The Settler and the Savage

“Why, Hans Marais!” cried James Skyd, jumping off the counter and grasping his big friend by the hand, while Robert seized that of Considine, “where have you dropped from?—But I need scarcely ask, for all the world seems to be crowding into the town. Not hurt, I hope?” he added, observing the blood which stained his friend’s dress.

“Not in person,” answered Hans, with a smile, returning his cordial grasp.

“And what of property!” asked Edwin Brook, looking round.

“All gone,” returned Hans sadly. “I rose this morning a reasonably wealthy man—now, I am a beggar. But tell me, what of your family, Mr Brook?”

“All saved, thank God,” was the reply. “Junkie, dear boy, who is the most active young fellow in the land, managed to—Ah! here he comes, and will speak for himself.”

As he spoke a tall strapping youth of about fifteen entered, opened wide his laughing blue eyes on seeing Hans, and, after a hearty greeting, told with some hesitation that he had chanced to be out hunting on foot in the jungles of the Great Fish River when the Kafirs crossed the frontier, and had managed, being a pretty good runner, to give his father warning, so that the family had time to escape. He did not tell, however, that he had, in a narrow pass, kept above sixty Kafirs in check with his own hand and gun until George Dally could run to the house for his weapons and ammunition, and that then the two held a hundred of them in play long enough to permit of the whole family escaping under the care of Scholtz.

“But,” said Edwin Brook, who related all this with evident satisfaction, “I am like yourself, Hans, in regard to property. Mount Hope is a blackened ruin, the farm is laid waste, and the cattle are over the borders.”

“And where is Mrs Brook?” asked Considine.

“In this house. Up-stairs. Come, Gertie is getting impatient. Let us go to see her.”

“Now, friends,” said Considine to the brothers Skyd, who had by that time been joined by the hunting partners, “there is a matter on which we must consult and act without delay.”

Here he told of Conrad Marais’s departure with the boers across the frontier, and added that if the party was to be saved at all it must be gone about instantly.

“You can’t go about it to-day, Charlie,” said John Skyd, “so don’t give way to impatience. For such a long trip into the enemy’s country we must go well armed and supplied.”

“I will brook no delay,” said Considine, with flushing countenance. “If it had not been for the necessity of bringing Gertie here in safety, Hans and I would have set out at once and alone on their spoor. Is it not so?”

Hans nodded assent.

“No, friends,” he said, turning to the brothers with decision, “we must be off at once.”

“What! without your suppers?” exclaimed Bob Skyd; “but to be serious, it won’t be possible to get things ready before to-morrow. Surely that will do, if we start at daybreak. Besides, the party with your father, Hans, is a strong one, well able to hold out against a vastly superior force of savages. Moreover, if you wait we shall get up a small body of volunteers.”

Hans and Charlie were thus constrained unwillingly to delay. At grey dawn, however, they rode out of Grahamstown at the head of a small party, consisting of the entire firm of Dobson and Skyd, inclusive of Junkie, whose father granted him permission to go. His mother silently acquiesced. Mrs Scholtz violently protested; and when she found that her protests were useless, she changed them into pathetic entreaties that Junkie would on no account whatever go to sleep in camp with wet feet.

As soon as the invasion took place, an express had been sent to Capetown, and the able Governor, Sir Benjamin D’Urban, took instant and energetic measures to undo, as far as possible, the mischief done by his predecessors. Colonel (afterwards Sir Harry) Smith was despatched to the frontier, and rode the distance—six hundred miles—in six days.

Arriving in Grahamstown, he took command with a firm hand, organised the whole male population into a warlike garrison, built barricades across the streets, planted cannon in commanding positions, cleared the town of flocks and herds, which were breeding a nuisance, sent them to the open country with a cattle guard, and prepared not only to defend the capital, but to carry war into the enemy’s country. In short, he breathed into the people much of his own energy, and soon brought order out of confusion.

The state of affairs in the colony had indeed reached a terrible pass. From all sides news came in of murder and pillage. The unfortunate traders in Kafirland fared ill at that time. One of these, Rodgers, was murdered in the presence of his three children. A man named Cramer was savagely butchered while driving a few cattle along the road. Another, named Mahony, with his wife and son-in-law, were intercepted while trying to escape to the military post of Kafir Drift, and Mahony was stretched a corpse at his wife’s feet, then the son-in-law was murdered, but Mrs Mahony escaped into the bush with two of her children and a Hottentot female servant, and, after many hardships, reached Grahamstown. A mounted patrol scouring the country fell in with a farm-house where three Dutchmen, in a thick clump of bushes, were defending themselves against three hundred Kafirs. Of course the latter were put to flight, and the three heroes—two of them badly wounded—were rescued. Nearly everywhere the settlers, outnumbered, had to fly, and many were slain while defending their homes, but at the little village of Salem they held their ground gallantly. The Wesleyan chapel, mission-house, and schoolhouse, were filled with refugees, and although the Kafirs swooped down on it at night in large numbers and carried off the cattle, they failed to overcome the stout defenders. Theopolis also held out successfully against them—and so did the Scottish party at Baviaans River, although attacked and harassed continually.

During an attack near the latter place a Scottish gentleman of the Pringle race had a narrow escape. Sandy Black was with him at the time. Three or four Kafirs suddenly attacked them. Mr Pringle shot one, Sandy wounded another. A third ran forward while Pringle was loading and threw an assagai at him. It struck him with great force on the leathern bullet-pouch which hung at his belt. Sandy Black took aim at the savage with a pistol.

“Aim low, Sandy,” said Pringle, continuing to load.

Sandy obeyed and shot the Kafir dead, then, turning round, said anxiously—

“Are ’ee stickit, sir?”

“I’m not sure, Sandy,” replied Pringle, putting his hand in at the waist of his trousers, “there’s blood, I see.”

On examination it was found that the assagai had been arrested by the strong pouch and belt, and had only given him a trifling scratch, so that the gallant and amiable Mr Dods Pringle lived to fight in future Kafir wars.4

In another place, near the Kat River, thirty men were attacked by a hundred and fifty Kafirs. The latter came on with fury, but five of the farmers brought down seven of the enemy at the first discharge, and thereafter poured into them so rapid and destructive a fire that they were seized with panic, and fled, leaving seventy-five of their number dead.

Instances of individual heroism might be endlessly multiplied, but we think this is enough to show the desperate nature of the struggle which had begun.

In the course of one fortnight the labours of fourteen years were annihilated. Forty-four persons were murdered, 369 dwellings consumed, 261 pillaged, and 172,000 head of live-stock carried off into Kafirland and irretrievably lost; and what aggravated the wickedness of the invasion was the fact that during a great part of the year the Governor had been engaged in special negotiations for a new—and to the Kafirs most advantageous—system of relations, with which all the chiefs except one had expressed themselves satisfied.

Writing on the condition of the country Colonel Smith said: “Already are seven thousand persons dependent on Government for the necessaries of life. The land is filled with the lamentations of the widow and the fatherless. The indelible impressions already made upon myself by the horrors of an irruption of savages upon a scattered population, almost exclusively engaged in the peaceful occupations of husbandry, are such as to make me look on those I have witnessed in a service of thirty years, ten of which in the most eventful period of war, as trifles to what I have now witnessed, and compel me to bring under consideration, as forcibly as I am able, the heartrending position in which a very large portion of the inhabitants of this frontier are at present placed, as well as their intense anxiety respecting their future condition.”

Sir Benjamin D’Urban, arriving soon afterwards, constituted a Board of Relief to meet the necessities of the distressed; and relief committees were established in Capetown, Stellenbosch, Graaff-Reinet, and other principal towns, while subscriptions were collected in Mauritius, Saint Helena, and India.

Soon after the arrival of Colonel Smith, burgher forces were collected; troops arrived with the Governor on the scene of action, and the work of expelling the invader was begun in earnest. Skirmishes by small bodies of farmers and detachments of troops took place all over the land, in which the Dutch-African colonists and English settlers with their descendants vied with each other, and with the regulars, in heroic daring. Justice requires it to be added that they had a bold enemy to deal with, for the Kafirs were physically splendid men; full of courage and daring, although armed only with light spears.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Shows what befell a Trader and an Emigrant Band

Stephen Orpin, with the goods of earth in his waggon and the treasures of heaven in his hand, chanced to be passing over a branch of the Amatola Mountains when the torch of war was kindled and sent its horrid glare along the frontier. Vague news of the outbreak had reached him, and he was hastening back to the village of Salem, in which was his bachelor home.

Stephen, we may remark in passing, was not a bachelor from choice. Twice had he essayed to win the affections of Jessie McTavish, and twice had he failed. Not being a man of extreme selfishness, he refused to die of a broken heart. He mourned indeed, deeply and silently, but he bowed his head, and continued, as far as in him lay, to fulfil the end for which he seemed to have been created. He travelled with goods far and wide throughout the eastern districts of the colony, became a walking newspaper to the farmers of the frontier, and a guide to the Better Land to whoever would grant him a hearing.

But Stephen’s mercantile course, like that of his affections, did not run smooth. At the present time it became even more rugged than the mountain road which almost dislocated his waggon and nearly maddened his Hottentot drivers, for, when involved in the intricacies of a pass, he was suddenly attacked by a band of “wild” Bushman marauders. The spot chanced to be so far advantageous that a high precipice at his back rendered it impossible to attack him except in front, where the ground was pretty open.

Orpin was by no means a milksop, and, although a Christian man, did not understand Christianity to teach the absolute giving up of all one’s possessions to the first scoundrel who shall demand them. The moment, therefore, that the robbers showed themselves, he stopped the waggon at the foot of the precipice, drew his ever-ready double-barrelled large-bore gun from under the tilt, and ran out in front, calling on his men to support him. Kneeling down, he prepared to take a steady aim at the Bushman in advance, a wild-looking savage in a sheepskin kaross and armed with an assagai. The robbers were evidently aware of the nature of a gun, for they halted on seeing the decided action of the trader.

“Come on!” shouted Orpin to his men, looking back over his shoulder; but his men were nowhere to be seen: they had deserted him at the first sight of the robbers, and scrambled away into the jungle like monkeys.

To resist some dozens of savages single-handed Stephen knew would be useless, and to shed blood unnecessarily was against his principles. He therefore made up his mind at once how to act. Rising and turning round, he discharged his gun at the precipice, to prevent the Bushmen from accidentally doing mischief with it; then, sitting down on a piece of fallen rock, he quietly took out his pipe and began to light it.

This was not meant as a piece of bravado, but Stephen was eccentric, and it occurred to him that there was a “touch of nature” in a pipe which might possibly induce the Bushmen to be less rude to him personally than if he were to stand by and look aggrieved while his waggons were being pillaged.

In this conjecture he was right. The robbers rushed towards the waggon without doing him any harm. One of them, however, picked up the gun in passing. Then the leader seized the long whip and drove the waggon away, leaving its late owner to his meditations.

Stephen would have been more than human if he could have stood the loss of all his earthly goods with perfect equanimity. He groaned when the oxen began to move, and then, feeling a desperate desire to relieve his feelings, and a strong tendency to fight, he suddenly shut his eyes, and began to pray that the robbers might be forgiven, and himself enabled to bear his trials in a becoming manner. Opening his eyes again, he beheld a sturdy Bushman gazing at him in open-mouthed surprise, with an uplifted assagai in his hand. Stephen judged that this was the chief of the band, who had remained behind to kill him. At all events, when he ceased to pray, and opened his eyes, the Bushman shut his mouth, and poised his assagai in a threatening manner.

Unarmed as he was, Stephen knew that he was at the man’s mercy. In this dilemma, and knowing nothing of the Bushman language, he put powerful constraint on himself, and looked placidly at his wallet, in which he searched earnestly for something, quite regardless, to all appearances, of the deadly spear, whose point was within ten feet of his breast.

The Bushman’s curiosity was awakened. He waited until Stephen had drawn a lump of tobacco from his pouch—which latter he took care to turn inside out to show there was nothing else in it. Rising quietly, the trader advanced with a peaceful air, holding the tobacco out to the Bushman, who looked suspicious—and distrustfully shook his assagai; but Stephen took no heed. Stopping within a couple of yards of him, he held out the tobacco at the full length of his arm. The Bushman hesitated, but finally lowered his assegai and accepted the gift. Stephen immediately resumed his pipe, and smiled pleasantly at his foe.

The Bushman appeared to be unable to resist this. He grinned hideously; then, turning about, made off in the direction of his comrades as fast as his naked legs could carry him.

It was Booby, the follower of Ruyter the Hottentot, who had thus robbed the unfortunate trader, and, not two hours afterwards, Ruyter himself fell in with Stephen, wending his way slowly and sadly down the glen.

Desiring his men to proceed in advance, the robber chief asked Orpin to sit down on a fallen tree beside him, and relate what had happened. When he had done so, Ruyter shook his head and said in his broken English—

“You’s bin my friend, Orpin, but I cannot help you dis time. Booby not under me now, an’ we’s bof b’long to Dragoener’s band. I’s sorry, but not can help you.”

“Never mind, Ruyter, I daresay you’d help me if you could,” said Stephen, with a sigh; then, with an earnest look in the Hottentot’s face, he continued, “I’m not, however, much distressed about the goods. The Lord who gave them has taken them away, and can give them back again if He has a mind to; but tell me, Ruyter, why will you not think of the things we once spoke of—that time when you were so roughly handled by Jan Smit—about your soul and the Saviour?”

“How you knows I not tink?” demanded the Hottentot sharply.

“Because any man can know a tree by its fruit,” returned Orpin. “If you had become a Christian, I should not now have found you the leader of a band of thieves.”

“No, I not a Christian, but I do tink,” returned Ruyter, “only I no’ can onderstan’. De black heathen—so you calls him—live in de land. White Christian—so you calls him—come and take de land; make slabe ob black man, and kick ’im about like pair ob ole boots—I not onderstan’ nohow.”

“Come, I will try to make you understand,” returned Orpin, pulling out the New Testament which he always carried in his pocket. “Some white men who call themselves Christians are heathens, and some black men are Christians. We are all,—black and white,—born bad, and God has sent us a Saviour, and a message, so that all who will, black or white, may become good.” Orpin here commenced to expound the Word, and to tell the story of the Cross, while the Hottentot listened with rapt attention, or asked questions which showed that he had indeed been thinking of these things since his last meeting with the trader, many years before. He was not very communicative, however, and when the two parted he declined to make any more satisfactory promise than that he would continue to “tink.”

Stephen Orpin spent the night alone in a tree, up which he had climbed to be more secure from wild beasts. Sitting there, he meditated much, and came to the conclusion that he ought in future to devote himself entirely to missionary labours. In pursuance of that idea, he made his way to one of the Wesleyan mission stations in Kafirland.

On the road thither he came to a Kafir kraal, where the men seemed to be engaged in the performance of a war-dance.

On being questioned by these Kafirs as to who he was, and where he came from, Orpin replied, in his best Kafir, that he was a trader and a missionary.

The chief looked surprised, but, on hearing the whole of Orpin’s story, a cunning look twinkled in his eyes, and he professed great friendship for the missionaries, stating at the same time that he was going to one of the Wesleyan stations, and would be glad to escort Orpin thither. Thereafter he gave orders that the white man should be taken to one of his huts and supplied with a “basket” of milk.

The white man gratefully acknowledged the kind offer, and, asking the name of the friendly chief, was informed that it was Hintza. Just then a court fool or jester stepped forward, and cried aloud his announcements of the events of the day, mixed with highly complimentary praises of his master. Stephen did not understand all he said, but he gathered thus much,—that the warriors had been out to battle and had returned victorious; that Hintza was the greatest man and most courageous warrior who had ever appeared among the Kafirs, to gladden their hearts and enrich their bands; and that there was great work yet for the warriors to do in the way of driving certain barbarians into the sea—to which desirable deed the heroic, the valiant, the wise, the unapproachable Hintza would lead them.

Orpin feared that he understood the meaning of the last words too well, but, being aware that Hintza was regarded by the colonists as one of the friendliest of the Kafir chiefs, he hoped that he might be mistaken.

Hintza was as good as his word, and set out next day with a band of warriors, giving the white man a good horse that he might ride beside him. On the way they came on a sight which filled Orpin with sadness and anxiety. It was the ruins of a village, which from the appearance of the remains had evidently been occupied in part by white men. He observed that a gleam of satisfaction lit up Hintza’s swarthy visage for a moment as he passed the place.

Dismounting, the party proceeded to examine the ruins, but found nothing. The Kafirs were very taciturn, but the chief said, on being pressed, that he believed it had been a mission station which wicked men of other tribes had burned.

On the outbreak of this war some of the missionaries remained by their people, others were compelled to leave them.

The station just passed had been deserted. At the one to which Hintza was now leading Orpin the missionaries had remained at their post. There he found them still holding out, but in deep dejection, for nearly all their people had forsaken them, and gone to the war. Even while he was talking with them, crowds of the bloodstained savages were returning from the colony, laden with the spoils of the white man, and driving thousands of his sheep and cattle before them. In these circumstances, Stephen resolved to make the best of his way back to Salem. On telling this to Hintza, that chief from some cause that he could not understand, again offered to escort him. He would not accompany him personally, he said, but he would send with him a band of his warriors, and he trusted that on his arrival in the colony he would tell to the great white chief (the Governor) that he, Hintza, did not aid the other Kafir tribes in this war.

Stephen’s eyes were opened by the last speech, and from that moment he suspected Hintza of treachery.

He had no choice, however, but to accept the escort. On the very day after they had started, they came to a spot where a terrible fight had obviously taken place. The ground was strewn with the mangled corpses of a party of white men, while the remains of waggons and other signs showed that they had formed one of the bands of Dutch emigrants which had already begun to quit the colony. The savages made ineffectual attempts to conceal their delight at what they saw, and Orpin now felt that he was in the power of enemies who merely spared his life in the hope that he might afterwards be useful to them.

The band which escorted him consisted of several hundred warriors, a few of whom were mounted on splendid horses stolen from the settlers. He himself was also mounted on a good steed, but felt that it would be madness to attempt to fly from them. On the second day they were joined—whether by arrangement or not Orpin had no means of judging—by a band of over a thousand warriors belonging to a different tribe from his escort. As the trader rode along in a dejected state of mind, one of the advance-guard or scouts came back with excited looks, saying that a large band of Dutch farmers was encamped down in a hollow just beyond the rise in front of them. The chief of the Kafirs ordered the scout sternly to be silent, at the same time glancing at Orpin. Then he whispered to two men, who quietly took their assagais and stationed themselves one on either side of their white prisoner—for such he really was.

Orpin now felt certain that the group of principal men who drew together a little apart were concerting the best mode of attacking the emigrant farmers, and his heart burned within him as he thought of them resting there in fancied security, while these black scoundrels were plotting their destruction. But what could he do—alone and totally unarmed? He thought of making a dash and giving the alarm, but the watchful savages at his side seemed to divine his intentions, for they grasped their assagais with significant action.

“A desperate disease,” thought Orpin, “requires a desperate remedy. I will try it, and may succeed—God helping me.” A thought occurred just then. Disengaging his right foot from the stirrup, he made as if he were shortening it a little, but instead, he detached it from the saddle, and taking one turn of the leather round his hand, leaped his horse at the savage nearest him and struck him full on the forehead with the stirrup-iron. Dashing on at full speed, he bent low, and, as he had hoped, the spear of the other savage whizzed close over his back. The act was so sudden that he had almost gained the ridge before the other mounted Kafirs could pursue. He heard a loud voice, however, command them to stop, and, looking back, saw that only one Kafir—the leader—gave chase, but that leader was a powerful man, armed, and on a fleeter horse than his own. A glance showed him the camp of the emigrant farmers in a hollow about a mile or so distant. He made straight for it. The action of the next few seconds was short, sharp, and decisive.

The Dutchmen, having had a previous alarm from a small Kafir band, were prepared. They had drawn their waggons into a compact circle, closing the apertures between and beneath them with thorn-bushes, which they lashed firmly with leather thongs to the wheels and dissel-booms or waggon-poles. Within this circle was a smaller one for the protection of the women and children.