Bertram Mitford (continued 2)

Now, all this had taken place in a mere moment of time. It would take no more than that to decide their fate. And this seemed sealed.

For all his hard condition and desperate pluck, Gerard felt strength and nerve alike well-nigh fail him. The native was a fearful weight, heavier even than one of his size ought to be, and he was not a small man. They were now in the roar and swirl of the rapids. Once or twice Gerard’s foot touched ground, only to be swept off again resistlessly, remorselessly. Several times he thought he must relax his grasp and leave the other to his fate. He could see the smooth glitter of the glassy hump where the river curled over the brink; could feel the vibration of the appalling boom on the rocks below. In a second he—both of them—would be crashed down on to those rocks, a thousand shapeless fragments, unless, that is, he could secure a footing upon the spit of stony islet in front.

A yard more will do it. No. The current, split into two, swirls past the obstruction with a perfectly resistless force. He is swept out again as his fingers come within an inch of grasping a projecting stone. Then he—both of them—are whirled over and over in the surging boil of the rapids—the brink is in front—space.

Then it seems to Gerard that he is upholding the weight of the whole world. For a most wonderful thing has happened. The native is perfectly stationary—still as though anchored—in the resistless velocity of the current, and now it seems to be his turn to support his would-be rescuer. For the latter’s legs are actually hanging forth over the fearful abyss, and but for the firm grip—now of both hands—which he has upon the other’s arm, he would be shot out into space. The roar and vibration of the mighty fall is bewildering, maddening—the crash upon the rocks, the spuming mist flying away into countless rainbows before his sight. He seems to live a lifetime in that one fearful moment. He must loose his hold and—

“Here, mister! I’m going to throw you a reim. Can you catch it?”

Gerard hardly dares so much as nod an affirmative. He sees as in a dream a couple of bearded faces on the bank above, the owner of one of which is swinging a long, noosed cord of twisted raw hide.

“All right! Now—catch!”

Swish! The noose flies out, then straightens. It falls on Gerard’s shoulder. Loosening one hand, he quickly passes it round his body. It is hauled taut.

“Now—leave go the nigger. He’s all right. He’s anchored.”

Instinctively Gerard obeys, and swings free. For a second he is hanging on the smooth, glassy, curling lip of the fall. Should the reim break— But it is staunch. He is drawn slowly up against the current, and hauled safely to land.

The native, deprived of Gerard’s support, is seen to be thrown, as it were, with his face downward on the current. Something is holding him back, something which has him fast by the legs; but for it, he would be shot out over the falls. He shouts something in his own language.

“By jingo! It’s just as I said,” exclaims one of the men. “He’s anchored.”

“Anchored?” wonderingly echoes Gerard, who, beyond being very much out of breath, is none the worse for his narrow escape.

“Yes, anchored. He says he’s got a lot of reims and truck tangled round his legs, and it’s hitched in something at the bottom of the river. That’s what’s holding him back; and a mighty good thing it is for you, young fellow, as well as for him. You’d have been pounded dust at the bottom of the fall long before this.”

The while the speaker has been fixing a knife to the noosed ram, in such wise that the distressed native shall be able to detach it and cut himself loose below water. A warning shout—the noose flies outward—the man catches it without difficulty, for the distance is not great. Then, having made it fast beneath his armpits, he dives under the surface, while the two on the bank—the three in fact, for Gerard now helps to man the line—keep the ram taut. The latter shakes and quivers for a moment like a line with a heavy fish at the end; then the ringed head rises.

“Haul away—he’s clear!” is the cry. And in a moment the native is dragged safe to the bank and landed beside his rescuers.

Having recovered breath, he proceeded to account for the origin of his mishap. He was on his way to a neighbouring kraal, to obtain possession of a horse which he had left there. He was carrying a headstall and a couple of reims for this purpose, and, thinking it a trifle shorter to ford the river below the drift than at it, had gone into the water accordingly. But the current proved stronger as well as deeper than he had expected. He had been swept off his feet, and then the reims had somehow or other got entangled round his legs, which were practically tied together, so that he could not swim. It must have been the headstall which, dragging along the bottom, had so opportunely anchored him.

“Well, it’s the tallest thing I’ve seen in a good many years,” said one of the men. “The very tallest—eh, George?”

“Ja, that’s so!” laconically assented George, beginning to shred up a fragment of Boer tobacco in the hollow of his hand.

The men were transport-riders, travelling with their waggons, which accounted for the prompt production of the long reim which had borne so essential a part in the rescue. They had just come over the rise in time to take in the situation, and with the readiness of resource which characterises their class, were prompt to act accordingly. But the object in which Gerard’s interest was centred was the man whom he had been instrumental in saving from a most horrible death.

The latter was a very fine specimen of native manhood, tall, erect, and broad, and with exquisitely modelled limbs. His face, with its short black beard, was firm and pleasing, and the straight fearless glance of the clear eyes seemed to shadow forth the character of the man. He had a grand head, whose broad and lofty forehead was tilted slightly back, as though the shiny black ring which surmounted it were a crown, instead of merely a badge of marriage and manhood; for the Zulu wears his wedding-ring on his head, instead of on his finger, and moreover is not accounted to have attained to manhood until he has the right to wear it. His age might have been anything between thirty and fifty. His only clothing was a mútya, which is a sort of apron of hide or cats’ tails hung round the loins by a string.

If Gerard expected him to brim over with gratitude, and to vow a life’s service or anything of the sort, he was disappointed. The man made a few laughing remarks in his own language as he pointed to the terrible fall, whose thunderous roar almost drowned their voices where they stood. The two might have been taking a friendly swim together, instead of narrowly escaping a most frightful death.

“Who is he?” said Gerard. “Where does he live?”

As one of the other men put this question, the native, with a word or two, pointed with his hand to the northward.

“But—what’s his name?”

The question struck the onlookers as an unpalatable one.

“Name?” repeated the native, after the manner of his race when seeking to gain time. “Name? They call me Sobuza. I am of the Aba Qulúsi, of the people of Zulu. Who is he who helped me out of the water?”

Gerard told who he was. The two white men exchanged looks of surprise.

“Anstey’s relative! So?” they said. “Looking him up, maybe?”

Gerard explained his exact position with regard to Anstey. He noticed that the significance of the look exchanged between the pair did not decrease. The Zulu, however, seemed to receive the answer with but little interest. He made one or two ineffectual attempts at Gerard’s name, but the recurring “r”—a letter which none of the Bantu races can pronounce, always in fact making it a sort of guttural aspirate—baffled him, and he gave it up. Then, with a sonorous farewell, he took his departure.

“If all Zulus are like him, they must be a splendid race,” said Gerard, gazing after the retreating figure. “That’s the first real one I’ve seen, to my knowledge.”

“Ungrateful beggar!” commented one of the men, angrily. “Why, he hardly took the trouble to say ‘Thankee.’ He deserved to have been let go over the fall.”

“I’m afraid I’m nearly as bad,” said Gerard. “I don’t—or rather I do—know where I should be if it hadn’t been for you.”

“That’s nothing, mister,” was the prompt rejoinder. “Help one another’s the rule of the road—eh, George?”

“Ja, that’s so,” assented George again.

They chatted on for a while, and smoked a sociable pipe, and Gerard accepted an invitation to accompany his friends in need to their waggons—which were standing waiting for them at the drift higher up—and take a glass of grog, which, with the torrid heat of the sun, combined to keep off any chill which might result from his wetting. Then with much mutual good will they separated.

Gerard held on his way, pondering over his adventure, which indeed was a pretty stirring one, and the first he had ever had. He was bound on an errand of partly business, partly pleasure; namely, to visit some people he did not greatly care for on some business of Anstey’s. Still the change from the sedentary round of the store was something, and, hot as it was, he enjoyed the ride. It was Sunday, and thus a sort of holiday, though even on the Sabbath we fear that trade was not altogether at a standstill.

That day, however, was destined to be one of incident, of adventure. His visit over, he was riding home in the cool of the evening. The sun was just touching the western sky-line, flooding with a golden light the open, rolling plains. There was nothing specially beautiful in the landscape, in fact it was rather monotonous, but the openness of it gave an idea of free and sweeping space, and the almost unearthly glow of a perfect evening imparted a charm that was all its own. The uncongenial circumstances of his present life faded into insignificance. Gerard felt quite hopeful, quite elated. He felt that it was good even to live.

Suddenly a hubbub of voices rose upon the evening air—of native voices, of angry voices—and mingled with it the jarring clash of kerries. Spurring his horse over the slight eminence which rose in front, the cause of it became manifest. A small native kraal stood just back from the road. Issuing from this were some half-dozen figures. A glance served to show that they were engaged in a highly congenial occupation to the savage mind—fighting, to wit.

It was a running fight, however, and an unequal one. A tall man was retreating step by step, holding his own gallantly against overwhelming odds. He was armed with nothing but a knobkerrie, with which he struck and parried with lightning-like rapidity. His assailants were mostly armed with two kerries apiece, and were pressing him hard; albeit with such odds in their favour they seemed loth to come to close quarters, remaining, or springing back, just beyond the reach of those terrible whirling blows. To add to the shindy, all the women and children in the kraal were shrilly yelling out jeers at the retreating adversary, and three or four snarling curs lent their yapping to the uproar.

“Yauw! great Zulu!” ran the jeers. “We fear you not! Why should we? Ha-ha! We are free people-free people. We are not Cetywayo’s dogs. Ha-ha!”

“Dogs!” roared the tall man, his eyes flashing with the light of battle. “Dogs of Amakafúla! By the head-ring of the Great Great One, were I but armed as ye are, I would keep the whole of this kraal howling like dogs the long night through—I, Sobuza, of the Aba Qulúsi—I alone. Ha!”

And with a ferocious downward sweep of his kerrie, he knocked the foremost of his assailants off his legs, receiving in return a numbing blow on the shoulder from the stick of another. All the warrior blood of the martial Zulu was roused, maddened, by the shock. He seemed to gain in stature, and his eyes blazed, as roaring out the war-shout of his race, the deep-throated “Usútu!” he abandoned the offensive and hurled himself like a thunderbolt upon his four remaining adversaries. These, not less agile than himself, scattered a moment previous to closing in upon him from all sides at once. At the same time he was seen to totter and pitch heavily forward. The man whom he had previously swept off his feet had, lying there, gripped him firmly by the legs.

Nothing could save him now! With a ferocious shout the others sprang forward, their kerries uplifted. In a moment he would be beaten to a jelly, when—

Down went the foremost like a felled ox, before the straight crushing blow of an English fist; while at the same time a deft left-hander met the next with such force as to send him staggering back a dozen paces. Wrenching the two sticks from the fallen man, Gerard pushed them into the hands of the great Zulu. The latter, finding himself thus evenly armed, raised the war-shout “Usútu!” and charged his two remaining assailants. These, seeing how the tables had been turned, did not wait. They ran away as fast as their legs could carry them.

“Whou!” cried the Zulu, the ferocity which blazed from his countenance fading into a look of profound contempt. “They show their backs, the cowards. Well, let them run. Ha! they have all gone,” he added, noticing that the others, too, had sneaked quietly away. “Whau!”

The last ejaculation was a staccato one of astonishment. For he recognised in Gerard his rescuer of the morning.

“I say, friend, you floored those two chappies neatly. By Jove, you did!”

Both turned towards the voice. It proceeded from a light buggy, which stood drawn up on the road behind them. In this were seated a young man some three or four years older than himself, and an extremely pretty girl, at sight of whom Gerard looked greatly confused, remembering the circumstances under which she had beheld him.

“It was an A1 row,” continued the former. “We saw the whole of it. Allamaghtaag! but I envy the way in which you spun those two to the right and left.”

“Well, I had to,” answered Gerard. “It was five to one. That’s not fair play, you know.” And his eyes met the blue ones of the young lady in the buggy, and were inclined to linger there, the more so that the said blue orbs seemed to beam an approval that was to the last degree heterodox in one of the tenderer sex and therefore, theoretically, an uncompromising opponent of deeds of violence.

“Who’s your long-legged friend?” went on the young man, proceeding to address a query or two to the Zulu, in the latter’s own language, but in a tone that struck even Gerard as a trifle peremptory. “He’s a surly dog, anyhow,” he continued, annoyed at the curtness of the man’s answer.

“He’s a Zulu—a real Zulu—and his name’s Sobuza,” said Gerard.

“A Zulu, is he? Do you know him, then?” was the surprised rejoinder.

“I didn’t before this morning. But I happen to have got him out of one little difficulty already to-day. I never expected to see him again, though.”

“The deuce you did! Was he engaged in the congenial pastime of head-breaking then, too?”

“N-no. The fact is—” And then Gerard blushed and stuttered, for he saw no way out of trumpeting his own achievements, and somehow there was something about those blue eyes that made him shrink instinctively from anything approaching this. “The truth is he got into difficulties in the river—a bit of string or something twisted round his legs in the water so that he couldn’t swim, and I helped him out.”

The girl’s face lighted up, and she seemed about to say something; but the other interrupted—

“By Jove, we must get on. It’ll be dark directly, and looks like a storm in the offing, and we’ve a good way to go. Well, ta-ta to you, sir. So long!” And the buggy spun away over the flat.

Gerard followed it with his glance until it was out of sight. Then he turned to the Zulu. That worthy was seated on the ground, calmly taking snuff.

“Ha, Umlúngu!” (white man) he exclaimed, as, having completed that operation, he replaced his horn snuff-tube in the hole cut out of the lobe of his ear for that purpose. “This has been a great day—a great day. Surely my inyoka has taken your shape. Twice have you helped me this day. Twice in the same day have you come to my aid. Wonderful—wonderful! The death of the water—to pass through the mighty fall to the Spiritland—that is nothing. It is a fitting end for a warrior. But that I, Sobuza, of the Aba Qulúsi, of the people of Zulu—that I, Sobuza, the second fighting captain of the Udhloko regiment—should be ‘eaten up’ by four or five miserable dogs of Amakafula (Note 2). Whau! that were indeed the end of the world. I will not forget this day, Umlúngu. Tell me again thy name.”

Gerard, who although he understood by no means all of this speech, had picked up sufficient Zulu to grasp most of its burden, repeated his names, slowly and distinctly, again and again. But Sobuza shook his head. He could not pronounce them. The nearest he could come was a sort of Lewis Carrollian contraction of the two—“U’ Jeríji,” pronouncing the “r” as a guttural aspirate.

“I shall remember,” he said; “I shall remember. And now, Jeríji, I journey to the northward to the land of the Zulu. Fare thee well.”

Instinctively Gerard put forth his hand. With a pleased smile the warrior grasped it in a hearty muscular grip. Then with a sonorous “Hlala gahle,” (or farewell), he turned and strode away over the now fast darkening veldt.

The occupants of the buggy, speeding too on their way, were engaged in something of an altercation.

“It was too provoking of you, Tom,” the girl was saying, “to rush me away like that.”

“So? Well, we’ve no time to spare as it is. And that cloud-bank over there means a big thunderstorm, or I’m a Dutchman.”

“I don’t care if it does. And we never found out his name—who he is.”

“No more we did, now you mention it,” said the other in a tone of half-regretful interest. “But, after all, we can survive the loss.”

“But—he was such a nice-looking boy.”

“Oho!” was the rejoinder, accompanied by a roar of laughter. “So that’s the way the cat jumps!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” answered the girl, but in a tone which seemed to say the “chaff” was not altogether displeasing to her. “But you remember the report we heard coming through Howick, about two men being nearly carried over the Umgeni Fall to-day, while one was trying to save the other. That’s the hero of the story, depend upon it. I’d have got it all out of him if you hadn’t been in such a desperate hurry. And now we don’t even know who he is!”

“No more we do. Let’s put an advertisement in the paper. That’ll draw him—eh? Such a nice-looking boy, too!” he added, mimicking her tone.

“Tom, you’re a born idiot,” she rejoined, blushing scarlet.

The “nice-looking boy” meanwhile was cantering homeward in the twilight, building castles in the air at a furious rate. Those blue eyes—that voice—hovered before his imagination even as a stray firefly or so hovered before his path. It was long since he had heard the voice or seen the face of any woman of birth and refinement. Anstey was not wont to mix with such, and the few female acquaintances the latter owned, though worthy people enough, were considerably his inferiors in the social scale. At this time, indeed, his mind and heart were peculiarly attuned to such impressions, by reason of his lonely and uncongenial surroundings; more than ever, therefore, would a feeling of discontent, of yearning home-sickness, arise in his mind. Then, by a turn of retrospect, his memory went back to Mr Kingsland’s hearty, straightforward words of advice: “When you’ve got your foot in the stirrup, keep it there. Stick to it, my lad, stick to it, and you’ll do well.” And now he had got his foot in the stirrup. Was he to kick it out again in peevish disgust because the stirrup was a bit rusty? No; he hoped he was made of better stuff than that. He must just persevere and hope for better times.

He reached home just as the black cloud, which had been rolling up nearer and nearer, with many a red flash and low rumble, began to break into rain. Having hastily put up his horse in the tumble-down stable, and seen him fed, he went indoors, only to find Anstey blind drunk and snoring in an armchair. Utterly disgusted, he helped that worthy to bed, and then, after a cold supper, for which he had little appetite, he sought his own shakedown couch in the comfortless lumber-room. Then the storm broke in a countless succession of vivid flashes and deafening thunder-peals which shook the building to its very foundations; and to the accompaniment of the deluging roar and rush of the rain upon the iron roof he fell fast asleep—to dream that he was rescuing countless numbers of fighting Zulus from the Umgeni Fall, over which a rainbow made up of blue eyes was striving to lure them.

Note 1. “Snake.” Zulus are great believers in tutelary spirits, of which each individual has one or more continually watching over him. To such they frequently, though not invariably, attribute the form of the serpent.

Note 2. A term of contempt employed by the warlike natives of Zululand to designate the natives dwelling in Natal. Probably a corruption of the popular term “Kafir,” ama being the plural sign.

Chapter Eight.

Down.

We referred to a change which had come into Anstey’s manner as regarded his intercourse with our young friend. More than once he had returned to the charge and sounded the latter again as to the probability of his relatives being willing to invest some funds for him in what he was pleased to call their joint concern. But Gerard’s reply had been positive and unvarying. So persuaded was he of their inability to do so that he would not even apply to them. Then it was that Anstey’s manner began to change.

He dropped the intimate, elder-brother kind of tone which had heretofore characterised their intercourse, and which poor Gerard in his youth and inexperience had taken for genuine, and for it substituted a master-and-servant sort of demeanour. He would order Gerard about, here and there, or send him off on an errand, with a short peremptoriness of tone as though he were addressing some particularly lazy and useless native. Or he would always be finding fault—more than hinting that the other was not worth his salt. Now, all this, to a lad of Gerard’s temperament, was pretty galling. The relations between the pair became strained to a dangerous tension.

It happened one morning that Gerard was in the tumble-down old stable, saddling up a horse to start upon some errand for his employer. It was a clear, still day, and through the open door came the sound of voices, which he recognised as belonging to two or three transport-riders, whose waggons were outspanned on the flat outside, and who had been lounging in the store making purchases and chatting just before.

“So I hear they’ve got two more writs out against Anstey,” one voice was saying.

“So? Who’s doing it this time?”

“Oh, Butler and Creighton. They ain’t going to allow him any more tick—not even to the tune of a string of beads. Why, he’s dipped three or four times over. His bills ain’t worth the paper they’re written on.”

“Going to sell him up, are they?”

“Ja. They just are. They’ve got out two more writs, I tell you. Shouldn’t wonder if they put in an execution to-day.”

Gerard, to whom every word was as plainly audible as it was to the speakers themselves, felt as though petrified. This relative of his, with his plausible and grandiloquent schemes, stood revealed a bankrupt swindler of the worst type. All the glowing pictures of wealth and success which he had drawn now seemed mere pitiful traps to catch him, Gerard, in his youth and inexperience. Now the motive of Anstey’s change of manner was as clear as daylight. There was nothing further to be got out of him. And with a dire sinking of the heart Gerard thought of how he had been induced to invest his little all in this utterly rotten concern. But no—it could not be. Anstey was his relation. He could not be such a mean, pitiful rascal as that. But the next words were not such as to reassure him.

“How they’ve given him so much law as they have bangs me, I admit,” went on the first speaker. “Why, for the last year past he’s never had a cent he could call his own. This show, and every mortal thing in it, has been dipped up to the hilt.”

“Maybe this young Britisher he’s got hold of has helped bolster him up. Eh!”

“Maybe. So much the worse for the Britisher, for he’ll never see a brass farthing of his money again. But how the mischief even a raw Britisher could be soft-sawdered by Anstey is a stumper. He’s out and away the most infernal scoundrel in this colony.”

All the blood rushed to Gerard’s head. He had been duped, swindled. He had given several months of hard and honest work without receiving any pay, for his employer had always put him off on some pretext or other—that it was more convenient, or usual, to settle up half-yearly, or what not. He had been swindled out of even the few pounds which were all he had in the world; for, as the man had just said, he would never be able to get a farthing out of Anstey. Unfortunately there could be no reason to doubt the truth of what he had just heard, for other signs, now made clear, seemed to point to it. These men, moreover, were talking at ease among themselves, and freely. They evidently knew what and who they were talking about. His first impulse was to walk straight up to them and ask for a further explanation. Instead, however, he went back to the store.

Anstey was there, drinking grog with a transport-rider who had just come in. At sight of Gerard he started up angrily.

“Why, what the deuce is the meaning of this?” he said, in his most offensive and hectoring tone. “Not gone yet, and I sent you to saddle up half an hour ago.”

Gerard made no reply; but there was a look in his face which mightily disquieted his employer. But the latter, who was fuddled to a quarrelsome stage by the grog he had been drinking, roared out, with a volley of curses—

“You disobedient, skulking beggar! What do you suppose I keep you here for at all? Get out of this at once, and do as I tell you. Do you hear, sir?”

Gerard’s face turned livid. The abominable insult of the tone and words was too much. He made a quick move forward, and things would have gone badly for Anstey. But the grip of muscular hands on his shoulders restrained him.

“Hallo, young fellow! What’s all the row about? Keep cool, now, I say. Keep cool!”

The advice was sorely needed, and the restraining touch had a salutary effect. Gerard was not going to throw himself into any vulgar promiscuous struggle, and collected himself with an effort. In the voices of the two men who had just entered, he recognised the two whose conversation he had overheard.

“I’ll keep cool, right enough,” he said. Then, addressing Anstey, “As for you, the sooner we part the better. I have stood your abominably offensive behaviour long enough, and I won’t stand it a day longer. As long as you behaved decently to me—which you did at first, no doubt for reasons of your own—I would have done anything for you. Now you have got upon the other tack I’ve had about enough of it. So we may as well part at once. Please hand me over what you owe me, and I’ll be off.”

“What I owe you—eh?” said Anstey, with an evil sneer. “But supposing I don’t owe you anything, my fine fellow? If you slink off without giving me proper notice, you forfeit every penny. How does that pan out—eh?”

Gerard’s countenance fell. There was truth in this, he feared.

“Well, never mind about that,” he said. “I’ll waive my claim. I’ll make you a present of these months of hard work. Just return me my twenty-five pounds, and we’ll cry quits.”

Anstey’s face was a study in well-simulated amazement—blank, bewildered amazement.

“Is the fellow drunk,” he said, “or only mad? Your what? I’m not sure if I quite heard. Your twenty-five thousand pounds, did you say?”

“I said my twenty-five pounds, that you induced me to hand over to you to be invested in this business, which I believe to be an utterly rotten concern, and has been for some time past,” replied Gerard, stung out of all prudence or reserve.

The two transport-riders looked at each other with dismayed meaning. Their conversation must have been overheard. Anstey’s face turned livid at this hit.

“You’re slandering me—slandering me before witnesses, by God—and that’s actionable. I’ll have it out of you, you beggarly young sweep!” he yelled, shaking his fist furiously, safe in the conviction that the other men would not suffer Gerard to assault him.

“Well, you can please yourself about that. What I want now is the return of my money?”

“Oh, indeed!” sneered Anstey, affecting a cool sarcasm. “And will you kindly state what money it is you desire returned?”

“Certainly,” answered Gerard, “though I have already done so. I want the twenty-five pounds—all I had in the world—which you induced me to entrust to you to be invested in this rotten business. And I am going to have it!”

“Oh, you are? So you shall, and welcome, when you can produce one scrap of evidence, either in writing or by word of mouth, that I have ever had twenty-five pounds, or shillings, or pence from you. Eh, sonny? What do you say, now?”

Gerard started; stared blankly as he grasped the full extent of the other’s rascality. For, in his rawness and inexperience, he had not required any sort of receipt or acknowledgment from Anstey, and he had handed over the money at a time when there was no witness within sight or earshot.

“And I tell you what it is,” pursued Anstey, marking his undisguised discomfiture, “I’ll be hanged if I don’t have the law of you for trying to extort money out of me by threats and violence. I will, too, if you don’t clear out of this mighty sharp, and give me no more bother! It’s a criminal offence, I tell you; and these gentlemen are witnesses that you tried it on. I’ll have you put in the tronk. I’ll—”

“Stow all that, Anstey,” said one of the men, sternly and decisively. “D’you mean to deny that this youngster ever handed you twenty-five pounds? Come, now. Speak up, man!”

“Why of course I do,” unhesitatingly replied Anstey, though not without quailing before the indignation and contempt depicted on all three faces.

“Well, then, I for one believe you are telling the most infernal lie ever laid tongue to,” said the transport-rider. “As for you, youngster,” turning to Gerard, “I can only say I’m sorry for you, for you have fallen into the hands of the biggest blackguard in the whole of this Colony. Why on earth didn’t you make him give you a receipt or something?”

“The fact is, he is related to me. I thought I could trust him. How should I know he was no better than a common thief?”

“You’re a mighty virtuous lot, eh, Sam Carruthers?” sneered Anstey. “I’ve heard of a few tricks being played with waybills before to-day, while the load’s on the road.”

“You just shut up, or I’ll about knock your head off, Anstey, and be glad of an opportunity to do it, too!” said another of the transport-riders.

“Will you?” yelled Anstey, moving towards the inner door to ensure a retreat in the event of any of them making an attempt at climbing over the counter which now separated them from him. “I tell you what it is. You’re all in league with this swindling young thief, who is trying to bluff me out of money. But it won’t do—it won’t do. He can take his things and go to the devil. He came to me a beggar, and he can go out a beggar—the ungrateful dog. And, if any one likes to try the smashing trick, I’ve got a barker here that knows how to bite.”

And, making a rapid skip inside, he reappeared in a moment with a long-barrelled revolver.

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.

“Do we outspan on this side or cross first?” said Gerard, as the cool murmur of water became audible.

“We’ll outspan on the other. The river’s low enough to cross without any trouble; but the drift isn’t always a good one. The principle of the road is always outspan on the other side of a drift—that is, the opposite side from the one you arrive at. These rivers, you see, come down with surprising swiftness, and then, of course, if you delay, you may be stuck for a week or more. The exception, however, to this rule is, if there’s more water in the river than you quite like but yet not enough to stop you. Then it is sometimes a good plan to outspan for a little while to rest your oxen, because they’ll need all their strength for pulling through.”

The current, though smooth and swift flowing, proved stronger than it looked. In splashed the first waggon, amid the shouting and whip-cracking. The leader could hardly keep his feet, and what with the force of the current and the plunges of the fore oxen, he was having a pretty bad time of it. But they emerged panting and dripping on the other side. Gerard, however, who was on the second waggon, came near meeting with a disaster that might have cost him his life.

The great vehicle was three parts through. The driver, wading and splashing beside the span, was urging and encouraging it by the regulation series of shrill and long-drawn yells. Gerard, who was standing on the box, cracking the long whip, and also lending his voice to swell the chorus, was suddenly seen to overbalance, sway, and topple over into the water, disappearing immediately.

John Dawes, watching progress from the opposite bank, turned white as death. Gerard had fallen in front of the wheels!

“Oh, good God! He’s done for!” he gasped.

Meanwhile the driver, who had not seen the accident, was yelling his loudest, with the result that the span was tugging its hardest. The waggon was already emerging from the water, rolling up the steep slope from the drift.

“He’s done for,” muttered Dawes, ashy pale. “He’ll have been ground to pulp under the water.”

But no sooner had the words escaped him, than, lo, Gerard himself, dripping from head to foot! He jumped down from behind the waggon with a celerity that showed he had come to no sort of harm.

“What—what did you do that for?” stammered Dawes. “How did you do it?”

“I just grazed one wheel in falling. Luckily I fell between both, and remembering all you had said about falling off the disselboom, I hung on like grim death to the bottom of the waggon—held my breath under water, knowing we would be out in a minute. Then I worked my way along till I was clear of the wheels and got out. But I’m pretty well blown after it. I couldn’t have held on a minute longer,” he gasped, still out of breath with the almost superhuman exertion he had just gone through.

“By Jove, youngster, but you’ll do!” said the other. “You’ve got pluck and presence of mind, and that’s all you want to carry you through any mortal thing.” And he turned away, to give orders about outspanning, glad of the opportunity to recover his self-possession, for even he had undergone a rude shock over the frightfully narrow escape his young companion had just experienced.

The next morning, when they turned out, Dawes said—

“Do you feel like paying Bob Kingsland a visit, Ridgeley?”

“Rather. Does he live near here, then?”

“A few miles off. In fact, this outspan is almost on his farm. Doorn Draai, it’s called. We’ve come along very well, and the grazing here is first rate. It won’t hurt the oxen to have a day’s rest and a real good fill up. We’ll have breakfast early and ride over. We are likely to find some of them at home, anyway.”

“That’ll be first rate!” said Gerard, with genuine pleasure. And then he set to work to serve out rations to the leaders and drivers, each of whom received a measure of maize-meal, which, going into a common stock, was stirred up in a three-legged pot and soon reduced to porridge, for on such fare do the natives of Natal wax fat and strong. Afterwards he got out a clean basin and kneaded up roster-koekjes, a species of damper-cake, and put them to bake on the ashes for their own breakfast, while Dawes superintended the cooking of a savoury game stew, compounded of partridges, ringdoves, and a plover or two, which they had shot the day before while coming along.

“We don’t live so badly, even on the road, eh, Ridgeley?” said Dawes, as they sat doing ample justice to this, and to the steaming cups of strong black coffee wherewith it was washed down.

“No, indeed,” assented Gerard, briskly, beginning on half a partridge. “Shall we take a gun along this morning?”

“We might. Don’t know that it’s worth while, though. By the way, Kingsland’s a widower, and his pretty daughter keeps house for him. Don’t you go and fall in love with her—in view of the time our trip is likely to last.”

For reply Gerard laughed light-heartedly. It was not likely, he thought, remembering that pair of blue eyes in the buggy.

After breakfast they saddled up the horses, and Dawes having given Sintoba some final instructions, they started. The ride was a pleasant enough one, though somewhat hot. Their way lay mostly at the bottom of a long winding valley with great bush-clad slopes shooting up on either hand, and the sunny air was alive with the piping whistle of spreuws and the cooing of innumerable ringdoves.

“There’s the house,” said Dawes, as a curl of blue smoke rose from the bush-clad hillside about a mile ahead. “And—there’s Kingsland himself,” he added, as a shout from a little way off their road drew their attention to a horseman who was riding towards them.

“Hallo, John Dawes!” cried the latter, as he joined them. “Where have you dropped from now—and who have you got with you? Why, it’s young Ridgeley. Well, Ridgeley, I’m glad to see you, my boy. What have you been doing with yourself all this time? By-the-by, didn’t you get my letter?”

“Letter? No,” echoed Gerard, in some astonishment.

“Why, I wrote to you at Anstey’s about a fortnight ago. Found out you were there through the papers. That affair with the Zulu and the Umgeni Fall went the round of the papers. Didn’t you see it?”

“No,” answered Gerard, still lost in astonishment. “I’m very sorry. I don’t know what you must have thought of me, Mr Kingsland, but—I never had that letter. It must have come after I left, and—the fact is, Anstey and I didn’t part on very good terms.”

“So? The paragraph said you were in his employ. Couldn’t you get on with him, or wasn’t the work to your taste?”

“Anstey swindled him out of every shilling he had,” put in Dawes, seeing Gerard hesitate and look a trifle embarrassed. “Biggest blackguard in this colony, is Anstey.”

“So?” said Mr Kingsland again. “Well, we must hear all about your experiences by-and-by, Ridgeley. Here we are at the house now—and here’s my little housekeeper come to see who I’m bringing home to dinner,” he added lovingly, as the figure of a girl appeared at the door and came down the steps to meet them. “Ridgeley, this is my daughter May,” he went on, when they had dismounted. “May, you’ve heard me talk of this young man—we were shipmates on board the Amatikulu. Why, what’s the matter?”

For Gerard was staring in astonishment, and the girl’s blue eyes were opening wide with the same emotion, while a slight colour came into her face. And in those blue eyes Gerard recognised the identical pair which had beamed approval on the deft manner in which he had reduced the odds against the sorely beset Zulu.

“Why, we’ve met before, father, only we didn’t know who we were then,” she answered. “How do you do, Mr Ridgeley? Welcome to Doorn Draai.”

Gerard, in a sort of waking dream, took the hand extended to him—in no wise the sharer of the girl’s quiet self-possession. To think that the owner of those blue eyes which had been in his thoughts a great deal since that chance meeting, should turn out to be old Kingsland’s daughter! And again, the fact that they had dwelt in his thoughts was, considering his age, enough to play havoc with his composure on finding himself thus suddenly and unexpectedly face to face with their owner.

“Met before, have you?” echoed Mr Kingsland, in some surprise.

“Why, of course we have,” said a male voice in the background. “How d’you do, Mr Ridgeley!”

And Gerard found himself shaking hands with the other occupant of the buggy on that memorable evening.

“Been keeping up your boxing since then, eh?” laughed Tom Kingsland. “Why, governor, this is the man who floored those two niggers so neatly. I told you about it, you remember, when we were coming back from Maritzburg.”

“Ah, to be sure, to be sure. He can take care of himself anywhere now, I should think,” said the older man, kindly.

And Gerard, though somewhat shy and embarrassed at finding himself a sort of point of general observation, could not resist a feeling of elation over the consciousness that he stood well in the opinion of his new friends.

Then, after a brief rest, during which Dawes and Mr Kingsland put away a glass of grog together and smoked a pipe or two, they set out for a look round. And then for the first time Gerard was able to take in the place—for at the time of his arrival he had had no eyes for anything but one of its inhabitants. The house, a roomy, one-storeyed building, with a stoep and verandah, stood against the slope of the hill. A little distance off stood the sheep and cattle-kraals, and the huts of the native servants. Below, on the bank of a small watercourse, was a large bit of enclosed and cultivated land, and beside this a fruit orchard.

“I’m afraid it’s a little late for fruit,” said Tom Kingsland, as they strolled through the latter. “There are still a few peaches left, though, and any amount of figs.”

“You can’t grow peaches and grapes like this out-of-doors in England?” said May. “I suppose you hardly ever see such a thing there except under glass.”

“Oh yes—on walls,” said Gerard.

And then, as they wandered on beneath the pleasant shade of the over-arching fig trees, and down by a quince hedge spangled with yellow fruit, or again emerged upon a water-hole where a colony of finks dashed hither and thither chattering in alarm, while their globular nests, hanging like oranges from the boughs above the water, swung and jerked at a rate which promised badly for the eggs they might contain—the girl plied him with all manner of questions about England and the life there. And, lo, when they had laughed over each other’s mistakes and misconceptions with regard to their respective countries, it seemed as if they had known each other all their lives. Certain it was that to Gerard that walk seemed the most delicious he had ever taken. But it could not last for ever, and so they had to return to the house and to dinner.

There they found Mr Kingsland’s other son, who was duly introduced to Gerard. Arthur Kingsland was very like his brother Tom, and both were fine specimens of young colonial manhood. They could ride anything, follow spoor, hit any mark at most astonishing ranges, and were afraid of nothing. The reputation of Gerard’s feats, which had already reached them, was a sure passport to their favour, and accordingly they soon became the very best of friends.

“Heard anything more about the Zulu question, Arthur?” said Mr Kingsland during dinner to his youngest son, who had been out on horseback since daybreak.

“Only the usual lie—Cetywayo is going to sweep in and eat us all up at a minute’s notice. Another yarn is that he’s going to drive all the Boers out of the disputed territory.”

“It’s just possible there may be some disturbance there,” said Mr Kingsland. “Still, Cetywayo is much too shrewd a man to declare regular war against the Transvaal.”

“Well, our route lies right through that same disputed territory,” said Dawes. “What do you think, Ridgeley? Like to get into a scrimmage with a Zulu impi?”

“Mr Ridgeley is pretty good at fighting Kafirs, I should say,” put in May, slyly, before he had time to reply.

“Oh, I’m afraid I shan’t hear the end of that little difference in a hurry,” said Gerard, laughing ruefully. “I rather wish I had left Sobuza to fight his own battles.”

“How can you say that?” said May. “Are you so utterly devoid of imagination? Why, you rescued the man twice on the same day! That means that he is to have some influence on your fortunes. You are going up into the Zulu country now. You are sure to see him again.”

“Maybe only to get an assegai put into him if he does,” cut in Tom. “Isn’t there a proverb, that if you save a fellow’s life he’s bound to play you a shady trick?”

“Be quiet, you wet blanket,” retorted the girl. “I foresee different things. I foresee that the Zulu will in some way or other turn up again, and that he will have an influence in Mr Ridgeley’s destinies.”

How true this was fated to prove it was little that either of them thought at the time.

The afternoon was spent very much as had been the morning, strolling around looking about the farm, for it was a slack time just then and there was not much doing. Towards sundown Tom Kingsland suggested they should go down to a water-hole and try for a shot at a duck, an idea which Gerard cordially endorsed, and in the sequel greatly distinguished himself, considering his want of practice with the gun, for the pair of ducks which they brought home represented one apiece. And then, in the evening, while Mr Kingsland and Dawes smoked their pipes on the stoep, the young people gathered round the piano, and Gerard thought he had never heard anything so entrancingly delicious in his life as May’s fresh clear voice lifted up in song. Then—all too soon for him—had come bedtime, and in the morning an early start to rejoin the waggons.

Before Gerard turned in Mr Kingsland followed him to his room for a few words.

“Well, Ridgeley, so you’re going to make another start, this time as an up-country trader. You’ve had a few ups and downs already, it appears; and maybe there’ll come a time when you’ll thank your stars you have.”

“I do that already, Mr Kingsland, for otherwise I should never have found myself launched on this undertaking. What a good fellow Dawes is!”

“He is—he is. But what I was going to say is this. It’ll do you no harm to get an insight into waggon travel and veldt life, and the native trade and the natives themselves. But a sensible fellow like you must see that that sort of thing isn’t going to last a man all his life; and, indeed, it oughtn’t to. It isn’t good for any man to become a confirmed wanderer, a sort of rolling stone. So don’t let this trip unsettle you, or turn your mind from the idea of going in for hard and regular work. Turn it to the best possible account you can while you’re on it, but make up your mind that it isn’t going to last, and that when you come back your plan is to settle down to regular work. You are made of far better stuff than to slide into the mere knockabout, harum-scarum adventurer, as some of these up-country going chaps are only too ready to do, especially when they begin young. So keep that before your mind is my advice to you. And now I dare say you’re wondering whether you are ever going to get to bed, or whether a certain prosy old fellow intends to keep preaching to you quite all night. So, good night, my lad. I won’t say goodbye, for we shall most of us be up before you start. Good night; I need hardly say I wish you every success.”

Chapter Ten.

A Piece of Zulu Jockeying.

After leaving Doorn Draai they trekked on through the Umsinga district, and, turning off the main road at Helpmakaar on the Biggarsberg Heights, descended to Rorke’s Drift. And it was while making their way down to that now historical point that Gerard began to realise what a waggon could do; what an incredible amount of hard knocking about it could stand; for the track seemed a mere succession of ruts and boulders, and as the huge vehicles went creaking and grinding over this, they seemed literally to twist and writhe, until it looked as though each fresh bump must shatter the whole fabric into a thousand crashing fragments. Once, but for his promptitude, the waggon of which Gerard was in charge would infallibly have overturned. However, they reached the drift without accident, and crossed the next day into the Zulu country.

At first Gerard could hardly realise that he was no longer under the British flag. This side of the Buffalo river presented no appreciable difference to the side they had just left. A line of precipitous hills rose a few miles in front, and to the eastward a great lion-shaped crag, the now ill-famed Isandhlwana. But few Zulus had come to the waggons, and they struck him as wearing no different aspect to the natives on the Natal side, nor, by-the-by, did they seem in any way keen upon trading.

We fear it may hardly be denied that the rose-coloured spectacles through which Gerard had first looked upon the trip and its prospects had undergone some slight dimness, and for this May Kingsland’s blue eyes were wholly responsible. For be it remembered he was very young, and the consciousness that a long time—a whole year, perhaps—must elapse before he should see her again, cast something of a gloom upon his spirits. Good-natured John Dawes saw through the change in his young companion’s lightheartedness, and laughed dryly to himself. Gerard would soon find the right cure for that sort of complaint, he said, when the real business of the trip should begin.

One morning a party of half a dozen young Zulus, driving an ox, came up to them as they sat outspanned. The one who seemed to be the leader was a tall, straight, well-built fellow, with a pleasing intelligent countenance. He, like the rest, was unringed, but held his head high in the air, as though he were somebody. All carried assegais and shields. The young leader and two of the others strode up to where Gerard was sitting, and uttering the usual form of greeting, “Saku bona,” squatted down on the grass before him.

Now, it happened that Dawes was away, having ridden off to some kraals a few miles distant. Gerard, thus thrown upon his own resources, began to feel something of the burden of responsibility as he returned their greeting and waited for them to speak next. But the leader, stretching forth his hand, said—

“Give me that.”

Gerard was cleaning a gun at the time, the double-barrelled one, rifle and shot. The Zulu’s remark had come so quick, accompanied by a half-move forward, as though he might be going to seize the weapon, that Gerard instinctively tightened his grasp on it.

“Who are you?” he said, looking the other in the eyes.

“Nkumbi-ka-zulu, son of Sirayo, the king’s induna,” replied the youth, with a haughty toss of the head, denoting surprise that anybody should require to be informed of his identity. “Give me the gun; I want to look at it,” he continued, again stretching forth his hand.

Gerard realised the delicacy of the situation. There was a greedy sparkle in the young Zulu’s eye as it lighted upon the weapon, which caused him to feel anything but sure that it would be returned to him again. On the other hand, Dawes, he remembered, had a poor opinion of Sirayo and his clan, and he did not want to offend the chief’s son, if he could help it. His command of the language beginning to fail him, he summoned Sintoba to the rescue.

“Ask him if, he wants to trade, because, if so, the Baas (Master) will be back soon. Here is some snuff for him, meanwhile.”

Nkumbi-ka-zulu condescended to accept the snuff, then, through the driver, he explained that his father had sent the black ox as a present to “Jandosi”—for such was John Dawes’s name among the natives, being of course a corruption of his own—and he, the speaker, had come to do a little trade on his own account. First of all, he wanted that gun, and as many cartridges as he could have. What was the price?

Gerard replied that the gun was not for sale. It was wanted to shoot buck and birds during their trip further up-country.

“Au!” exclaimed Nkumbi-ka-zulu. “You are so near the border, you can easily send back for another gun. I will give five oxen for it. Ten, then,” he added, as Gerard shook his head in dissent. Still Gerard refused.

“Hau! Does he want all the Zulu country?” muttered the others, forgetting good manners in their impatience and eagerness to possess the weapon, and for this, Sintoba, who was of Zulu descent and a ringed man at that, rebuked them sternly.

“Since when has the son of a chief learnt to talk with the loud tongue and windbag swagger of the Amabuna?” (Boers) he said. “Have you come here to trade or to play the fool?”

“Hau, listen to the Kafula!” cried the young Zulus, springing to their feet and rattling their assegais threateningly. “Since when is the son of a chief to be reviled by a Kafula, who is doing dog at the heels of a travelling white man?”

Gerard, who by this time could understand a great deal more than he could speak, looked apprehensively at Sintoba, expecting an immediate outbreak. But to his surprise the man merely uttered a disdainful click, and deliberately turned his broad back upon the exasperated Zulus. He almost expected to see it transfixed with their assegais, and stood ready to brain with his clubbed gun, for he had no cartridges handy, the first who should make an aggressive move. But no such move was made.

“I return,” said Nkumbi-ka-zulu, darting forth his hand, with a malevolent look directed especially upon Gerard, “I return to my father to carry word that Jandosi rejects his present, and has left a Kafula with his waggons, and a white umfane (boy) to revile the son of a chief.” And turning, the whole party walked rapidly away, driving the ox before them.

When they had gone a little distance, they began staging an improvised strophe the burden of whose veiled insolence took in the white race in general, and the last specimen of it the singers had seen in particular, and thus bawling, they eventually receded from sight.

Gerard was terribly put about by this occurrence, and was disposed to blame himself bitterly. Surely he had been over cautions, and had brought about this hostile termination by his own awkwardness and stupidity. But to his inexpressible relief John Dawes, to whom on his return he narrated the whole affair, was not at all of this opinion.

“It couldn’t have been helped,” the latter declared. “If I had been here the result would likely have been the same, for they’re cheeky young dogs those sons of Sirayo, and the old man himself is a thorough-paced old sweep. If you made any mistake at all, it was a mistake on the right side—that of firmness—and I’m not sure you made any.”

Which dictum lifted a weight from Gerard’s mind.

“I’m only afraid they’ll play us some trick,” he said. “Hadn’t we better get away from here as soon as possible?”

“N-no. They might construe that into an act of running away. We’ll just trek on a few miles further, and see what turns up, but I don’t mind telling you I hardly like the look of things. The people are very unsettled, thanks to this disputed boundary question, and the badgering of the Natal Government. They are sulky and sullen, and flatly refuse to trade. I think we’ll get away north pretty soon.”

That evening an incident occurred which, taken in conjunction with the events of the day, looked ominous. The “boy” who was sent to bring in the two horses, which were turned loose to graze, returned with only one; the other he could not find. He had hunted for it high and low, but without result.

By this time the two horses had become so accustomed to the waggons that they would never stray far, and often return of their own accord; consequently, it was not thought worthwhile even to knee-halter them. Now, however, the one which the “boy” had brought back had been found much further afield than was usual, and of the other there was no trace. And the missing steed was Gerard’s mouse-coloured Basuto pony.

Saddling up the horse that remained and giving orders where the waggons were to outspan, Dawes cantered away into the veldt. He returned in two hours. He had lighted upon the spoor, which led in the contrary direction from that which might have been expected, for it led in the direction of the Blood River, and therefore right away from Sirayo’s and out of the Zulu country, instead of farther into the same; and then darkness had baffled further investigation. Nevertheless, he would wager longish odds, he declared, that the missing quadruped would spend that night not a mile distant from Sirayo’s kraal.

“It’s a most infernal place, Ridgeley,” he said gloomily. “It’s overhung by a big krantz, which is a pretty good look-out post, and surrounded by holes and caves you could stow anything away in. I don’t know how we are going to get Mouse back again short of paying through the nose for him. I must sleep on it and think out some plan. That young brute, Nkumbi! I feel quite murderous—as if I could shoot him on sight.”

In view of the late occurrence, Sintoba received instructions to keep watch a part of the night, while Dawes himself took the remainder, not that he thought it at all probable that any attempt at further depredations would be made, still it was best to be on the safe side. And in fact no further attempt was made, and the night in its calm and starry beauty, went by undisturbed.

The place where the waggons were outspanned was open and grassy. Around stretched the wide and rolling veldt; here a conical hillock rising abruptly from the plain, there the precipitous line of a range of mountains. About half a mile from the site of the outspan ran a spruit or watercourse, the bed of which, deep and yawning, now held but a tiny thread of water, trickling over its sandy bottom. The banks of this spruit were thickly studded with bush, and out of them branched several deep dongas or rifts worn out of the soil by the action of the water.

It was a hot morning. The sun blazed fiercely from the cloudless sky, and from the ground there arose a shimmer of heat. Away on the plain the two spans of oxen were dotted about grazing, in charge of one of the leaders, whose dark form could be seen, a mere speck, squatting among the grass. In the shade of one of the waggons, Dawes and Gerard sat, finishing their breakfast, while at a fire some fifty yards off, the natives were busy preparing theirs, stirring the contents of the three-legged pot, and keeping up a continual hum of conversation the while.

“No, I don’t like the look of things at all,” repeated Dawes, beginning to fill his pipe. “It is some days now since we crossed into the Zulu country, and the people hardly come near us. It looks as if all this talk about a war was going to lead to something. I’m afraid they are turning ugly about that boundary question. I meant to have trekked north on the west side of the Blood River, and taken this part of the country on our way back, if we had anything left to trade that is, but with all these reported ructions between the Zulus and Boers in the disputed territory, I reckon we’d be quieter and safer in Zululand proper.”

“How ever will they settle the claim?” said Gerard.

“Heaven only knows. Here we have just annexed the Transvaal, and got nothing for our pains but a bankrupt State whose people hate us, and a lot of awkward liabilities, and not the least awkward is this disputed boundary. If we give it over to the Dutch, Cetywayo is sure to make war on them, and therein comes the fun of our new liability. We shall have to protect them, they being now British subjects, and when we have squashed the Zulus, the Boers will turn on us. If, on the other hand, we give it over to the Zulus, we are giving away half the district of Utrecht, and turning out a lot of people who have been living there for years under what they thought good and sound title from their own government, which doesn’t seem right either. And any middle course will please neither party, and be worse than useless.”

“I suppose, if the truth were known, the Transvaal claim is actually a fraud?”

“I believe it is. They claim that Mpande ceded them the land. Now I don’t believe for a moment the old king would have been such a fool as to do anything of the kind, and even if he had been inclined to for the sake of peace, Cetywayo, who practically held the reins then, would never have let him. Well, if that Commission don’t sit mighty soon, it’ll be no good for it to sit at all, for there’ll be wigs on the green long before.”

“I wonder if we shall ever see poor Mouse again,” said Gerard.

A sound of deep-toned voices and the rattle of assegai hafts caused both to turn. Three Zulus were approaching rapidly. Striding up to the waggons they halted, and gazing fixedly at the two white men, they gave the usual greeting, “Saku bona”—and dropped into a squatting posture. They were fine specimens of humanity, tall and straight. One was a kehla, but the other two were unringed. For clothing they wore nothing but the inevitable mútya. Each was fully armed with large war-shield, knobkerrie, and several murderous looking assegais.

The first greeting over, Gerard asked to look at some of these. With a dry smile one of the warriors handed over his weapons, but to a suggestion that he should trade one or two of them he returned a most emphatic refusal.

“What is the news?” asked Dawes, having distributed some snuff.

“News!” replied the ringed man. “Ou! there is none.”

“Do men travel in such haste to deliver no news?” pursued Dawes, with a meaning glance at the heaving chests and perspiring bodies of the messengers, for such he was sure they were. “But never mind. It is no affair of mine. Yet, do you seek the kraal of the chief, Sirayo? If you do, you might carry my ‘word’ to him.”

The man, after a shade of hesitation, answered that Sirayo’s kraal happened to be their destination. He would carry the “word” of the white trader.

“Tell him then I have lost a horse. If the chief has it found and returned to me, I will send him a bottle of tywala (Note 1), a new green blanket, and this much gwai (tobacco), measuring a length of about a yard. I will further send him a long sheath-knife.”

“We hear your words, Umlúngu. They shall be spoken into the ears of the chief. Now we must resume our road, Hlala-ni-gahle!”

With which sonorous farewell the Zulus turned and strode away across the veldt at the same quick and hurried pace as before.

“Just as I told you, Ridgeley,” said Dawes, lighting his pipe with characteristic calmness. “We shall have to pay some sort of blackmail. Lucky if we get Mouse back at all.”

They remained outspanned all day on the same spot. About an hour before sundown two Zulus were seen approaching. They made their appearance suddenly and at no great distance, emerging from the line of scrub which bordered upon the water spruit.

“Hau!” exclaimed Sintoba. “It is Nkumbi-ka-zulu.”

The chief’s son, with his companion, drew near, and greeted those around the waggon in an easy, offhand fashion, as though he were quite willing to forgive and forget any little unpleasantness of the day before. His father, he said, had received Jandosi’s message, and had sent him at once and in all haste to talk about it. He thought the horse might be found, but what Jandosi offered was not quite enough. There were few people at his father’s kraal. Sirayo could not get them to turn out for so little as the promised reward would amount to when divided among the searchers. Now Sirayo’s “word” was this. If Jandosi would offer, say six bottles of tywala—the white tywala that is drunk out of square bottles—to be distributed among the people, together with the gwai and the other things, and a gun and some cartridges for the chief himself, something might be done; in fact, the horse was pretty sure to be found. But the gun was what the chief desired most; and in fact the gun he must have, hinted Nkumbi-ka-zulu, with a grin of hardly concealed triumph.

The barefaced impudence, the open rascality of the demand, would have made the blood boil in the veins of any less even-tempered man than John Dawes. The latter, however, took it quite coolly. But all the while he was thinking out some plan whereby he might recover possession of the horse, and at the same time turn the tables on the rascally old chief and his scamp of a son. To this end, and with a view to gaining time, he engaged the latter in a protracted haggle, and mixed some gin and water for his refreshment. To his surprise, however, Nkumbi-ka-zulu refused the proffered tywala—saying he did not like it. The other Zulu, however, less particular, drained the pannikin to the very last drop, and asked for more.