The Outspan: Tales of South Africa

He scowled at a younger member of the party who was standing by chewing a stem of grass and looking down across the Crocodile and Hlambanyati valleys.

“What did the Swazie boy say?” asked another, turning readily on the youngster as the convenient scapegoat.

The younger one answered good-temperedly:

“He said that the White Induna was on the Maconchwa, near the first water that came out of the white rock.”

“Maconchwa!” snarled the leader, “why, it’s twenty miles long! The whole damned range is Maconchwa. Any idiot might be expected to know that.”

“Yes, that’s why I didn’t offer to explain,” said the younger one.

The thrust passed unnoticed, and while a general indaba was going on the last speaker moved to the same spot from which the leader had viewed the country.

He knew the Kaffir and his language and his habits, and he could read the face of the country as well as the niggers themselves, so they heeded him when he spoke, although he was the youngest member of the party, and when a few minutes later, he cut into the conversation with the remark that “there was a cattle kraal near by and they had better go on there and ask the way,” there was a general chorus of “Where?” and an incredulous “Darned if I can see it!” from the leader.

The youngster replied again:

“Nor can I, but it’s there all the same.”

“How do you know?”

“Look,” he said, pointing to a slope about a mile distant.

“Well, look at what?”

“Can’t you see that red patch on the rise there?”

“What, those water-worn dongas?”

“Not dongas – cattle tracks. They are from the drinking-place. That must be the White Rock up there, and I expect the house must be behind the clump of trees.”

They walked on until the trees were reached and they could see the small rough stone house through a thinner portion of the Bush, and there they waited awhile to take counsel. It was finally decided that they should all go up together, but they looked to the one who seemed to be their leader to act as spokesman.

“If he’s a white man at all,” remarked he in front, “he won’t refuse us grub, anyhow; but that’s just it. They say he’s no more white than old Bandine, that he hates the sight of white men, and keeps as far from them as he can. He’s been so long among the darned niggers that he’s just one of them himself.”

They passed along the path to the house, and six of the party waited below while the leader mounted the steps of the mud stoep.

A tall man with a long brown beard stepped out of an open doorway and met him.

The whole party offered “good-evening” with more or less empressement, and certainly with a greater show of politeness than was customary with them; but the man only slid his hands easily into the pockets of a light duck-coat, and looked with critical and not too friendly glance at the leader, ignoring the others.

“We’re out prospectin’ about here,” began the leader, “and we thought we’d just come along and look you up.”

As there was no reply to this, not even a change in the look nor a twitch of a muscle to be construed into acknowledgment of the remark, the speaker resumed quickly and with less composure:

“The niggers told us you hung out about here, and, bein’ the only white man in these parts, we kind o’ came along to see what was doin’, and if there was any chance of reefin’, and about the licences and water and that.”

The owner of the house continued to look steadily and in silence at the speaker. The latter, when the invitation of a second pause passed unaccepted, flushed up and, abandoning the previous method, asked curtly:

“Can you sell us any food? Fowls or crushed mealies, or anything. We’re half dead o’ trampin’ over your damned hills, and I want food for self and mates. We’re far down enough, but we reckon to pay for what we get. We’re not loafin’!”

The man did not appear to notice this hostile tone any more than he had the former conciliatory one; but, after another deadly pause, he asked, in a quiet, clear voice:

“Your name?”

“Bankerpitt,” said the other. The faintest trace of a smile lit up the man’s face as he remarked quietly:

“Ah, H. Bankerpitt” – and glancing for the first time at the rest of the party – “and twenty-nine others!”

He turned and walked slowly into the house, closing the door after him.

Bankerpitt had scarcely strength to say, “Well, I’m damned!”

The party turned away, tired and hungry, and marched in silence to the clump of trees near the spruit below the house. There was no other water near, so they made camp for the night there.

It was dark. Occasionally the brighter gleams of the fire lighted up the circle of sullen faces. There was nothing to eat or drink, so they had settled down to a monotonous chorus of curses on the renegade he had turned his back on his own colour. One by one each added his quota of bitter, unmeasured abuse until their vocabularies, comprehensive as they were, began to give out, and only now and then a mere exclamation of disgust, or a well-brooded curse, would break the heavy silence.

There being nothing to cook, there was nothing to do at that time of evening but to brood on their wrongs. They did this thoroughly until a faint rustle in the wood made them look round, and then a child’s voice close behind the group gave the Kaffir salutation “Makos!” Someone raised a brand from the fire, and by its light they saw two umfaans bearing on their heads a large earthen bowl each. One bowl contained fresh milk, the other a stew of fowls and stamped mealies.

The boys had the look of bright intelligence characteristic of the Zulu race, but when Bankerpitt asked sharply, “Who sent this?” they exchanged one glance, and a cloud of the densest stupidity settled on their faces. Bankerpitt repeated his question, dragging one urchin closer to the fire. The reply, given in a thin, childish treble, was:

“It is food, white man! It is here!”

“Tell me!” he said fiercely, giving the child’s arm a shake, “does it come from that white dog up there?”

Even in the urchins of the race there is the instinct of evasion which enables them to baffle the closest inquiries.

“It is food for the white man. It is here!” was all that Bankerpitt’s bullying could elicit.

“If we take it, it’s because we must; but, by God! we’ll pay him for it, same as we would any other blasted nigger!” exclaimed Bankerpitt savagely; and he drew from his leathern belt-pouch the three shillings it contained and thrust them into the umfaan’s hand. The coins were dropped like hot coals, and the child said:

“I want no money, white man; I bring a gift.”

But the men were hungry and took the food; and presently the two umfaans drew nearer to the fire, and, squatting on their haunches, awaited with ox-like patience the emptying of their bowls. When at last the boys stood up to go, the youngest of the party, who had been a silent and amused witness of his leader’s attempt to get information out of them, said something in a low tone, to which one boy replied:

“Inkosikaas.”

A soft significant whistle was the only comment.

“What was that, Geddy?” said Bankerpitt quickly.

“I asked who sent them with the food.”

“Well, who did?”

“He says ‘The missis’!”

“Shrine of the Mighty!”

That was the first experience of Induna Nairn.

The second came this wise, about a year later.

There had been a row in Delagoa about some cattle which had been stolen. The rightful owners took their own way about getting them back, for they had more confidence in themselves than in the Portuguese; but, unfortunately, just at the last moment, an accident happened which made trouble for them. That was why they had been across the border away in Swazie country for so many months, and that was why they were coming back over the mountains and in a quiet way, for they were not sure of the reception which might await them.

One of them was Geddy, the youngster of the former party.

Geddy had not forgotten his experience of Nairn’s “hospitable roof,” and had given his companion, with considerable force and numerous illustrations, a fair picture of the well-remembered night. It is not surprising that they decided to give “the damned white nigger’s” house the “go-by.”

Nairn’s house stood on the track; in fact, the only feasible road up the Berg was a bridle-path cut by Nairn up to his house; thence the ordinary native paths led in all directions, and – by reason – one or more led to the Kaap. In order to pass the house in mid-trek they made their morning off-saddle below the Berg, intending by noon to be some miles beyond the Peak. Near the Berg there are two climates, one for “below” and one for “on top,” and it was quite reasonable and natural to rise, as they did, out of the placid spring morning on the flats into a first-class thunderstorm with high wind and driving rain as soon as they reached the exposed plateau. The tired horses refused to face the sheets of rain, and snorted and shook with fright at the lightning stabbing here and there and everywhere, and the deafening crashes of thunder. There was nothing for it but to dismount and, as the poor brutes turned their tails to the storm, to crouch to leeward of them for such shelter as they could give, and pray to Heaven that hail would not follow the rain.

Drenched, sopping, numbed and pierced by the cold wind that succeeded the storm, they resumed their ride half an hour later. Their clothes were setting hard in the wind, their blankets – strapped over the pommels – carried pounds weight of water, and the pulpy saddles clung like indiarubber.

The poor horses toiled on, slipping and sprawling along the greasy, smooth-worn Kaffir path, and when they rounded a little koppie that flanked Nairn’s house, and came suddenly on the well-worn track that led to the house itself – not twenty yards off – they pricked their ears, and with a low whinny of welcome and joy trotted towards the house. Geddy pocketed his pride and, bowing to circumstances that were too much for him, allowed his horse to follow the other’s lead. He did not, however, dismount as the other did, but sat in the saddle with an air of neutrality, awaiting the turn of events.

Geddy was prepared for many possible developments, and – by reason of the feeling description given him of the previous visit – his companion was also forearmed against contingencies, and was ready with replies suited to any form of incivility; but when Nairn stepped out on to the stoep looking infinitely amused, and remarked frankly, “By Gad! you are two miserable-looking objects!” – when this happened the two just looked down at themselves and then at each other, and finally burst into laughter more genuine and prolonged than the ostensible cause would seem to warrant.

The house must have contained four rooms; but they only saw two. It was a very quiet place. Oddly enough there were no dogs about, and the fowls did not seem to be as self-assertive there as Swazie fowls usually are. There were no noises at all about the place, not even the welcome sounds of life. All seemed to be toned down, weighed down, to about the level of sociability which had marked Nairn’s manner on the first visit. Geddy, feeling a little mean, it is true, was careful not to betray any indications of having been there before, but while they were getting into dry clothing in Nairn’s bedroom, he drew his companion’s attention to a large calabash that stood on the window-sill half full of milk. It had been cracked, and there was a small V-shaped nick in the rim, below which, and encircling the gourd itself was a delicate network of plaited brass, copper, and iron wires.

“That was the one the milk came in that night,” said Geddy, in a whisper. “I remember spilling some on account of that nick, and then I noticed the wire.”

His companion nodded. It was not an important nor even a very interesting discovery.

The younger waited a little, and then, slightly disgusted at the other’s slowness, said:

“Well, either he sent the grub to us himself or – ”

“Or what?”

“Or – Where’s the missis?”

They took in the room at a glance; but there was no answering evidence there. And when they joined Nairn they found that there were easy-chairs in the dining-room; so there they sat and smoked, and watched the rain set in as the regular spring drizzle does above the Berg.

The chairs, like the rest of the furniture, were rough-made from bushwood; but it seemed odd that a hermit should have three. There was a bookcase in the room, and it was full of well-bound and well-worn books, “mostly odd volumes – very few series,” as Geddy remarked afterwards. There were a good many books of science, and all the poets he could recall; and there were books in Latin, French, Greek, and German. Somehow he did not like to ask the real questions he wanted to put about the books. He did not quite know how far to go. In reply to one question, Nairn had said dryly that he had brought them with him, and was apparently indisposed to say more. He was not an easy man to draw.

During the day they had evidence of the respect in which Nairn was held by his dependents. He spoke to them in the lowest possible voice and in the fewest possible words, and never – except once, when something had occurred which annoyed him – never looked at, or even in the direction of the individual addressed. On that occasion he was asking a question of a tall and remarkably good-looking Swazie woman.

She stood like a bronze statue while he spoke, and when he looked at her and his eyes blazed anger, although his voice did not alter, the colour rose to the woman’s face, and turned her brown skin a reddish-bronze. Her head was slowly lowered, and the only answer was a faint whisper of the word, “Inkos – chief!” The incident was trifling, but Geddy noticed it, and noted that his way with his boys and the men about the place was the same, and began to see why they called him “Induna Nairn.”

As the rain had not abated Nairn insisted upon their remaining overnight. He was pleasant, courteous, and most interesting, full of the strangest and most intimate knowledge of the country and the natives. He frequently illustrated remarks by references to other countries and other people, but neither of his guests cared to put the direct question as to whether he had been to those countries or only read of them. He gave no information about himself Geddy was not satisfied with this, and with his sense of what is due to one’s host somewhat dulled – doubtless by the recollection of his previous visit – took every opportunity of leading up to those topics which Nairn most avoided, but which Geddy hoped would throw a light upon the man himself.

Beaten on the subject of the books, baffled when he led up to personal experiences, foiled gently but firmly at every attempt, Geddy at last got an inspiration and laid for a bold stroke.

They were at dinner, and the peculiarly savoury character of the stew recalled to the youngster again the question that had been puzzling him all along. Summoning all his nerve, he said with cheery zest:

“By Jove, Nairn, after months of roast mealies and tough game – without salt, too – this does taste delicious!”

“Glad you like it,” said his host quietly. “Staple dish, you know. Just stewed fowl and stamped mealies!”

“Yes, by George! but such a stew! Who – who’s your cook?”

“Well, I suppose it becomes an easy task when the bill of fare doesn’t vary once a month;” and Nairn looked up curiously at his guest.

“But how do you manage it, eh? No boy ever cooked like this.”

Nairn delayed replying until a faint guilty flush touched up the other’s cheeks, and then laughingly – and with a significant look of complete intelligence – he said:

“I was just wondering, Mr Geddy, if you were as favourably impressed with it the last time you were here?”

Had the roof dropped in on him the collapse of Geddy would not have been more complete. Heron laughed unrestrainedly, perhaps because (as has been said) there is something not altogether displeasing in the misfortunes of our friends; perhaps, too, because his view of the incident referred to was untinged by the bitter sense of personal humiliation, and his humour had therefore full play.

Nairn did not press his discomfited guest, but, smiling pleasantly, took up the burden of the talk.

“I know quite well what you thought of me, and I know even something of what you said about ‘the white dog,’ etc, but I think (and I fancy neither of you will take offence at plain speaking) – I think that I did right in repulsing what had all the appearance of imposition.” He pushed back his chair and turned to the younger man. “Just put yourself in my place, now, Geddy. I came to this place of my own choice. I seek nothing of other men, and I desire to go my own way unmolested. I was here before your people came in their feverish hunt for gold. I dare say I shall be here when you have ended the fruitless search. If things should turn against me and your luck be in the ascendant – why! there is room in Africa for us both. I can move on.”

Nairn spoke in an easy, unemotional way, as though discussing an abstract question of minor importance.

“Do you know,” he continued after a while, “I sought out this spot and I chose this life because here there is no nineteenth century, no struggle, no ambition, no unrest. Here is absolute peace and content for me because I need take no thought of the morrow. You who spend your lives and energies on the outside edge of civilisation paving a way for others’ feet – you are beglamoured by your ‘life of freedom, adventure, and romance,’ My dear sirs, that is a view that I cannot pretend even to understand, much less sympathise with. It may appear unnatural to you, but it is a fact, that I dislike the society of civilised men, and most of all that of the pioneers – the sappers and miners of civilisation – who think a white skin a warrant for anything. Odd as it may seem to you, I do not regard each white man as a friend or a brother. On the contrary, I see in him a possible enemy and a certain nuisance.”

Nairn leaned back in his chair, and thoughtfully polished the bowl of his pipe.

They had finished dinner, and were lighting up for a smoke. The others puffed away in silence.

He had said his say candidly and without heat, and no offence had been meant or taken. Presently Heron said:

“What puzzles me, Nairn, is, since you distrust every white man you see, what the devil made you ask us in?”

“Ay! that’s it,” said Geddy good-humouredly. “That’s the very question I was going to ask. What made you change your opinion?”

“Well,” said Nairn, with simple directness, “your case is peculiar. I had a certain sympathy with you, you see, for we are all outlaws together – I from choice!”

Both men coloured faintly, and Geddy asked at once:

“How could you know that at the time? How did you know us – or me?”

“My dear fellow, I knew you by several means. In the first place, I had met you before – you see, I do not see so many white faces that I can’t remember them; and in the second place, the umfaan to whom you spoke that night, you recollect, also recognised you.”

Geddy, who recalled in a flash both the question he had asked that night and the answer given by the boy, shrank under Nairn’s direct, calm look.

“But,” he continued without pause, “you forget – or did you not know? – that for a month there was a detachment of police on the watch for you here.”

“Lucifer! What luck we didn’t come sooner!” exclaimed Heron, aghast. “They’d have had us, as sure as God made little apples!”

“Oh, that was all right,” said Nairn, smiling. “I was well posted as to their plans and movements. You see, I heard of your affair in Delagoa, and I knew you had gone for a spell to Mahaash’s and Sebougwaan’s, and you were safe enough there. In any case, I took the precaution of sending word to Mahaash to stop you if you wanted to come back before the coast was clear. He had a letter for you from me for some time, but returned it yesterday with a message to say you were coming this way, and that was why I was expecting you when you turned up this morning.”

Geddy put out his hand, saying:

“By God, Nairn, you are a trump! You’ve been a perfect Providence to us; and – and I take back all I said about you that other time.”

Nairn smiled and shook his head.

“I’m afraid,” he answered, “that it was only because you were in a scrape that I sided with you at all. It seemed a bit of a damned shame that the Government should set on a couple of fellows because they had chosen to settle their grievances their own way, which is what you did, I believe?”

Heron smiled grimly, and nodded reply.

“You seem to have had pretty good information about us,” Geddy remarked. “I suppose your neighbours keep you well posted?”

“Yes; there are Boswells among them, too. I have had faithfully retailed to me the whole of the affair of Mahaash and the silver spur. Don’t put another chief to ride a bucking horse with a spur. They may not all fall as lightly as Mahaash, and they may not all be as good-tempered.”

“Upon my soul,” said Heron, “I did it in perfect good faith. He wanted a present, and I gave him what I could best spare. How could I possibly know that that old crock would buck?”

“Well, you had a lucky escape. Umketch would have had you kerried. They don’t like to appear ridiculous. How did you lose your pocket-book, Geddy?”

“How – the – deuce – ”

Nairn laughed heartily.

“Why, man, it has been here for weeks, waiting for you! They bring me all these things, with their gossip and their troubles. An old fellow, a witch-doctor, brought the pocket-book. He said he found it by divination – casting the dollas; the old fraud! He walked up here, some forty miles, just to gossip about you. It took him three days before he produced the book. The first day he talked of the prospects of rain, and the grass and the cattle; the next he spoke about the rumours that were afloat about white men working into the ground and bursting it open with guns, and wondered if white men would overrun Swazieland; and he wound up with the admission that he had heard of two having been seen, and on horseback, too, and with rifles. Notwithstanding which, he believed them to be English, for one had given a shilling to a young girl as a present, and the other had a book in which he wrote. There it is on the shelf beside you. He wanted to sell it, but I took it from him, and told him he would probably have bad luck, and one of his cows would be barren or lose her calf this year because he had meddled with your goods, and failed to return the book to you. He stole it, of course?”

“The old scoundrel!” said Geddy, reaching for the book; “he must have found it while we were yet in sight. I left it in a hut in one of the kraals.”

“Yes; I’m afraid he was an old thief,” said Nairn. “The raw Swazie would think nothing of a twenty or thirty mile jaunt to return it; but these witch-doctors are mostly old Basuto ruffians, steeped in guile. They have few scruples when there is a prospect of profit.”

“On my word,” laughed Heron, “I don’t know what you may not know about us with agencies like this, and a whole nation making a confidante of you! What a rum life you do lead!”

Nairn looked at him curiously, and remarking dryly that they were a very peculiar people, rose from his seat, and made it clear that he thought it time for bed. He showed them to his own room, where an extra bed had been fixed up, and wishing them “Good-night,” left them.

Quoth Geddy:

“I didn’t like to ask him where he would sleep if we took his room, as one feels bound to do in common civility. I’d have got another of those gentle cold-blooded sneers for my pains. You know, old chap, with all due respect – and all that sort of thing – for our host, he’s beastly uncivil the moment you ask questions. It’s a regular case of scratch the Russian and you find the Tartar.”

“Yes; you’re right. Although it seems a bit ungrateful to say so, I’m dashed if I’d care to have much to do with him. Did you see him shut up when I remarked about his living a queer life? Gad! his lips closed up until they fitted like the valves of an oyster. He’s as suspicious as the devil!”

“I say, look here – a photo! Just look, man! ‘Harrison Nairn’ on the back of it! Quite a decent-looking chap. Heron, I wonder who she is?”