Chapter Twenty Eight.
Abe and the Eagles.
I had not seen old Abe Pike for some weeks, having been on rinderpest guard on the Orange River, but on my return to the coast I rode over to Gum Tree Farm, where the lone blue-gum threw its pillar of cloud, in the blazing afternoon, across the doorway. Uncle Abe was lounging, as usual, by the doorway, looking listlessly at the sea.
“Well, oud baas! How goes it?”
“Is there no more cattle to kill?” he said, straightening his back and propping himself against the wall. “Think you’d be ashamed to look a beefsteak in the face after the way you been shooting them pore animiles!”
“The plague must be stamped out, Abe.”
“Oh, yes! I yeard that story before! It’s a good way to save a crittur’s life by shooting him! What beats me is why you don’t up and shoot all children sick with tyfust and grown people ailing with influenza! My gum! I’m ashamed of you!”
“Well, so long!”
“You ain’t goin’?”
“I think so; the work of shooting cattle is not pleasant, but it is less pleasant to be reminded of it.”
“Oh, go along! Put your horse in the shed and come right in. The place ain’t been the same since you’ve been away, sonny; ’sides, there’s been no one along for weeks, and I’m jes’ bu’sting with talk. You wouldn’t like to see old Abe die of untold yarns.”
So I off-saddled and knee-haltered the horse, for there was no oat-hay in the shed for him, and he had to get what picking he could from the old lands, yellow with charlock.
Abe made up the fire, and put on the kettle to boil, while from the larder he produced a slab of pork and a half-loaf—very black on the outside and very soft within.
“The last batch of baking,” he said, “was not up to the mark. The yeast gave out, and I were obliged to get a rise out of a handful of rub-rub berries. As for the pork, that came from a pig that was catched.”
“What sort of pig?”
“Well, sonny, it was this way. You know the eagles’ nest on the old yellow-wood in the big kloof? I got the pig out of there.”
“Oh, you did, did you? As far as I remember, the tree is a hundred feet high, and the nest quite sixty feet up. The pig climbed up, I presume?”
“You presoom morn’s good for you, sonny. Don’t suppose ’cos you bin to the Orange River you know everything. The pig didn’t climb up; he jes’ dropped in on passin’; paid a sort of flying visit. That nest’s as big as a cart wheel, and if you stand below and look up the trunk it shuts out the sky, while down below there’s bones enough, and of sorts, to build up the skelingtons of a entire museum. That pair of eagles used that nest going on for fifteen years, and each year when the young hatch out they kill off more dassies and cats and blue-boks than you could eat in a year.”
“You are welcome to the cats, Abe.”
“Yes, sir. Them eagles have buried, I reckon, as many as two thousand animiles in that leaf-mould cemingtary below the big tree. Well! Grub being skerce, I had a fancy to bury them young squabs of eagles, by way of satisfying my own yearning for food, and giving the ole hook-beaked pirates a hint that they hadn’t the sole right over the earth and air. Sonny, that’s a big tree, and it took me a fortnight to climb up.”
“That was quick!”
“I’ve seen quicker climbin’, but taking the size of the tree and the height of it—maybe, five hundred feet!”
“I thought the height to the nest was about sixty feet?”
“Have you clomb that tree?”
“No, Abe.”
“Well, I have; and if it’s not a mile high, it’s high enuf when you’re up aloft, with nothing to keep you from adding your bones to the pile below but an iron spike no bigger’n a nail. I camped out one day at the bottom of the tree, and it was mighty lonesome, when the wind came whisperin’ round the trees, and dark shadows peeped from behin’ the rocks, while up above the she-eagle would hiss at her mate. For about two days they took no heed of me, but the fifth day, when I was sprawling half-way up, with a looped rheim round the tree, the ole she-bird took a squint at me over the nest, and flopped down to the lowest bough, where she watched me under her brows drive in a three-inch nail. Two inches I druv it in, and when I lowered myself for another, she jes’ dropped down, clawing to the tree with her long hooked toes, and yanked that nail out.”
“Abe Pike!”
“Yes, sir; she jes’ grabbed hole of it, give it a wrench, and out it come. Then she fetched a yell loud enough almost to split the tree, and went off. Nex’ mornin’, believe me, there was that nail, and five others, outside the door! Them eagles had fetched them up to give notice it was no good. They’re mighty strong in the beak, is eagles,” said Abe, pouring out the coffee.
“But truth is stronger, eh?”
“That’s so, sonny; you take hole o’ that, and it’ll do you a heap of good. That day I druv in them nails deeper, and they held good, by reason that the ole she-bird had got lockjaw, and sot up there nursin’ her beak, with her red eyes glowing like coals. About the fifth day I were near up, when the ole man dropped a coney’s head, and by luck it took me over the head. Well, you’d hardly believe me when I tell you, that no sooner the ole girl seen this than she gave a hiss, and began scraping out of the nest all the rubbish, bones, and skin, and feathers, and sich. Whew! I tell you I had to scuttle and leave off. Well, next day she were looking out for me, and soon’s I got up dropped a full-grown blue-bok—ker-blung—and if I had not been prepared, would ha’ sent me tumbling. I climbed down, an’ roasted that there bit of venison while the two of them watched. Of course, after that meal I went home, and next mornin’, when I opened the door, blow me! if there weren’t a rock rabbit, fat as butter, jes’ outside. I ate him and stopped at home. Next mornin’ there was a brace of partridges, so I ate ’em, and stayed quiet. Next morning a big hare, an’ I ate him and stayed at home. So on till the eleventh mornin’, when there was only a black cat, with the musk of him smellin’ most awful. Of course, I wasn’t eating any such vermin, but I thought the eagles meant well, and I wasn’t blaming them. I buried that crittur two feet deep, and went hungry to bed. Next mornin’ I was outer the door before I was awake, expecting to fin’ a plump lamb, or maybe a kid or a turkey, but there was nothing, sir, but the smell of that stink eat hanging around most dreadful. Sonny, the feelings of them two eagles had been hurt. They took it as a slight that I hadn’t eaten that skunk, so I sot off to the kloof to explain matters. When I got there the ole he was sailing above the tree, with his claws tucked up, and his head on one side. When he seed me he jes’ fetched a screech like a railway engine divin’ into a tunnel, and then he settled on the tree, where, bymby, he were joined by the ole she. They jest sot there and looked, making no sign to drop anything, so I begun to climb; but they took no notice, and bymby I come to the end of the nails, and the nearest bough was six feet away. I had to give it up that day, leaving them two birds all ruffled up and mighty cold and standoffish. It was hard next mornin’ to find nothing outside the door, and I seed there was nothing left but to finish the job, and catch them young squabs. I went off to the kloof, bitter against the ingratitood of them stingy birds, which were ready to let a human bein’ starve when they had a larder jes’ stuffed with hares and things—and my hares, too! Them birds was waiting for me—throwing their beaks back and screaming like mad, while the squabs in the nest squealed till my head split. They had sense enuf to see I were angry, and they sot up that racket to starve me off; but a hungry man don’t stop to listen to speeches when his dinner is callin’ out loud for him, so I went up with my mouth full of nails. Very soon I were over the bough, and the screeching and squealing were terrible to listen to.”
“Didn’t the eagles attack you?”
“No, sonny! They were jest helpless with laughing!”
“Laughing?”
“When I threw my leg over the bough, I got the hammer ready to strike, but I seed them shakin’ all over, till some of the wing feathers dropped out, and tears were running down their beaks and droppin’ off the sharp point of the hook. It was not fear—you never seed a eagle afraid—he couldn’t be if he tried—an’ I seed at once they were laughin’ fit to die. I sot there in a tremble at the unnatural circumstance, and then began to climb till I could look into the nest. Sonny, d’you know what they were laughing at.”
“The pig in the nest.”
“Who told you?”
“Oh, I just guessed.”
“Well, I’m blessed! Ghoisters! You never seed a pig in a nest up a tree seven hundred feet high?”
“Not that I remember, Abe.”
“Gum! Yes, sir; there were a pig in that nest. Them birds, sonny, had kept me off till their squabs could fly, and then they played that joke on me. I chucked the pig out, and when I got down he were as dead as bacon. Come to think of it, sonny, it were a kind thought of them eagles to put it up there, and it makes me smile every time to think of the way them birds laughed till they shook their feathers out.”
The old man fixed his abstracted gaze on a cloud of tobacco smoke.
“I hope to train ’em next year,” he said, “to keep me in venison and lard. Going? Well, so long!”
“So long, Abe!”
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Abe’s Billy Goat.
Our Poison Club was in a flourishing condition. During the past year the members had killed off 1,500 red cats, wild dogs, jackals, seven leopards, and 500 baboons. This represented a good round sum—each tail being equivalent to a five-shilling demand on the exchequer of the country—and the chairman had called a meeting to distribute the awards.
“I have pleasure in announcing, gentlemen,” he said, “that Mr Si Amos is the champion poisoner—having placed to his credit 300 cat tails, seventy-five jackal tails, fifty-four baboon tails, and one leopard tail. In addition to the dues which are rightly his, he is entitled to the silver medal presented by the club.”
“Well done, Si! Step up!”
Silas pulled his lank figure together, hitched up his trousers, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and lumbered up the narrow passage.
“Give him pizen!” said someone in a loud voice, whereat there were cries of “Shame!”
Silas paused, balanced himself uncertainly on one leg, and searched the audience.
“It’s that Abe,” he said. “What he says don’t amount to nothin’.”
“Mr Pike,” expostulated the chairman; “I’m astonished at you.”
“Look here, Jim Hockey,” said Abe, rising up from a back seat, and pointing his pipe-stem at the chairman; “I don’t keer if you give that thing there a whole string o’ silver buttons—and Lord knows he wants ’em, to keep himself from falling to pieces—but I tell you, you’re opsettin’ the laws of nature goin’ about killing the animiles off the face of the yearth. It’s not the mean, sneaking way you’ve got inter of dropping pizen pills all over the place that riles me so much as the killin’ of ’em off by the thousan’ without takin’ any thought of what’s coming. Take baboons—”
“Are we here, Mr Chairman, to listen to a speech from Mr Pike, or are we not?” asked one member, who was credited with having opened a market in jackals’ tails.
“Take baboons,” said Abe, pointing his pipe-stem insultingly at his interrupter. “I allow they’re mean, I allow they eat your mealies, steal your fruit, kill a sheep or two, and frighten your wives; but if it warn’t for the baboons there’d be a scorpion under every stone and a centipede in every ole stump. The baboons eat them vermin. Take cats—if it warn’t for cats the lands would be swarmin’ with mice. If it warn’t for the jackals there’d be a hare in every grass clump.”
“If it warn’t for Abe Pike,” said Silas, with a look of disgust, “there’d be a durn sight less jaw.”
“Hear, hear!”
“Year away,” said Abe, “and listen to this. When you’re done killin’ all these critturs, the scorpions, an’ the centipedes, an’ the rats, an’ the snakes, an’ the spiders’ll swarm all over you. What yer got ter do is to set Nature ag’in Nature. The wild buck can look after hisself; teach the tame goat and the sheep to do the same.”
“The laws of Nature, Abe, have covered your lands with weeds.”
“Yes; and reduced his mangy live stock to one goat,” added Si.
“Laugh! yer yeller-eyed, big-footed, long-legged, two-headed, freckled-faced duffers—laugh!—but I bet you that ole goat’ll knock the stuffin’ out of your club, and purtect hisself ag’in any wild crittur, from a stink-cat to a tiger.”
“You’re jawing,” said Si; “otherwise I’d hold you to your bounce.”
Abe took from his pocket a skin purse, tightly bound with a long thong, unwound this, emptied out into his yellow hand, which shook with excitement, two bright sovereigns.
“That ain’t any wild cat tail money,” he said; “it’s the saving of sixty years’ hard work—and I stake that.”
“What’s the wager?” asked the chairman.
“That my ole goat proves to this yer club that Nature provides a way outside of pizening by holding his own ag’inst anything on two feet or four feet, ’cept a elephant or a steam roller.”
“The club takes the bet,” said the chairman, in a solemn voice and a winking eye.
“Well; jes’ take keer o’ that money until your nex’ meeting, when I’ll turn up with the ole Kapater. So long!”
“You’ll lose that money, Abe,” I said following him as he slouched away.
“It’s a heap of money,” he said; “a glittering pile that I been saving up for my ole age.”
“Call the bet off, Abe.”
“You think the ole man’s a blasteratious ijiot, sonny? Well, well! maybe. Let him stand at that till nex’ meeting.”
In three months the meeting was called, and due notice served on Mr Abe Pike and his goat. It was a full house that met in the drowsy afternoon in the big shed on Mr Hockey’s farm, and the discussion turned at once on the disposal of Abe’s money—the general opinion being that it should be given back.
“I object,” said Si Amos, who had brought with him a huge and hideous half-breed between a boar-hound and a mongrel. “That ole man’s been throwing slurs on this club, and it’s my opinion he ought to pay for it. Anyhow, I’ll ‘psa’ my dog on to his goat.”
Last of all, Abe Pike himself entered the shed, wearing an expression of profound despondency.
“Anyone got a pipe of tobacco?” he said, looking around gloomily.
There was no tobacco hospitably forthcoming, everyone being too disgusted at the thought that all the fun was off.
Abe leant wearily against the wall. “Time was,” he said, “when a man would hand you his tobacco bag as he said ‘Good-morning.’ There’s a natural meanness in pizening animiles, and it’s jes’ oozing out of yer.”
“Where’s your goat, you old humbug?”
“Gentlemen, I’m very sorry, but that goat’s woke up with a most awful temper, and I jes’ drop in t’ ask you voetsack all the dogs outer the place ’fore I bring him in.”
“Yah!” said Si Amos; “I knew he’d back down. It was part of the bet that dogs was to be brought.”
“That’s so,” said Mr Hockey.
“You won’t turn out your dogs?”
“No sir! But this yer dog’ll eat your goat, and I give you fair warning!” said Si, stirring the big mongrel with his toe.
Abe looked round, gave me a wink, and went out.
When he reappeared he was leading one of the biggest goats—a great blue “Kapater,” with a long beard, massive horns, and a boss of leather and brass over his forehead.
“Well I’m jiggered!” said one member, getting behind the table.
Someone—I don’t know who the rash individual was—said “psa,” and the big mongrel stood up, showing his teeth and growling in his throat.
Abe smiled sadly, let go his hold of the goat, pinched his ear, and then the great rout of the Poison Club began. The goat walked briskly up to the dog, reared up, brought his head down, and sent the mongrel smash under the table, where he remained whimpering; then in a brace, at a whistle from his master, the unnatural billy cleared the shed with the effectiveness of a battering ram. At the outset the strong man of the country tried to seize him by the horns, but he evaded the grasp and shot his massive enemy over a form; and when the others fled, he butted them from behind so that each man flew out headlong, helping to swell the struggling pile at the doorway. After this feat he amused himself by reducing the table and chairs to splinters, then he came to the door and stood scratching his ear with his left hind foot, while chewing the remains of the minute book.
“Fetch me a gun,” yelled Si Amos, with his hand pressed to his waistcoat.
“What will you take for that thunderstorm, Abe?” asked Mr Hockey, tenderly feeling his elbow.
“You don’t want to buy him so’s you can shoot him?”
“No; I want him as a watch dog.”
“Well, seeing’s how it’s you, you can have him for a pair of blankets and a bag of meal.”
“It’s a swap, Abe. What do you call him?”
“I calls him ‘Peaceful William.’ I s’pose the club admits it’s lost the bet; ’cos, if not, William will purceed to further business.”
“The bet’s yours, Abe. Take the money, for Heaven’s sake!”
“All right, then; I’ll kraal the goat for you.”
The goat was penned up, and Abe loaded his meal on to his horse and went off.
The club watched the old man out of sight, each member absently rubbing himself, and all of them remarkably silent.
“Oh!—’ell,” said someone, in a tone of unmistakable dismay.
We all, as one man, faced round to the kraal, and then we simultaneously skurried up to the barn roof. From this position of safety we saw Peaceful William, in a shower of dust, carefully demolish the walls of the pen and the poles that supported the thatched roof, and we fearfully gazed down upon him as he walked steadily round and round the barn, stopping at intervals to rear against the wall, to eye us threateningly. I don’t know when he left, but he was not there next morning, when, at the break of day, Abe’s voice greeted us.
“I thought I’d tell you Peaceful Billy is at my place; and he’s there when you care to fetch him. Fine sunrise, ain’t it? Nice place to see it from. Nature’s better than pizen if you take her early.”
There was a strange gurgling sound of suppressed laughter.
“I say!” It was Abe again.
“Well?”
“Goat fat ’s mighty good for bruises! So long!”
“Darn you and your goat!” growled the chairman. “Boys, I vote we descend to business.”
We descended, and while we ate our breakfast the women of the house giggled till they almost choked.
Chapter Thirty.
A Kaffir’s Play.
The red Kaffir is a man with a good deal of character, which he does his best to destroy. The pure kraal Kaffir, who lounges negligently in his red blanket or squats on his loins by the fire at night, telling interminable stories about nothing in particular, has many points which mark him from the “town boy”—the spoiled child of civilisation, who treads tenderly in his hard “Blucher” boots, and covers his corduroy trousers with bright patches of other material; who has to support his weary frame against every pillar and post and corner he comes across, and who is generally shiftless, saucy, and squalid.
The kraal Kaffir is lean, long, and tough, dignified in his movements, courteous to his friends, given over to long spells of silence broken by fits of noisy eloquence, his sullen, solemn face seldom lit up by a smile, and his black smoke-stained eyes smouldering always with an unquenchable fire, that flames out when he meets a Fingo on the highway, or when the fire-water runs through his veins at the beer-drinking.
The red Kaffir is a warrior. He is also a lawyer. I am not certain whether he most prefers to settle a dispute by argument or by the kerrie, but I think his idea of greatest happiness would be a long disputation extending over a week, to be rounded off with the clashing of kerries. Some people, who have seen the wide smile on the face of a West Coast negro, accept that all-pervading grin as the main feature of the entire black race, and argue from it that all blacks are good-tempered children, prone to every impulse. That is not true of the Kaffir. He is of the Bantu stock, which includes the Zulu and the Basuto, whose chief sentiment is stern pride of race, whose ruling expression is one of sullen reserve, and whose national impulse is to fight. They were cradled somewhere in the valley of the Nile, the hot nursery of fierce races; their remote ancestors swept South, destroying as they went, and the southernest fringe are Amaxosa of the Cape frontier, the men who have waged five separate wars with the red-coats of England and the sure-shooting border settlers. Pringle has, in these lines, given a vivid picture of the Kaffir:
“Lo! where the fierce Kaffir
Crouches by the kloof’s dark side,
Watching the settlers’ flocks afar—
Impatient waiting till the evening star
Guides him to his prey.”
Under the fierce ordeal of war the Kaffir thrived. His limbs were free and straight, his step springy, his eyes far-seeing, his nostrils could sniff the taint in the air, his deep melodious voice could boom the war-cry or the message across the wide valleys. As a man of peace he looks squalid in his broken clothes; he moves stiffly in his boots; he sings hymns in a queer, high note, with great melancholy but little meaning; goes reeling home from dirty canteens, and is a hopelessly casual labourer. He is the victim of civilisation, of strange laws, and in the confusion of many counsellors his only hope is the goal which has been offered to the already civilised labourer of a more favoured race—three acres and several cows, with a title of his own. There lies his salvation. If he could get his title to a plot of land sufficient for his wants, he may retain some of those characteristics which made conquerors of his warrior ancestors, if not he will go under in the struggle in a pair of uncomfortable boots, with a bottle of brandy in his hands, and strange oaths of civilised man on his lips.
“Yes,” said Abe; “the Kaffir can use two things better’n a white man, easy—his tongue and his stick. I seed a Kaffir onct get the better of a fencing master.
“I were sitting in the schoolyard, away up in town, where a sergeant from the barracks were showing the big boys how to use a singlestick. There were a Kaffir, leaning his chin on the top of the gate, looking on, with no more life in his face than a chip of mahogany.
“Bymby the sergeant he spotted the Kaffir, and he sed, sed he, ‘Now, you boys; I’ll jes’ show you what singlestick play is,’ and he called to the Kaffir to come in.
“Well, the black feller, he came in—very slow, pulling his blanket up to his chin, and looking like a young horse all ready to bolt in a minnit. The end of his long kerrie peeped out below his blanket, and the sergeant touched it with his ash stick, then stood on guard.
“‘You keep your eye on my wrist-play, boys,’ sed the sergeant, swellin’ out his chest till the brass buttons nearly popped off. ‘You keep your eye on me,’ he sed, ‘and you’ll see how I get over his guard every time.’
“The Kaffir he jes’ stood there, looking solum, and the sergeant poked him in the stomjack.
“‘Yinnie!’ sed the Kaffir, backing off an’ snappin’ fire from his eyes. You see he didn’t know what the sergeant were about, and though he wern’t fool enough to strike a rooibaaitje in the town, his dander got up at that poke.
“‘Do you want to fight this chap?’ sed I.
“‘I want to show these boys what real wrist-play is,’ sed the sergeant, making an under-cut with his stick; ‘and this Kaffir will do well as a block. Tell him to put up his kerrie.’
“I jes’ tole the Kaffir, and had a quiet larf. To think of anyone bein’ sich a simple ijiot as to play at sticks with a Kaffir. I tole the ‘boy,’ and he said, ‘Yoh!’ in surprise. Then a sort of smile flickered about his mouth, and his black eyes began to shine. He let slip the blanket offen his shoulders, and caught it on his left arm. Then he took his kerrie by the end, and held it out the full length of his arm, with his head forrard and his toes apart, and back so that he leant forward. You know the fighting kerrie, about five feet long, and tough as steel.
“The sergeant—he smiled—threw forrard his right foot, balanced hisself on his left, crooked his elbow, and pointed his stick slanting.
“‘You see, boys,’ he sed; ‘you must stand naturally, with your body nicely balanced, ready to advance or retreat. Look at me, and look at the Kaffir,’ he said. ‘He stands on his toes, and if he lost his balance he would fall on his face. Watch me get over his guard.’
“‘Ready!’ he sed, and they begun.
“Well the boys watched, I tell you. There were a grunting, a clatter and a whirlwind of sticks—outer which whizzed chips of ash and bits of the basket-hilt. They didn’t see nuffing of the sergeant’s wrist-play, I tell you. No, sir, all they seed was that whirling of sticks like the spokes of a wheel, and bymby outer the dust come the sergeant.
“He didn’t look the same man. His face were red an’ angry, his basket-hilt was all smashed in, his knuckles were raw, and there were no more’n but a foot left of his stick.
“The Kaffir stood there, solum as a judge, with jes’ a touch of fire in his eyes. There were not so much as a mark on his smooth skin, as he slipped the blanket over his shoulder, and waited for more.
“The sergeant fished up sixpence, and gave it to the boy, without a word.
“‘You’d better go,’ I sed.
“‘Yoh,’ sed the Kaffir, looking at the sixpence; ‘is he done? Let him take another stick; we were but playing, and no one’s head is broken.’
“‘You go,’ I said; and he went, looking mighty troubled.
“I tell you what, sonny; the Queen should take a thousand of these yer red Kaffirs, and make soldiers of ’em for service in a hot country. Not here, of course, but away off in Injia. It’s a pity to waste ’em, and they’d do more good scouting than drinkin’ Cape brandy, lifting cattle, and loafin’ around. A black battalion of Kaffirs and Zulus would be no small pumpkins, an’ they could be officered by Colonials who know the language.”
Chapter Thirty One.
A Bugle Call.
“Hulloa, Bassie! I thought this fine morning would bring you over. The sap’s running strong, and the quail are gathering thick in the young wheat. Hear to them whistling. Where’s your gun?”
“I did not come to shoot.”
“Soh! Well, you don’t look like shooting. Been eating too much green fruit?”
“I’ve passed the green fruit stage, Abe.”
“I ain’t; there’s nothing better’n a pie of green apricots with cream, and green mealies is better’n kissing. You’re not in love, are you?”
“I have been writing poetry,” I said, with an air of unconcern; “and I want to take your opinion of it.”
“Fire away,” said Abe, fetching up a judicial expression; “it’s many a year since I learnt poetry, my boy—many a year. The ole mum onct, in the moonlight, when I were knee high, read to me outer a torn sheet she had, and these words I remember:
“‘He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God that loveth us,
He made and loveth all.’
“Long years agone the old mother read that outer a torn slip of paper, and I know it yet, sonny. I’d like to year some more.”
“I don’t think I’ll read it you, on second thoughts,” I said, with sudden doubt.
“You bet you will, sonny. A man that’s got the gift of making poetry has no occasion to stand back in the corner.”
“Well it’s only a little thing I dashed off the other night. Here it is:
“‘Oh, frog, that sits on the garden seat
(Croak, croak! where the trees hang low),
Have you ever swum in the ocean deep,
In the waves where the wild winds blow,
Where the red crabs crawl on the rocks below,
On the rocks where the dead men sleep?’”
“It’s kind o’ buttery,” said Abe slowly, “but I don’t see no sense in it. What’s a frog on a garden seat got anything to do with dead men? And crabs ain’t red.”
“Oh, that’s a poet’s licence.”
“It are, eh? Well, I won’t go to your shop for spirrits. Is there any more?”
“This is the second verse,” I said, rather discouraged:
“‘Oh, speckled toad, did you ever dream
(Croak, croak! there’s a snake on the wall),
Did you ever dream of my lady dear,
Who sometimes walks in the garden here
(While the milk in the pan is making cream),
And sings when there’s no one near?’”
“How does it sound?”
“It sounds like treacle,” said Abe, with a puzzled look; “but I don’t see what the podder’s got to do with it, anyhow; and the young woman’s got no business to be wasting her time waiting for the milk to set. Why don’t she use the cream separator?”
“I couldn’t write about a machine.”
“Why not—hum—er—hum—why not say this:
“After she turned the cream separator,
She sat and ate a cold pertater.”
“There is no sentiment in that!” I said indignantly; “and the words have no rhythm.”
“What’s rhythm?”
“Why, tone, modulation, music; you know!”
“Sonny! is there any music in the croak of a frog—is there? In course not! Now listen—what do you hear?”
I listened, and heard nothing but the drowsy hum and hollow drone of the surf.
“I can hear nothing.”
“Soh! Well, now jes’ cock yer ear, and hearken to the voice of the sea—rising and falling, soft and melancholy. Dying away to a whisper, then swellin’ up as the big wave rolls in, swinging to and fro in a great song of quiet and peace. That’s music, sonny; and when the wind rises, and in the dark of the night, the spring-tide, coming in with the power of the sea behind, thunders on the beach, there’s music there—wild and grand—and when the clouds pile up outer the sea higher and higher, and the yearth waitin’ in silence, when there is no breath of air, shakes to the rollin’ crash of the thunder—there’s music then. Where’s your potery beside them sounds and the lightning flash and the rush of the wind, and the splashing of water risin’ suddenly?”
I thrust my paper back into my pocket.
“There’s music, sonny, in the veld and bush, and in the night cries of the wild animiles and birds; but I yeard onct a sound I shall never forget, and I guess there was in it a whole book of potery. But you ain’t finished about your podder.”
“Never mind the frog, the snake has swallowed him by this. Tell me the story.”
“Well it were in the Borna Pass, time of the Kaffir War, and the ole 94th were halted in the jaws of the pass, waitin’ for the cool of the afternoon before they marched. I recomember it well—the dark woods in the narrow pass rising up till they ’most shut out the sky; the red-coats down by the water; the smoke rising in tall columns from the cooking fires; the horses standing in a bunch switching the flies offen ’em; the oxen knee-deep in the water; and a silence born of the hot sun over all. It were as quiet as Sunday down in the mouth of the pass, with the sun running up and down the bayonets like fire, and no red to stain them, for there was no news of Kaffirs within a day’s march.
“I yeard a honey-bird call outer the black of the wood, and I jes’ moved off with nothin’ mor’n a pipe and a clasp-knife.
“‘Where you going, Abe?’ said a little bugler chap, lookin’ up from the shade of a bush.
“‘Bee huntin’, sonny.’
“‘I’ll come along o’ you,’ he sed; ‘as there ain’t no bloomin’ Kafs to hunt, bees’ll do.’
“He were a little chap, with his lips all cracked by the sun, and a little nose that you couldn’t see for the freckles, and brown eyes like you see in a bird or a buck—clear and bright. Always he were on the move, like a willey-wagtail, and him and me were chums. Ah yes; many a story I tole him by the camp fire, him a sitting with his chin in his hands staring at me with his big round eyes, and they called him ‘Abe’s kid,’ ’cos I downed a fellow for boosting him with a leather belt. I tole you how a little dream lad had come to me one night outer the sea; that were he, my son—that were my little boy.”
“Did he die?” I said, looking at the old man.
“He went away, sonny, but he said he’d wait for me, and he’ll keep his word.” There was a wistful look in the old man’s face as he looked towards the sea for some time in silence. “Yes; we slipped inter the wood, the honey-bird calling—the only sound outer the great stillness of the woods, ’cept for the crushing of the dried leaves under our tread, and the bird, flitting like a shadder from tree to tree, led us on deeper and deeper into the heart of the Borna Pass, till I pulled up to take bearings.
“‘We must get away back, little chap,’ I said.
“‘Then it’s not true what you tole me about the honey-bird?’ and he looked at me askance.
“‘Why not?’ said I.
“‘’Cos there he is a calling like mad, same as ever. I don’t believe he’s a honey-bird, and I don’t believe any of them stories you’ve been tellin’ me. You’re no pal of mine,’ he said, looking at me with a wrinkle ’tween his eyes.
“‘I’m thinkin’ we’re gettin’ too far from the lines,’ I sed, ‘and you ain’t used to the bush if Kaffirs were to come.’
“‘You’re afraid,’ he sed; ‘that’s what.’
“‘Come on,’ I sed, like a fool; and I went on, stooping through the bush, going mighty quick, and him panting after me. ‘I can smell honey,’ I sed, stopping short, and noticin’ that the bird had done his flight.
“‘Garn!’ he sed, wrinkling up his little nose. There was a holler tree standin’ up in a little clearin’ no bigger’n a room, and the hum of the bees came to us as we stood.
“‘I see ’em,’ he says; ‘look at ’em streaming in! What a lark! Cut a hole with your knife,’ he says, ‘’an I’ll carry some honey back in this bugle,’ and he laughed.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘who’s been tellin’ lies?’
“He laughed again.
“‘I takes it back, Abe,’ he says. ‘Oh my eye! Jes’ look!’
“I seed then we’d clomb high up on the left side of the pass, and from the clearin’ there was a sight of the hanging woods over against us, of the narrow path below, and the soldiers away down to the left.
“‘Now you’ve seed the bee-tree,’ I says, ‘we mus’ go back.’
“‘Jes’ a little honey, Abe,’ he says; ‘jes’ a little to take back, else that Jimmy’ll never b’lieve I been up here.’
“I were looking across at the dark wood, and I said to him quietly, ‘Get behind the tree,’ for I’d seed a Kaffir stretched out on a grey rock that stood outer the bush.
“‘What’s the row?’ he says, looking a little scared. Maybe ’cos I looked the same.
“‘Take off that coat,’ I sed; for the red showed up plain.
“‘Take off the Queen’s coat?’ he sed, going red and white; ‘not me!’
“‘My lad,’ I sed to him quiet; ‘there are Kaffirs in the bush.’
“‘What larx,’ he sed in a whisper, and his eyes opening wide as he stared at me.
“‘And if you keep your coat on they’ll see you.’
“‘Let ’em,’ he said, swallering his throat.
“‘Take it off,’ I said.
“‘Not me.’
“‘Then I leave you.’ And with that I slipped away, but turned on my tracks and come back softly to peer at him. He were still standing behin’ the tree, looking away off at the soldiers, but his coat were buttoned up tight to his throat I went up to him tip-toe and touched him on the soldier, and he gave a low cry and jumped aside with his fists up. When he seed who it were, the tears came into his eyes.
“‘Abe Pike,’ he sed, tremblin’, ‘that’s a mean trick to play on a boy—a mean dirty trick.’
“I allow it were mean, but I thought I’d skeer him into taking off that red rag. Then I give it up. ‘Come on,’ I sed, ‘foller me; stop when I stop, run when I run, and keep quiet.’
“So we sot off tenderly through the bush, and we hadn’t gone mor’n fifty paces when I smelt the Kaffirs. I sank down; he did, too, and I peered through the shadders. A sound came to us—the sound of naked feet, of moving branches—and I knew the pass were full of men.
“He touched me on the arm as the bugle call to ‘fall in’ rang along into the still pass, ekering as it went from side to side.
“I put my mouth to his ear to tell him the Kaffirs were swarming, and that we could not go on, but must go up the ridge and work round to the troops.
“‘What are the Kaffirs doing?’ he sed.
“‘They are making an ambush.’
“‘And the General doesn’t know?’
“‘No, sonny, he doesn’t.’
“‘And they’ll march in and be stabbed,’ he whispered, with his eyes round and staring.
“‘Oh, they’ll fight their way out,’ I sed. ‘Come on after me.’
“‘Good-bye,’ he said, sitting down. ‘You go on—I’m tired.’
“‘I’ll carry you, little chap,’ says I, and I picked him up, but he was heavy for his size, and the bush was thick, and more than that, he kicked.
“So I sot him down, and I yeard a Kaffir calling out to his friends to know what the noise was. I motioned to him to come, but he sot there, with his face white, and shook his head; then he altered his mind. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘I’ll foller—go quick!’ So I sot off up the ridge through the wood, slipping from tree to tree, thinking he were coming, when all of a sudden outer the wood, ringing out clear and loud, a bugle sounded the alarm. I looked round and the boy were not there. I ran back, and saw him with the bugle to his lips, and his cheeks swelling as he blew another blast. I can hear it now—the call of that little chap, with the muttered cries of the Kaffirs, and the sound of their naked feet running, as they came up.
“‘You little devil,’ I yelled; ‘they’ll kill you. Run!’
“He gave me one look over his shoulder, and he put his life into that last blow. As the last note went swinging away, there came an answering note from the regiment—to form square.
“‘That’ll be Jimmy,’ he said. And the next minnit an assegai struck him on the neck, and he fell into my arms.”
Abe stopped, and looked away.
“What, then?” I said, touching him on the shoulder.
“I don’t know, sonny, what happened, till I laid him down afore the General.”
“You carried him out?”
“I s’pose so—I s’pose so—seeing as we were both there; and my clothes were in rags from the thorns, and my head cut open with a kerrie. Yes, I laid him afore the General.
“‘What’s this?’ he says.
“‘General,’ I said, ‘this boy has saved the regiment; he could a’ run—but he didn’t.’
“‘Who sounded the alarm?’ he sed.
“‘It was him, and the pass is full of Kaffirs.’
“The General stooped down, and looked into the little feller’s face.
“‘Damn you, man,’ he said, turning on me; ‘what did you take him into the wood for?’
“The little chap opened his eyes, and they were fixed, all glazed, on the General, and the officers stood around, looking, and the soldiers in the square.
“The General brought his hand to his cap, then he wheeled round: ‘Ninety fourth—present—arms!’
“The ranks came to a salute, and the officers brought their heels together and their swords up.
“The little chap let his eyes scan the lines.
“‘They are saluting you, my brave boy,’ said the General.
“I felt him move in my arms, and I lifted his hand to his head to salute. Then he sighed, then he smiled, and his eyes closed. ‘I’ll wait for you, Abe,’ he said, and he was dead.
“‘Ninety-fourth,’ said the General, ‘the enemy’s in the pass.’
“They came by in columns, and as they passed, they looked at the little chap and saluted, and they went on in silence with their mouths shut.
“They clean frightened the Kaffirs that time; and next day—they buried the little chap—the band playing—and all the regiment in full dress. My little chap—my little chap!” said Abe, in a whisper—“‘I’ll wait for you, Abe,’ he sed. And when he sounds the bugle ole Abe’ll go. Yes, I sit and listen for it.” He sat still, looking toward the sea, and I went quietly away.
Chapter Thirty Two.
The “Red” Kaffirs!
I found Abe Pike one afternoon poring over a newspaper, tracing each word with a horny finger, and laboriously spelling out the long words.
“Getting hints about pumpkin-growing, Abe?”
“No, sonny; jes’ studying how to give spoon-food to infants, and you’ve come in time.”
The old man looked vexed. He suddenly rolled the paper into a ball, and threw it at a lizard.
“It’s mean!” he said; “danged mean!”
“What?”
He held out his hand, and I mechanically gave him my tobacco pouch.
“Ever been to England?” he said.
“Yes; you know I have.”
“Soh! Is the people there white?”
“Of course!”
“Same as you and me?”
“A little whiter, I should say, Abe. What are you driving at?”
“Look here, sonny! I’ve been in this country, man an’ boy, ever since I were born; and, you b’lieve me, I never get hole of a paper from the Ole Land but there’s some abuse of us colonists. That’s why I ask you is they white.”
“What have they been saying now?”
“Saying; why the same old story—that we’re a hard lot, always driving the Kaffirs, an’ killing ’em, an’ stealing their lands, an’ ’busin’ their women-folk, and grindin’ ’em down.”
“Well; what does it matter!”
“It matters the hull sackful. Look at me—I’ve never been to England, but all the same it’s my home. I love the ole flag, and cry ‘Hurrah’ for the Queen; an’, ole as I am, I’d boost anybody over the head as ’ud up an’ say England was not the best and the biggest and the grandest country in the world. Yessir!”
“She’s not very big, Abe.”
“Soh! Well, she’s big enough to spread her arms all round the yearth, and fetch anybody on the other side ‘ker-blum’ with a man-o’-war’s big gun. We give her all—it ain’t much, maybe—an’ we get back a crop of suspicions. That’s why I ask, is the people in the Ole Land white?”
“We are all of one family, Abe, and relations don’t compliment each other.”
“Who’s crying out for compliments? I leave ’em to the chaps over in England, who praise each other to their face in the halls, and tell each other what fine fellows they are to save the Kaffirs from them cruel, savageous colonists. May the Lord look up and down ’em for the mischief they’ve done.”
“You seem very bitter, Abe.”
“Well, the reading in that paper has lef a bitter taste. You see, sonny, I recomember the wars of the ‘thirties’ and the ‘forties,’ when your father were a boy—and his uncles and brothers, and sisters and wives—the whole lot of us—were raw to the land—when the country all round were wild—and the Kaffirs hangin’ on the frontier like a great dark wave way out on the sea—ready to rush in and sweep us offern the land. Three times they rushed in—three times we had to leave our homes, our flocks, our crops, and make for the posts. Then we had to fight ’em back, and those people away over in England each time ’ud fetch a howl that reached across the sea about the cruelty of the colonists—with never a word about the burnt houses, and the cattle swept off, and the women and children.
“Look here, sonny,” said Abe, his face growing dark; “I’ll tell you somethin’ I seed when I was a grown boy—somethin’ about one of these very wars the people at home have blamed us for making for our own gain.
“The Kaffirs were over yonder; about twenty miles away across the Chumie, and the farmers were scattered all about, thinkin’ of nothin’ at all but the mealie crop, and the wheat nearly ripe, and the pumpkin patches—for they had been through hard times, and the season were good. Jes’ away back of this place, where the three springs of the Kleinemonde rise out of the flats, there were a little valley no bigger’n ten acres, set around with small hills, and the water runnin’ through and round it under big yellerwood and Kaffir plum trees; while in the water stood clumps of palmeit and tree ferns, yeller and green, and rustlin’ to the wind. Beyond the hills the grass veld rolled away to the Fish River bush, over here towards the Kaffirs, and the Kowie bush ’way back. On the grass veld were a many herd of bucks—springbok and blesbok—while in the thick bush were koodoo and buffel—ay, an’ elephant!
“It is a mooi place now, that little valley; but I tell you then it were a spot to make a man look and long. But it were risky. The Fish River bush were a leetle too close, in case the Kaffirs raided.
“Howsomdever, there were one man who took the risk. He were ole Mr Tolver—a farmer from Devonshire, and with him were seven sons—two on ’em born here, the rest away in the ole country. My gum! you should a seed ’em. The ole man hisself were not so big, though he were broad an’ deep; but four of his boys were over six feet, and the other three were growing fast. Ole Mr Tolver druv his stake into the little valley. ‘This is my settlement,’ he sez to the Government officer who came riding round, and tried to persuade him to give it up, because of its aloneness. ‘Here I am,’ he sez, ‘and here I stays, and durn the Kaffirs!’
“‘You’re a stubborn man, Tolver,’ sez the officer, ‘but I have warned you. If the Kaffirs come they would cut you off before you could reach Grahamstown.’
“‘Jes’ cast your eyes over my boys,’ sez Tolver; and the boys laughed, and stood in a row.
“There was Jake at the top, six-foot-four, with a yeller beard, and eyes blue as a bit of sky. Slow he were and heavy in his tread, with a hand like a leg o’ mutton and a heart soft as a woman. He were courtin’ a girl over at Clumber. I seed him offen there, but all the time you’d a thought he were there to play with the little girl, and not her big sister. Nex’ to him were Oll, with a smooth face and a bull neck, and brown eyes that were always laughing. He took arter his mother. Arter him come Seth—long and thin and solum, with a habit of croonin’ to hisself. And nex’ him were Harry—the devil of the family; straight as a ramrod, handsome, and hot-tempered. He were a fine young chap, and the girls ran when he came in sight to put their hair straight. Then come one below six foot—young Willie, who took after his brother Jake, and jes’ follered Harry like a shadder. Nex’ him were barefooted Jimmy—a boy that was a born hunter, and knew more about animiles and how to cotch ’em than any man; an’ last of all were the baby Tom. Tho’ they called him ‘baby,’ he were as big a’most as you, with the hair sticking through a hole in his felt hat, and bare brown legs.
“There they stood in a row—the seven sons; and the officer threw his eye along ’em.
“‘By God!’ he sed, ‘they’re fine chips from the ole country. Well, you’ll do as you like, Tolver; but take my advice—build a house with stone walls out in the clearing, and don’t have a thatch-roof.’
“Well; he rode off, and Tolver squatted in that little valley, clearing out the bush from the centre, and growing a’most anything. Many a time I went over there to climb the trees for plums with Tom, or go off bee huntin’ with Jimmie, and in the quiet of the evenin’ I’ve sot outside with the others, while Seth he played on his concertina bellers, making the saddest music, fit to make you roll over an’ cry.
“One night I went over, so to be ready to go on a long hunt nex’ day with Jimmie, and down the hill there came a Kaffir, with his kerrie across his shoulder, and his arms resting on the stick by the wrists, after their way of walking.
“‘Gumela!’ he sed, and stood near by, waiting, drawin’ his red blanket round him, and his face set like a block o’ wood.
“Ole baas Tolver he jes’ grunted, and the Kaffir he stood there lookin’.
“Arter a time the ole baas up and sed—‘Jake, fetch him a stick o’ tobacco!’
“Jake riz up, and there seemed no end to him, and he reached out a long arm with a yank of black tobak.
“‘Yoh!’ sed the Kaffir.
“‘Oll,’ said the ole baas; ‘step inside for a strip of meat. Seth, put another stick on the fire. You, Harry, draw a bucket o’ water from the spring.’
“As, one arter the other, these big chaps riz up from the ground, and went striding off about their jobs which the ole man had set them a-purpose, the Kaffir looked more an’ more s’prised.
“‘Sit and eat,’ sed the ole baas.
“‘Inkosi,’ sed the Kaffir; and he squatted down to the fire, with his hands out to the blaze, and his black eyes half-closed; while the meat spluttered on the coals, giving off a fine smell.
“‘Willie,’ sed the ole man; ‘fetch out the guns and give ’em a clean up.’
“Willie sprang up—nearly six foot of him—and the Kaffir looked roun’ the fire at the other two boys.
“‘Yoh,’ he said, ‘these men are like trees;’ and his eyes shone in the light, and on his breast there gleamed white a string of tiger claws.
“So he sot and eat, and then he said he were going on to the Kasouga to see his brother, who was herding cattle for a white man.
“When he went the ole man laughed in his beard. ‘I guess,’ he sed, ‘he’ll see we’re too much of a mouthful in case they mean trouble.’
“‘I hope we haven’t frightened him,’ sed Harry; ‘things are gettin’ too quiet.’
“‘The quieter the better,’ sed Jake; ‘we don’t wan’t any Kaffirs swooping down here. I didn’t like the look of that fellow; he said too little.’
“‘Phooh!’ said Harry, ‘I’d take him with one hand.’
“‘I’ll jes’ walk over to Clumber,’ sed Jake, stretching hisself, ‘and fetch the sweet pertaters for sowing to-morrow.’
“Harry laughed.
“‘You’re getting nervous, Jake,’ he sed, ‘now you’re in love. There’s somethin’ sweeter’n pertaters over yonder.’
“Jake laid Harry on his back—not so’s to hurt him, and swung off inter the dark, while me and Jimmie and Tom reckoned that Harry was the chap if there was any trouble.
“Early next morn, me and Jim stretched away across the veld, towards the Fish River, carrying a tin for the honey and a hunk of black bread.
“We’d gone about six miles when Jimmie stubbed his toe, and sit down, with a holler, to nurse it.
“‘My gum!’ he sed, ‘it’s bad; I guess we’ll go back and leave this trip for nex’ week. There’s a honey-tree near home, and we’ll go there.’
“I were ’leven and he were sixteen, and what he sed I’d got to do, so we turned back, and he limpin’.
“All o’ a sudden, when we got in a dip, he give over limpin’. ‘Abe,’ he says, breathin’ hard, ‘there were a Kaffir watching us. Now you go along home—quick! Don’t say nothin’ to father. Maybe the chap’s up to no mischief, but if he is, I’ll find out.’
“‘Come back with me,’ I sed, skeered.
“‘Do what I tell you,’ he sez; and when I started to go, he slipped away to the left, up the hill. Well, I went on, gettin’ more and more skeered, till I saw the house, then I jes’ hid away and waited for Jim. Bymby, in the afternoon, here he came running, and I run to meet him when he slowed down.
“‘Whatjer see?’ I asked him.
“‘Nothin’,’ he sez.
“‘Whatjer run for, then?’
“‘To keep warm,’ he sez, though the sweat were running off him.
“Well, when we got to the clearin’ we met Jake hauling on a big stump.
“‘Well, youngsters,’ he says; wiping his forehead with the back of his hand; ‘had a good time?’
“‘Jake,’ said Jimmie, ‘there’s Kaffirs over yonder.’
“‘What’s that! Are you joking?’
“‘There’s Kaffirs over yonder,’ sed Jimmie, staring at his brother; ‘and the chap as was here last night is with ’em. I heard them call him. His name’s Tyali.’
“‘My God!’ said Jake, going white. ‘Tell father,’ he sed, and then he ran.
“I laughed, sneering at Jake, and Jimmie hit me in the side, though his mouth were twitching.
“‘What the row?’ sed Harry, coming up.
“‘Kaffirs!’ sed Jimmie, scowling after Jake.
“‘Hurrah!’ sed Harry, and threw up his hat.
“‘What’s all this I yere from Jake?’ said ole man Tolver, striding up. ‘So,’ he sed, when Jimmie tole him, putting the ends of his beard into his mouth, which were a trick he had when thinking. ‘So; they’re coming. Well, let ’em come! I tole that Guv’ment chap I’d stay here, and here I’ll stay. If any of you boys would like to go, you’d better clear now.’
“They were all of them together—all but Jake, and he had gone running into the house.
“‘It’s too much trouble to run,’ said Oll, biting on a piece of grass. ‘’Sides, I ain’t finished “scoffling” the mealies. I’ll stay.’
“The ole baas he jes’ grunted.
“‘So’ll I,’ said Seth.
“‘Ef you all went,’ said Harry, with his eyes shining, ‘I’d stop.’
“The ole baas he jes’ grunted ag’in.
“‘An’ me,’ said Willie; ‘and me too’—‘and me,’ said Jim and baby Tom.
“‘Thank you, my sons,’ sed Tolver, softly, and jes’ then Jake came outer the house—Jake the biggest and the oldest, and the kindest of the brothers. In his hand he carried a big chopping axe, which were like a little stick in his grasp. He looked at his brothers, and his father looked at him.
“‘I’m going over to Clumber,’ he sed.
“‘So,’ sed his father; and they all stood silent.
“‘Yes,’ sed Jake after a time, ‘I give ’em warning.’
“‘And take yourself out of danger,’ sed the ole baas quietly.
“Jake looked at his father rather sad-like, and then he said: ‘Shall I take Jim and Tom with me?’
“‘I won’t go,’ sed Tom, turning red.
“Jimmie sed nothin’, but his lip trembled. He thought a heap of Jake, and here he seed him turnin’ tail.
“‘Abe,’ said Jake, speaking quietly; ‘you’ve got no part in this—come with me.’
“‘I’m not running away,’ I sed. ‘I’ll stay with Harry.’
“Jake opened his mouth as if he’d speak, then he turned on his heel and strode away with his axe over his shoulder.
“His brothers turned to look after him, and ole Tolver, he called out in a hard voice, ‘Don’t you come back here again. You’re no son of mine.’ Jake he gave no sign, and I seed Jimmie’s face working.
“‘Yah! you’re afraid like him,’ I sed.
“‘You lie,’ he sed, and hit me ’longside the jaw.
“‘Be quiet, boys,’ said Oll Tolver, ketching Jim by the arm.
“‘Seth,’ said the ole baas, speaking short and firm. ‘Get ter the top of that hill, and keep a sharp look-out. Willie and Jim, bring the cows into the kraal. Oll and Harry, fill the water barrel, and put it inside the house. Tom and you, Abe, move all the things outer the big room, and get the guns ready.’
“Seth sot off up the hill at a lope, and the other boys all went about their work, and got things to rights in no time. Then we hung about fidgettin’—picking things up and putting them down, and looking up to Seth all the time.
“Arter a long time Seth lifted up his hand, and we all stood in a bunch watching him till our eyes ached—then here he come down the hill like a cart wheel, while the big chaps grabbed their guns, and I bolted inter the house.
“‘Are they coming?’ shouted Harry.
“Seth nodded as he ran.
“‘How many?’
“‘One,’ said Seth, with a gasp.
“‘Good lord!’ said Harry, throwing his rifle down.
“‘I say,’ sed Seth, drawlin’ out his words—his neck was that long; ‘you fellows jes’ slouch around ’s if you were at work. I’m goin’ to meet this chap. Maybe he’s a spy.’
“‘Seth’s right,’ said the ole baas; and the boys put the guns away, and scattered about as if they were restin’.
“Seth slipped a naked hunting-knife inside the band of his trousers, and lounged away up the path; and bymby, when he nearly got to the top, a Kaffir came over the ridge, stood a moment looking, then come down. He carried his blanket over his right shoulder.
“When they met, the Kaffir he took snuff, and Seth he gave him a bit of tobacco. Then they talked and talked, and the Kaffir, he kep’ his eye on the house, and arter a time he kep’ movin’ around—’s if he’d like to get behind Seth—and Seth all the time he kep’ his face to the t’other. Then the Kaffir went away back, and Seth went up to the ridge again, and there was another spell of waiting.
“Then Harry sed he weren’t going to fool about any more, and he made tracks for the little wood above the clearing, and Willie follered. No sooner’d they got clear than here comes Seth again, like a streak.
“‘It’s all right,’ he sed; ‘they’re comin’ thick. The veld’s red with ’em.’
“They gave a hail for Harry and went inside, and each one looked to see the shiny, brass caps were hard down on the nipple—while Tom, he laid out the round bullets, and the greased rags for wroppin’ ’em in, and the slugs handy. Seth were tellin’ how the Kaffir ast him questions, and how he seed the assegai under his blanket—then there came a deep sound rolling along the ground, which made me hide away in the barrel churn, and made the brothers all go silent. It were the war song of the red Kaffirs, deep from their chests, slow and boomin’, and solum, and in between there were the shrill crying of the women, follering behind the fightin’ men with the mats and the pots.
“Ole baas Tolver stood at the door looking for Harry, and he give a shout for him to hurry; and the Kaffirs came over the crest of the hill. Jimmie pushed his rifle through a hole in the wall, with a gasp in his throat.
“‘Don’t shoot!’ sed his father; and he looked away to the woods for his two sons. And so they stood, waiting and watching.
“I crept out of the barrel to see what they were looking at so set, and there I seed the Kaffirs slipping down the hill, from rock to rock, edging all the time towards the wood, and others coming up over the ridge, their bodies stripped and oiled for war, and their faces smeared with red clay.
“‘My God!’ sed the ole man under his breath; then he bellered out ‘Run!’
“I looked between his legs, and seed Harry and Willie comin’ up from the wood, and walkin’ jes’ ’s if they were comin’ in to dinner.
“The Kaffirs yelled when they seed them, and started running. Harry threw up his gun, and they dropped down, hiding away behind nothing. I yeard Harry laugh. Well, they came on at that fool pace, and all on a sudden the Kaffirs came leaping and dodging down. The two brothers they stood still, with their rifles up and fired; then they come on loading, and fired again.
“‘Run, Willie,’ sed Harry; ‘let’s see who can get in first,’ and with that he made to run, and Willie let out full speed, with the Kaffirs yelling like mad. When he got near the door he looked round and seed Harry walking backwards with his rifle ready, and the Kaffirs hanging away back and whizzing their assegais. He made ’s if to start back, but the ole man caught him by the arm and yanked him in.
“‘Fire!’ sed the ole baas, and he and the three boys blazed away, Jimmy letting rip a handful of slugs.
“Well, the Kaffirs they dropped, crawling for shelter, and Harry came in as cool as you please, with an assegai in his hand that he picked up. Then he seed me crouching down, and laugh’d a’most till he cried, for I were covered with the leavings of the churn.
“They took their places inside the room, each one at a hole, and began firing by fits and starts, Tom standin’ ready with a charge of powder from the horn each time.
“‘They’re going to rush the cattle,’ sed Oll; ‘and we can’t prevent ’em from here. Some of us had better get into the shed.’
“Well, three of them boys went out—Oll, and Harry, and Willie—and there were a terrible how-de-do out there, shoutin’ an’ whistlin’, and bangin’; the dogs barking fit to bust themselves, the ole red bull bellering, and the fowls that had flew to the roof cackling all together. My! I were skeered, and Tom, he looked if he’d bolt inter the tub along with me, but he jes’ kep on pouring out the powder.
“Then I yeard ‘Hurrah,’ and ole Tolver tore open the door, and Tom most split his throat.
“The Kaffirs were on the run, and when I crep’ out, I seed Harry a tearin’ up the hill arter them, with Will at his heels, then—oh, lad!—oh, lad!—from the wood there came out, swift and silent, a party of Kaffirs led by the chief Tyali, and they cut between the three boys and the house.
“I yeard Oll shout, ‘Back! Turn back!’ then again, ‘Together, brothers!’—and the three, clubbing their rifles, went straight at the chief and his men, an’ ole Tolver dancing about at the door, fearing to shoot, and Tom staring with his eyes wide, and the powder running from the horn on the floor.
“Then there were a whirling crowd of men, and the smack of sticks—and the ‘thud—thud—thud,’—and groans—and out of the pack Oll lurched, carrying Willie, whose head lay back limp.
“He came along like a tipsy man—rolling—with his mouth fixed in a smile, and the blood running from his head.
“When he were near the door a Kaffir stabbed him in the back, and the ole baas shot the Kaffir.
“Then Oll reeled back, and he spoke in gasps, ‘I can’t—go—any—further—father—take Will—he’s hurt,’—then he jes’ sank to the ground, and rolled over.
“Seth brought Willie in, and laid him down on the floor.
“And ole man Tolver stood outside the door calling for a loaded gun; and then he sprang at a Kaffir who were stooping to stab Oll, and broke the stock of his gun.
“I were by the door, ’cause I had no strength to move, and I seed someone pass.
“‘Get into the house, father,’ he sed, ‘and hold it.’
“It were Jake; and in his hand he held the axe he took away in the morning.
“He put his hand on his father’s shoulder a moment ‘Get back,’ he sed, ‘for the sake of the boys,’ and then he ran up to where the Kaffirs still swarmed around Harry. He opened a lane with his axe. I tell you I thought it were like splitting water-melons, and I laughed, and Jimmie, he cried. The Kaffirs gave way, crouching and holding their shields up. Then Jake lifted Harry, who were on his knees, and carried him down. As he came, the whole lot of them—maybe five hundred—came with a rush; then Jimmie dashed out, and took Harry from his brother, and Jake stood out alone.
“‘Shut the door!’ he shouted loud and stern; ‘do you hear—shut it!’
“The old baas looked wildly at Seth; and Seth he shook his head.
“‘Shut it,’ sed Jake; ‘in the name of our mother!’ and the ole man with a sort of groan pulled the door to, jamming my fingers.
“Outside were the noise of that fight, and inside were silence, and white set faces, and the tears running from Jimmie’s eyes.
“‘Let me out!’ he cried; ‘let me out!’ he kep’ on cryin’—‘let me out!’ and then he struggled to open the door.
“Then we heard Jake again.
“‘Good-bye,’ he sed; and we held our breath, till the fierce shout rose higher and higher, and we knew Jake were dead.
“Then the ole man’s beard curled up. He forgot about his other sons. He opened the door, and with a roar he ran into the Kaffirs, and Jimmie with him. Seth were follering, too, when an assegai whizzed into the room, and a Kaffir stood at the doorway, when Seth jabbed him in the stomach with the muzzle, and druv his fist into the face of another; then he pulled-to the door, and there were only him and Tom and me, with Willie dead and Harry gasping.
“Then Seth began to sing. He’d stop to shoot, then he’d sing again; and the sound of his singing were worse than the yelling of the Kaffirs swarming all round the house. Tom he stood up in the room tremblin’ and loadin’, his face black where the smoke stuck to the tears, and once and again he’d jump to a hole and shoot.
“And at last an ole pot leg struck Seth on the head and he sot down.
“He put his hand to his head and looked at the blood; then he shook his head and laughed a strange laugh.
“‘It’s all over,’ he sed—‘dang it.’ Then he saw Harry, and he said softly: ‘Poor chap,’ then he stared at Willie, and his eye came on to me watchin’ him.
“‘Abe,’ he sed, ‘you’ll find my concertina hanging up; jes’ hand it to me.’
“Well, I gave it him, and bolted back into the tub, and he began to play.
“The Kaffirs stopped, and I yeard one call out ‘Yinny!’ and others said ‘Yoh!’ and you could hear them trying to peep in.
“‘Tom,’ he said soft.
“‘Yes, Seth.’
“‘You and Abe get into the mealie pit in the pantry. Maybe, they’ll not see you.’
“Tom he shook his head, and banged the gun—and the Kaffirs came hard at the door.
“Seth he went on playing, and Harry rolled over. ‘I’ve got a pain,’ he muttered; ‘mother, I’ve got a pain,’—and Seth he went on playing softer and softer.
“Then I crawled away inter the dark of the pantry—inter the mealie hole.”
Abe stopped, and his face looked grey and aged.
“Well, Abe?”
“That’s all sonny. They did not find me.”
“And what became of Tom?”
“He went with his brothers, sonny. Seven better boys you’d never want to meet, and seven finer men you could not. They all went—in that one day—and the Kaffirs swep’ on over the land.”