Chapter Six.
Tom Flinders’ Home—“A friend in need Is a friend indeed!”—An Expedition proposed.
Five miles from Cape Town, on the Wynberg and Simon’s Town road, lies the picturesque, wood-girt village of Rondebosch. The ground in rear of this village is beautifully timbered, and rises with a more or less gradual ascent, towards a mountain range extending from Table Bay to Muissenburg; an old fort and military station about two-and-a-half leagues from Simon’s Town; and upon one of the rocky spurs of this range, overlooking Rondebosch, there used to stand an ancient Dutch block-house, from the summit of which a splendid view of the surrounding country, and “veldt,” stretching far away to the foot of the Stellenbosch Hills, could be obtained, on a fair, clear day.
Between the “Block-house Hill”—as it was then called—and the village of Rondebosch lay Major Flinders’ property, the “Rustenburg House Farm,” consisting of some 300 morgens (about 600 acres) of carefully cultivated land and vineyards, with a substantial dwelling-house and farm buildings; the whole being screened from the highroad by plantations of well-grown trees. The Major also held 60 morgens of coarse grazing-land, with a cottage and stables, two miles away on the “veldt” to the north-east of Rondebosch.
So you see the Major’s commission-money had been well invested; the more so, because—thanks to good management and untiring industry—the farm had greatly increased in value since he took possession of it.
One warm evening, some few weeks after the Surat Castle anchored in Table Bay, Major and Mrs Flinders, with Tom, his two sisters, and their guests the Westons, were seated on the “stoep” of Rustenburg House; the ladies busily engaged in mending a pair of canvas saddle-bags, whilst the Major, Mr Weston, and the two boys occupied themselves cleaning and oiling a couple of sporting rifles and a double-barrelled “Joe Manton”—which latter weapon Tom had brought out from England.
When Major Flinders heard of the misfortunes that had befallen Mr Weston he offered to assist him in any way that lay in his power—either by using his influence with the Governor to obtain for him some suitable appointment in Cape Colony, or by rendering him pecuniary aid. At the same time the Major pressed his friend to join him in farming at Rondebosch, rather than seek government employment, or continue his seafaring life.
Mrs Flinders warmly seconded her husband’s proposition, pointing out that Rustenburg House was quite big enough to accommodate the two families, and declaring—with most unmistakable sincerity—how much it would please her to have Gracie Weston as a companion for her own girls, Ella and Maud.
“They can be educated together, Mr Weston,” said the good lady, “and that, you know, will be a mutual advantage.”
After a little consideration Weston thankfully accepted this offer, and decided to settle down at the Cape, and join his fortunes to those of his quondam school-fellow. The Sea-mew was insured for 1500 pounds (about one-third her value) and Mr Weston had 500 pounds in his London banker’s hands; and the Major introduced him to a lawyer, who consented to advance him 250 pounds on his policy, and promised to take the necessary steps to secure the whole sum for which the ill-fated barque had been insured. So Mr Weston did not come into the “firm” quite empty-handed.
“By the way, my dear Mat,” said Mr Weston as he proceeded to take the lock of one of the rifles to pieces, “we have been so engaged with lawyer Rutherhorn that we have forgotten all about that trip up country you were talking of the week before last. Suppose you tell us about it.”
“Oh, I had not forgotten it,” rejoined the Major; “indeed Kate and I were going over the ‘pros and cons’ this morning, and we came to the conclusion that—”
“What?” cried Tom eagerly, laying down the barrel he was cleaning.
“That Rugby hadn’t cured our son and heir of his impatience and impetuosity,” laughed Mrs Flinders, rising from her seat. “Come along, girls, we will leave the gentlemen to talk over this important project by themselves. There are your saddle-bags, Tom; but if your father takes you with him, you must have a new pair; these have seen their best days.”
“Now, Maurice,” said Major Flinders as soon as the ladies had disappeared into the house, “I will give you an idea of my plans, and see what you think of them. To begin with, I must tell you that an old brother officer of mine, Donald Jamieson, has gone in for breeding horses at his farm up country, 180 miles north-east of Mossel Bay. He has been exceptionally lucky, for it so happens that the district in which he has settled is wonderfully free from the fatal ‘horse-sickness;’ and that pest of the country the ‘tsetse’ is almost unknown there.”
“What is the ‘tsetse,’ Major Flinders?” inquired George Weston, who was a lad with a thirst for knowledge of any description.
“A most intolerable nuisance, George,” replied the Major; “in the shape of a small, brownish-yellow fly, which attacks horses and cattle, too often causing their death; for the bite of this insect produces blood-poisoning, and that generally proves fatal. Oddly enough human beings rarely suffer any ill effects from the bite.”
“Jot that down, Geordie,” laughed Tom.
“I think I will,” quietly observed his friend, suiting the action to the word.
“Quite right, my boy,” said Major Flinders, with an approving nod; “pick up information whenever you can; you never can tell when it may not prove useful. But to proceed! Just now horses are very dear in these parts, and high prices are being offered in Cape Town even for unbroken colts and fillies. I heard some time ago from Jamieson that he had several young horses to dispose of, so I thought we might combine business and pleasure.”
“Good!” assented his friend.
“Jamieson mentioned in his letter,” continued the Major, “that he wanted two good Cape-carts and four sets of double-harness from Muter in Berge Street, besides a host of other things which are not to be had for love or money in his parts; and I propose, therefore, to purchase all he requires in Cape Town, go round by sea to Mossel Bay, and from thence ‘trek’ up country to Ralfontein, where he lives. If Jamieson has any suitable horses we can take them off his hands and bring them down to Cape Town; when the price we shall get for them will cover all our expenses, and leave a good profit into the bargain. As for sport, we shall have our fill of it; altogether the trip, at this season of the year, should prove most enjoyable. Now, what say you?”
“Capital! excellent, my dear Mat!” exclaimed Mr Weston. “When do you propose to start, and who are to form the party?”
“Well,” the Major answered, “I saw Muter yesterday, and he has three carts all but finished. By putting on extra hands—which he is quite willing to do—two can be got ready for shipment in a week from this, and the sets of harness will be ready at the same time. Now, old Van Ryn’s schooner, the Knysna, makes two trips to Mossel Bay every month, and I see that she is advertised to sail on Saturday week; so we might take our passage in her, and that will give us ample time to prepare for the journey.”
“Very good,” assented Mr Weston. “And who are to go?”
“Why, there will be you and I, the two boys, and Patrick Keown, and Black William; six all told—a number sufficient to bring down a score of horses, and to hold our own should any roving bands of Caffres or Bosjesmans venture to attack us, which is not very probable.”
“How do you propose to travel back, father?” asked Tom, who was highly excited at the prospect of the trip.
“Ride, my boy; ride the whole distance from Ralfontein, and let the led-horses carry our baggage. I shall take a dozen pack-saddles with us, for Jamieson is certain to have at least twenty horses to dispose of.”
And after some further discussion, in which Mrs Flinders was invited to take part, the Major’s proposals were carried “nem con.”
Chapter Seven.
The Start from Mossel Bay—On “Trek”—Outspanned—Round the Camp Fire.
“The carts are all corrict, sorr, and ready for the line of march,” reported Mr Patrick Keown, whilom a troop sergeant-major in the “Cape Mounted Riflemen,” but now his former captain’s major-domo, master-of-the-horse, and general factotum. “And, sorr,” he went on, bringing his dexter hand down from the salute, and assuming a less poker-like attitude and a more confidential manner, “the mules we’ve hired from the postmaster here, seem loikely to suit us—that’s to say, fairly well. They’re good animals, sorr, barrin’ the off-leader of the second team, and he’s a terrible kicker, and did his best to break Black William’s leg just now. And thin, sorr, there is another that’s a bit contrary in harness—but shure now, that’s no matther; we’ll soon break the baste in! I’ll lay me quarter’s pinsion that they’ll have larned betther manners before we outspan this evening.”
“No doubt of it, Patrick,” rejoined Major Flinders, who was standing on the stoep of the hotel, with his long bamboo whip in hand, listening to the ex-sergeant’s report. “No doubt of it,” said he as soon as he could edge in a word; “we shall manage them all right! But it’s quite time we were on the road, for we ought to cover forty miles before sundown. Now then, Maurice! Come along, my boys; hurry up!”
The Major and his party had landed the previous morning at Mossel Bay, with all their goods and chattels; and now in front of a long one-storied building, dignified by the name of “Moorhead’s Royal Star and Garter Hotel,” two well-built white canvas tilted Cape-carts, fresh from the hands of Mr Muter of Berge Street, were drawn up, each being horsed by a team of six mules hired from the postmaster of the district.
One cart was packed with a variety of useful articles—from a saddle to a screw-driver—ordered by Captain Jamieson from the Cape Town storekeepers; whilst in the other cart the Major and his companions were to travel.
Under each cart was slung a strong “witte els” (a soft, tough wood) box, containing axes, hammers, saws, and other tools, a supply of nails and screws, straps and buckles, a small coil of “half-inch,” and some stout cord and twine; so that in the event of a break-down, repairs might be executed on the spot Major Flinders and his faithful henchman Patrick Keown had travelled too much in South Africa to think of starting on a long journey without being prepared for emergencies.
As the crow flies, the distance from Mossel Bay to Ralfontein was rather more than one hundred and eighty miles, but by road it was nearer two hundred and fifty. The journey there was to be got over as rapidly as possible without unduly pressing the teams, and there were to be no unnecessary stoppages by the way. The return journey would be a much more leisurely affair, for it was the Major’s intention to ride from Ralfontein to Rondebosch, a distance of at least three hundred and fifty miles (instead of returning to Mossel Bay, and from thence by sea to Cape Town), and to take his own time on the road, so as to bring home his equine purchases in good condition.
For the first two or three days after leaving Mossel Bay our travellers had an easy time and were not called upon to rough it in the smallest degree. The road they followed—one of the best in the colony—led through a beautiful fertile district, studded with prosperous-looking farm-houses around which vineyards and orange groves flourished in wonderful luxuriance. At these farms they were lodged and entertained with a hospitality worthy of the patriarchal ages, so that, as yet, there was no “camping out.”
Soon, however, the country presented a wilder, but no less beautiful aspect, the road became a mere track, and our friends found themselves journeying across tracts of rough, uncultivated land, through wooded valleys and steep rocky defiles, aglow with the brilliant crimson and amber blossoms of the aloe; here for miles they did not meet a human creature, or see a house of any description, and the silence of these vast solitudes grew almost oppressive.
On the evening of the fourth day they arrived at a romantic spot five-and-twenty miles from any civilised habitation—the nearest being a German mission station at Ryk’s Drift—and here the Major decided to outspan, beneath the shade of a fine tope of trees, near to a “donga,” or dry watercourse. It was a most suitable halting-place! A tiny “spruit,” or streamlet, trickled amidst the reeds and boulders that lay all along the “donga,” and crossing the track close by the “bivouac,” formed a shallow, but clear pool, at the foot of a grassy eminence, which was topped by a thicket of silver trees, aloes, and flowering shrubs.
On every side the various tribes of the vegetable kingdom throve luxuriously, perfuming the air; whilst in the distance the foliage and coppice presented a thousand lively and variegated tints most pleasing to the eye.
The mules having been knee-haltered and turned out to graze, under charge of the Hottentot, Black William, the Major and his companions set to work to light a fire and put the camp-kettle on to boil, and before long they were discussing some excellent broiled venison and ship’s biscuit, washed down by copious draughts of black coffee.
“This is what I call uncommonly jolly!” exclaimed Tom as they sat round the camp fire after supper; “ever so much better than putting up at a farm-house.”
“But how will you like taking your turn of ‘sentry-go’ to-night, Master Tom?” asked Patrick Keown.
“Ah, to be sure!” put in the Major. “Two hours at a stretch, you know, Tom; and we shall expect you to be on the ‘qui-vive;’ no sleeping on your post, young man!”
“No fear of that, father,” retorted the boy with a good-humoured laugh. “But I say, do you really think there’s any likelihood of our being attacked?”
“Well, it is within the bounds of possibility that some wild beast might take a fancy to one of the mules, or a roving Bushman or Hottentot to our rifles,” was his father’s reply; “so it will be best to keep a night-watch.”
“I suppose there are no lions in these parts?” inquired George Weston.
“I should think not, George,” answered Major Flinders. “There is no doubt that they, and many other savage beasts, have retreated before the progress of European colonisation, and are now very rarely to be seen, except further north and east. Still they are not extinct, even in this district.”
“Plenty lion in Bosjesman’s country,” observed Black William; “an’ dey terrible savage dere too! Eat up poor black mans, like de silver jackal eat missis’ chickens; but dey seldom touch de white mans. Tink de black moch nicer.”
“Find them more gamey, I presume,” was Mr Weston’s sotto voce remark.
“I have heard several curious instances of the unwillingness of lions to attack a white man, especially if he shows a bold front,” said the Major, refilling his pipe; “and I will relate one that I can vouch for. During the expedition against the Fitcani tribe in ’28, I had attached to my troop as volunteers two Cape Dutchmen—Hendrik and Gert Eoos. You’ll recollect them, Patrick?”
“Shure I do, sorr,” replied the ex-rifleman. “Hendrik Eoos saved me loife at Schepers Drift, but I nearly broke me heart thrying to kape him clane! He and his brother were the bravest and dhirtiest men I iver came across!”
“Well,” continued the Major after one or two draws at his long Dutch pipe, “the brothers Roos were renowned as mighty hunters, and it was said that they had killed upwards of thirty lions in their time, to say nothing of other big game. But you know that ‘the pitcher that goes too often to the well runs a good chance of getting smashed,’ and Master Hendrik Roos on one occasion went very near proving the truth of the old proverb. He was hunting alone in the wilds when suddenly he found himself face to face with an enormous lion, who, so far from retiring before the white man, seemed determined to dispute with him the right of way. Hendrik dismounted, threw his reins over his arm, and, waiting until the lion was within twenty paces and couched and in the act of springing, took careful aim at his forehead, but the moment he pressed the trigger his horse started, the reins broke, and, worse than all, his bullet missed its mark!
“The lion bounded forward, and at a few paces’ distance confronted the intrepid hunter, who now stood defenceless—his ‘roer’ (smooth-bore gun for big game) empty, his horse fled; but he showed no sign of fear.
“Man and beast stared hard at each other for some little time, and at length the latter slowly retired backwards, whereupon Hendrik began to reload his gun. At this movement the lion growled and came forward again. The hunter stood stock-still, motionless as a statue, and again the lion retired. Once more Hendrik attempted to ram home his bullet, and once more his formidable adversary advanced, growling ominously. Hendrik fixed his eyes upon him, and the lion seemed confused—halted for a moment, and stood lashing his flanks with his tail, growling all the while; then of a sudden, unable to face any longer the stern gaze of the man, the savage beast turned about and fairly took to his heels; and so Hendrik Roos was saved.”
“Well, he was a plucky chap!” exclaimed Tom. “I wouldn’t have stood in his shoes for something!”
“You see that this Dutch hunter possessed an intimate knowledge of the nature of the animal he was pitted against; and knowledge is power,” observed Mr Weston. “But, talking of wild animals, I remember that it was not very far from Mossel Bay that I fell in, for the first and last time in my life, with a wild elephant. It was in ’16, just before I ‘shipped the swab,’ and I was then acting third ‘luff’ of the Phaeton. We had been on the Cape station a few months, and our skipper had been ordered round to the Knysna to make a report as to the feasibility of forming a government ship-building establishment on the banks of the river.
“Whilst there I went out duck-shooting with the purser, who had the reputation of being a thorough sportsman and an excellent shot. We went some miles up country, and I soon found that my shipmate, though a capital shooter, was a precious bad hitter; and got through a large amount of ammunition in a very short time with no appreciable results.
“Well, after blazing away half the day without bagging a single bird, we came to a large pool of water surrounded with very high grass (some of it quite ten feet in height) and abounding with wild ducks and geese.
“‘Now’s our chance, Wraggles!’ I exclaimed, bringing my fowling-piece to the shoulder. ‘Let fly into the middle of them!’
“Bang! bang! went our guns, and at least one duck fell a victim to our unerring aim.
“But ere we could secure the butchered birds the welkin rang with an awful roar, and the whole pool was in a state of commotion. The next moment an enormous elephant rushed from out the grass, trumpeting loudly and striking the grass with his trunk.
“Neither the purser nor I had ever seen a wild elephant before, and we had no wish for a nearer inspection; so, leaving our slaughtered ducks to their fate, we took to our heels and never stopped until we reached a place of safety.”
“Well, you certainly did not show a bold front on that occasion,” laughed the Major.
“No, indeed,” rejoined his friend. “But I can assure you that few men could have presented a broader back than did the gallant purser; and it has always been a mystery to me how a man of his rotundity got over the ground at such a wonderful pace. He beat me by a good fifty yards. Now who is going to take first watch?”
“Black William is first on the roster, sorr, and I shall relave him,” answered Patrick Keown; and the Hottentot having been duly posted, the others lay down before the camp fire and were soon wrapped in sleep—sleep—
“The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast!”
Chapter Eight.
Tom gives the Alarm—Rifle versus Assegai—Triumph of the White Man!—“Kicking Jan” outkicks himself—A Catastrophe—Arrival at Ralfontein.
The night passed away quietly and day dawned with all the splendour of a South African morning. By five o’clock the little camp was astir, and our friends, having first enjoyed a refreshing dip in the clear pool at the foot of the hill, hastened to prepare breakfast; whilst Patrick Keown and his sable ally busied themselves making ready for the day’s journey.
“Well, Tom, how did you get on between one and three am?” was Mr Weston’s first question when they sat down to break their fast with the remains of last night’s supper. “Found it rather lonely, didn’t you?”
“I should just think I did,” was the candid reply; “horribly lonely! And I was obliged to keep trotting backwards and forwards like a hyaena in a cage to prevent myself nodding; not that I should have minded that, if I’d only had someone to talk to.”
“Well, you look fresh as a four-year-old this morning,” Major Flinders said. “I’m certain that a trip of this sort is a capital thing for getting young fellows into condition.”
“No doubt of it,” assented his friend; “so long as it is not attended with too much fatigue or hardship.”
As soon as Tom had finished his breakfast he expressed his intention of taking a look round before they inspanned.
“Don’t go far, my boy; keep within hail,” said his father. “We shall make a start directly Keown has the carts ready.”
“All right, father,” replied the boy, taking up his rifle. “I’ll just stroll up the donga and see if I can get a crack at something or other. There’s no fresh meat in the larder, you know.” And off he trudged—
“Unknowing what he sought,
And whistling as he went for want of thought.”
Tom had not gone many yards when his attention was attracted by a rustling amongst the reeds, and looking round, his quick eyes espied several dark forms stealing down the watercourse towards the bivouac. He at once scented danger, but had the presence of mind not to show that he was alarmed; and turning coolly about he returned to his friends and informed them of what he had seen. Hardly had he given the alarm when thirty or forty dusky figures rushed down the donga and advanced with threatening gestures—brandishing their weapons and uttering loud cries of defiance.
“Inspan, Patrick!” shouted Major Flinders to his servant as he seized his rifle. “We can keep these black rascals off until you are ready.”
In order that Keown and his assistant should have time to collect the few articles which had been unloaded from the carts (the Major was not the man to abandon any of his impedimenta) and inspan, it was necessary to meet the enemy in the open and take up a position between them and the carts. This of course somewhat exposed the little party; but Major Flinders was pretty well sure that his assailants belonged to a roving tribe—half Bosjesmans, half Korannas—more renowned for thievish propensities than for valour or warlike qualities; and he felt satisfied that if he and his friends received them boldly they would beat a hasty retreat. These dusky warriors were indeed but sorry specimens of their race; they were short, narrow-chested, and hippy, whilst their faces were of a very low type, with thick projecting lips, small depressed noses, and roguish shifting eyes. Their weapons consisted of rough, ill-made assegais, iron-wood clubs, or knobkerries, and small oval, hide-covered shields. However, seeing how small a force they had to contend with, and animated by the hope of plunder, the dingy troop advanced with more confidence and élan than might have been expected.
“Give them one barrel first,” said Major Flinders, bringing his rifle to the “present.” “Take a steady aim, and low. Now—fire!” The four rifles rang out nearly together, and three of the enemy rolled over and over, but their fall did not stop the rush of the others; on they came, bent on the destruction of the little band of white men.
“Fire again!” shouted the Major as he discharged his second barrel.
This time every bullet found its billet, and four Caffres bit the dust; whereupon their comrades pulled up, sent a few assegais whistling harmlessly through the air, and then went to the right-about and bolted. In the excitement of this, their first fight, Tom and George would have followed up the flying enemy had not the Major restrained them, saying:
“I have no wish to kill those poor benighted creatures save in self-defence. Go and help Patrick to inspan, and let us be off as quickly as possible.”
“They’re not gone yet!” exclaimed Mr Weston, seeing several woolly heads pop up amongst the shrubs and bushes to the left of the donga.
“No, indeed! And unless I’m greatly mistaken they intend to renew their attack,” rejoined his friend. “They’ve more pluck and determination than I thought for! Get the carts and mules under cover of the trees!”
Patrick Keown at once dragged the carts into the centre of the tope, whilst the boys and Black William drove in the mules and tethered them between the carts, forming a sort of laager, into which the Major and Mr Weston retired. They all took up their rifles and opened fire upon the advancing enemy, who showed no lack of courage, and sent their assegais hurtling amongst the trees in a style that would have done credit to Zulu warriors.
But they did not attempt to come to close quarters, their sole object being to carry off their dead and wounded, not to renew their attack on the white men, whose terrible rifles had already done to death so many of their company. Had they been able to explain their intentions they might have done this without let or hindrance; as it was, they lost three more of their number.
At last Black William divined what they were about, and begged his master to cease firing for a minute or two. The savages then rushed forward, caught up their unfortunate comrades, and bolted back in double-quick time.
“The beggars are off now, and no mistake!” cried Tom. “Let us see what damage they have done us.”
“First and foremost there are two mules killed,” responded his father; “Sandboy and Admiral—the best animals in either team.”
“And Kicking Jan’s got an ugly wound in his flank,” put in Keown. “Bad cess to the contrary baste; he’s sure to git into mischief if there’s mischief about!”
“I got hurt too,” said Black William with a grin, showing a tear in his sleeve, which was covered with blood. “And dere’s young Mas’r George been hit by dem niggers!”
An assegai had indeed grazed George Weston’s shoulder, but happily no serious injury had been done to any of the party—nothing, in fact, that cold water and a strip of lint would not cure.
The dead mules were now stripped of their harness; Kicking Jan’s wound was dressed—an operation that the “contrary baste,” true to his nature, resented to the best of his power; and the travellers resumed their journey. No sooner were they well on the move, and at a respectable distance from their late encampment, than the discomfited savages once more appeared on the scene, and fell tooth and nail on the carcasses of the slain mules.
“Bedad!” exclaimed the ex-sergeant when he saw the blacks cutting and hacking away with their short assegais, “they’ll be having a foine gorge now! Sorra a bit of flesh will they lave on the bones of poor Sandboy and Admiral.”
“They have paid dearly for their feast,” observed Mr Weston, who was seated beside him. “Are all the Caffres such gluttons?”
“Indade they are, sorr,” was the reply. “Just sit the best of them down before a dead animal of any sort, from an elephant to a dossie, and they’d go on eatin’ till they were fit to bust.”
Deprived of the two best mules in the teams, and having a third partially disabled, the travellers did not get so quickly over the ground as they had hitherto done, and it was some time after dusk before they arrived at Ryk’s Drift. Here they were entertained by the German missionary, and on the following morning they started on the final stage but one of their journey.
Soon after leaving Ryk’s Drift the travellers came in sight of a range of mountains, whose varied outline struck out into bold, precipitous spurs, or shot up into craggy peaks, the summits of which shone in the African sunshine almost like snow.
“On the far side of yonder hills lies Ralfontein,” said the Major, “and crossing them will prove the toughest job of the whole journey.”
“That I can believe,” rejoined his friend. “My admiration is now changed to consternation! How ever will our mules contrive to drag the carts up such precipices?”
“As I said before, it will prove a very tough job,” Major Flinders answered; “but ‘where there’s a will there’s a way.’”
“I shall believe that when I see the way,” laughed Mr Weston. “At present I must confess that I am sceptical, for in all my varied experience I have never come across a quadruped that could fly! However, it is not for me to give my opinion; I am but a fish out of water!”
Towards noon the travellers commenced the ascent, and right toilsome it proved.
The way—for road, or even track, it certainly could not be called—was rugged in the extreme, and full of rocks and gullies, with here and there a narrow chasm over which the carts were dragged with the greatest risk and difficulty.
Every one dismounted and lent a helping hand; the Major and his servants managing the teams, with much cracking of whips, and loud shouts of warning or encouragement; whilst Mr Weston and the boys, literally “put their shoulders to the wheel.”
“Oh, for the turnpike roads of old England!” sang, or rather gasped, Mr Weston, when for about the twentieth time they halted to allow the distressed mules to recover themselves a little. “This is desperate work! eh, boys?”
“Slightly warm,” said Tom, mopping his perspiring face. “It takes the superfluous flesh off one’s ribs.”
“Shure, Misther Weston, we’re nearly at the top,” said Patrick Keown encouragingly, “and thin you know, sorr, we’ll go down the other side noice and aisy.”
“A little too ‘aisy,’ perchance,” muttered Weston. “Facilis descensus!”
At length the highest point of the ascent was reached; but this proved the most hazardous part, as the track swept round a precipitous ledge jutting out from a spur of the mountain, so narrow that it hardly allowed six inches grace to the wheels. Along this dangerous path the carts were taken at a snail’s pace; the one containing Captain Jamieson’s goods and chattels leading the way; whilst the other (which, save for a few articles used when outspanning, was empty) followed at an interval of twenty paces; the mules going very gingerly, for, surefooted though they were, it was no easy matter for them to keep on their legs.
At this critical moment a large bird swept down from its nest in the overhanging cliff, and with a piercing cry flew close over the tilt of the hinder cart. Now, as ill-luck would have it, “Kicking Jan” was one of the four mules attached to this cart, and no sooner did that contrary and troublesome animal hear the bird’s shrill call than he stopped dead; then down went his head and up went his heels. This unseemly behaviour set the other mules plunging and kicking, and before Black William, who had charge of the team, could quiet them, the cart was upset, and fell half over the ledge; the wheel-mules coming down on their sides at the same time.
Another plunge—a violent struggle—a wild snort of terror! and over the precipice rolled the cart, carrying the wheelers with it.
The moment “Kicking Jan” and the other leader felt the traces jerked and then tighten, they ceased kicking, and strained every nerve to retain their footing. But their efforts were in vain! The weight the poor brutes had to sustain was too much for them; they were dragged over the side of the ledge, and down went the cart and its team: down—down—down; crashing through trees and bushes and striking against rocks in their headlong descent; down they fell to the very bottom of the precipice!
Horrified at this terrible catastrophe, the Major and Mr Weston ran back and found Black William lying in the middle of the narrow path; a broken “reim” clenched in his hand.
“Are you much hurt?” inquired Major Flinders, picking him up.
“Not mine vault, baas,” blubbered the Hottentot with a frightened stare; “not mine vault.”
“No, no, William,” said his master; “we know that. You did all you could. Are you hurt?”
“I got kick in mine stomach; and all mine vind go,” was the reply.
“And our profits have gone with it, I’m afraid,” said Mr Weston dolefully. “’Pon my word, I’m a regular Jonah, and bring misfortune on all my friends!”
“Don’t talk like that, Maurice,” said the Major sharply. “Let us thank Heaven it is no worse—that no life has been lost.”
“And it might have been the other cart, you know,” put in Tom, who had joined them. “That would have been a smash!”
“Well, Mat, I am thankful it is no worse—on your account!” Mr Weston said. “Let us reckon up the damage.”
Major Flinders smiled, and replied:—“There’s the cart, forty pounds; four mules, at, let me say, twelve pounds a head—that’s as much as they were worth!—forty-eight pounds; harness and sundries another fifteen. I think a hundred will cover everything; so we sha’n’t lose all our profits, Maurice. And now, en avant!”
The travellers accomplished the descent of the mountain without further mishap, and found shelter that night at a solitary farm situated in the plain below.
Here they remained for a couple of days, for the mules were regularly knocked up, and required a long rest before they were in a condition to travel the last stage—a distance of forty miles.
Early on the morning of the second day they once more inspanned, and the team being freshened considerably by their twenty-four hours “play,” they got over the ground in capital style, and reached Ralfontein an hour before sundown.
Chapter Nine.
Ralfontein—Captain Jamieson and his family—Business before pleasure!—The last evening at the Farm—A startling proposal.
Captain Jamieson’s farm was situated in the midst of a fertile tract of country, bounded on the north and east by ranges of lofty mountains and hills; beyond which lay vast plains and dense forests, abounding with wild animals and members of the feathered tribes, of every size and description—from the huge elephant to the diminutive “zenik;” from the ostrich to the tiny “creeper.”
The house, stables, and farm buildings stood on the summit of an eminence, which rose somewhat abruptly at the junction of two narrow, but swift streams; they were built in the form of a quadrangle, and were admirably planned for defence.
The pasturage in the immediate neighbourhood of the farm was remarkably rich, wood and water were plentiful, the climate was all that could be desired; yet this lovely district was but thinly populated, and the “Squire of Ralfontein” was practically “monarch of all he surveyed,” there being no other settlement within five-and-thirty miles, and no town or village within double that distance.
Donald Jamieson was—what our Yankee cousins would call—a “very remarkable man.” He had just turned his sixtieth year, but was as hearty and active as a man of forty. The youngest son of a poor, but proud, Scotch laird, he had taken the “king’s shilling” when a lad of eighteen, and after seeing much active service in all parts of the world, was awarded an ensign’s commission in the “Cape Mounted Riflemen;” in which corps he remained until he obtained his troop, when he retired on half-pay, and took to farming. He was now considered one of the most successful farmers in South Africa, and was also noted for his knowledge of the country, his skill as a hunter, and the influence he had acquired over the natives.
(Although a mounted corps, the junior subs, of the C.M.R. held the rank of ensign, not cornet.)
When Matthew Flinders exchanged from the —th Foot to the Cape Mounted Riflemen he was attached to Jamieson’s troop, and from that time they had been on the closest terms of friendship. Captain Jamieson was a widower; his family consisted of three sons and two daughters. Frank, the eldest boy, had just turned eighteen; his brothers, James and David, were sixteen and fourteen respectively. The girls were—but no, we must not divulge the young ladies’ ages! suffice it to say that Miss Janet (who since Mrs Jamieson’s death had acted as her father’s housekeeper) was well out of her teens, whilst Miss Elsie had not long jumped into hers. A pair of bonnier lasses could not have been found in the whole of Cape Colony!
The young Jamiesons assisted their father in looking after the farm and the men employed upon it; of whom there were between twenty and thirty—mostly Hottentots, Korannas and Griquas, or “Bastaards;” these lived in decent cottages on the estate with their wives and families, and were all trained to the use of fire-arms; thus in the event of Ralfontein being attacked, it could be defended by a well-disciplined and well-armed garrison.
“Business first, pleasure afterwards,” was Major Flinders’ motto; so on the morning after he arrived at Ralfontein he informed his host of his wish to purchase some horses.
“You could not have come to me at a better time, Mat,” was the captain’s reply. “I have now nearly seventy young uns—two, three, and four-year olds—and about half as many aged horses in the paddocks and stables; and early next month I expect a drove of brood mares and colts from Campbell’s Doorp. You can take your pick of those that are here or wait for the others.”
Major Flinders replied, that as he could not remain at Ralfontein more than a week he must choose from the horses then on the farm; so the next three days were spent in examining and trying several “young uns,” of which the Major ultimately purchased fifteen, making up the score with older horses.
Tom and his crony George Weston had hoped to see some big shooting during their stay at the Jamiesons’; but in this they were disappointed, as, it being a busy season at the farm, their young hosts had no opportunity of going out with them; however, like sensible lads, they contented themselves with roaming about the estate shooting hares and guinea-fowl, and assisting in the selection and trial of the horses; thus they found the time pass very quickly and the last day of their visit to the farm came round all too soon...
“Well, my lads what think you of Ralfontein?” asked their hospitable host as they sat round the supper-table the evening before their departure.
“It is the prettiest and jolliest place I ever stayed at,” cried George, with unmistakable earnestness; “that is to say, except—except Rustenburg,” he added, with some confusion.
“I only wish the pater would give up Rustenburg, and settle here!” exclaimed Tom. “How jolly we should all be together, and what sport we’d have!”
“That is exactly what our friend wishes me to do, Tom,” laughed the Major; “but I didn’t think he would have found a supporter in you!”
“Yes, that is true,” said their host. “I tell your father that he could sell Rustenburg for a large sum now, and once up here he would make no end of money. You and Weston must really think it over, Mat.”
“And then you know, father,” put in Tom, “when you had made your fortune, you might return to England, and buy back Flinders Court.”
“That’s your ambition, is it!” the captain said. “You want to become a Marlshire squire! But you must see a little more of your native land first, Tom; and I should say that a couple of years’ service in the ‘C.M.R.’ would be the best way of seeing it. Mat, my friend, let us have a glass together and drink to the welfare of the old corps?”
“With all my heart, Donald! you and I have both served in other regiments, but I am sure our happiest days were spent with the ‘Green Jackets.’”
“Do you think you will come up here, father?” inquired Tom as soon as the old comrades had drunk their toast—with “all the honours,” as old comrades should do.
“We must see what your mother says, Tom; such a ‘migration’ is not to be thought lightly of,” the Major replied. “In the meantime it may satisfy you to know that our good friend has invited us to spend a month with him next year, just to see how we like it. And now, as we have to be in the saddle by cock-crow, I think you youngsters had best turn in.”
Chapter Ten.
Farewell to Ralfontein.
“Good-bye, and a pleasant journey to you,” said Captain Jamieson, who, with his sons and daughters, had turned out at daybreak to see the last of his departing guests. “Follow the route that I have mapped out, and I stake my reputation that you will find it comparatively easy travelling.”
“Shall we come across plenty of game, Captain Jamieson?” was Tom’s eager question, as he took leave of his host. “I am very anxious to try this rifle.”
“But you had a famous chance coming up here, Tom,” laughed Frank Jamieson. “There’s no doubt that one or two of the blacks, who attacked you, fell before your aim.”
“That’s all very well, Frank,” retorted Tom, “but niggers aren’t game, you know. I want to try my hand at a tiger or buck. I should very much like to send my old form-master a handsome ‘kaross,’ made up of skins of my own shooting.”
“Well, my boy,” said Captain Jamieson, “if you knock over one-thousandth part of the game you see ’twixt this and Rondebosch, you’ll be able to present karosses to every master at Rugby, and feather-cloaks to their wives and daughters; ay, and clothe the elevens with tiger-skins into the bargain. Once more, good-bye! Hope to see you all again next year.”
“Good-bye! good-bye!” echoed his stalwart sons.
“Adieu! adieu! take care of yourselves,” chorused the young ladies. And amidst the waving of white handkerchiefs and regretful farewells the little cavalcade moved off.
Our friends had spent a very pleasant week at Ralfontein, and now they were starting on their return journey, with the twenty horses which they had purchased from Captain Jamieson. Several of their purchases were already broken to the saddle, and had also been trained to behave steadily under fire; four of these horses the Major and Mr Weston decided to retain for their own stable, to be ridden by themselves and the boys. Tom’s “mount” was a useful red “skimmel” (roan) standing just under fifteen hands; a well-looking animal enough, with good shoulders, and clean, well-shaped legs, but—like most Cape horses—inclined to be “goose-rumped.” George rode at least twelve pounds lighter than did his friend, so Mr Weston picked him out a smaller horse—a nice-looking quiet little grey.
Patrick Keown, who was an excellent rough-rider, chose a wild half-broken bay.
“I loike to combine business wid plisure,” quoth he, when he gave his troublesome nag the first bucketting. “Shure, I’ll ‘take the gay impidince out of his tail,’ afore he’s much oulder!”
Black William was mounted on an ugly raw-boned animal that matched him in colour.
The route which Captain Jamieson had advised the Major to follow lay across the Middel Roggeveldt, then over the Groote Karoo, striking into the Beaufort-Worcester track near to Kudos Kop. From thence the road followed the course of the Gamska River for some miles, passed close to the base of the western extremity of the Black Mountains, and so through the Worcester and Stellenbosch districts to Cape Town, the actual distance which the travellers would have to cover being between 300 and 400 miles.
The Middel Roggeveldt was traversed without adventure; they saw plenty of game, and Tom and George proved themselves no mean shots with gun and rifle; but, as the former truly observed, nothing happened to crow or fuss about.
The first difficulty the party met with occurred after they crossed the Newied Bergen. A small river flows at the foot of this range of mountains, the road from the north-east crossing it at a place called Hottentot’s Drift. On arriving at the drift, Major Flinders found that, instead of a shallow river, a hundred and fifty yards wide at the most, he would have to cross a small inundated plain; for the river had overflowed its banks, and laid all the low land at the foot of the Newied Bergen, under water.
It was rather awkward work getting the horses over. Some of them did not like it at all, and plunged and snorted with terror; others did not seem to mind the water, but then they must needs try to roll. However, after some trouble they were all got across; and as it was then getting late, the major ordered a “halt,” and bivouacked for the night on the banks of the river.