The Settler and the Savage

Great was the surprise of the farmers when they heard a loud shout, and beheld a white man flying for his life from a solitary savage. With the promptitude of men born and bred in the midst of alarms, they seized their guns and issued from their fortified enclosure to the rescue, but the Kafir was already close to Orpin, and in the act of raising his assagai to stab him.

Seeing the urgency of the case, Conrad Marais, who was considered a pretty good shot among his fellows, took steady aim, and, at the risk of hitting the white man, fired. The right arm of the savage dropped by his side and the assagai fell to the ground, but, plucking another from his bundle with his left hand, he made a furious thrust. Stephen Orpin, swaying aside, was only grazed by it. At the same time he whirled the stirrup once round his head, and, bringing the iron down with tremendous force on the skull of his pursuer, hurled him to the ground.

“Stephen Orpin!” exclaimed Conrad Marais in amazement, as the trader galloped up.

“You’ve got more pluck than I gave you credit for,” growled Jan Smit.

“You’ll need all your own pluck presently,” retorted Orpin, who thereupon told them that hundreds of Kafirs were on the other side of the ridge, and would be down on them in a few minutes. Indeed, he had not finished speaking when the ridge in question was crossed by the black host, who came yelling on to the attack,—the few mounted men leading.

“Come, boys, let’s meet them as far as possible from the waggons,” cried Conrad.

The whole band of farmers, each mounted and carrying his gun, dashed forward. When quite close to the foe they halted, and, every man dismounting, knelt and fired. Nearly all the horsemen among the enemy fell to the ground at the discharge, and the riderless steeds galloped over the plain, while numbers of the footmen were also killed and wounded. But most of those savages belonged to a fierce and warlike tribe. Though checked for a moment, they soon returned to the attack more furiously than before. The Dutch farmers, remounting, galloped back a short distance, loading as they went; halting again, they dismounted and fired as before, with deadly effect.

There is no question that the white men, if sufficiently supplied with ammunition, could have thus easily overcome any number of the savages, but the waggons stopped them. On reaching these, they were obliged to stand at bay, and, being greatly outnumbered, took shelter inside of their enclosure. Of course their flocks and herds, being most of them outside, were at once driven away by a small party of the assailants, while the larger proportion, with savage yells and war-cries, made a furious attack on their position.

Closing round the circle, they endeavoured again and again to break through the line or to clamber over the waggon-tilts, and never did savage warriors earn a better title to the name of braves than on that occasion. Even the bristling four and six-inch thorns of the mimosa-bushes would not have been able to turn back their impetuous onset if behind these the stout Dutchmen, fighting for wives and children, had not stood manfully loading and firing volleys of slugs and buckshot at arm’s-length from them. The crowded ranks of the Kafirs were ploughed as if by cannon, while hundreds of assagais were hurled into the enclosure, but happily with little effect, though a few of the defenders—exposing themselves recklessly—were wounded.

While Conrad Marais was standing close to the hind-wheels of one of the waggons, watching for a good shot at a Kafir outside, who was dodging about for the double purpose of baulking Conrad’s intention and thrusting an assagai into him, another active Kafir had clambered unobserved on the tilt of the waggon and was in the very act of leaning over to thrust his spear into the back of the Dutchman’s neck when he was observed by Stephen Orpin, who chanced to be reloading his gun at the moment.

With a loud roar, very unlike his usual gentle tones, Orpin sprang forward, seized a thick piece of wood like a four-foot rolling-pin, and therewith felled the savage, who tumbled headlong into the enclosure.

“Oh, father!” exclaimed a terrified voice at that moment, while a light touch was laid on Conrad’s shoulder.

“What brings you here, Bertha?” said Conrad, with an impatient gesture. “Don’t you know—”

“Come, quick, to mother!” cried the girl, interrupting.

No more was needed. In a moment Conrad was in the central enclosure, where, crowded under a rude erection of planks and boxes, were the women and children. An assagai had penetrated an unguarded crevice, and, passing under the arm of poor Mrs Marais, had pinned her to the family trunk, against which she leaned.

“Bertha could not pull it out,” said Mrs Marais, with a faint smile on her pale face, “but I don’t think I’m much hurt.”

In a moment her husband had pulled out the spear, found that it had penetrated her clothing, and only grazed her breast, took time merely to make sure of this, and then, leaving her in Bertha’s hands, returned to the scene of combat.

He was not an instant too soon. A yell was uttered by the savages as they rushed at a weak point, where the thorn-bush defences had been broken down. The point appeared to be undefended. They were about to leap through in a dense mass when ten Dutchmen, who had reserved their fire, discharged a volley simultaneously into the midst of them. It was a ruse of the defenders to draw the savages to that point. Whilst the Kafirs tumbled back over heaps of dead and dying, several other farmers thrust masses of impenetrable mimosa bush into the gap and refilled it. This discomfiture checked the assailants for a little; they drew off and retired behind the ridge to concert plans for a renewed and more systematic attack.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Treats of Various Strange Incidents, some Interesting Matters, and a Rescue

While the emigrant farmers were thus gallantly defending themselves, the party under Hans Marais and Charlie Considine was hastening on their spoor to the rescue.

Their numbers had been increased by several volunteers, among whom were George Dally and Scholtz, also David, Jacob, and Hendrik, the sons of Jan Smit, who had made up their minds not to follow the fortunes of their savage-tempered sire, but who were at once ready to fly to his rescue on learning that he was in danger. While passing through the country they were further reinforced by a band of stout burghers, and by four brothers named Bowker. There were originally seven brothers of this family, who afterwards played a prominent part in the affairs of the colony. One of these Bowkers was noted for wearing a very tall white hat, in which, being of a literary turn of mind, he delighted to carry old letters and newspapers. From this circumstance his hat became known as “the post-office.”

Although small, this was about as heroic a band of warriors as ever took the field—nearly every man being strong, active, a dead shot well trained to fight with wild beasts, and acquainted with the tactics of wilder men.

Proceeding by forced marches, they soon drew near to that part of the country where the beleaguered farmers lay.

One evening, having encamped a little earlier than usual, owing to the circumstance of their having reached a fountain of clear good water, some of the more energetic among them went off to search for game. Among these were the brothers Bowker.

“There’s very likely a buffalo or something in that bush over there,” said Septimus Bowker, who was the owner of the “post-office” hat. “Come, Mr Considine, you wanted to— Where’s Considine?”

Every one looked round, but Considine and Hans were not there. One of the Skyds, however, remembered that they had fallen behind half an hour before, with the intention of procuring something fresh for supper.

“Well, we must go without him. He wanted to shoot a buffalo. Will no one else go?”

No one else felt inclined to go except Junkie Brook, so he and the four Bowkers went off, Septimus pressing the “post-office” tightly on his brows as they galloped away.

They had not far to go, game of all kinds being abundant in that region, but instead of finding a buffalo or gnu, they discovered a lioness in a bed of rushes. The party had several dogs with them, and these went yelping into the rushes, while the brothers stationed themselves on a mound, standing in a row, one behind another.

The brother with the tall white hat stood in front. Being the eldest, he claimed the post of honour. They were all fearless men and crack shots. Junkie was ordered to stand back, and complied with a bad grace, being an ardent sportsman.

“Look out!” exclaimed the brother in front to the brothers in rear.

“Ready!” was the quiet response.

Next moment out came the lioness with a savage growl, and went straight at Septimus, who cocked his gun as coolly as if he were about to slay a sparrow.

While the enraged animal was in the act of bounding, Septimus fired straight down its throat and suddenly stooped. By so doing he saved his head. Perhaps we should say the tall white hat saved it, for the crushing slap which the lioness meant to give him on the side of the head took effect on the post-office, and scattered its contents far and wide. Spurning Septimus on the shoulders with her hind-legs as she flew past, the lioness made at the brothers. Firm as the Horatii stood the other three. Deliberate and cool was their action as they took aim. Junkie followed suit, and the whole fired a volley, which laid the lioness dead at their feet.

Gathering himself up, Septimus looked with some concern at the white hat before putting it on. Remarking that it was tough, he proceeded to pick up its literary contents, while his brothers skinned the lioness. Shortly afterwards they all returned to camp.

Passing that way an hour or so later, Hans Marais and Charlie Considine came upon the spoor of the lioness.

“I say, Charlie,” called out Hans, “there must be a lion in the vley there. I’ve got the spoor. Come here.”

“It’s not in the vley now,” replied Charlie; “come here yourself; I’ve found blood, and, hallo! here’s a newspaper! Why, it must be a literary lion! Look, Hans, can you make out the name?—Howker, Dowker, or something o’ that sort. Do lions ever go by that name?”

“Bowker,” exclaimed Hans, with a laugh. “Ah! my boy, there’s no lion in the vley if the Bowkers have been here; and see, it’s all plain as a pikestaff. They shot it here and skinned it there, and have dragged the carcass towards that bush; yes, here it is—a lioness. They’re back to camp by this time. Come, let’s follow them.”

As they rode along, Hans, who had been glancing at the newspaper, turned suddenly to his companion.

“I say, Charlie, here’s a strange coincidence. It’s not every day that a man finds a Times newspaper in the wilds of Southern Africa with a message in it to himself.”

“What do you mean, Hans?”

“Tell me, Charlie, about that uncle of whom you once spoke to me—long ago—in rather disrespectful tones, if not terms. Was he rich?”

“I believe so, but was never quite certain as to that.”

“Did he like you?”

“I rather think not.”

“Had you a male cousin or relative of the same name with yourself whom he did like?”

“Then allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune, and read that,” said Hans, giving him the newspaper.

Charlie read.

“If this should meet the eye of Charles Considine, formerly of Golden Square, Hotchester, he is requested to return without delay to England, or to communicate with Aggard, Ale, and Ixley, Solicitors, 23a Fitzbustaway Square, London.”

“Most amazing!” exclaimed Considine, after a pause, “and there can be no doubt it refers to me, for these were my uncle’s solicitors—most agreeable men—who gave me the needful to fit me out, and it was their chief clerk—a Roman-nosed jovial sort of fellow, named Rundle something or other—who accompanied me to the ship when I left, and wished me a pleasant voyage, with a tear, or a drop of rain, I’m not sure which, rolling down his Roman nose. Well, but, as I said before, isn’t it an astonishing coincidence?”

“It wasn’t you who said that before, it was I,” returned Hans, “but we must make allowance for your state of mind. And now, as we’re nearing the camp, what is it to be—silence?”

“Silence, of course,” said Charlie. “There’s no fear of Bowker reading the advertisements through, he has far too much literary taste for that, and even if he did, he’s not likely to stumble on this one. So let’s be silent.”

There was anything but silence in the camp, however, when the friends reached it and reported their want of luck; for the warriors were then in the first fervour of appealing their powerful appetites.

Next morning they started at sunrise.

Early in the day they came on the mangled remains of the emigrant farmers before referred to. At first it was supposed this must be the remnant of the band they were in search of, but a very brief examination convinced them, experienced as they were in men and signs, that it was another band. Soon after, they came in sight of the party for which they were searching, just as the Kafirs were making a renewed attack. Already a few volleys had been fired by the Dutchmen, the smoke of which hung like a white shroud over the camp, and swarms of savages were yelling round it.

“The cattle and flocks have been swept away,” growled Frank Dobson.

“But the women and children must be safe as yet,” said Considine, with a sigh of relief.

“Now, boys,” cried Hans, who had been elected captain, “we must act together. When I give the word, halt and fire like one man, and then charge where I lead you. Don’t scatter. Don’t give way to impetuous feelings. Be under command, if you would save our friends.”

He spoke with quick, abrupt vigour, and waited for no reply or remark, but, putting himself where he fancied a leader should be, in front of the centre of his little line, set off in the direction of the emigrants’ camp at a smart gallop. As the horsemen drew near they increased their pace, and then a yell from the savages, and a cheer from their friends, told that they had been observed by the combatants on both sides. The Kafirs were seen running back to the ridge on the other side of the camp, and assembling themselves hurriedly in a dense mass.

On swept the line of stalwart burghers, over the plain and down into the hollow in dead silence. The force of their leader’s character seemed to have infused military discipline into them. Most of them kept boot to boot like dragoons. Even Dally and Scholtz kept well in line, and none lagged or shot ahead. As they passed close to the camp without drawing rein, the Dutchmen gave them an enthusiastic cheer, but no reply was made, save by Junkie, who could not repress a cry of fierce delight. Down deeper into the hollow they went, and up the opposite slope,—the thunder of their tread alone breaking the stillness.

“Halt!” cried the leader in a deep loud voice.

They drew up together almost as well as they had run. Next moment every man was on the ground and down on one knee; then followed the roar of their pieces, and a yell of wild fury told that none had missed his mark. Before the smoke had risen a yard they were again in the saddle. No further order was given. Hans charged; the rest followed like a wall at racing speed, with guns and bridles grasped in their left hands and sabres drawn in their right.

The savages did not await the onset. They turned, scattered, and fled. Many were overtaken and cut down. The Dutchmen sallied from the camp and joined in the pursuit. The Kafirs were routed completely, and all the cattle and flocks were recovered.

That same day there was a hot discussion over the camp-fires as to whether the emigrant farmers should return at once to the colony or wait until they should gather together some of the other parties of emigrants which were known to have crossed the frontier. At last it was resolved to adopt the latter course, but the wives and families were to be sent back to Fort Wilshire under the escort of their deliverers, there to remain till better times should dawn.

“Charlie,” said Conrad Marais, as he walked up and down with his friend, “I must stick by my party, but I can trust you and Hans. You’ll be careful of the women and little ones.”

“You may depend on us,” replied Considine, with emphasis.

“And you needn’t be afraid to speak to Bertha by the way,” said Conrad, with a peculiar side glance.

Charlie looked up quickly with a flush.

“Do you mean, sir, that—that—”

“Of course I do,” cried the stout farmer, grasping his friend by the hand; “I forgive your being an Englishman, Charlie, and as I can’t make you a Dutchman, the next best I can do for you is to give you a Dutch wife, who is in my opinion better and prettier than any English girl that ever lived.”

“Hold!” cried Considine, returning the grasp, “I will not join you in making invidious comparisons between Dutch and English; but I’ll go farther than you, and say that Bertha is in my opinion the best and prettiest girl in the whole world.”

“That’ll do, lad, that’ll do. So, now, we’ll go see what the Totties have managed to toss us up for breakfast.”

Before the sun set that night the emigrant farmers, united with another large band, were entrenched in a temporary stronghold, and the women and children, with the rescue party—strengthened by a company of hunters and traders who had been in the interior when the war broke out, were far on their way back to Fort Wilshire.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Relates Incidents of the War and a Great Deliverance

On reaching the frontier fort it was found to be in a state of excitement bustle, and preparation.

News had just been received that the treacherous chief Hintza, although professedly at peace with the colony, was secretly in league with the invading chiefs, and the Governor was convinced of the necessity of taking vigorous measures against him. The savages, flushed with success, and retiring for a time to their own land with the cattle they had carried off, found in Hintza one ready to aid them in every way. It transpired that he had not only allowed the stolen cattle to be secreted in his territory, but many of his own people were “out” with the confederate chiefs fighting against the colonists, while traders under his protection had by his orders been seized and plundered. A message had therefore been sent to Hintza requiring him at once and decidedly to declare his intentions. To this, instead of a reply, the savage chief sent one of his braves, whose speech and conduct showed that his wily master only wished to gain time by trifling diplomacy. The brave was therefore sent back with another message, to the effect that if he, Hintza, should afford any of the other chiefs shelter or protection, and did not restore the booty concealed in his territory, he would be treated as an enemy. It was also proposed that himself should come and have an interview with the Governor, but this invitation he declined. Sir Benjamin D’Urban, therefore, resolved to menace the truculent chief in his own dominions, and when Hans Marais with his band entered the square of the little fort, he found the troops on the point of setting out.

The force consisted of a body of regulars and a burgher band collected from all parts of the colony. Among them were hardy Englishmen from the Zuurveld, tough with the training of fourteen years in the wilderness, and massive Dutchmen from the karroo, splendid horsemen and deadly shots.

While the bustle was at its height a party of horsemen galloped up to the gate, headed by a giant. It turned out to be a contingent from Glen Lynden, under Groot Willem of Baviaans River, with Andrew Rivers, Jerry Goldboy, and several of the Dutch farmers of the Tarka in his train.

“Ho! here you are,” cried Groot Willem in his hearty bass roar, as he leaped to the ground and seized Hans Marais by the hand. “All well at Eden—eh?”

“Burnt out,” said Hans quietly.

The giant looked aghast for a moment. Then his friend ran hurriedly over the main points of his story. But there was no time for talk. While salutations were being exchanged by the members of the various parties thus assembled, Sir Benjamin appeared, mounted his horse, gave orders to several of his officers, and spoke a few words to Groot Willem and Hans. In a few minutes the troops were marched out of the fort, and next day reached the right bank of the Kei River.

This was the western boundary of Hintza’s particular territory. On arriving, the Governor issued general orders to the effect that Hintza was not “to be treated as an enemy.” No kraals were to be burnt, no gardens or fields pillaged, and no natives meddled with, unless hostilities were first begun by them, and that no act of violence should be committed until due notice of the commencement of hostilities had been given. “You see,” said Sir Benjamin in a private conversation with one of his staff, “I am resolved to take every possible precaution to avoid giving cause of complaint to the great chief, and to endeavour by mild forbearance to maintain peace. At the same time, it is essential that I should act with vigour because undue forbearance is always misinterpreted by savages to mean cowardice, and only precipitates the evils we seek to avoid.”

On arriving at a spot where a trader named Purcell had been plundered and murdered, the troops were met by several “councillors” from Hintza and from the chief Booko, who were still a day’s journey distant. To these the Governor said:—

“Go, tell the Great Chief that I request an interview with himself, because I desire that peace should be between us, and that justice should be done. I will not cease to advance until such interview is obtained, and it will depend on his own conduct whether Hintza is treated by the British Government as a friend or a foe.”

But the Great Chief was doggedly bent on meeting his fate. He returned no answer to the message, and the troops moved on. Arriving at the mission station of Butterworth, they found it destroyed, and here they were met by a large body of Fingoes—native slaves—who eagerly offered their services to fight against their cruel masters the Kafirs. These Fingoes—destined in after years to make a deep impression on the colony—were the remains of eight powerful nations, who, broken up and scattered by the ferocious Chaka and his Zulu hordes, had taken refuge with Hintza, by whom they were enslaved and treated in the most brutal manner. He gave them generally the name of Fingo, which means dog. Their eager offer to serve under the British Chief was therefore most natural, but Sir Benjamin declined their services at the time, as war had not yet been declared.

Soon after, a detachment of thirty men was sent back to the colony with despatches, in charge of an ensign named Armstrong, who was waylaid and murdered by some of Hintza’s Kafirs. The Governor, finding that his overtures were treated with studied neglect, and that hostilities were thus begun, called to him a Kafir councillor and warrior, and said—

“Your master has treated all my messages with contempt. He is in secret alliance with the chiefs who have invaded our colony. He has received and concealed cattle stolen from the white men. A British trader has been deliberately murdered in his territory, near his own residence, and under his protection, and no steps have been taken to punish the murderers. Violence and outrage have been committed by him on British traders, and missionaries living under his safeguard have been forced to flee to the Tambookie chief to save their lives. I will no longer treat with him. Since Hintza is resolved on war, he shall have it. I will now take the Fingoes under my special protection, make them subjects of the king of England, and severely punish any who commit violence upon them. I will also carry off all the cattle I can find.—Go, tell your master his blood shall be on his own head.”

This message, which was followed up by prompt action, the capture of considerable numbers of cattle, and a successful attack on one of his principal kraals, brought the great chief to his senses—apparently, but not really, as the sequel will show. He sent in four messengers with proposals, but the Governor refused to treat with any one except Hintza himself. Terrified at last into submission, he entered the camp with a retinue of fifty followers, and was courteously received by the commander-in-chief.