The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Six.

In Peace.

Surely we have stood upon this spot before.

But the drooping boughs of the old pear-tree afford no shade now to those two persons seated on the rustic bench beneath—being leafless. For it is mid-winter; yet the sky is a glory of unclouded blue above the rolling landscape and dark forests, and the white and dazzling shroud upon the distant mountains.

Not only have we stood upon this spot before; but we have stood here—though unseen—in company with these two identical persons. One of them now wears one arm in a sling, and looks like a man lately recovered from a desperate illness. We will draw near—still unseen—and hear what they are talking about.

“Now, Arthur, I declare I saw you shiver,” exclaimed a bright, playful voice, which sounded very like that of Lilian Strange. “That won’t do, sir—Didn’t the doctor say you were to take enormous care of yourself for a long time to come—the English of which is that I am to do it for you—and I’m going to begin by buttoning up your overcoat, for it’s anything but warm to-day, although the sun is so bright. That’s done,” continued she, with a joyous laugh. “Now for the letters.”

“Bother the letters. They can slide.”

“Can they? Business can slide, eh? And I’m sure one of them looked like a regular ‘dun,’ or a lawyer’s letter at least, in its big, blue envelope. That won’t do, my dear. You’ve got a termagant to deal with, I can tell you. Besides, when all’s said and done, sir, they’re my letters, so out with them.”

She dived her hand into the pocket of his overcoat, and produced two missives. The post had just arrived as they were starting for their stroll; but Lilian, reluctant to let in thoughts of the outside world upon this their first visit to all the dear old places, had deferred investigating the contents.

“Yours, are they?” said Claverton, when he had recovered from the shout of laughter which her idea of a “termagant” had evoked. “Let me set you right on that head. They’re mine, now, at all events. What’s yours is mine—what’s mine’s my own. Eh?”

“But, look—they’re addressed to me. Look! ‘Miss Strange,’ ‘Miss Lilian Strange,’” cried she, triumphantly, with her bright, witching laugh. “What do you say to that?”

“That young party has ceased to exist, I tell you; so, in the logical sequence of events, we ought to return those to the Dead Letter Office. What do you say to that, Mrs Arthur Claverton?”

“This is from that dear Annie Payne,” she went on, not heeding him, as she extracted a closely-written and crossed sheet from its cover.

“Wants a microscope to read. We haven’t got one here—ergo, it can stand over,” he rejoined. “Why, Lilian; what on earth’s the matter?”

For she had opened the blue envelope last of all, and her face wore a very curious expression indeed, as she mastered its contents—a little surprise and a great deal of amusement. It was a lawyer’s letter, even as she had conjectured, and it informed her, in dry, concise phraseology, that she was entitled to the sum of nine thousand pounds under the will of her distant cousin, “my late esteemed client, Mr Herbert Spalding,” which bequest reverted to her, being forfeited by the present legatee, Mr Arthur Claverton, that gentleman having failed to observe the conditions under which he enjoyed the legacy, etcetera, etcetera. The writer begged to know her wishes in respect of this bequest, and remained her obedient servant, Robert Smythe.

Blank astonishment was the only feeling Claverton was sensible of as he sat staring at the bit of paper which she had put into his hand. He had written to the lawyer on the day of his marriage, as a matter of course, renouncing all further claim to the bequest, and sending in all the necessary papers; as nearly three years were wanting to the time when it should be his irrevocably; and had expected to hear nothing more about the matter, beyond a brief acknowledgment. It was a nuisance, of course, being docked of about half his means, but he had quite enough left to go on with; and weighed in the balance of recent events this one was a mere trifle. And, now, the legacy had simply reverted to his wife. But how the deuce had it come about—that was the question?

“Good God!” was all he could ejaculate.

“Don’t be profane, sir,” retorted Lilian, with such a merry peal of laughter. “Why don’t you congratulate me on my good fortune?”

“Eh—what? Hang it, this beats me. I don’t understand it at all!”

“Don’t you? Well, then, poor Herbert Spalding was my cousin—a very distant one—and I hardly knew much about him. He was very pleasant and kind, though, the little I did see of him at Dynevard Chase; but at the last he seems to have had the bad taste to prefer you to me. Undue influence, sir, undue influence—isn’t that what the lawyers call it?” concluded she, in a playfully reproachful tone.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t joke about it, Lilian,” he interrupted, in a pained voice. “For it amounts to this, that I have simply been robbing you all these years—robbing you—you, whom I would have given the last drop of my heart’s blood to shield from a single want. All this time, while you have been fighting a hard battle alone and unaided, I have been literally robbing you of your own. Good Heavens! the very idea is enough to make a fellow cut his throat.”

“You were not robbing me of anything of the sort. Don’t be absurd, you dear old goose! But, darling, you don’t know how pleased I am that you should take this from me now, even though it is like giving you back what belongs to you,” she added, lovingly.

“But, upon my soul, I don’t understand it yet,” he repeated, amazedly. “Who on earth was that old parson who came badgering me one morning? I thought he was the next in reversion.”

“‘That old parson,’ as you so disrespectfully term my dear old uncle, George Wainwright, went to you on my behalf, Arthur,” she answered, with a smile. “I tried to prevent him, but he would go. He failed, for you stuck to it like a leech,” she concluded, with a merry laugh.

“Heavens! Of course I thought he was speaking for himself. He never mentioned you.”

“Didn’t he? That’s so like Uncle George! And when I asked him who you were, he had forgotten your name. Said it was Clinton, or something like that.”

“But, Lilian, is this the first you’ve heard of the rights of the affair? Didn’t you ever suspect anything?”

A soft smile stole over her face. “I did once,” she replied, “long ago—here. Something Mrs Brathwaite was telling us about you gave me a sort of an inkling.”

“Oh, but this is simply dreadful! How could I have any idea how things stood? I never saw the will, and never heard the name of the next in reversion. ‘A distant relative’ was all that old Smythe said. But I’ll write to the parson, Mr—what’s his name?—Wainwright, and get him to tell you all that passed between us. I’ll—”

“I’m afraid not. Poor Uncle George died four years ago,” she answered. “But, darling, don’t take things to heart like this. I only see it in an amusing light. Isn’t it a queer chapter of coincidences?”

“Good God!”

“Don’t be profane,” she repeated. “And if you don’t want to make me quite unhappy, you will think no more of this odd little coincidence, Arthur dearest. I declare I mean it. And then, isn’t it best, after all? Why, nothing now can rid me of the knowledge that it was entirely for myself, and myself alone, just as I stood, that you threw away that dear, foolish heart of yours.” And she gave him such a look of tenderness, and love, and trust, that he caught her to him with all the passionate love of the old yearning, hopeless days.

“My Lilian, nothing can rid me of the knowledge that I have robbed you all this time; and how am I to pass it off so lightly?” he whispered, in a broken voice. “My darling, you see it was impossible that I could have known—do you not?”

“Why, of course. How should you have? But isn’t it the most amusing of coincidences! Come now, you are to own that it is. We women are supposed to be deficient in a sense of humour; but, I declare, in this instance I am proving the rule by making an exception to it, while you are not keeping up the credit of your lordly sex. Do you hear that, sir?” she went on, in a tone of soft banter that was very bewitching. Her great happiness had completely changed Lilian. The longing sadness in the sweet, lustrous eyes had given way to a calm peace that was infinitely beautiful, and a sunny, gladsome smile had taken the place of that former tinge of melancholy which had always been upon her, even at the brightest of times. No cloud was in her sky now. The lurid curtain of war had lifted, and though still upon the horizon, daily receded—rolling back farther and farther. The Past might be put away, as the golden Future disclosed in bright, fair vista.

Yes. The war was at an end, now—or nearly so—for the wretched insurgents, broken-spirited, half-starving, and thoroughly sick of fighting, were flocking in daily to surrender themselves at the different frontier posts. The gaols were crowded with red-blanketed, forlorn-looking beings, squatting about in sullen apathy, their chief speculation—next to the interest of their daily rations—being whether Ihuvuménte (the Government) would be very hard on them, when they should be placed in the dock in batches, at the approaching special Circuit, and called upon to answer to the charge of having “wrongfully, unlawfully, and maliciously taken up arms and waged war against our Sovereign Lady, the Queen, etcetera, etcetera,” of which exalted personage most of them had but a very hazy idea. The insurgent leaders had either been captured or slain, and in the latter category was the fate of Sandili, the Great Chief of the house of Gaika, who was shot by a party of Fingoes during his flight; and when his body was found some days afterwards in the Perie Forest, behold, it was partially eaten by wild animals. So the fate which his captive had predicted, when condemned to the torture and to death, to the old chief, was fulfilled to the very letter. His two sons, Gonya and Matanzima, together with Gungubele, Umfanta, Tini Macomo, and other rebel leaders, were also in gaol, awaiting their trial for high treason (Note 1), and altogether the war had come to about as ignominious an end as was possible.

Jim Brathwaite was at home again; his corps, which had done such good service, having been disbanded. Indeed, nothing remained to be done. A few forlorn bands of insurgents were still under arms; but these clung so pertinaciously to the wildest and most inaccessible tracts of country—a region of holes, and caves, and dense tangled bush—that the work of hunting them out was left to the Police and native levies, aided by that powerful ally, starvation. So troop after troop of burghers and volunteers left the field, and soon there were signs of re-occupying the long-deserted farms in Kaffraria and upon the immediate line of hostilities; for the savage enemy had lain down his arms, and the prospect was that of a speedy return to the ways of peace.

Jim Brathwaite is at home again, and there is quite a gathering of our old friends at Seringa Vale on this first occasion of their meeting together since the war. And how they fight their battles all over again, for, needless to say, the conversation turns wholly upon the doings of the colonial forces in general, and upon the exploits of that doughty corps, Brathwaite’s Horse, in particular. Some growling, too, is heard. Time has to be made up for. Things have gone more or less to the deuce during the period our friends have all been away at the front, which period, with the exception of a brief interval, covers the best part of a year. In fact, campaigning has been an undertaking of neither pleasure nor profit. Stay—as to the pleasure. The jolly, sunburnt visage of our friend Hicks, yonder, has lost none of its brimming contentment. Indeed, its owner has been heard to say, that he, for one, would be quite ready for another bout of Kafir-shooting as soon as convenient—a remark which obtains for him an angry scowl from his right-hand neighbour, Thorman, who growls resentfully that “the sooner fellows shut up talking that sort of damned bosh, the sooner the country will settle down to its legitimate business again.” A sentiment which, though ungraciously expressed, contains a strong element of truth; for, undoubtedly, the irregular, happy-go-lucky, jolly good fellowship of camp-life, and the glorious uncertainty of war, is not without a somewhat demoralising influence on the energies of the colonial youth in the more prosaic run of workaday life—to which it must now return. But Hicks is young yet, and brimful of animal spirits. His losses during the outbreak have been but slight; and now he is back among his old friends, after having seen some real good service. And opposite him sits his wife—quiet, gentle-looking as ever—for whom he has abated not one jot of his old adoration; for Laura, in spite of her reserve and apparent self-obliteration, has a shrewd, sensible little head of her own, and manages her lord completely, he being just the fellow who requires management—and Hicks is as happy as a king. So, with a laugh, he tells Thorman to shut up, for a jolly old growler, as he is, “and always was, by Jove!” and to let a fellow have his say now that they are all festive together again, and to knock up a sort of grin himself, for once in his life, if he can.

Naylor, too, is there, quieter and staider, but full of dry “chaff,” which he every now and then turns on one or other of the party. His hair and large beard are beginning to show streaks of grey; but, then, as he says, a fellow ceases to be a chicken at some time in his life, and he, for instance, is growing a fine crop of “prime whites.” Which ostrich-feather witticism so tickles his son and heir, Tom—a well-grown, sturdy boy of fifteen—that he bursts into a fit of immoderate mirth, necessitating his sudden retreat from the room.

As for Allen, he has not changed in any single particular, but, having shown that there was good stuff in him, underlying his external eccentricity, he has gone up several pegs in the estimation of his friends; and now that poor Jack Armitage is no longer at his side, he enjoys a kind of immunity from chaff, for even Naylor leaves him in peace, failing the more merciless wag to arouse the spirit of emulation, and to keep the ball rolling.

There sits Will Jeffreys, not much more happy-looking than of yore. He is doing by no means badly in the world, for he has five waggons on the road—transport-riding is paying well just now—and owns two flourishing and well-stocked farms left him by his father, who has gone the way of all flesh. But his saturnine temperament remains pretty much as it was, and Claverton has a bet on, of considerable magnitude, with Mrs Jim Brathwaite that, in a year hence, Jeffreys will have attained greater proficiency in the art of scowling than even Thorman.

But serious thoughts will intrude upon the mirth and great cordiality present in the gathering. The hand of Death has been laid upon the familiar circle since last we saw it here assembled, and well-loved faces have dropped out of it, never to be beheld again on earth. Jim Brathwaite—jovial, light-hearted, and popular in the best sense of the word—reigns at Seringa Vale now; but in two hearts especially to-day lingers a very warm and loving remembrance of the dear old couple whose kindly, genial presence ere while made sunshine in that room.

And the grisly war-god, too, had exacted his tribute even from that small circle, and poor Jack Armitage, that best of good comrades, would no more enliven them with his quizzical countenance and reckless, boyish love of fun. Even Allen sadly missed his erewhile tormentor, and thought his immunity from chaff and practical jokes dearly purchased. But the dead man lies in his lonely grave away in savage Kafirland, and his young widow weeps for him, and his old comrades think of him with an affectionate, but shadowed regret. Poor Jack!

When the good fellowship and general cordiality is at its height, Hicks is suddenly inspired with an idea that some speech-making would very appropriately mark the occasion, which idea he communicates to Jim; but he is overruled, on the ground that “the women would be safe to turn on the hose” if anything of that kind were started, which would inevitably put a damper on the prevailing good spirits; while Thorman, who has overheard him on the other side, remarks, with a contemptuous growl, “that Hicks, of all people, on his legs, speechifying, would remind him of nothing so much as a damned bear jumping up at an apple tied to a string, because he’d be trying to catch at something that wouldn’t come—he would, by so and so, and so and so.” A statement, however, which in no wise disturbed the exuberant good-humour of the subject thereof.

Meanwhile, behind the cattle-kraal are seated, in close confab, two other personages who have played no unimportant part in this history. These are Sam and Xuvani. And how comes the latter here?

After he had so deftly turned the tables on the Cuban mulatto, Xuvani retraced his steps in the direction of Sandili’s kraal, keeping the while a careful lookout for Tambusa, whom he expected to join him. But, after a while, his nephew not appearing, the old man began to suspect that something had gone wrong. He redoubled his caution, but the lone, silent bush betrayed nothing of the tragedy of blood just enacted in its cruel depths. He was perplexed. If the plot had been discovered, and the lad was captured before he could make good his escape, he would be dead by this, and it was clearly useless for himself to rush on to the very points of his countrymen’s avenging assegais. While pondering over his plan of action a shadow passed between him and the sun. He looked up. It was a vulture; and another and another swept between the tree-tops and the blue sky. The mystery was explained now. A few steps more and the old man knelt beside the stiffening corpse, not long cold, of the luckless Tambusa. The murderers had gone down to him to ensure that he was dead, and had left him there in the rocky glen just where he had fallen, and the traces and footmarks supplied all the missing links in the bloody tale to the eye of the shrewd savage. Hastily piling a heap of stones on the dead body of his nephew, Xuvani left the spot, decided as to his future course of action. To return to Sandili would be to commit suicide. He regretted poor Tambusa’s fate, but accepted the event with true native philosophy—it was done, and it couldn’t be helped now. They had both been guilty of an act of treason towards their countrymen, albeit of one of chivalrous gratitude towards the white man; and the lad had fallen a victim. It was unfortunate, but could not be helped. So, acting upon Claverton’s advice, Xuvani then and there made his way quietly into the colony, where he engaged himself as a labourer on some railway works in the Western Province, and where a powerful, able-bodied, well-conducted Kafir like himself was too good a workman for any questions to be asked. There he remained some months, till at length, the war over, and as soon as he could safely do so, he returned to the frontier, and obtained employment under Jim Brathwaite, in his former capacity.

So here he is at Seringa Vale again, looking a trifle chapfallen, perhaps, but on the whole, deeming himself marvellously lucky, when he thinks of the frightful grief to which have come so many of his old companions in arms. And he is, moreover, enjoying substantial advantage by reason of having saved Claverton’s life; for he already owns more good cattle than ever he pictured to himself in his dreams, and will own even more when things are settled, and he knows where to bestow his possessions. And he professes great veneration for Lilian, and is enormously proud of a large, handsome and curiously-wrought armlet which she has given him, and, although to expect him to declare that he prefers this to the more material benefits would be to demand an effort of gallantry too great for Kafir human nature, yet there is no doubt that he looks upon the ornament as a very great distinction indeed, with which nothing would induce him to part.

Sam and the old Gaika have struck up a great alliance, and the only subject on which they fall out is that of the respective prowess of the Kafirs and the colonists in the field—for the war is an inexhaustible topic between them—on which occasion Sam would inevitably be tempted to fire off the Kafir equivalent of his pet ejaculation, “Amaxosa nigga no good,” were it not that such a course would either draw down upon him the old man’s anger, or contempt for him as a “boy,” and the sly dog has a reason for standing well within the other’s good books just now.

And this is the reason. It happens that Xuvani owns a couple of nieces—half-sisters of poor Tambusa—whom he has brought to keep house for him, their father having been slain in the war. Both are fine, well-made, bright-eyed wenches, with a merry laugh and a wealth of cheerful spirits, and Master Sam has developed very decided intentions in that direction. Even now, as he sits there, he is warily trying to ascertain the smallest number of cattle old Xuvani is likely to accept for one of them, and turning over in his mind whether his savings will be sufficient to enable him to lay in the stock needed for the requisite lobola (the price in cattle paid to the father or lawful guardian, for a wife), and if not, whether his master will help him. And yet another difficulty besets Sam’s path. He cannot quite make up his mind which of the brown Venuses he shall propose for. Mnavnma is decidedly the best-looking, and he has a sneaking partiality for her; but, then, she is flighty, whereas Ngcesile is a good worker, steadier and rather better-tempered. So poor Sam is in a cleft stick.

On the afternoon of the day which witnesses this gathering of so many of our old friends at Seringa Vale, a girl is sitting at the window of a pretty house in one of the leafy suburbs of Cape Town. A beautiful girl of four-and-twenty, with exquisitely-chiselled features, and a great mass of golden hair in a shining halo above her face; but there is a hard look in the deep blue eyes, and the full, laughing lips are set and grave as she sits absently gazing out upon the broad surface of the bay, upon whose waters, curled into ripples by the afternoon breeze, the white sails of a few sailing-boats are skimming to and fro. She rouses herself from her reverie, and her glance falls upon something she holds in her hand. It is a newspaper, two months old; and it needs not the pencil mark against one of the notices in the marriage column to attract her eye, for she has gazed upon it many times already. Then she rises, and unlocking a desk takes out something. Only a few faded blossoms, originally distributed over half-a-dozen rank and sorry-looking stalks, but long since fallen off. Yet how tenderly, almost reverently, she handles them! There is something else—a sketch in a few bold pencil strokes, roughly executed on the inside of an envelope. It represents a large full-grown ostrich standing in menacing contemplation of the draughtsman, who, sitting under a bush, has included himself in the sketch as a foreground. Beyond the truculent biped, are the indistinct faces of several persons looking over a wall, and underneath the whole is pencilled the legend: “Cornered—or Brute Force versus Intellect.” For a few moments the girl stands gazing upon these relics, and the hard look in her eyes gives place to a softened and wistful expression that is unutterably sad as she murmurs something to herself, and a tear falls upon the faded and withered blossoms; then, as with an effort, she walks to the fireplace, and, crumpling up the newspaper, places the flowers and the pencil drawing upon it, strikes a match, and watches the whole consume to ashes. That done, she returns to the window and gazes out for a few minutes upon the blue bay and the distant mountains. Footsteps on the gravel beneath, and a ring at the front door, recall her to herself with a start. She tarns from the window, looks in the glass for a moment, and then Ethel Brathwaite goes downstairs to say the word which shall render Gerald Hanbury, Major in H.M.’s 999th Foot, quartered at Blazerabad, India—but now on leave at the Cape—the “happiest dog on earth”—as he thinks.

Note 1. These and other chiefs of the insurgent Gaikas and Tembus, were subsequently sentenced, some to death, others to long terms of penal servitude. The capital sentences, however, were commuted, and it should be mentioned that the Governor was largely memorialised in favour of this merciful course, by the very colonists whom these men had so wantonly and unprovokedly attacked.