CHAPTER XXV
MEANWHILE
John, it will be remembered, left Mooifontein for Pretoria towards theend of December, and with him went all the life and light of the place.
"Dear me, Bessie," said old Silas Croft on the evening after he hadstarted, "the house seems very dull without John"--a remark in whichBessie, who was weeping secretly in the corner, heartily concurred.
Then, a few days afterwards, came the news of the investment ofPretoria, but no news of John. They ascertained that he had passedStanderton in safety, but beyond that nothing could be heard of him. Dayafter day passed, but without tidings, and at last, one evening, Bessiebroke into a passion of hysterical tears.
"What did you send him for?" she asked of her uncle. "It wasridiculous--I knew that it was ridiculous. He could not help Jess orbring her back; the most that could happen was that they would be bothshut up together. Now he is dead--I know that those Boers have shothim--and it is all your fault! And if he is dead I will never speak toyou again."
The old man retreated, somewhat dismayed at this outburst, which was notat all in Bessie's style.
"Ah, well," he said to himself, "that is the way of women; they turninto tigers about a man!"
There may have been truth in this reflection, but a tiger is not apleasant domestic pet, as poor old Silas discovered during the next twomonths. The more Bessie thought about the matter the more incensed shegrew because he had sent her lover away. Indeed, in a little while shequite forgot that she had herself acquiesced in his going. In short, hertemper gave way completely under the strain, so that at last her unclescarcely dared to mention John's name.
Meanwhile, things had been going as ill without as within. First ofall--that was the day after John's departure--two or three loyalBoers and an English store-keeper from Lake Chrissie, in New Scotland,outspanned on the place and implored Silas Croft to fly for his lifeinto Natal while there was yet time. They said that the Boers wouldcertainly shoot any Englishman who might be sufficiently defenceless.But the old man would not listen.
"I am an Englishman--_civis Romanus sum_," he said in his sturdyfashion, "and I do not believe that they will touch me, who have livedamong them for twenty years. At any rate, I am not going to run away andleave my place at the mercy of a pack of thieves. If they shoot me theywill have to reckon with England for the deed, so I expect that theywill leave me alone. Bessie can go if she likes, but I shall stop hereand see the row through, and there's an end of it."
Whereon, Bessie having flatly declined to budge an inch, the loyalistsdeparted in a hurry, metaphorically wringing their hands at such anexhibition of ill-placed confidence and insular pride. This little sceneoccurred at dinner-time, and after dinner old Silas proceeded to hurldefiance at his foes in another fashion. Going to a cupboard in hisbedroom, he extracted an exceedingly large Union Jack, and promptlyadvanced with it to an open spot between two of the orange-trees infront of the house, where in such a position that it could be seen formiles around a flagstaff was planted, formed of a very tall young bluegum. Upon this flagstaff it was Silas's habit to hoist the large UnionJack on the Queen's birthday, Christmas Day, and other State occasions.
"Now, Jantje," he said, when he had bent on the bunting, "run her up,and I'll cheer!" and accordingly, as the broad flag floated out on thebreeze, he took off his hat and waved it, and gave such a "hip, hip,hoorah!" in his stentorian tones that Bessie ran out from the house tosee what was the matter. Nor was he satisfied with this, but, havingobtained a ladder, he placed it against the post and sent Jantje upit, instructing him to fasten the rope on which the flag was bent at aheight of about fifteen feet from the ground, so that nobody should getat it to haul it down.
"There," he said, "I've nailed my colours to the mast. That will showthese gentry that an Englishman lives here.
"Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, God save the Queen."
"Amen," said Bessie, but she had her doubts about the wisdom of thatUnion Jack, which, whenever the wind blew, streamed out, a visibledefiance not calculated to soothe the breasts of excited patriots.
Indeed, two days after that, a patrol of three Boers, spying the ensignwhilst yet a long way off, galloped up in hot haste to see what itmeant. Silas saw them coming, and, taking his rifle in his hand, wentand stood beneath the flag, for which he had an almost superstitiousveneration, feeling sure that they would not dare to meddle either withhim or it.
"What is the meaning of this, _Oom_ Silas?" asked the leader of thethree men, with all of whom he was perfectly acquainted.
"It means that an Englishman lives here, Jan," was the answer.
"Haul the dirty rag down!" said the man.
"I will see you damned first!" replied old Silas.
Thereon the Boer dismounted and made for the flagstaff, only to find"Uncle Croft's" rifle in a direct line with his chest.
"You will have to shoot me first, Jan," he said, and thereon, after someconsultation, they left him and went away.
In truth, his British nationality notwithstanding, Silas Croft wasvery popular with the Boers, most of whom had known him since they werechildren, and to whose _Volksraad_ he had twice been elected. It was tothis personal popularity he owed the fact that he was not turned out ofhis house, and forced to choose between serving against his countrymenor being imprisoned and otherwise maltreated at the very commencement ofthe rebellion.
For a fortnight or more after this flag episode nothing of anyimportance happened, and then came the tidings of the crushing defeatat Laing's Nek. At first, Silas Croft would not believe it. "Nogeneral could have been so mad," he said; but soon the report was amplyconfirmed from native sources.
Another week passed, and with it came the news of the British defeatat Ingogo. The first they heard of it was on the morning of February 8,when Jantje brought a Kafir up to the verandah at breakfast-time. ThisKafir said that he had been watching the fight from a mountain; thatthe English were completely hemmed in and fighting well, but that "theirarms were tired," and they would all be killed at night-time. TheBoers, he said, were not suffering at all--the English could not "shootstraight." After hearing this they passed a sufficiently miserable dayand evening. About twelve o'clock that night, however, a native spydespatched by Mr. Croft returned with the report that the Englishgeneral had won safely back to camp, having suffered heavily andabandoned his wounded, many of whom had died in the rain, for the nightafter the battle was wet.
Then came another long pause, during which no reliable news reachedthem, though the air was thick with rumours, and old Silas was madehappy by hearing that large reinforcements were on their way fromEngland.
"Ah, Bessie, my dear, they will soon sing another song now," he saidin great glee; "and what's more, it's about time they did. I can'tunderstand what the soldiers have been about--I can't indeed."
And so the time wore heavily along till at last there came a dreadfulday, which Bessie will never forget so long as she lives. It was the20th of February--just a week before the final disaster at Majuba Hill.Bessie was standing idly on the verandah, looking down the long avenueof blue gums, where the shadows formed a dark network to catch thewandering rays of light. The place looked very peaceful, and certainlyno one could have known from its appearance that a bloody war was beingwaged within a few miles. The Kafirs came and went about their work asusual, or made pretence to; but now and then a close observer might seethem stop, look towards the Drakensberg, and then say a few words totheir neighbour about the wonderful thing which had come to pass, thatthe Boers were beating the great white people, who came out of the seaand shook the earth with their tread. Whereon the neighbour would takethe opportunity to relax from toil, squat down, have a pinch of snuff,and relate in what particular collection of rocks on the hillside he andhis wives slept the last night--for when the Boers are out on commandothe Kafirs will not sleep in their huts for fear of being surprised andshot down. Then the pair would spend half an hour or so in speculatingon what
would be their fate when the Boer had eaten up the Englishmanand taken back the country, and finally come to the conclusion that theyhad better emigrate to Natal.
Bessie, on the verandah, noted all this going on, every now and againcatching snatches of the lazy rascals' talk, which chimed in but toosadly with her own thoughts. Turning from them impatiently, she beganto watch the hens marching solemnly about the drive, followed by theirbroods. This picture, also, had a sanguinary background, for under anorange-tree two rival cocks were fighting furiously. They always didthis about once a week, nor did they cease from troubling till eachretired, temporarily blinded, to the shade of a separate orange-tree,where they spent the rest of the week in recovering, only to emerge whenthe cure was effected and fight their battle over again. Meanwhile, athird cock, young in years but old in wisdom, who steadily refused toretaliate when attacked, looked after the hens in dispute. To-day thefray was particularly ferocious, and, fearing that the combatants wouldhave no eyes left at all if she did not interfere, Bessie called to theold Boer hound who was lying in the sun on the verandah.
"Hi, Stomp, Stomp--hunt them, Stomp!"
Up jumped Stomp and made a prodigious show of furiously attacking theembattled cocks; it was an operation to which he was used, and whichafforded him constant amusement. Suddenly, however, as he dashed towardsthe trees, the dog stopped midway, his simulated wrath ceased, andinstead of it, an expression of real disgust grew upon his honest face.Then the hair along his backbone stood up like the quills upon thefretful porcupine, and he growled.
"A strange Kafir, I expect," said Bessie to herself.
Stomp hated strange Kafirs. She had scarcely uttered the wordsbefore they were justified by the appearance of a native. He was avillainous-looking fellow, with one eye, and nothing on but a raggedpair of trousers fastened round the middle with a greasy leather strap.In his wool, however, were stuck several small distended bladders suchas are generally worn by medicine-men and witch-doctors. With his lefthand he held a long stick, cleft at one end, and in the cleft was aletter.
"Come here, Stomp," said Bessie, and as she spoke a wild hope shotacross her heart like a meteor across the night: perhaps the letter wasfrom John.
The dog obeyed her unwillingly enough, for evidently he did not likethat Kafir; and when he saw that Stomp was well out of the way theKafir himself followed. He was an insolent fellow, and took no notice ofBessie before squatting himself down upon the drive in front of her.
"What is it?" said Bessie in Dutch, her lips trembling as she spoke.
"A letter," answered the man.
"Give it to me."
"No, missie, not till I have looked at you to see if it is right. Lightyellow hair that curls--_one_," checking it on his fingers, "yes, thatis right; large blue eyes--_two_, that is right; big and tall, and fairas a star--yes, the letter is for you, take it," and he poked the longstick almost into her face.
"Where is it from?" asked Bessie, with sudden suspicion and recoiling astep.
"Wakkerstroom last."
"Who is it from?"
"Read it, and you will see."
Bessie took the letter, which was wrapped in a piece of old newspaper,from the cleft of the stick and turned it over and over doubtfully. Mostof us have a mistrust of strange-looking letters, and this letter wasunusually strange. To begin it, with had no address whatever on thedirty envelope, which seemed curious. In the second place, that envelopewas sealed, apparently with a threepenny bit.
"Are you sure it is for me?" asked Bessie.
"Yah, yah--sure, sure," answered the native, with a rude laugh. "Thereare not many such white girls in the Transvaal. I have made nomistake. I have 'smelt you out.'" And he began to go through hiscatalogue--"Yellow hair that curls," &c.--again.
Then Bessie opened the letter. Inside was an ordinary sheet of paperwritten over in a bold, firm, yet slightly unpractised writing that sheknew well enough, and the sight of which filled her with a presentimentof evil. It was Frank Muller's.
She turned sick and cold, but could not choose but read as follows:
"Camp, near Pretoria. 15 February.
"Dear Miss Bessie,--I am sorry to have to write to you, but though wehave quarrelled lately, and also your good uncle, I think it my duty todo so, and send this to your hand by a special runner. Yesterday wasa sortie made by the poor folk in Pretoria, who are now as thin withhunger as the high veldt oxen just before spring. Our arms were againvictorious; the redcoats ran away and left their ambulance in our hands,carrying with them many dead and wounded. Among the dead was the CaptainNiel----"
Here Bessie uttered a sort of choking cry, and let the letter fallover the verandah, to one of the posts of which she clung with both herhands.
The ill-favoured native below grinned, and, picking the paper up, handedit to her.
She took it, feeling that she must know all, and read on like one readsin some ghastly dream:
"who has been staying on your uncle's farm. I did not see him killedmyself, but Jan Vanzyl shot him, and Roi Dirk Oosthuizen, and Carolus, aHottentot, saw them pick him up and carry him away. They say that he wasquite dead. For this I fear you will be sorry, as I am, but it isthe chance of war, and he died fighting bravely. Make my obedientcompliments to your uncle. We parted in anger, but I hope in the newcircumstances that have arisen in the land to show him that I, for one,bear no anger.--Believe me, dear Miss Bessie, your humble and devotedservant,
"Frank Muller."
Bessie thrust the letter into the pocket of her dress, then again shecaught hold of the verandah post, and supported herself by it, while thelight of the sun appeared to fade visibly out of the day before her eyesand to replace itself by a cold blackness in which there was no break.He was dead!--her lover was dead! The glow had gone from her life as itseemed to be going from the day, and she was left desolate. She hadno knowledge of how long she stood thus, staring with wide eyes at thesunshine she could not see. She had lost her count of time; things werephantasmagorical and unreal; all that she could realise was this oneoverpowering, crushing fact--John was dead!
"Missie," said the ill-favoured messenger below, fixing his one eye uponher poor sorrow-stricken face, and yawning.
There was no answer.
"Missie," he said again, "is there any answer? I must be going. I wantto get back in time to see the Boers take Pretoria."
Bessie looked at him vaguely. "Yours is a message that needs no answer,"she said. "What is, is."
The brute laughed. "No, I can't take a letter to the Captain," he said;"I saw Jan Vanzyl shoot him. He fell _so_," and suddenly he collapsedall in a heap on the path, in imitation of a man struck dead by abullet. "I can't take _him_ a message, missie," he went on, rising, "butone day you will be able to go and look for him yourself. I did not meanthat; what I meant was that I could take a letter to Frank Muller. Alive Boer is better than a dead Englishman; and Frank Muller will makea fine husband for any girl. If you shut your eyes you won't know thedifference."
"Go!" said Bessie, in a choked voice, and pointing her hands towards theavenue.
Such was the suppressed energy in her tone that the man sprang to hisfeet, and while he rose, interpreting her gesture as an encouragement toaction, the old dog, Stomp, who had been watching him all the time, andoccasionally giving utterance to a low growl of animosity, flew straightat his throat from the verandah. The dog, which was a heavy one, struckthe man full in the chest and knocked him backwards. Down came dog andman on the drive together, and then ensued a terrible scene, the mancursing and shrieking and striking out at the dog, and the dog worryingthe man in a fashion that he was not liable to forget for the remainderof his life.
Bessie, whose energy seemed again to be exhausted, took absolutelyno notice of the fray, and it was at this juncture that her old unclearrived upon the scene, together with two Kafirs--the same whom Bessiehad seen idling.
"Hullo! hullo!" he halloed in his stentorian tones, "what is all thisabout? Get off, you brute!" and what between his
voice and the blowsof the Kafirs the dog was persuaded to let go his hold of the man, whostaggered to his feet, severely mauled, and bleeding from half a dozenbites.
For a moment he did not say anything, but picked up his sticks. Then,however, having first made sure that the dog was being held by theKafirs, he turned, his face streaming with blood, his one eye blazingwith fury, and, shaking both his clenched fists at poor Bessie, brokeinto a scream of cursing.
"You shall pay for this--Frank Muller shall make you pay for it. I amhis servant. I----"
"Get out of this, however you are," thundered old Silas, "or by HeavenI will let the dog on you again!" and he pointed to Stomp, who wasstruggling wildly with the two Kafirs.
The man paused and looked at the dog, then, with a final shake of thefist, he departed at a run down the avenue, turning once only to look ifthe dog were coming.
With empty eyes Bessie watched him go, taking no more notice of himthan she had of the noise of the fighting. Then, as though struck by athought, she turned and went into the sitting-room.
"What is all this, Bessie?" said her uncle, following her. "What doesthe man mean about Frank Muller?"
"It means, uncle dear," she said at last, in a voice that was somethingbetween a sob and a laugh, "that I am a widow before I am married. Johnis dead!"
"Dead! dead!" said the old man, putting his hand to his forehead andturning round in a dazed sort of fashion, "John dead!"
"Read the letter," said Bessie, handing him Frank Muller's missive.
The old man took and read it. His hand shook so much that he was a longwhile in mastering its contents.
"Good God!" he said at last, "what a blow! My poor Bessie," and hedrew her into his arms and kissed her. Suddenly a thought struck him."Perhaps it is all one of Frank Muller's lies," he said, "or perhaps hemade a mistake."
But Bessie did not answer. For the time, at any rate, hope had left her.
Jess Page 29