Part 13 (1/2)
”If there is any truth in it, that villain Muller has a hand in it,” he said. ”I'll go to the house and see Jantje. Give me your arm, John.”
He obeyed, and, on arriving at the top of the steep path, they perceived the stout figure of old Hans Coetzee, who had been John's host at the shooting-party, ambling along on his fat little pony.
”Ah,” said Silas, ”here is the man who will tell us if there is anything in it all.”
”Good-day, _Oom_ Coetzee, good-day!” he shouted out in his stentorian tones. ”What news do you bring with you?”
The jolly-looking Boer rolled awkwardly off his pony before answering, and, throwing the reins over its head, came to meet them.
”_Allemachter_, _Oom_ Silas, it is bad news. You have heard of the _bymakaar_ at Paarde Kraal. Frank Muller wanted me to go, but I would not, and now they have declared war on the British Government and sent a proclamation to Lanyon. There will be fighting, _Oom_ Silas, the land will run with blood, and the poor _rooibaatjes_ will be shot down like buck.”
”The poor Boers, you mean,” growled John, who did not like to hear her Majesty's army talked of in terms of regretful pity.
_Oom_ Coetzee shook his head with the air of one who knew all about it, and then turned an attentive ear to Silas Croft's version of Jantje's story.
”_Allemachter!_” groaned Coetzee, ”what did I tell you? The poor _rooibaatjes_ shot down like buck, and the land running with blood! And now that Frank Muller will draw me into it, and I shall have to go and shoot the poor _rooibaatjes_; and I can't miss, try as hard as I will, I _can't_ miss. And when we have shot them all I suppose that Burgers will come back, and he is _kransick_ (mad). Yes, yes; Lanyon is bad, but Burgers is worse,” and the comfortable old gentleman groaned aloud at the troubles in which he foresaw he would be involved, and finally took his departure by a bridle-path over the mountain, saying that, as things had turned out, he would not like it to be known that he had been calling on an Englishman. ”They might think that I was not loyal to the 'land,'” he added in explanation; ”the land which we Boers bought with our blood, and which we shall win back with our blood, whatever the poor 'pack oxen' of _rooibaatjes_ try to do. Ah, those poor, poor _rooibaatjes_, one Boer will drive away twenty of them and make them run across the veldt, if they can run in those great knapsacks of theirs, with the tin things hanging round them like the pots and kettles to the bed-plank of a waggon. What says the Holy Book? 'One thousand shall flee at the rebuke of one, and at the rebuke of five shall ye flee,' at least I think that is it. The dear Lord knew what was coming when He wrote it.
He was thinking of the Boers and the poor _rooibaatjes_,” and Coetzee departed, shaking his head sadly.
”I am glad that the old gentleman has made tracks,” said John, ”for if he had gone on much longer about the poor English soldiers he would have fled 'at the rebuke of one,' I can tell him.”
”John,” said Silas Croft suddenly, ”you must go up to Pretoria and fetch Jess. Mark my words, the Boers will besiege Pretoria, and if we don't get her down at once she will be shut up there.”
”Oh no,” cried Bessie, in sudden alarm, ”I cannot let John go.”
”I am sorry to hear you talk like that, Bessie, when your sister is in danger,” answered her uncle rather sternly; ”but there, I dare say that it is natural. I will go myself. Where is Jantje? I shall want the Cape cart and the four grey horses.”
”No, uncle dear, John shall go. I was not thinking what I was saying. It seemed--a little hard at first.”
”Of course I must go,” said John. ”Don't fret, dear, I shall be back in five days. Those four horses can go sixty miles a day for that time, and more. They are fat as b.u.t.ter, and there is lots of gra.s.s along the road if I can't get forage for them. Besides, the cart will be nearly empty, so I can carry a muid of mealies and fifty bundles of forage. I will take that Zulu boy, Mouti, with me. He does not know very much about horses, but he is a plucky fellow, and would stick by one at a pinch.
One can't rely on Jantje; he is always sneaking off somewhere, and would be sure to get drunk just as one wanted him.”
”Yes, yes, John, that's right, that's right,” said the old man. ”I will go and see about having the horses got up and the wheels greased. Where is the castor-oil, Bessie? There is nothing like castor-oil for these patent axles. You ought to be off in an hour. You had better sleep at Luck's to-night; you might get farther, but Luck's is a good place to stop, and they will look after you well there, and you an be off by three in the morning, reaching Heidelberg by ten o'clock to-morrow night, and Pretoria by the next afternoon,” and he bustled away to make the necessary preparations.
”Oh, John,” said Bessie, beginning to cry, ”I don't like your going at all among all those wild Boers. You are an English officer, and if they find you out they will shoot you. You don't know what brutes some of them are when they think it safe to be so. Oh, John, John, I can't endure your going.”
”Cheer up, my dear,” said John, ”and for Heaven's sake stop crying, for I cannot bear it. I must go. Your uncle would never forgive me if I did not, and, what is more, I should never forgive myself. There is n.o.body else to send, and we can't leave Jess to be shut up there in Pretoria--for months perhaps. As for the risk, of course there is a little risk, but I must take it. I am not afraid of risks--at least I used not to be, but you have made a bit of a coward of me, Bessie dear.
There, give me a kiss, old girl, and come and help me to pack my things.
Please G.o.d I shall get back all right, and Jess with me, in a week from now.”
Whereon Bessie, being a sensible and eminently practical young woman, dried her tears, and with a cheerful face, albeit her heart was heavy enough, set to work with a will to make every possible preparation.
The few clothes John was to take with him were packed in a Gladstone bag, the box fitted underneath the movable seat in the Cape cart was filled with the tinned provisions which are so much used in South Africa, and all the other little arrangements, small in themselves, but of such infinite importance to the traveller in a wild country, were duly attended to by her careful hands. Then came a hurried meal, and before it was swallowed the cart was at the door, with Jantje hanging as usual on to the heads of the two front horses, and the stalwart Zulu, or rather Swazi boy, Mouti, whose sole luggage appeared to consist of a bundle of a.s.segais and sticks wrapped up in a gra.s.s mat, and who, hot as it was, was enveloped in a vast military great-coat, lounging placidly alongside.
”Good-bye, John, dear John,” said Bessie, kissing him again and again, and striving to keep back the tears that, do what she could, would gather in her blue eyes. ”Good-bye, my love.”
”G.o.d bless you, dearest,” he said simply, kissing her in answer; ”good-bye, Mr. Croft. I hope to see you again in a week,” and he was in the cart and had gathered up the long and intricate-looking reins.
Jantje let go the horses' heads and uttered a whoop. Mouti, giving up star-gazing, suddenly became an animated being and scrambled into the cart with surprising alacrity; the horses sprang forward at a hand gallop, and were soon hidden from Bessie's dim sight in a cloud of dust.
Poor Bessie, it was a hard trial, and now that John had gone and her tears could not distress him, she went into her room and gave way to them freely enough.