The Settler and the Savage

But the settlers were not yet out of the furnace.

Providence saw fit to send other troubles to try them besides unjust and foolish men in power. There was still another plague in store.

One day Charlie Considine rode towards the farm which had now for several years been his home.

The young members of the Marais family had grown learned under his care, and he was now regarded as a son by old Marais and his wife, while the children looked on him as an elder brother. Charlie had not intended to stay so long, and sometimes his conscience reproved him for having given up his profession of medicine, but the longer he stayed with those sweet-tempered Dutch-African farmers with whom his lot had been cast the more he liked them, and the more they liked him. What more natural then that he should stay on from day to day, until he became almost one of themselves? When people are happy they desire no change.

But it must not be supposed that the youth’s office was a sinecure. The young Marais were numerous, and some of them were stupid,—though amiable. The trouble caused by these, however, was more than compensated by the brightness of others, the friendship of Hans, and the sunshine of Bertha. The last by the way, had now, like Gertrude Brook, sprung into a woman, and though neither so graceful nor so sprightly as the pretty English girl, she was pre-eminently sweet and lovable.

Well, one day, as we have said, Charlie Considine rode towards the farm. He had been out hunting alone, and a springbok tied across the horse behind him showed that he had been successful.

Rousing himself from a reverie, he suddenly found himself in the midst of a scene of surpassing beauty. In front lay a quiet pond, whose surface was so still that it might have been a sheet of clear glass. On his left the familiar mountain-range beyond the farm appeared bluer and nearer than usual, owing to the intense heat. To the right the undulating karroo, covered with wild-flowers, and dotted with clumps of mimosa-bush, terminated abruptly in a lake which stretched away, in some places like a sea, to the horizon. Islands innumerable studded the smooth surface of this lake, and were reflected in its crystal depths. Not a breath of air riffled its surface, and there was a warm sunny brightness, a stillness, a deep quietude, about the whole scene which were powerfully suggestive of heavenly peace and rest.

“Glorious!” exclaimed Considine, reining up to a walking pace. “How delicious while it lasts, and yet how evanescent! Does it not resemble my life here? That cannot last.”

Charlie was not given to moralising, but somehow he could not help it that day. With an unusually profound sigh he shook the reins and cantered towards the lake. It was not the first time he had seen it, and he knew full well that it would not bar his progress. Even as he gave vent to the sigh the glassy waters trembled, undulated, retreated, and, under the influence of a puff of air, slowly melted away, leaving the waterless karroo in its place.

Truly it is no wonder that thirsty travellers in African deserts have, from time immemorial, rushed towards these phantom waters of the well-known mirage, to meet with bitter disappointment! The resemblance is so perfect that any one might be deceived if unacquainted with the phenomenon.[3 - The author, having seen the mirage while riding on the karroo, writes from personal experience.]

On coming within sight of the farm, Considine observed columns of thick smoke rising from various parts of the homestead. With a vague feeling of alarm he put spurs to his horse. Drawing quickly nearer he perceived that the smoke arose from the garden, and that the people seemed to be bustling about in a state of violent activity. Stretching out at full speed, he was soon at the garden gate, and found that all the bustle, energising, and shouting went on at the end farthest from the gate. As he threw the reins over a post and sprang in he could see through the trees that every one in the establishment was engaged in a wild frantic fight, in which sticks and stones, bushes and blankets, were used indiscriminately. The smoke that rose around suggested fire on the plains, and he ran in haste to render assistance.

It was a goodly garden that he passed through. Fruit-trees of every kind were so laden with golden treasures that many of the branches, unable to bear the strain, had given way and the superabundance trailed upon the earth. Vegetables of all kinds covered the borders with luscious-looking bulbs and delicious green leaves, while grapes, currants, figs, etcetera, half smothered their respective bushes. Through this rich display of plenty Considine dashed, and, on reaching the wall at the further end, found Conrad Marais with his wife and daughter, sons, servants, and slaves, engaged in furious conflict with—locusts!

The enemy had come on them suddenly and in force. The ground was alive with them. Armies, legions, were there—not full-grown flying locusts, but young ones, styled foot-gangers, in other words, crawlers, walkers, or hoppers,—and every soul in the establishment had turned out to fight.

Even the modest Bertha was there, defending a breach in the garden wall with a big shawl, dishevelled in dress and hair, flushed in face, bold and resolute in aspect, laying about her with the vigour of an Amazon. The usually phlegmatic Conrad defended another weak point, while his at other times amiable spouse stood near him making fearful and frequent raids upon the foe with the branch of of a thorn-tree. Hans, like Gulliver among the Lilliputs, guarded a gate in company with four of his brothers, and they toiled and moiled like heroes, while perspiration rolled in streams from their blazing faces. Elsewhere men and women, boys and girls—black, brown, and yellow—exerted themselves to the uttermost.

Never was fortress more gallantly defended, never were ramparts more courageously assailed. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, were slain under that garden wall—hundreds of thousands, millions, hopped over their comrades’ backs and continued the assault with unconquerable pluck. The heroes of ancient Greece and Rome were nothing to them. Horses, cattle, and sheep were driven in among them and made to prance wildly, not in the hope of destroying the foe—as well might you have attempted to blot out the milky way,—but for the purpose of stemming the torrent and turning, if possible, the leading battalions aside from the garden. They would not turn aside. “On, hoppers, on—straight on!” was their watchword. “Death or victory” must have been their motto!

At one spot was a hollow trench or dry ditch leading towards an outhouse which intervened between the locusts and the garden. No storming party was detailed to carry the point. Where the numbers were so vast as to cover the whole country, that was needless. They marched in columns, and the columns that chanced to come up to the point voluntarily and promptly undertook the duty. They swarmed into the ditch. Considine and a small Hottentot boy observed the move, and with admirable skill kept the advancing column in check until a fire was kindled in the ditch. It was roused to a pitch of fierce heat that would have satisfied Nebuchadnezzar himself, and was then left, for other points of danger in the walls claimed more vigorous attention. Onward hopped and crawled the enemy and stormed the fire. The leading files were roasted alive, those following tumbled over their dead bodies into the flames. Had the rest wished to take warning by the fate of their comrades—which they did not—they would have found it impossible to escape, for those behind pushed them on. The fire was filled with the dead, overwhelmed by the dying, fairly put out by both, and the victorious army marched over in triumph. Then the outhouse met them, but they scorned to turn aside, although there was a four foot wall, which one might have supposed more practicable. They walked straight up the outhouse and over it, and were triumphantly descending the other side in myriads before they were discovered and met, with shrieks of vengeance, by Mrs Marais.

“It’s of no use, lads,” gasped old Marais, pausing for a moment to recover breath; “the place is doomed.”

“Don’t say so, father,” cried Hans.—“Come on, boys! we’ve nearly stopped them at this gate.”

Nearly,—but not quite! A few minutes later and the strength of the garrison began to fail.

“How long—has this—lasted?” asked Considine, pausing for a moment beside Bertha, and panting violently.

“Since—breakfast,” gasped the exhausted girl; “we—dis—covered them—just after you—left us.—See! they come!”

“Hallo! this way, Hans! bring the flags!” shouted Considine, observing the tremendous body of reserves which were following up the success of the stormers of the fire.

It is a curious fact that the waving of flags had been found of more avail on that occasion than most other means. The beating of the enemy with bushes and blankets was no doubt very effective, but it killed, scattered, and confused them, so that they pressed, as it were blindly, on their fate, whereas the flag-waving appeared to touch a cord of intelligence. They saw it, were obviously affected though not killed by it, and showed a tendency to turn aside. It was however only a tendency; soon the advance was resumed in force. The human giants were beaten—fairly overwhelmed. The wall was scaled and the garden finally entered by countless myriads of this truly formidable though individually contemptible enemy.

Thus are the strong at times confounded by things that are weak!

Had these been flying instead of pedestrian locusts they might, perhaps, have been turned aside by fires, for this is sometimes done. When a farmer sees a cloud of them coming—a cloud, it may be, of three miles in length by half a mile in breadth or more—he kindles fires round his garden and fields, raises a dense smoke, and may sometimes, though not often, succeed in preventing them from alighting. But the younger or jumping locusts, strong in the stupidity of youth, cannot be turned aside thus. Nothing, indeed, but a rushing stream will stop them; even a mighty river, if not rapid, is insufficient. Stagnant pools they cross by drowning the leading multitudes, until a bridge—not “of sighs,” but—of death is formed, of size sufficient to carry them over. They even cross the great Orange River thus in places where its flow is calm. In Africa they pass in such countless swarms, both winged and wingless, that their approach is viewed with dismay, for where they rest they devour every green thing, and flocks and herds are left utterly destitute, so that starvation or change of ground is unavoidable. They usually begin their march, or flight, after sunrise, and encamp at sunset—and woe betide the luckless farmer on whose lands they chance to fix their temporary abode.

Locust-swarms are followed by a little bird—named springkaan-vogel or locust-bird—which comes in such dense flocks as almost to darken the air. These locust-birds are about the size of a swallow, with numerous speckles like a starling. They live exclusively on locusts—follow them, build their nests, rear their young in the midst of them, and devour them. But this is by no means the locust’s only enemy. Every animal, domestic and wild, destroys and eats him. Cattle, sheep, horses, fowls, dogs, antelopes—all may be seen devouring him with greediness. He even eats himself, the cannibal! for if any of his comrades get hurt or meet with accidents in travelling, as they often do, the nearest fellow-travellers fall on, kill and devour the unfortunates without delay.

The only human beings who rejoice at sight of the terrible locusts are the Bushmen. These have neither herds, flocks nor crops to lose, and though the wild animals on which they subsist are by these insects driven away, the Bushmen care little, for they delight in fresh locusts, follow them up, feed on them, and preserve quantities by drying them for future use.

Before morning the splendid garden of Conrad Marais was a leafless, fruitless wilderness. Not a scrap of green or gold was left. And his case was by no means singular. The whole colony was more or less visited by this plague at that time, and thus the reviving spirits of the settlers were once again knocked down by a crushing blow.

Chapter Eighteen.

Fairs, Fights, Free-Trade, Factions, and other Matters

In the heart of the wild mountain scenery of the frontier a grim-looking fort had been built to keep the Kafirs in check. It was named Fort Wilshire, and a truly warlike place it was, with its high walls and cannon, its red troops of the line, green rifles, and blue artillery. Lying remote from civilised men, it was a dreary enough place to the troops stationed there, though, with that ready spirit of adaptation to circumstances which characterises the British soldier, the garrison dispelled some of its ennui by hunting.

At one period of the year, however, the little frontier fortress thoroughly changed its silent and solitary character. The Government, yielding at last to earnest entreaties and strong representations, had agreed to permit, under certain restrictions, the opening of trade with the Kafirs. A periodical “fair” was established and appointed to be held under the guns of Fort Wilshire. The colonial traders, full of energy and thirsting for opportunity, took advantage of the “fair,” and assembled in hundreds, while the Kafirs, in a species of unbelieving surprise, met them in thousands to exchange wares. It was a new idea to many of these black sons and daughters of nudity, that the horns which they used to throw away as useless were in reality valuable merchandise, and that the gum, which was to be had for the gathering, could procure for them beads and buttons, and brass-wire and cotton, with many other desirable things that caused their red mouths to water.

On the day in which we introduce the scene to the reader some of the colonial traders had already arrived at the fair. These were not all of the same calibre. Some, of small means, had commenced modestly with a shoulder-bundle and went through the new land, as peddlers and packmen in older lands had done before them. Others, with more means, had set up the horse-pack, or the cart, and all aspired, while some had attained, to the waggon. These penetrated to every part of the frontier, supplying the Dutch boers with luxuries hitherto undreamed of, which, ere long, became necessities, obtaining from them sheep and cattle in exchange, with a fair proportion of their hoarded rix-daalers. The traders then returned to the towns, sold their stock, purchased fresh supplies, and went back to the interior. Thus was laid the foundation of a commerce which was destined in future years to become of great importance not only to the colony but to the world.

The opening of trade with the Kafirs had added materially to the prosperity of the traders, and those assembled at Fort Wilshire represented all the different classes.

Among the crowds who encamped under the fort guns, Stephen Orpin, the Wesleyan, represented those who stood on the first round of the mercantile ladder. Orpin was stout of limb, broad of shoulder, strong of heart, and empty of pocket; he therefore carried a pack in which were to be found not only gloves, neckerchiefs, and trinkets for the women, as well as gaudy waistcoats, etcetera, for the men, but New Testaments, tracts, and little books in the Dutch language wherewith Stephen hoped to do good to the souls of his customers. Orpin had come to the “fair” with the double view of trading and holding intercourse on spiritual things with the Kafirs. He longed to preach Christ, the crucified Saviour, to the heathen. Of such men, thank God, there always have been, and we believe always will be, many in the world—men in regard to whom bigots are apt to say, “Lord, forbid him, for he followeth not with us,” but of whom the Lord said, “Forbid him not, for he that is not against us is on our part.”

Among those who had attained to the enviable ox-waggon were our friends John Skyd and Frank Dobson. Possessing a remnant of their means when they gave up farming, two of the brothers, James and Robert, established a small general store in Grahamstown, while John and Frank set up a joint waggon and took to hunting and trading on a large scale. Of course they bought all their supplies of brass-wire, beads and buttons, powder and shot etcetera, from the Skyd store, and sold their ivory, etcetera, at the same place, with mutual benefit.

It was a strange and stirring sight to behold the long files of Kafir women, straight and graceful as Venus in body, ugly almost as baboons in visage, coming to the fair from all parts of the land with enormous loads on their heads of ox-hides, horns, gum, and elephants’ tusks. Threading the narrow bush-paths in long single files, they came from hillside and thicket towards the great centre of attraction. Gradually the crowd thickened. Kafir chiefs with leopard-skins thrown over their otherwise naked bodies stalked about with an assumption of quiet dignity which they found it difficult to maintain amid the excitement and temptations of the fair. Swarthy groups found shelter among the trees that fringed the Keiskamma below the post—the women resting after having gladly laid down their burdens; their lords sitting on their heels with knob-kerrie in hand, jealously guarding their property. The great chief himself was there, laying seignorial taxation on his people, and even condescending to beg for the white man’s brandy.

“Come with me,” said Orpin to a newly made Dutch friend; “I’m told you understand Kafir, and I want you to interpret for me. Will you?”

The Dutchman said “Ja,” and went, for Orpin had a persuasive tongue and pleasant manner which induced all sorts of men to aid him. And so they two went down into the bush among the dark-skinned crew, and Stephen preached in their wondering ears the “old, old story” of the Cross—a story which is never told entirely in vain, though many a time it does seem as if the effect of it were woefully disproportioned to the efforts of those who go forth bearing the precious seed.

Meanwhile Skyd and Dobson were driving lucrative bargains in another part of the field, speaking wonderful Kafir in the midst of a Babel of Dutch and English that was eminently suggestive of the ancient “tower” itself.

Besides the difficulties of language there were troubles also in reference to trade, for Kafirs, although savage, are fastidious. The men were as particular about their necklaces as any beau could be about the cut of his coat and the women were at times very hard to please in the matter of turban-covers and kaross back-stripes. But after much haggling the contending parties came to terms, to their mutual benefit and satisfaction.

In another part of the market there seemed to be a tendency to riot. Either bargaining was more hotly carried on there, or spirits of a pugnacious tendency were congregated. Among them was a tall powerful Kafir, who had been evidently treated to a glass of something stronger than water. He was not tipsy, he was only elevated, but the elevation roused his ire to such an extent that he began to boast loudly that he could fight any one, and flourished his sticks or kerries in a defiant manner. Kafirs always fight with two sticks, one to hit with, the other to guard.

A trader from the Green Isle chanced to pass this man, and to be jostled by him. Every one knows of the world’s opinion of the Irishman’s love for fighting. Pat became nettled.

“Arrah!” says he, “yer mighty fond o’ swagger, but I’ll tache you manners, you black baste! Come on!”

The big Kafir came on at once, and made a blow at Pat’s head with his knob-kerrie that would have ended the fight at once if it had taken effect, but the Irishman, well trained in the art, guarded it neatly, and returned with a blow so swift and vigorous that it fell on the pate of the savage like a flail. As well might Pat have hit a rock. If there is a strong point about a black man, it is his head. The Irish man knew this, but had forgotten it in the first flush of combat. He became wiser. Meanwhile a crowd of excited traders and Kafirs gathered round the combatants and backed them.

The Kafir made another wild swoop at his enemy’s skull, but the blow was easily turned aside. Pat returned with a feint at his foe’s head, but came down with terrible force on the inside of his right knee. The Kafir dropped his sticks, seized his knee with both hands, stood on one leg, and howled in agony.

Scorning to strike a defenceless foe, Paddy gave him a dab on the end of his already flat nose, by way of reminding him that he was off his guard. The Kafir took the hint, caught up his sticks and sprang at his opponent with the yell of a hyena, whirling aloft both sticks at once. The Irishman had to leap aside, and, as he did so, drew from the Kafir a shriek of pain by hitting him sharply on the left shin, adding to the effect immediately by a whack under the right eye that might have finished an average ox. The Kafir fell, more, however, because of the pain of the double blow, than because of its force, for he rolled about bellowing for a few seconds. Then, jumping up, he renewed the fight. There is no saying how long it might have lasted had not a party of troops chanced to pass just then, who separated the combatants and dispersed the crowd.

The “fair,” however, was made use of not only as an occasion for trading, preaching, and fighting, but for plotting. Chiefs met there in peace, who might otherwise have failed to meet except in battle, and these, with chiefs of banditti from the mountains, and malcontents from all quarters, concocted and hatched designs against the well-being of individuals and of the public at large.

At this time the colonists, besides being troubled by savage thieves, were threatened with disturbance from the inter-tribal feuds of the savages themselves. One tremendous Zulu monster of the name of Chaka—who excelled Nero himself in cruelty—was driving other tribes of Kafirs down into the colony, and designing chiefs were beginning to think or hope that the opportunity had arrived for carrying out their favourite idea of driving the white man into the sea.

In a dark forest glade, not far from the fort, and within hearing of its bugle-calls, Stephen Orpin walked up and down with one of the malcontents.