The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier

by Bertram Mitford

  VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

  BAULKED.

  "Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall," is a goodand safe maxim in other senses than the theological, for it goes to thevery root of human nature.

  Here was a man in the zenith of his strength, at an age when the fire ofyouth would be tempered and steeled by rare physical powers ofendurance; a man to whose lot had befallen stirring and eventfulexperiences beyond the lot of most men, and in befalling had hardened; aman of cool judgment and keen, clear, reasoning powers far beyond hisyears; a man to whom the other sex would accord a full share ofattention, and who hitherto has been utterly unsusceptible to any suchexcusable weakness, has hitherto never known a quickened pulse inresponse to soft glance or welcoming smile. And this man has nowsurrendered at sight--absolutely, and without the smallest reservation.

  And it had all come about in a single day.

  Just so. It is your apparent icicle that annihilates itself with themost startling rapidity when suddenly touched by the scorching beam ofthe unlooked-for sun. It is the unsusceptible one who goes downforehead to the earth, not pausing to spread rug or carpet in the way,when the self-constituted idol appears. And oh, how frequently too, notthe feet only, but the head, the hands, and the heart of the image proveto be of the veriest clay!

  To-morrow!

  Who among us ever gives a thought to this commonplace word? Not, Imean, when we are passing through some momentous crisis of our lives,some care, some expectation for good or for ill, which may either makeus, or crush us well-nigh out of existence. Not then, but when ourlives are flowing on, smooth and undisturbed, then it is that wepractically ignore the possibility of to-morrow bringing with itanything eventful, or being, in short, other than a mere twenty-fourhours' repetition of to-day.

  To-morrow!

  We go to bed lightly with the word on our lips, our arrangements for itare all mapped out, all ordered for the next twenty-four hours, ay, andbeyond them, as though there existed not in the sublime philosophy ofthe Wise King that most portentous of all warnings: "Boast not thyselfof the morrow, for thou canst not tell what a day may bring forth."

  For an exemplification of both warnings behold it perfected in him whorides abroad this morning. A single day, and his life has been cut intotwo halves. Nor is it even a day that has wrought this change, nor yetan hour, nor a minute. A moment, a brief flash of time, just so long asthat presence took to appear before him, and he was conquered. Onelook, and he fell prostrate, to rise again a slave. And this man, tillthe day before yesterday, had not a care in the world.

  He rides slowly on. On the high ground which will directly shut thehomestead out of sight, he turns for a moment to gaze upon the quiet oldplace sleeping embowered in trees; to gaze upon it with a lingering andreverential gaze, as pilgrim taking a last look at some deeply veneratedshrine. Then he urges his horse along a narrow track which leads downinto the wildest part of the farm. Dark bush covers the valley oneither hand, broken only by a beetling _krantz_, frowning down as itwere upon great jagged rocks which, hurled at some remote period fromits face, lie embedded beneath. Yonder, in a sequestered glade, acouple of spans of fine trek-oxen are grazing, the sun glistening ontheir sleek hides; a bushbuck ewe stalks timidly across an openclearing, and the alarmed note of a pheasant sounds close to thehorseman; but he who rides abroad thus early is neither on business bentnor on the pleasures of the chase. He is only thinking--ruminating.

  Mechanically his hand grasps the reins, as his steed, which he makes noattempt to guide, steps briskly out, skilfully avoiding the sweepingboughs which here and there overhang the path. Monkeys grin and gibberat him among the branches, and a large secretary bird floats away fromits nest of sticks hard by. In the dewy webs which quiver from thesprays of the bushes, and sparkle in the sun like strings of gems, hereads but one name, one name written as it were, in delicate gossamercharacters, and the breaths of morning in this fresh cool retreat arefraught with a faint but thrilling harmony--the music of low, tunefulnotes which are something more than a recollection, so clearly presentare they in the fancy of the thinker.

  Then he ponders over the three months which have slipped by in suchcalm, easy fashion since he cast in his lot here, and found among thesekindly and genial friends a home in its best and truest sense. It seemsto him a marvellous thing that he could have enjoyed, so muchcontentment until this new star suddenly blazed forth in the firmamentof his life. He was not susceptible, never had been. How much had nothe and Ethel Brathwaite been thrown together, for instance! Ethel withher sunny spirits and laughing, wayward moods, and her capacity forworking havoc among his own sex. They had been thrown daily, hourly,together, from sheer force of circumstances, yet never a pulse of hishad been stirred in the faintest degree by any spell of hers.

  "Too soon."

  He is again seated in imagination by the moonlit pool while that shadeof unhappy recollection steals across his companion's beautiful face.Again the longing is upon him to clear up the mystery and learn his ownfate. In but a couple of days! Ridiculous! And half aloud he uttershis thoughts:

  "Too soon!"

  Zip!--

  A metallic ring on the stones behind him. Something lies gleaming onthe sun-baked slope of the hill. It is an assegai.

  From the weapon, which has missed his body by about six inches, hisglance darts searchingly in the direction whence it came. All hiscoolness has returned, and now his sole idea in life is the discovery ofhis hidden assailant. Yet he is unarmed; it is highly probable thatthere are more spears where the first came from; the spot is a lonelyone, and for all present purposes as far removed from human aid as thecentre of the Great Sahara.

  "Ah, I thought as much. I see you, Mopela, you skulking vagabond. Comedown here, you dog, and I'll brain you."

  For a head had appeared from behind a low rock some eighteen or twentyyards from the speaker, and after watching him for a moment, half thebody of its owner followed. A strip of thick bush lay between him andClaverton, who he guessed was unarmed, as no weapon was levelled at him.

  "Whaow!" mocked the savage, as he poised another assegai. "Whaow!Lenzimbi [Note 1]. Yesterday I; to-day, you. What do you say? Canyour fists reach me here? You are as good as dead, and then Mopela willhang you to a tree by the hind leg, and in an hour the aasvogels will betearing away at your carcase;" and springing upon the rock he againlevelled his formidable spear.

  Claverton never moved in his saddle, but sat confronting his deadly foeas calmly as though he were asking the road; and there, above, stood theathletic form of the huge barbarian, who, entirely naked, and smearedfrom head to foot with red ochre, which glistened in the sun, looked avery demon of the forest. He knew that the other's words were true, andthat the chances were a hundred to one that in five minutes he would bea dead man. He was quite unarmed, and his adversary still had twoassegais. Yet he replied quite unconcernedly:

  "You're a fool, Mopela. You can't hurt _me_, and, moreover, let me tellyou this--you're a damned bad shot."

  His coolness rather disconcerted the other, who laughed mockingly."Can't I? Mopela's assegais are too sharp for Lenzimbi's `charm,' andhis God is asleep; _He_ can't help him. Look, I have two more assegais,one for Lenzimbi, and one for his God. His God is asleep, I say."

  "Is he? Look there!" exclaimed Claverton in a sharp, warning tone,pointing behind the other. The superstitious Kafir turned his head, forthe moment completely thrown off his guard; quick as thought Clavertonslipped from the saddle, and, wrenching off one of the stirrups, dashedinto the bush and made straight for his enemy. He was just in time, forthe other, having recovered himself, launched an assegai with suchunerring effect as to graze the seat of the saddle; the horse, startledby the unwonted proceedings, threw up his head, snorted and backed, andfinally trotted off by the way he had come. The Kafir, secure in hispoint of vantage, awaited the onset, grasping his remaining assegai.Claverton knew better than to hesitate, and, rushing at
his adversary,dealt him a violent blow on the leg with the stirrup-iron. Maddened bythe pain, Mopela sprang upon him with a wild beast's roar, but Clavertonwas ready. Dropping the stirrup he clutched the other's wrists, andthey struggled like fiends. The athletic savage, twice the Englishman'smatch for sheer muscular strength, strove with might and main to freethe hand which held his assegai; but the other, knowing full well thathis very life depended on his not doing so, held firm--firm as iron.Their breath came in quick, short gasps, and every muscle was distendedand rigid. Then the savage, with a hyaena-like howl, opened his greatteeth and made a mighty snap at his antagonist's face, but Clavertonlowered his head and the other's teeth met in his slouch hat; then,taking advantage of Mopela being off his guard, he drove his right kneewith all the force he could muster into the Kafir's stomach. The gamewas now his own. His gigantic foe staggered back ten or a dozen yards,then fell gasping for breath, and dropping his weapon as he rolled andwrithed among the bush below. With a fierce shout, Claverton seized thespear and rushed upon his enemy, but it was too late. Mopela had had asmuch as he could stomach in more ways than one, and hastened to makehimself scarce; moreover, the trampling of approaching hoofs was heardand a horseman appeared, leading Claverton's defaulting steed.

  "Hullo! What the very deuce is the row? Is that you, Claverton?"

  "It is. Five minutes ago the chances in favour of the same being factwere infinitesimal."

  "Well, you _are_ a cool hand," began the new arrival, when a shout farabove them in the bush interrupted him and drew both their attention.They looked up and beheld Mopela.

  "Gough, have you got a revolver?" asked Claverton in quick, eager tones."He's a long way off, but I think I can pink him. No? Haven't you?I'd give 50 pounds for a single shot at the beast." Then, raising hisvoice: "Aha, Mopela, you dog; whose god is asleep now, eh? Come downhere again," he went on, jeeringly; "come down and have anotherthrashing; I'll give you one--I alone. The other _Baas_ will see fairplay. You won't? You're not such a fool as I thought, then. Only,look here, the next time I come across you, wherever it may be, I'llkill you--kill you, by God. So keep out of my way."

  The savage shook his hand towards the speaker with a menacing gesture."Whaow!" he called out. "The next time we meet Lenzimbi will sing to adifferent tune. When the land is red with the blood of the _abelungu_[whites], and their sheep and cattle are in our kraals, Lenzimbi shallyet hang by the heels, and Mopela will, with his own hand, put out hiseyes with a red-hot firestick before he is roasted--Haow! Then thewarriors of the Amaxosa will have great sport in hunting out the last ofthe whites from their hiding-places, and all the white men will be dead;but there will be plenty of white women--ha! ha! ha!--plenty of whitewomen," went on the savage, in his great mocking tones. "And the darklily of Seringa Vale," (jerking his thumb in the direction of thatlocality), "when Lenzimbi's body and spirit is burnt up in the slowfire, she and Mopela will--Ha!" He disappeared suddenly, for with afurious oath Claverton plunged into the bush in pursuit; but he might aswell have searched for the proverbial needle as for the crafty savage,who simply dodged him in the thick covert, laughing in his sleeve thewhile. In less than half an hour he returned to his wonderingcompanion.

  "Where are you bound for, Gough?"

  "Thorman's--I'm thinking of buying that horse of his."

  "All right. I'll go part of the way with you and get back round by the_vij-kraal_ [Note 2]. But let's pick up these carving-knives first."He gathered up the three assegais, all well-made weapons with keenblades and long, tapering handles; then, as they mounted and rode off,he told his companion what had happened.

  John Gough was a young man of about twenty-three, who had migrated tothe colony about a year before in search of employment. This he hadfound in the capacity of tutor to Naylor's children--four healthy youngromps, as disinclined for their books as frontier children usually are.He was of a quiet and retiring disposition, but a good fellow. For somereason or another he rather disliked Claverton, but was too good-naturedto show it; and now, as they rode along in silence--for Claverton hadrelapsed into a fit of taciturnity--he began to think he had done him aninjustice.

  "Well, I think I shall turn here," said that worthy, when they had gonea little way further. "Gough, I'm going to ask you to do me a favour."

  "What is it?" inquired the other, somewhat surprised.

  "To oblige me by not mentioning this little shindy to any one--willyou?"

  "Yes, certainly, if you wish it," answered Gough, rather reluctantly.He was disappointed as well as surprised; topics of conversation werescarce, and such a jolly row as Claverton had just had would be nuts;even as it was, he had been thinking how he would entertain the Thormanswith an account of it, and now it was to be kept dark. Well, Clavertonwas a queer fellow, but it was his own business. So he gave therequired undertaking.

  "Thanks; I knew you would. I don't fancy that scoundrel will come nearme again. Good-bye." They shook hands, and went their respective ways.

  A few hundred yards further, and a blue smoke reek above the bushbetokened a dwelling. In an open space stood two huts, dome-shaped, andconstructed of thatch, and hard by, a thorn enclosure at that momentfull of sheep. This was one of the out-stations, where one of theflocks was wont to be kept. A mangy and spindle-shanked cur rushedyapping forth, roused by the tread of the horse's hoofs. A mighty crackof the rider's whip, however, caused it to beat a precipitate retreat,and also had the effect of bringing a head to the small, beehivelikeentrance of one of the huts. The head was promptly followed by itsowner, who stood up and saluted Claverton.

  "Well, Umgiswe, it's some time since any of us have been down here tocount, so I'll do so now. Turn them out."

  "Ewa 'nkos," (yes, chief), replied the Kafir, curiously eyeing theassegais which the other carried; and opening the kraal he threw off hisred blanket and began driving out the sheep, while Claverton stood atthe gate and counted.

  "Eighty-one--eighty-three--eighty-seven--ninety--ninety-two--ninety-three--six hundred and ninety-three. Why, how's this, Umgiswe?There are three missing?"

  The old Kafir shrugged his shoulders and muttered something to theeffect that they had died in the _veldt_. Then he fumbled about withthe fastenings of the gate.

  "Now, look here, Umgiswe! When sheep die they don't melt into air. Ifthese three are dead, I must see their skins. Do you hear? If they arenot dead they must be found. I shall come down to-morrow and countagain; then they must be here," said Claverton, decisively, looking theman straight in the eyes.

  He was a quick linguist, and, during the short time he had been on thefrontier, had mastered enough of the Kafir language in its tortuousverbosity, combined with what he had picked up during his former sojournin the colony, to be able to converse with tolerable ease, anacquirement which added in no small degree to his influence with thenatives, who always hold in greater respect a European who can discoursewith them in their own tongue.

  "Ewa 'nkos," said the Kafir again. "They shall be found." Then heasked for some tobacco.

  "You shall have some, Umgiswe, you shall have some--when the three sheepare found."

  The man's countenance fell. Then he asked, quietly and respectfullyenough, where the assegais came from.

  "I picked them up. Good spears, are they not? Do you know the owner,Umgiswe? If you do, tell him to come and claim them, and the sooner hecomes the better." Then nodding in response to the other's farewellgreeting, Claverton touched his horse with the spur and struck into thebush path. The Kafir stood gazing after him.

  "He is a wizard; he knows everything," said Umgiswe to himself; and thenhe turned away, intending to restore the two sheep he had hidden away sosecurely till it should be safe to send them off to his kraal in theGaika location, there to swell the fruits of his pickings and stealings,and planning how he could doctor up the skin of the one which he and aboon companion had devoured two nights ago, so as to make it appear thatthe animal had died a natural death.

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  Note 1. One with the qualities of iron. Kafirs are fond of bestowingnicknames, though frequently of a less complimentary nature than this.

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  Note 2. An outlying fold for flocks whose range is at a distance fromthe homestead.