The Luck of Gerard Ridgeley

All the anger, the indignation, almost the grief at being robbed, left penniless, had momentarily faded from Gerard’s mind before the overwhelming disgust which he felt for the other’s villainy. It was too painful, too nauseating. That a man of Anstey’s birth and antecedents, a relative, though a distant one, of his own, could stoop to such a black, pitiful, crawling theft, was revolting beyond words. He now looked upon him with a kind of horror, as upon some loathly and hardly human monster.

“It is just as he says,” he said at last. “I have no receipt, and no witnesses. I suppose I can do nothing.”

“Just try, my hearty – just try; that’s all!” jeered Anstey. “Maritzburg’s busting with law and lawyers. See what you can do. You’re quite welcome.”

“Better shut up, Anstey,” said the man who had evinced a head-punching disposition. “We ain’t afraid of you and your pistol, and you may get more than you like, yet. And you, friend. What do you propose to do?”

“Get out of this as soon as possible,” answered Gerard, in weary disgust. “Get back to Maritzburg, I suppose. But I’ve got some luggage here – not much, but a good deal more than I can carry; and you can imagine I don’t want to leave it behind.”

“Rather. Well, look here now,” said the man who had been addressed as Sam Carruthers; “I’m bound for the town, and if you don’t mind jogging along with a waggon, I’ll be glad to take in your luggage and yourself too. I won’t charge you anything for it either. And, remember this. You don’t seem to have been long in the country, and have fallen into the hands of a mortal sweep. Well, remember the swindle that has been planted on you was done by one of your own countrymen, not by one of as Anstey hasn’t been out here so very many years himself.”

This was only too true. From the colonial people he had had to do with Gerard had met with many little acts of kindness. It had been reserved, as the other had said, for one of his own countrymen to rob him of his little all – to leave him penniless, a stranger in a strange land.

He gladly accepted the transport-rider’s friendly offer, and, having hastily packed his outfit – Anstey the while keeping well out of his way – he bade adieu for ever to the scene of his first colonial experience.

Poor Gerard, alone in Maritzburg, without a friend in the Colony, and with about fifty shillings to his name, besides his moderate outfit, might indeed have reckoned himself in evil case; and, after a few days, in spite of his pluck and determination, he did so reckon himself. He had taken up his quarters at a cheap boarding-house which the friendly transport-rider had told him about – a place in comparison with which the mosquito-haunted Wayne’s was almost a palace – and had set about trying to find work. But what chance had he? The fact of his being a lad of education and refinement told against him with those among whom he applied. “A fine gentleman and a raw Britisher,” as they put it – to do them justice in their own minds only – was only a synonym for uselessness. Every billet wherein education was required was either filled, or hungrily competed for by a hundred applicants; applicants, too, with recommendations in their favour, and where were his? He tried to turn to account such experience as he had gained with Anstey, but with no better success. The country stores required a much more experienced hand, and one who could speak the native language fluently; the town ones wouldn’t look at him. Apart from the question of recommendations, here the very fact of his having been with Anstey was against him, was enough to shut him out even from the list of that most hopeless form of hope deferred – the cases “under consideration.” That precious rascal, he found, was far better known than trusted, and more than one instance of sharp practice and roguery on the part of Anstey now came to his knowledge. But meanwhile time was flying, and with it, of course, money. And he was no nearer attaining any way of replenishing his well-nigh vanished stock of the latter.

Gerard Ridgeley’s education had been of the usual happy-go-lucky, slipshod sort which is hammered into the average English boy who is destined for no profession in particular, and which for purposes of after life is practically useless. The regulation amount of Latin and Greek, and Euclid and arithmetic, got through by rote, often with the help of a crib, with perhaps a smattering of British and home-made French, had fallen to his lot, as well as the regulation share of cricket and football. But these attainments, good in themselves, seemed not to help him one whit in gaining the means of subsistence in his present predicament. He had never even taken to carpentering as an amusement, as some boys do, and of course of any other handicraft was as ignorant as a babe unborn.

Probably no one in these days really imagines that living is cheap in the Colonies, save perhaps to the dwellers in the veldt or bush, who grow their own necessaries of life. In the towns it is considerably dearer than in England, and a sovereign is apt to represent nearer ten shillings than twenty. So Gerard speedily learnt, as time flew and so did his funds, and prospects of employment remained as remote as ever.

“There ain’t room for chaps as wants a job in this here blessed colony,” bitterly remarked one of his fellow-boarders one day. “It’s a small country when all’s said and done, and there’s too many of us already, besides all these Hindian coolie-niggers they’re a importin’ of by shiploads.”

In the extremity of his strait, Gerard bethought himself of Mr Kingsland. Should he write and endeavour to bespeak the latter’s aid, telling all the circumstances of his evil fortune and the cruel swindle which had left him penniless? He remembered the hearty kindness of the old settler’s tone, and assurances of friendship. Surely he was justified in asking for a helping hand towards some means of gaining his own livelihood! But no sooner had he taken pen in hand to do so than he flung that redoubtable implement to the other end of the room. He could not do it. It was too much like writing a begging letter. Besides, what claim had he upon anybody? So, instead of writing the letter, he took a hurried survey of his possessions, and then strolled round to an auctioneer’s sale-rooms, to see whether the chances were good in favour of obtaining a reasonable price for his new saddle at the next morning’s sale.

Turning the street corner he ran right against Harry Maitland, or rather against the latter’s horse, for Harry himself was in the act of dismounting.

“Hallo, Ridgeley! Where’ve you dropped from?” said Harry. “Still counter-jumping with that distinguished-looking relation of yours?”

“No such luck,” replied Gerard, with a rueful laugh. And he told him what had happened. “And here I am nearly stumped, and see no way of getting up again,” he concluded.

“Stumped, eh? That’s devilish awkward,” quoth Harry. “You would go counter-jumping, you see, instead of going to work in the right way. Look at me now. I know shoals of people already, and am having a right good time. There’s nothing like looking about one first for a bit, depend upon it. Well, ta-ta. See you again. Here – hallo, Warner!” he sang out to a man who had just passed them. “Hold on, can’t you!”

And, leaving Gerard standing there, he went after the new-comer.

“Who’s that fellow you were yarning to?” said the latter. “A devilish decent-looking chap, whoever he is.”

“That! Oh, he’s a poor devil I used sometimes to talk to on board ship. And, I say, Warner, you turned up in the very nick of time. He was just going to try and borrow a five-pound note from me. I’ll swear he was. I could see it in his eye. Let’s go and liquor.”

It was lucky for the utterer of this remark that it remained unheard by the object thereof, otherwise we fear that, even in the middle of that bustling pavement, a vigorous application of shoe-leather might have awakened Master Harry most painfully to the fact that it had been overheard. Gerard, however, had resumed his way, sad and bitter of heart; for he was young yet, and had not even begun to learn to take the insincerity and ingratitude of so-called friends as a matter of course. He only remembered how glad the other had been to get under his wing, so to say, when they had first landed. Thrown upon their own resources, strangers in a strange land, he it was who had taken the initiative; upon him had all the managing and thinking devolved. Harry Maitland had been glad of his company then, so glad of it indeed that he had even made some sacrifice of his own comfort rather than cut himself adrift from it. Now he hardly condescended to know him. Well, it was only one more lesson out of the volume of the world’s hard and flinty teaching; but, as we said, Gerard was still very young, and the lesson was bitter.

He gained the auction-room. A sale of miscellaneous articles was in full swing, and bidding was brisk. While waiting till it should be over and he could speak to the auctioneer, he amused himself watching the competing groups as well as those – far the greater number – who were only there to look on; for in a colonial town a public sale of whatever kind draws a crowd of loungers of every description as surely as a store-cupboard draws flies in hot weather. Bronzed and bearded stock-farmers and transport-riders, alert-looking townsmen, a sprinkling of Indian coolies, turbaned and deferential, but none the less intent, in their own quiet, half-shy manner, upon getting their money’s worth for their money, all clustered and crowded around the tables, more or less eagerly bidding, or keeping up a running fire of chaff with the auctioneer. Watching this mass of diversified humanity, Gerald was conscious of the descent of a friendly hand upon his shoulder, and a friendly voice at his ear.

“Ridgeley – isn’t it?”

With a start of surprise, he turned, to find himself face to face with the sun-tanned lineaments and corduroy-clad form of John Dawes.

“Thought we’d meet again some day,” said the latter, grasping the hand which Gerard delightedly put forth. “Small world after all. How has it been using you?”

Had Gerard been worldly wise, taught by his last experience, he would have answered with equal indifference, “Oh, so-so.” Being, however, only genuine, he replied —

“Badly, I fear.”

“So?” said the transport-rider, upon whom the unconscious despondency of the tone was not lost. “Sorry to hear that. I’ve often wondered how you got on, especially with Anstey. Found him, I suppose?”

“I did. And I found him out too.”

“So?” said Dawes again. “But look here, if you’re not doing anything just now, come round, and we’ll have a bit of dinner together. I’d like to hear how you’ve been getting on.”

As Gerard’s business with the auctioneer would very well keep until the afternoon, he accompanied his newly found friend to a luncheon bar in the neighbourhood, and there, over a dish of sizzling beefsteak and a bottle or two of English beer, gave a full account of his experiences and misadventures since they had parted.

“When you first told me you were going to find out Anstey, I’d have liked to have warned you,” said Dawes, who had listened attentively to every word of his narrative. “But, then, I thought it was none of my business, and you said he was a relation of yours, too, which of course made it all the worse. I know him well; and, what’s more, he knows me.”

“He seemed to,” said Gerard, remembering the disquieted look which had come into Anstey’s face when he had mentioned the transport-rider.

“Rather. I gave him a licking once – well, it’s an old story and don’t matter now. But, excuse the question, I suppose you find yourself at pretty low ebb just now, eh?”

“Low ebb isn’t the word for it,” was the weary reply. “I’ve been moving heaven and earth to try and raise some sort of a billet, but it’s no go. There seems to be no room for me here. I wish I had never come out.”

Dawes had been filling his pipe, and passed his pouch on to his young companion. As he lighted it, and the glow of the match fell upon his impassive and weather-beaten features, it brought out therein no trace of feeling, no sign that the other’s narrative interested him one whit. But in reality he was revolving a plan. He had from the very first taken a great liking to this bright, frank, warm-hearted English lad, the extent of whose difficulties now he was thoroughly capable of appreciating.

“You wouldn’t be over particular as to the sort of billet you might get, eh?” he said, puffing out a great cloud of smoke in a vacant and abstracted manner.

“Not I, indeed, if only I might get it,” answered Gerard, wearily. “Why, I was going to see about putting my new saddle on the sale, when we met each other. I’ve had to part with things already to raise the wind.”

“That hard up, are you? Well, if you ain’t particular to a hair, I’ve been turning over a scheme. What would you say to going an up-country trip with me?”

“What?” almost shouted Gerard, half starting from his seat. “An up-country trip with you? You can’t mean it!”

“Keep your hair on, Ridgeley,” rejoined Dawes, with a half-indulged smile, for although the best-hearted and the most equably dispositioned fellow in the world, he was of the “dry” order of being, and seldom laughed outright. “Don’t get excited; that’s never sound policy. But just turn the idea over in your mind a bit, and then you can let me know. I’m loading up two waggons now for a trading trip away beyond the Zulu country. Well, it occurs to me that you took so kindly to driving a waggon, and all to do with it on our way up here, that you might be useful to me. You’d pick up all there is to be learnt in that line the first day. What do you say to the idea?”

But just then Gerard was nearly incapable of reply. A lump seemed to rise in his throat. All the futile efforts of the past few weeks rose before his mind; his loneliness, the certainty of approaching destitution. And now this man with his offhand friendliness, who was thus holding him out a helping hand, seemed as an angel sent from heaven. He managed to stutter out at last that it seemed almost too good to be true.

“All right,” said the other, kindly; “then that’s settled. I can’t give you any pay, but I’ll give you the run of your teeth, and a small commission on the takings of the trip after the trip’s over. The said trip, by the way, may last a year, or maybe more.”

“I don’t care if it lasts ten,” said Gerard, eagerly.

“It isn’t any good for you to hang on here with the notion of getting anything out of Anstey,” pursued Dawes, with rare tact affecting to believe that that was Gerard’s object in remaining there, and so to lessen the latter’s sense of obligation to himself. “He’s the most slippery fish that ever kept out of gaol. I’m afraid you’d never see a farthing of your coin back again, even if you were armed with as many papers to prove the transaction as a Supreme Court lawyer. He’ll have been sold up by now, lock, stock, and barrel. Well, now we’ll go round and attend to biz, and see to our loads, for we’ll have to start to-morrow night. I’d have trekked to-night, but that two of my oxen are not quite the thing, and I had to send out to one of the locations for two more.”

And having paid the score, Dawes led the way out, nodding here and there to an acquaintance at the crowded tables as he went, while Gerard, walking on air, could hardly believe in his good luck. He had entered that room despondent and almost a beggar; he left it with a friend, and in possession of the most congenial and delightful form of occupation he could have desired in his wildest dreams.

Chapter Nine.

Up

The time intervening having been spent in getting together the loads, and otherwise seeing that everything was in order for the road – wheels greased, waggons overhauled, all necessary supplies for the trip got safely on board – by the following evening they were ready to start.

The said loads consisted of every conceivable kind of object of barter then in favour among the up-country natives – blankets and Salampore cloth, knives and hatchets, tobacco and snuff, beads and umbrellas of wondrous colours, brass wire for bangles, brass buttons and striped handkerchiefs, looking-glasses and musical instruments, and a score of other “notions.” For their own use and that of their native servants they carried sacks of mealie-flour, coffee and sugar, a tin of biscuits or so, and two or three sides of bacon sewn up in canvas, with a few tins of preserved fruit, and ditto vegetables.

Each waggon was drawn by a full span of sixteen oxen, which were engineered by a leader and driver to the span, both natives. The waggons and their fittings were similar to that which brought Gerard up from the coast, one of them, indeed, being the same vehicle. The load took up nearly the whole available space, just leaving room for a small tilt, which contained a mattress for sleeping on, also lockers, and canvas pockets hung round the sides. Altogether it is wonderful what a lot can be stowed away on board these ships of the veldt.

One of the waggons had been loaded up in the morning and sent on to the outspan; the other was ready by sundown. As they went lumbering down the street, the oxen fresh and rested, stepping out briskly to the shout of the driver and the occasional crack of his long whip, Gerard, seated beside Dawes on the box, felt quite elated as he heard the driver’s reply to passing natives inquiring their destination: – “Kwa Zulu,” and could enter fully into the spirit of the said reply, given loftily and as it were with a touch of pity for the unfortunates condemned to stagnate at home.

“I was in luck this morning, Ridgeley,” said Dawes, as they superintended the inspanning of the other waggon. “I picked up a capital Basuto pony, dirt cheap. He’ll do for you to ride. There he is, by the side of mine.”

Two steeds were being driven up, knee-haltered. One was a bay, the other a strongly-built mouse-coloured pony of about fourteen hands. Gerard was delighted:

“They tell me he’s a good shooting horse,” went on Dawes, “so that’s another advantage. I always like to have a horse along. One can turn off the track, and get a shot at a buck without having to fag one’s soul out to catch up the waggons again; and then, too, one sometimes wants to go into places where one can’t take the waggons, and for that, of course, a horse is nearly indispensable. Are you fond of shooting?”

Gerard answered eagerly that he had hardly ever been lucky enough to get any. It was, however, the thing of all others he was keenest to attempt. But he had not even got a gun, though he had a revolver.

“Well, we’ll soon make a shot of you,” said Dawes. “There’s a Martini rifle in the waggon, and a double gun, one barrel rifled, the other smooth. We’ll find plenty to empty them at when we get up into the Zulu country, never fear.”

Then, the waggons being inspanned, and the two horses made fast behind, they started. And as they toiled slowly up the long hill which led away to the border, and presently the lights and blue gum-trees which marked the site of Maritzbnrg lying in its great basin-like hollow disappeared behind the rise, Gerard felt that this was the most glorious moment of his life. The most dazzling vista seemed to open out before him – adventures and strange experiences to crowd upon each other’s heels. Was he not bound for that wild, mysterious, enchanted land, of which he had heard many a strange tale from those who had called from time to time at Anstey’s? “Up-country,” they would say, with a careless jerk of the finger, “up-country!” And already he seemed to hear the booming roar of the prowling lion round the midnight fire, to see the savage phalanx of the Zulu regiment on the march, bound upon some fell errand of death and destruction. All the hard and dull routine of the last few months, the utter desolation of his uncongenial life, even the terrible and sickening realisation that he was next door to destitute, all were forgotten now; all such memories swallowed up in the anticipation of what was before him. As they trekked along in the moonlight, seated side by side on the box of the foremost waggon, Dawes proceeded to initiate Gerard further into some of the mysteries of native trade.

“As I was telling you,” he said, “there’s a regular fashion among natives, just the same as among white folks. For instance, take Salampore cloth; there are the two kinds – the thin dark blue and gauzy, and the lighter-coloured and coarser kind with the orange stripes. Now, the Zulus are keen as mustard on the first, and simply won’t look at the last, whereas with the natives of Natal, whether of Zulu or Basuto blood, it’s exactly the other way about. Again, take beads. We’ve got all sorts – black, white, blue, pink, red. Now, which would you suppose the Zulus are keenest on?”

Gerard replied that of course they would go for the brightest coloured ones – say, the red or blue.

“Not a bit of it. The ones they like best of all are the black, after them the white. There’s a fashion about these things, as I tell you. Now, you’d think one of them pocket-knives, with a blade like a sabre, and a saw and a corkscrew, and the Lord knows what amount of gimcrackery all in one handle, would fetch them more than any mortal thing. Well, it wouldn’t. They’d hardly say thank you for one such knife that might have cost you a guinea, whereas, for them roughly knocked together butcher knives, that cost me tenpence apiece wholesale, they’ll give almost anything. They like to make a sheath for the thing, to hang around them.”

“What sort of people are they in the way of trade?” asked Gerard.

“Hard as nails. Haggle the eyes out of your head. But you’ve got to be firm over a deal, for they’re up to all manner of tricks. If the barter is live stock, they’ll try all they know to jockey you with some worthless and inferior beasts, and so on. Dishonesty? No, they don’t think it dishonest. It is simply their principle of trade – devil take the hindmost. So far are they from dishonest, that I have more than once in the Zulu country left my waggon standing for an hour at a time with absolutely nobody in charge, and have come back to find it surrounded with people waiting for me, and yet not a thing touched or displaced. How would that pan out for an experiment in England, for instance?”

“But poorly, I’m afraid,” laughed Gerard.

“Just so. No, the Zulu is the hardest nail going at a deal. But once the deal is over and it’s no longer a question of trade, he’s the most honest man in the world. You’ll soon get into their ways and know exactly how to deal with them, and meanwhile try all you know to pick up as much of the language as you can. Sintoba, the driver of the other waggon, is a smart clever chap, and talks English fairly well. You can’t do better than learn all you can from him.”

Thus, with many a useful hint and anecdote illustrative of native character or the life of the veldt, would Dawes beguile the time as they trekked along, all of which Gerard drank in eagerly. His anxiety to make himself of use knew no bounds. He was up before the first glimmer of dawn, and would have the “boys” astir and the fire started for the early pannikin of black coffee, sometimes even before Dawes was awake, to the latter’s astonishment and secret satisfaction. In a day or two he could take his share at inspanning as readily as the rest, was as deft at handling the whip as the professional driver, Sintoba himself, and knew all the oxen by name. And at night, as they sat around the red embers, he was never tired of listening to Dawes’s narratives of experience and adventure, whether his own or those of others. He was, in fact, as happy as the day was long, and felt almost fraternal when he thought of Anstey, remembering that but for that worthy’s rascality he would not be here now.

Several days had gone by. They had passed through Grey Town, and the magnificent bush country beyond, with its towering heights and great cliffs rearing up their smooth red faces from tossing seas of verdure. They had met or passed other waggons from time to time – for it was the main road to the Transvaal – and now they were descending into the Tugela valley.

“Hot, eh, Ridgeley?” said Dawes, with a dry smile, mopping his forehead with a red pocket-handkerchief.

“Yes, it’s warm,” assented Gerard, who in reality was nearly light-headed with the terrible heat, but would not own it. There was not a breath of air. The sun-rays, focused down into the great bush-clad valley, seemed to beat with the force of a burning-glass, and the heights on either side shut out whatever breeze might have tempered the torrid fierceness. A shimmer rose from the ground as from the outside of the boiler of a steam-engine, and the screech of the crickets kept up one unending and deafening vibration.