The Vee-Boers: A Tale of Adventure in Southern Africa

The first impulse of its master, so interrogating himself, was to catch hold of his gun, and rush out to the rescue. The gun he caught hold of; but then came the thought, that instead of saving the horse, he would be himself sacrificed. Well knew he the habits of the wilde-honden with their fierce, savage nature, and that, in their then excited state, man would be no more feared by them than horse, or any other animal. It would be like bearding a pack of hungry wolves; in fact, flinging away his life. But what ought he to do? What could he? Nothing.

“Ah! yes; something!” he exclaimed, hope returning with a thought that had flashed across his brain. “There may still be a chance, if I can make him hear me.”

Saying which, he thrust the tips of three fingers between his lips, and blew a whistle that went screeching across the veldt, repeating it several times. But much repetition was not necessary.

At the first note of it reaching his ears, the horse was seen to give a start of recognition; then, as the second was sent after, the sagacious animal, trained to the signal, answered it with a joyous neigh, and came galloping up to the ant-hills. In half a minute more he was among them; and now guided by a well-known voice, soon stood by his master’s side, panting, quivering in every fibre of his frame, but confidently whimpering, as if at length assured of safety.

But he was not safe yet; neither he, nor his master, as the latter well knew. If he did not, it was instantly made known to him, as he saw the wilde-honden gather in from all sides trooping after. In a trice they too had entered among the ant-hills, and were still coming on for that beside which he and the horse stood. To the young hunter it was a crisis, dangerous as when being charged by the buffalo, and equally slight seemed his chance of escape. He had dropped back to the ground – knowing he would be no safer on the ant-heap, which the clawed creatures could easily scale – and stood holding his horse in hand. The animal was still under saddle and bridle, as when it ran away from him. Should he spring upon its back, and attempt to escape by flight? Impossible. The horse was already tottering on his legs; another mile, perhaps half that with a rider on his back, and he would surely go to grass.

Piet Van Dorn was left no time for deliberation. What he did after was done in hottest haste, unreflectingly, almost despairingly. Yet were its results of the best; could not have been better, if planned deliberately and in coolest blood. He first discharged his roer at the nearest and foremost of the honden, which went rolling over with a howl. The report of the gun – noise so unexpected – caused the rest to falter and hang back; then, before they had recovered confidence, they were saluted by a second clap of that thunder, so new to them, with its blaze of lightning, which still further cowed them. For all, they did not yet seem inclined to retreat; and Piet Van Dorn, fancying the flash more frightened them than the crack, suddenly bethought him of a way to make it more effective. Quickly striking a light, he set fire to the withered grass, on which he had lately been lying. It caught at once, flaring up with a flame that mocked the moon. And to keep it ablaze he employed the long barrel of his now empty gun, fork fashion, tossing the tufts of burning grass high in the air, all the while shouting at the loudest pitch of his voice. Continuing to shout so, he would soon have been hoarse. Fortunately he was spared this infliction; for the wilde-honden, at first sight of the conflagration, which they doubtless believed to be the veldt on fire, took to their heels, and scampered off in every direction; leaving the young hunter, and his newly-recovered horse, masters and sole possessors of the field.

Chapter Eleven.

Tracking Back to Camp

His lost steed, thus strangely, as it were miraculously, restored to him, gave Piet Van Dorn gratification in more ways than one. The thought of his horse reaching the camp before himself, and so causing keenest alarm, had been his major trouble. But there was a minor one, far from insignificant, affecting his skill as an equestrian. Of his hunter-prowess he had the proof; but who would know how the horse had got away from him, save those who might put faith in his own account of it? That there would be some to discredit him, he knew; Andries Blom would take care of that. But now he would ride back to camp with the buffalo’s tail flouted triumphantly at the muzzle of his gun, as flag captured from an enemy; instead of sneers, or sympathy, to receive congratulations.

Under the excitement of this pleasant anticipation, that night he could sleep no more, nor did he try. And there was enough to keep him awake, in caring for his horse, the poor animal needing all the attention he could give it. Having cut some wisps of the withered grass, he rubbed its coat dry, which greatly refreshed it; while the grass itself proved a fodder not unpalatable. But the horse suffered more from want of water than food, as he could see; and there was no water near, an added reason for making quick departure from the place. He would have started away from it at once, but the sky had become suddenly overcast, the moon obscured by thick cumulous clouds, and the night darker than ever. He could barely see the white ant-hills close around him, and of course the trail he had needs still follow would be undistinguishable. So he must wait for the morning’s light.

But light came sooner, and from a different source – out of the clouds themselves. They were rent by forks of lightning, and illumined by its flashes, with an accompaniment of thunder. Rain followed, descending in sheets, as if emptied out of dishes – true storm of the tropics.

There was water now for a hundred thousand horses, yet how was he to catch enough for one? He had no vessel, or aught else, to collect as much as a mouthful, though his animal was in a very agony of thirst, himself the same. He looked around in hopes of seeing a puddle, but there was none. Soon as it fell the water filtered into the loose sandy soil, as if poured into rat-holes. What was to be done?

“Ha! A happy idea; the very thing itself!” So soliloquised he at sight of the rain running down the sloped sides of the ant-hills in rivulets. Drawing knife again, he commenced delving into the firm tough compost, and kept at it till he had hollowed out a trough capable of containing a gallon. Then making some diagonal scratches to guide the water into it, he had the satisfaction of seeing it soon fill, while he and his horse drank their fill also.

The downpour was not of long continuance, though long enough to leave him without a dry rag on his body. Little recked he of that now, being far more solicitous about another effect it might have produced, and which he feared it had. Nor was his fear groundless; for when day at length dawned, and he rode out to get back upon the trace hitherto guiding him, not a sign of it was to be seen, neither track of horse nor buffalo. They had been all filled up by the rain wash – completely obliterated – and once more he was a lost man!

This time, however, he was less dismayed, from having his horse under him. The sun had not yet risen, but the aurora, its precursor, told him which point was east; and, believing this to be the right direction, he took it. But long after the sun was up, he found himself wandering on the veldt, as much puzzled about his course as ever. The points of the compass he knew well enough, but the belt of timber was still invisible, and he may have gone too far eastward.

He was about reining round to try another slant, when again tracks came under his eye – hundreds of them. All buffalo tracks these were, the hoof-prints well defined and easily recognisable. For the ground was different from that by the ant-hills, a firm, stiff clay, which had resisted the beating down of the rain. He had little doubt of their being made by the drove of yesterday’s chase, and less after riding in among them, and making note of their number; the buffaloes had been close to the camp-ground, and it only needed proceeding along their trail to reach it.

Once more was Piet Van Dorn full of confidence. But only for a very few seconds, when uncertainty again took possession of him. In what direction had the buffaloes been going when they passed that point? Towards the camp, or from it, after being met and turned by the marksmen? He was unable to answer this question, and its answer was of absolute necessity ere he could proceed a step farther. Without it he knew not which was his way, and would be as likely to take the wrong as the right one. It might be of serious consequence if he went wrong – indeed fatal – so what he should do next needed deliberation.

What he did do was, first to make more careful examination of the hoof-marks, hoping from them to draw deductions that would serve him. Not as to time; in that respect there could not be any great difference between the tracks going toward the camp and those from it. Even if there had, the rain would have rendered it imperceptible. But there might be a difference in the stride: animals pursued would make longer bounds than if running at will.

His new inspection, however proved of no avail; nor could it, as he now bethought himself, recalling the fact that the buffaloes were in full run when first seen, and likely long before.

He was about raising his eyes despairingly, when something on the ground caught his glance, and kept it rivetted. It was only a little pool of water – rain that had fallen still lying – but water dyed red, and with blood, beyond a doubt! Of this he was confident; and equally sure it was blood from one of the buffaloes that had been wounded when the volleys were fired into the drove.

Hitherto he had been rather inclined to go as they had gone, still thinking his proper course lay eastward. Now he knew better; and without further delay, wheeled his horse round, and struck along the trail backward.

Thenceforth it was all plain sailing, the track easily distinguishable, in places as if a steam-plough had passed along turning up the soil. He could have gone at a gallop, and would but for sparing his horse, which still showed signs of suffering from the terrible strain late put upon it. Withal, he made fair way, and in another hour came upon familiar ground, where the buffalo-bull he had himself pursued separated from the herd. Without seeing its tracks, or those of his horse, he could not have mistaken the place. There lay the carcases of two other buffaloes, the pair killed by Rynwald and Blom. They were little more than skeletons now; for as he rode up to them nigh a score of jackals went scampering off, while twice that number of vultures rose sluggishly into the air.

At this point, for the first time since leaving it, Piet Van Dorn caught sight of the timbered belt, to comprehend why he had not sooner sighted it. The reason was, the river, with some miles breadth of the adjacent terrain, being below the general level of the plain. He saw the mowana, too, under which was the laager, perceiving that he was even yet leagues from it. But distance no more troubled him; his thoughts, as his glances, being now given to two horsemen who were coming in quick gallop towards him. On their drawing nearer he recognised one of them as Hendrik Rynwald; the other not Andries Blom, but his own brother.

They had come in quest of him, sent by anxious friends, themselves as anxious as any. Rejoiced were they at the encounter, and not less he, though his joy in part proceeded from another and different cause. Never listened he to sweeter words than those blurted out by Hendrik Rynwald, a generous, guileless youth, who said, grasping his hand —

“I’m so glad, Piet, to see you safe! And won’t Sis Kattie, too! I don’t believe she slept a wink, all of last night.”

Chapter Twelve.

A Formidable Obstruction

Explanations having been hastily exchanged, the trio of young Boers turned face toward the camp. Burning to make known the joyful news, Rynwald and Piet’s brother would have gone back at a gallop, and so Piet himself. But there was something to delay them: this the horse late chased by wilde-honden. The rain, at first refreshing the animal, had afterwards produced an opposite effect, and the result of the sudden change from heat to chill was a founder, the creature being now barely able to keep on its legs. As it could not carry him further without cruelty, its merciful master, dismounting, led it along.

This entailed slow progress, and thinking of those in the camp, with anxieties to be relieved, young Rynwald proposed galloping on ahead. To this neither of the others objected, and he was about spurring away from them, when there arose another obstruction, of a still more formidable kind. An animal it was, seen standing right on the track he would have to take – one that could not be passed with impunity. Many animals were there, for it was where several other buffaloes had been shot down, whose carcases, now mangled, were surrounded by jackals, hyaenas, and vultures. But it was not any of these that stood in Hendrik Rynwald’s way, in an attitude of angry menace. Instead, the king and master of them all – a lion; one of the largest and fiercest-looking any of the young hunters had ever seen, much less encountered. The tawny brute appeared as though he had but late arrived on the ground, coming in at the end of the feast to find only bare bones; and, being hungry, the disappointment had roused his rage to the highest pitch of fury. Having caught sight of the oncoming horsemen, he evidently intended venting his spleen, as well as appeasing his hunger, on one or other of them. He stood crouched and roaring, with mane erect and tail oscillating to and fro; both the attitude and action well-known to lion-hunters as indicative of greatest danger.

The two bestriding fresh horses need not have much feared the black-maned brute, and for that matter could have avoided an encounter with it by riding wide away and around. For to a man well mounted the lion is only dangerous in thicket, or jungle, hindering free action to the horse. But circumstanced as they were, the young Boers saw that only two of their horses had a fair chance of escaping thus, and perhaps but two of themselves. The third must surely come to grief in any attempt at shunning the lion, and to face it boldly could not well have worse result; so facing it was instantly determined on. Indeed, the resolve could not have been delayed; as at this place the veldt was overgrown with tall grass, and they were close to the danger before sighting it – so close, that in a dozen of his cat-like leaps the lion might at any moment launch himself in their midst.

Less from any hope of his now staggering steed helping him to escape, than the impulse of instinct – or rather habit – Piet Van Dorn sprang back into the saddle; and the three, drawing their horses’ heads together, remained at halt with their eyes fixed on the leeuw. The brute was within range of their roers, and the question was whether all three should fire together, or in succession.

Not much time was allowed them for determination, in fact, not any. Scarce had they their guns in readiness when, with a roar loud as last night’s thunder, the lion came vaulting towards them.

The three pulled trigger almost simultaneously; two of them, Hendrik Rynwald and the younger Van Dorn, to miss, their frightened horses as they danced about spoiling their aim. Different was it with that ridden by Piet, whose forlorn condition was, possibly, as unexpectedly the saving of his own and master’s life. Too far gone even for affright, he stood stock still; nor budged an inch, till the roer, with muzzle projected beyond his ears, belched forth flame and smoke; a bullet at the same time, which striking the leeuw fair on the frontlet, went crashing through its skull. As a result the creature, so dreaded, tumbled instantly over like a shot rabbit, and lay in the long grass equally harmless.

With all South Africans, be they natives, colonists, Vee-Boers, or other, the killing of a lion is an event to be chronicled, and he who kills one is deemed to have performed a feat worthy of great praise; of course all the greater when one of such size as that which had fallen to Piet Van Dorn’s bullet. Its skin would be a spoil indeed, and he determined taking it with him. There was no longer such need for haste on his part, as Hendrik Rynwald could now carry out his original intention of preceding to camp – which he did.

Dismounting again, the brothers set about stripping the leeuw of its pelt; an operation which cost them but a few minutes’ time, both being used to such work. Then with the skin thrown over the saddle, they continued on toward the timber, Piet leading his horse as before.

In another half-hour, or so, they were near enough the camp-ground to make out the figures of the men and animals that occupied it; to see something, moreover, which filled them with surprise, even amazement. There was commotion in the laager and around it, people rushing excitedly hither and thither; horses and oxen being caught up and led hurriedly from point to point. Borne on the still air also they could hear voices, shouts, uttered in alarm as the tone testified.

In wonder at what it all meant, the brothers pushed faster forward. Piet, no longer so tender with his halting steed, forced the animal into a trot, himself running alongside. And when within nearer view their wonder was no less, instead greater, and now with fear added. For they saw the waggons drawn out upon the open veldt, with the oxen in long line attached to the trek-touws, while the horses were all under saddle and bridled. Clearly the camp was being broken up, and about to be abandoned. But for what reason? Had the Matabele turned hostile, and was a party of them threatening attack? But no, it could not be that. If attacked, the laager would be the best place for resistance; far safer than with the waggons on trek. What then could be causing a movement so unexpected – so inexplicable? The two youths were in a very maze of mystification. But not much longer were they left in it. When within half a mile of the camp, a horseman came riding in all haste towards them – Hendrik Rynwald.

“What is it?” hailed they, soon as he was within hearing.

To receive for answer, “The tsetse! The tsetse!”

Chapter Thirteen.

Attacked by “Tsetse.”

In all likelihood few of my readers need telling what is the tsetse, Dr Livingstone and other travellers having given full account of this scourge of Southern Africa.

An insect, little bigger than the common fly of England, but whose sting is deadly as the bite of rattle-snake or cobra-di-capello; fortunately not to man himself, but to man’s best friends in the animal world – dogs, horses, cattle, and sheep [28 - “The tsetse” (Glossinia morsitans). Although the sting of this insect is fatal to the domesticated quadrupeds above named, the mule and ass are not injured by it. Neither are any of the wild animals that inhabit the districts infested by it – a circumstance seeming strange and inexplicable.]. So when Andries Rynwald called out the name of the venomous creature, Piet Van Dorn and his brother had instant and clear comprehension why the camp was being so abruptly abandoned. The tsetse had made its appearance there; in flight lay the sole chance of saving the stock, and even this might be too late.

Only within the hour had the danger been discovered, by the presence of the insect becoming known. On the days before, and up till nigh noon of this one, nothing had been seen of it after most careful search. As a customary precaution they had looked for it all around the mowana. Had it been observed, no camp would have been established there, much less a laager; not even the shortest halt made. But confident of the place being uninfested, the wearied travellers had joyfully out-spanned with the intention of taking a long spell of rest. Then, the alarm caused by the buffaloes over, they had breathed freely again, and were enjoying themselves more than ever; for that danger, so far from resulting in damage, had proved a profit to them. The daily provisioning of such a large party called for a goodly quantity of meat, more than was always obtainable by the chase. On the Karoo, just crossed, wild animals were so scarce and shy, that with all the skill of their hunters the larder had run low. And no longer having their sheep to depend upon, the buffaloes coming that way, with so many killed, had been a bit of rare good luck, seeming almost providential.

Nor did they fail to make the best of it; these animals having been skinned and butchered; the choicest of their beef cut into thin strips, and hung over riems stretched between the trees for conversion into bultong[29 - The “bultong” of the South Africans is meat cured in a similar fashion to the tasaio of the Mexicans, and charqui of South America, commonly know as “jerked beef.” The process is of great service in countries where salt is a scarce commodity, or does not exist.]. There they were still hanging, like strings of sausages; the red meat fast becoming a mahogany colour as the hot sun shone down upon it, and drew out its juices.

The naacht-maal of the evening before had been a rich repast. The ant-hill kitchen-range, again called into requisition, had sent up its appetising odour, with buffalo steaks frizzling in the pans, and tongues, the tit-bits, simmering in the pots. The same for the morgen-maal of this the next day, which, withal, had been far from cheerful. Quite the reverse to the relatives of Piet Van Dorn, as to most of the camp people, the missing youth being a general favourite. Anxiety on his account, keen throughout all the night and morning hours, had reached its keenest when Andries Rynwald was seen coming back at a gallop, and alone. He seemed the bearer of bad tidings, while in reality those he brought were of the best, relieving every one on the instant of his arrival. Indeed, before it, as from afar off he had shouted, to ears acutely listening, “Piet’s safe!” soon to follow the joy-giving announcement with account of why the brothers lagged behind.

Again was there gladness in the camp, greater than ever, as it always is when the lost are found. But, alas! it was not of long continuance. Scarce had the returned searcher dropped down from his saddle, when those who gathered clusteringly about him and his horse became conscious of a sound, which caused one and all to start and cry out. It was but as the buzz of a blue-bottle, but with sharper intonation and intermittent. In short, they knew it to be the “tzip” of the tsetse; at the same instant catching sight of the insect itself, its brown colour, with yellow-banded abdomen, rendering it easily recognisable. With its long wings in whirring play, it was flitting about over the horse’s body, as if in search of a spot to settle on.

Eager hands were stretched forth to seize hold of, or crush it. They supposed it to have come along with the horse, and so the only one of its kind there. But their efforts were idle; with the sun high and hot, the tsetse becomes exceedingly active, and as difficult to be caught as a bombylins or dragon-fly. Darting from point to point, it eluded all their attempts; in fine, retreating from its persecutors with a bizz that seemed to say, “Catch me if you can.”

It flew off towards some of the trek oxen that chanced to be near, and several of the men followed in hopes of being able to kill it there. But their surprise was light compared with their alarm, when, on getting up to the oxen, they saw not one tsetse but a score of them; ay, there might be hundreds or thousands for aught they could tell. The pestilent insects were flitting about everywhere, and it was evident not only the trek oxen, but the milk cows and horses were being assailed by them. The dogs, too, as could be told by their rushing around and biting their own bodies; some closing their jaws with a snap, like the shutting of a snuff-box lid, in their efforts to seize the creatures that were torturing them.

It was now that the camp rang with that cry which had caused consternation in many another, and broken many another up.