CHAPTER VII
THE FOREST TRACK CONTINUED
Once as they trotted by a pheasant rose screaming from the furze andflew before them down the track. Just afterwards Felix, who had beenpreviously looking very carefully into the firs upon his right hand,suddenly stopped, and Oliver, finding this, pulled up as quickly as hecould, thinking that Felix wished to tighten his girth.
"What is it?" he asked, turning round in his saddle.
"Hush!" said Felix, dismounting; his horse, trained to hunting, stoodperfectly still, and would have remained within a few yards of the spotby the hour together. Oliver reined back, seeing Felix about to bend andstring his bow.
"Bushmen," whispered Felix, as he, having fitted the loop to the hornnotch, drew forth an arrow from his girdle, where he carried two orthree more ready to hand than in the quiver on his shoulder. "I thoughtI saw signs of them some time since, and now I am nearly sure. Stay herea moment."
He stepped aside from the track in among the firs, which just there werefar apart, and went to a willow bush standing by some furze. He hadnoticed that one small branch on the outer part of the bush was snappedoff, though green, and only hung by the bark. The wood cattle, had theybrowsed upon it, would have nibbled the tenderest leaves at the end ofthe bough; nor did they usually touch willow, for the shoots are bitterand astringent. Nor would the deer touch it in the spring, when they hadso wide a choice of food.
Nothing could have broken the branch in that manner unless it was thehand of a man, or a blow with a heavy stick wielded by a human hand. Oncoming to the bush he saw that the fracture was very recent, for thebough was perfectly green; it had not turned brown, and the bark wasstill soft with sap. It had not been cut with a knife or any sharpinstrument; it had been broken by rude violence, and not divided. Thenext thing to catch his eye was the appearance of a larger branchfarther inside the bush.
This was not broken, but a part of the bark was abraded, and even tornup from the wood as if by the impact of some hard substance, as a stonethrown with great force. He examined the ground, but there was no stonevisible, and on again looking at the bark he concluded that it had notbeen done with a stone at all, because the abraded portion was not cut.The blow had been delivered by something without edges or projections.He had now no longer any doubt that the lesser branch outside had beenbroken, and the large inside branch bruised, by the passage of aBushman's throw-club.
These, their only missile weapons, are usually made of crab-tree, andconsist of a very thin short handle, with a large, heavy, and smoothknob. With these they can bring down small game, as rabbits or hares, ora fawn (even breaking the legs of deer), or the large birds, as thewood-turkeys. Stealing up noiselessly within ten yards, the Bushmanthrows his club with great force, and rarely misses his aim. If notkilled at once, the game is certain to be stunned, and is much moreeasily secured than if wounded with an arrow, for with an arrow in itswing a large bird will flutter along the ground, and perhaps creep intosedges or under impenetrable bushes.
Deprived of motion by the blow of the club, it can, on the other hand,be picked up without trouble and without the aid of a dog, and if notdead is despatched by a twist of the Bushman's fingers or a thrust fromhis spud. The spud is at once his dagger, his knife and fork, hischisel, his grub-axe, and his gouge. It is a piece of iron (rarely ornever of steel, for he does not know how to harden it) about ten incheslong, an inch and a half wide at the top or broadest end, where it isshaped and sharpened like a chisel, only with the edge not straight butsloping, and from thence tapering to a point at the other, the pointedpart being four-sided, like a nail.
It has, indeed, been supposed that the original spud was formed from alarge wrought-iron nail, such as the ancients used, sharpened on a stoneat one end, and beaten out flat at the other. This instrument has ahandle in the middle, half-way between the chisel end and the point. Thehandle is of horn or bone (the spud being put through the hollow of thebone), smoothed to fit the hand. With the chisel end he cuts up his gameand his food; the edge, being sloping, is drawn across the meat anddivides it. With this end, too, he fashions his club and his traps, anddigs up the roots he uses. The other end he runs into his meat as afork, or thrusts it into the neck of his game to kill it and let out theblood, or with it stabs a sleeping enemy.
The stab delivered by the Bushman can always be distinguished, becausethe wound is invariably square, and thus a clue only too certain hasoften been afforded to the assassin of many an unfortunate hunter.Whatever the Bushman in this case had hurled his club at, the club hadgone into the willow bush, snapping the light branch and leaving itsmark upon the bark of the larger. A moment's reflection convinced Felixthat the Bushman had been in chase of a pheasant. Only a few momentspreviously a pheasant had flown before them down the track, and wherethere was one pheasant there were generally several more in theimmediate neighbourhood.
The Bushmen were known to be peculiarly fond of the pheasant, pursuingthem all the year round without reference to the breeding season, and socontinuously, that it was believed they caused these birds to be muchless numerous, notwithstanding the vast extent of the forests, than theywould otherwise have been. From the fresh appearance of the snappedbough, the Bushman must have passed but a few hours previously, probablyat the dawn, and was very likely concealed at that moment near at handin the forest, perhaps within a hundred yards.
Felix looked carefully round, but could see nothing; there were thetrees, not one of them large enough to hide a man behind it, the furzebranches were small and scattered, and there was not sufficient fern toconceal anything. The keenest glance could discern nothing more. Therewere no footmarks on the ground, indeed, the dry, dead leaves and firneedles could hardly have received any impression, and up in the firsthe branches were thin, and the sky could be seen through them. Whetherthe Bushman was lying in some slight depression of the ground, orwhether he had covered himself with dead leaves and fir needles, orwhether he had gone on and was miles away, there was nothing to show.But of the fact that he had been there Felix was perfectly certain.
He returned towards Oliver, thoughtful and not without some anxiety, forhe did not like the idea (though there was really little or no danger)of these human wild beasts being so near Aurora, while he should so soonbe far away. Thus occupied he did not heed his steps, and suddenly feltsomething soft under his feet, which struggled. Instantaneously hesprang as far as he could, shuddering, for he had crushed an adder, andbut just escaped, by his involuntary and mechanical leap, from itsvenom.
In the warm sunshine the viper, in its gravid state, had not cared tomove as usual on hearing his approach; he had stepped full upon it. Hehastened from the spot, and rejoined Oliver in a somewhat shaken stateof mind. Common as such an incident was in the woods, where sandy soilwarned the hunter to be careful, it seemed ominous that particularmorning, and, joined with the discovery of Bushman traces, quitedestroyed his sense of the beauty of the day.
On hearing the condition of the willow boughs Oliver agreed as to thecause, and said that they must remember to warn the Baron's shepherdsthat the Bushmen, who had not been seen for some time, were about. Soonafterwards they emerged from the sombre firs and crossed a wide andsloping ground, almost bare of trees, where a forest fire last year hadswept away the underwood. A verdant growth of grass was now springingup. Here they could canter side by side. The sunshine poured down, andbirds were singing joyously. But they soon passed it, and checked theirspeed on entering the trees again.
Tall beeches, with round smooth trunks, stood thick and close upon thedry and rising ground; their boughs met overhead, forming a greencontinuous arch for miles. The space between was filled with brake fern,now fast growing up, and the track itself was green with moss. As theycame into this beautiful place a red stag, startled from his browsing,bounded down the track, his swift leaps carried him away like the wind;in another moment he left the path and sprang among the fern, and wasseen only in glimpses as he passed between the beeches. Squirrels ran upthe t
runks as they approached; they could see many on the ground inamong the trees, and passed under others on the branches high abovethem. Woodpeckers flashed across the avenue.
Once Oliver pointed out the long, lean flank of a grey pig, or fern-hog,as the animal rushed away among the brake. There were several glades,from one of which they startled a few deer, whose tails only were seenas they bounded into the underwood, but after the glades came thebeeches again. Beeches always form the most beautiful forest, beechesand oak; and though nearing the end of their journey, they regrettedwhen they emerged from these trees and saw the castle before them.
The ground suddenly sloped down into a valley, beyond which rose theDowns; the castle stood on a green isolated low hill, about half-wayacross the vale. To the left a river wound past; to the right the beechforest extended as far as the eye could see. The slope at their feet hadbeen cleared of all but a few hawthorn bushes. It was not enclosed, buta neatherd was there with his cattle half a mile away, sitting himselfat the foot of a beech, while the cattle grazed below him.
Down in the valley the stockade began; it was not wide but long. Theenclosure extended on the left to the bank of the river, and two fieldson the other side of it. On the right it reached a mile and a half ornearly, the whole of which was overlooked from the spot where they hadpassed. Within the enclosures the corn crops were green and flourishing;horses and cattle, ricks and various buildings, were scattered about it.The town or cottages of the serfs were on the bank of the riverimmediately beyond the castle. On the Downs, which rose a mile or moreon the other side of the castle, sheep were feeding; part of the ridgewas wooded and part open. Thus the cultivated and enclosed valley waseverywhere shut in with woods and hills.
The isolated round hill on which the castle stood was itself enclosedwith a second stockade; the edge of the brow above that again wasdefended by a stout high wall of flints and mortar, crenellated at thetop. There were no towers or bastions. An old and ivy-grown buildingstood inside the wall; it dated from the time of the ancients; it hadseveral gables, and was roofed with tiles. This was the dwelling-house.The gardens were situated on the slope between the wall and the innerstockade. Peaceful as the scene appeared, it had been the site offurious fighting not many years ago. The Downs trended to the south,where the Romany and the Zingari resided, and a keen watch was kept bothfrom the wall and from the hills beyond.
They now rode slowly down the slope, and in a few minutes reached thebarrier or gateway in the outer stockade. They had been observed, andthe guard called by the warden, but as they approached were recognised,and the gate swang open before them. Walking their horses they crossedto the hill, and were as easily admitted to the second enclosure. At thegate of the wall they dismounted, and waited while the warden carriedthe intelligence of their arrival to the family. A moment later, and theBaron's son advanced from the porch, and from the open window theBaroness and Aurora beckoned to them.
After London; Or, Wild England Page 13