘Leave to-morrer,’ he said, ‘if you feel well enough;’ and he marched off jes’ as stiff an’ unconcerned ’s if he’d asked me to supper. Soon after a young chap came up to my fire. ‘I’ve received orders to go on scout duty with you,’ he said, eyeing me up an’ down ’s if I’d been some kur’ous kind o’ inseck. ‘When do we start?’ says I. ‘Oh, furst thing in the morning, if you’re awake.’ ‘Oh!’ says I, ‘so’s the Kaffirs can see us?’ ‘There ain’t no Kaffirs,’ says he; ‘’t any rate I ain’t seen any.’ ‘I’m startin’ at midnight,’ I says, and with that turned over to sleep. Well, at midnight I woke up and prepared to leave, thinking that young fellow wouldn’t be about. But, blow me, there he were, sitting by the fire watching me. ‘I’m ready,’ he said, standin’ up. ‘What for?’ ‘Why, to scout, of course’ ‘Orright,’ says I; ‘take off that sword then, and that white hat, and that red coat. You ain’t anxious for the Kaffirs to see us furst, are you?’ He jes’ opened his mouth to cheek me; then he ran off, and bymby he came back without them things, with a grey shirt and soft hat. ‘Is that right?’ he said, fetching a grin. I jes’ nodded, an’ off we stepped inter the dark of the night. Slipping by the sentries without givin’ ’em good evenin’, we marched along outer the side of the valley where the camp were pitched to where it narrowed into a poort, between big krantzes, with a kloof running down on the left side. By sunrise we were on the divide between the poort and the nex’ valley, jest about where the road led over the neck ahead of the troops. We took cover and looked around. ‘There’s a Kaffir,’ said I, ‘over yonder on that rock above the far krantz, watching the camp.’ The young chap fetched a laugh. ‘That Kaffir,’ said he, ‘is a vidette, and there’s a whole string of ’em on the heights. None of the enemy can get inter the poort without being seen.’ Well, this was up against me, an’ I kep’ quiet, looking away down inter the next valley where the road track twisted along the steep aside of the thick bush. ‘That’s the place for an ambush,’ said the young chap, ‘down in that ravine. If there are any Kaffirs about they will be there. Let us go down.’ I jes’ sot there watchin’, an’ bymby he began to fidget; then he up an’ tole me that if I would not scout, he would. ‘There’s no Kaffirs in the far valley,’ I said. ‘I’m tired of you,’ he said, in one o’ them sort o’ drawn tones that always reminds me o’ a sword glinting out o’ the scabbard; ‘I came out to scout, not to lie in cover; you may stay here by yourself; I’m going inter the valley below.’ I nearly got angry, but then I thought what’s the use, so I jest explained matters. ‘There’s no Kaffirs down there,’ says I, ‘but there is Kaffirs down here in the poort in that big kloof, an’, what’s more, them pickets o’ yours will be assegaied before long. I’ll tell you why. See them birds flying over that kloof? They’ve been startled, an’, what’s more, when they settled jest now they started off ag’in on a new flight, an’, what’s more, I seed a jackal an’ a ram slip away over the rise. That’s good enough for me, an’ when it’s dark I’ll slip back to the camp to tell the Colonel.’ ‘Are you sure?’ he said, lookin’ at me hard. ‘Certain,’ I said. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘we must go back to the Colonel at once.’