VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
TRAPPED.
"When did he begin to go lame, Sam?"
"About two hours the other side of this, Inkos. I had to lead him allthe way here."
Claverton bends down again to examine the horse's leg, and the light ofthe stable-lantern reveals an expression of the most intense andhopeless disgust upon his face. The stable is that belonging to the innhalf-way along the King Williamstown road, the hour is shortly aftermidnight, and he has only just arrived. He has ridden untiringly, notsparing his mount, which indeed can hardly go a pace further; and nowhis other horse, which he has been counting on as a relay, is dead lame.It will be remembered that he had left Sam on the road, with orders torest his horse and follow him at leisure. Shortly after Sam had seenhis master's back disappear over the rising ground, the animal began togo lame. Carefully the Natal boy examined his feet. There was no shoeloose, no stone in the frog--no. Poor Fleck had strained a sinew, and,by dint of much toil and considerable pain, the horse managed to reachthe inn with his fetlock swelled to a ball.
"Sam, I must get on; and at once. Is there no one here who could sellme a horse?" The native thought a moment. "There are two men who camedown from the camp to-day, Inkos, but their horses are used up. There'sa Dutchman going up there, he has an extra horse. That's it; this oneover here," and, taking the lantern, Sam led the way to the other end ofthe stable. Claverton ran his eye over the animal designated. It was alarge, young horse, well put together and in tolerable condition, but itrolled the whites of its eyes and laid its ears back in suggestivefashion.
"Looks skittish," mused Claverton, as with a wild snort the animalbacked and began "rucking" at its tether, then bounding suddenlyforward, came with a fracas against the rickety crib, and stood snortingand trembling and rolling its eyes. "Half-broken evidently. What's thefellow's name, Sam?"
"Oppermann. Cornelius Oppermann, Inkos."
"H'm. Getting light," he mused, opening the door and looking skywards."Sam, I'm going to buy that brute anyhow, and go straight on at once.Now you must wait till the young horse is rested, and take him back toPayne's. Fleck can stay here. And, Sam," he went on in a graver tone,"you are to wait there till I come back. Do everything they tell you;and if they send you to me, come at once and as quickly as you can. Yousee?"
Sam looked crestfallen. He had reckoned upon accompanying his masterback to the war. But with the unswerving loyalty of his race towardsthose whom they hold in veneration he made no demur, and promisedfaithfully to carry out his master's wishes to the best of his ability.
Ten minutes later Claverton was standing on the _stoep_ of the inn,bargaining with an unkempt, sandy-bearded Dutchman, who, hastily arrayedin his shirt and trousers, stood rubbing his eyes with the air of a manjust aroused from a sound sleep; as, indeed, was the case.
"You can take him for forty-five pounds," the latter was saying, havingfinished a cavernous yawn.
"Ha--ha--ha! Forty-five? Now look here, Oppermann," answered Clavertonin a chaffing, good-natured tone. "You're not awake yet, man, or you'dremember the brute wasn't worth a dollar more than twenty. He isn'thalf-broken, to begin with."
"Twenty. Nay, what? You shall have him for forty."
"I rather want him, but I'm in no hurry," was the reply. "Here'sthirty, down on the nail. Look."
He pulled out some notes, and the Dutchman's eyes glittered.
"Thirty-five?" he began.
"No. Thirty. Take it or--leave it."
"Well, well. Give me the money," and he held out his hand. ButClaverton was not quite so "green" as all that.
"Here, Sam," he called out. "Look. The Baas has sold me the horse wewere looking at for thirty pounds," and he handed over the money to theexpectant Boer, thus making Sam a witness to the transaction. "Now goand saddle him up," he continued.
"Are you starting so soon?" said Oppermann, with surprise. "I'm goingup to the camp--we might ride together. Wait a little quarter of anhour."
"Can't wait a moment longer. Look sharp."
The other disappeared with alacrity. He had been looking forward withsome apprehension to his lonely journey across the hostile ground, andthe escort and companionship of this cool, clear-headed Englishman wouldbe a perfect godsend to him. So he soon hurried through his scantpreparations, and by the time Claverton had settled with the host, andhad saddled up, the Boer was nearly ready.
Two rough-looking fellows were talking to the landlord in front of thedoor as Claverton was about to start. They were the two referred to bySam as having just come from the war.
"I say, Mister," called out one of them. "You're not going all the wayalone, are you?"
"Yes."
"Well, now--if I might be so bold as to advise--you be a bit careful. Alot more of them Kafirs have broken out, and there are gangs of 'em outall over this side of the Buffalo range, and that's where you'll have tocut through to reach the main camp--unless you go all the way round by`King,' which'll take you a day longer."
"Well, I shan't do that, anyhow. Thanks for the hint, all the same.Here, Sam."
"Inkos?"
"Don't forget what I told you, and--here--give this to Miss Lilian."
"This" was a note, and the speaker's tone trembled ever so slightly overthe name.
"Yeh bo, Inkos," replied Sam, earnestly. Then a sudden impulse seizedhim, and, bending down, he kissed his master's foot as it rested in thestirrup. A vague superstitious thrill shot through Claverton's heart.These natives were sometimes gifted with marvellous presage. Did thistouching act of homage on the part of his humble follower portend thatthey would never see each other again. Claverton put out his hand.
"Good-bye, Sam. Mind what I told you."
The native took it shyly. Then he turned away, his eyes sparkling as heheld up his head proudly. His master had shaken hands with him--a blackman. Death itself would be nothing to what he would willingly undergofor that master. Meanwhile the white spectators smiled indulgentlyamong themselves. They did not sneer; a little of Claverton'sreputation had been noised abroad, and they respected him too much. Butsome of these Englishmen were such queer fellows. Shaking hands with anigger, for instance--etcetera, etcetera!
The temporary diversion afforded by these preparations and precautionsover, Claverton's thoughts again ran in the old channel. He gazed onthe mountain range in front of him, peak after peak rising up to theeternal blue, and remembered how they two had looked on them togetherfrom that very spot when all seemed so secure and propitious not muchmore than a couple of months before; and it was like the mocking smileof a demon, this same landscape smiling on him now in the bright freshmorning. Something or other made his mind recur to poor HerbertSpalding plunging overboard in the dead of night deliberately intendingto take his own life, and the thought stung him like a spur. _He_ wouldtake not his own life, but that of the man who had taken what was fardearer to him than his own life. Every stride of his horse was bringinghim nearer and nearer to his sure vengeance.
The sound of hoofs behind interrupted his meditations, and the Boer,whom true to his word he had not waited for a minute beyond thestipulated time, overtook him, riding at a gallop. He frowned. In nomood for conversation, he would be obliged to listen to and answer thecommonplaces of this lout, and there was no getting rid of him. But theDutchman was of the taciturn order. In half an hour his topics ofconversation were used up, and he was content to jog along in silence bythe side of his companion, who certainly gave him no encouragement tobreak it. Thus the day wore on, and by the middle of the afternoon theywere in among the mountains. Hitherto there had been little sign ofdisturbance. They had passed a few farmsteads and a native kraal ortwo--the latter still inhabited by so-called "loyals," in other words,natives who did not fight against the Goverment themselves, but assistedwith supplies and information those who did. But even these habitationshad ceased now, and they wound their way through the great gloomy gorgescovered with dense
bush, where the sentinel baboons eat and looked downupon them from many an overhanging cliff, which echoed their loudresounding bark.
Suddenly their steeds pricked up their ears, with an inquiring snort.Promptly Claverton's revolver was in his hand, while his companion heldhis rifle--an excellent Martini-Henry--ready on his hip. Something washeard approaching.
"Kafirs!" exclaimed the Dutchman, excitedly.
"Tsh! No; it's a horseman."
It was--and a strange figure he cut as at that moment he appeared rounda bend in the track. A middle-sized, plebeian-looking man, mounted on asorry nag. His hair, and the wispy scraps of beard stuck about hisparchment-coloured visage, were of a neutral tint; and a snub nose, andprojecting lower jaw, in no wise prepossessed one towards theindividual. He was arrayed in a rusty suit of black, and a dirty whitetie was stuck half in half out of the throat of his clerical waistcoat,and he sat his horse "like a tailor;" but the most grotesque article ofthis out-of-keeping costume was his hat--a reduced "chimney-pot," with ahuge puggaree wound turban-wise about the crown, the ends falling downover the wearer's back.
"Bah!" exclaimed Claverton. "Why, it's a parson. What the deuce can hebe doing here?"
The stranger's countenance lighted up with satisfaction at sight of thepair.
"This is a relief," he said. "I thought I should never get out of thisdreadful bush alive."
"Where were you going to?" asked Claverton. "I was going to take ashort cut through to Cathcart. They told me the way was safe, and now Ifind it isn't. The whole bush is full of Kafirs. I could hear themcalling to each other in every direction."
"Quite sure it wasn't baboons?"
"Oh, yes; I saw them--hundreds of them. Luckily they didn't see me. Itwas in trying to avoid them that I lost myself."
"Where did you say they were?" went on Claverton. He had formed no veryhigh opinion of his new acquaintance, who informed him that his name wasSwaysland, and that he was a missionary.
"Over in that next kloof. But you are not going on, surely? The way isnot safe, indeed it is not."
"We are, though--straight. But I--"
The words were cut short, for the young horse, all unbroken as it was,gave a violent shy, which, taking its rider unawares, nearly unseatedhim, so unexpected was it. And, simultaneously, several red forms roseup amid the bushes three hundred yards in their rear and poured in arattling volley, but, as usual, firing well over the heads of theirdestined victims.
"By Jove! there they are," cried Claverton. "Come along; there's noturning back now. We must ride like the devil," and he spurred alongthe path followed closely by the other two. At least two hundred Kafirssprang up and started in pursuit, discharging their pieces as theyleaped from cover with a fierce shout, and the bullets whistled aroundthe fugitives with a sharp, shrill hiss.
"Come on, Mr Swaysland. Spur up that nag of yours; we shall get a goodstart here," cried Claverton, as they reached a comparatively openplateau of about a mile in extent. But it was uphill ground and roughwithal, and the pursuers were only too evidently gaining on them.
Pphit! Pphit! A bullet ploughs up the ground almost between the veryhoofs of Claverton's horse, while another splinters itself against astone just in front.
"The devil! It's getting lively," he ejaculated as, without slackeningspeed, he looked round for a target for his revolver. The missionarywas deathly white, and cut a grotesque figure, spurring up his seedyanimal, almost holding on round its neck, while the flaps of hislong-tailed coat and the ends of his puggaree streamed out behind him.For the life of him Claverton could not repress a laugh.
Suddenly the Dutchman lurches in his saddle and falls headlong to theground--shot dead by one of the pursuers, whose bullet has enteredbetween the shoulders--probably to the great surprise of the marksman.His horse, terrified, starts off, dragging him in the stirrup for a fewpaces, then his foot disentangles itself and he lies an inanimate heap.With a wild-beast howl the savages bound forward, and Claverton,glancing over his shoulder, can see a score of assegais flash and gleamblood-red in the sunshine, as the fierce warriors crowd round theill-fated Boer, literally cutting him to pieces.
Like wolves delayed in the pursuit of a sledge by a forestalment of theprey which must eventually be theirs, the Kafirs halt for a moment, eacheager to bury his spear-head in the body of the fallen man; but it isonly for a moment. With a wild yell of triumph they press on--thirstingfor more blood. A sudden groan from his companion causes Claverton toturn his head. Is he hit, too? The missionary's face is livid withterror, and following the glance of the staring, dilated eyeballs--dilated with a fear that has almost mania in it--all hope dies withinhim. A dense swarm of Kafirs is issuing from the bush immediately infront, and the two white men are thus securely caught, as in a trap.For on the only side left open falls a huge precipice, down whichnothing breathing can go--and live.
"God help us?" exclaimed the missionary. "We are lost," and he fell tothe ground in a dead faint.
Claverton reins in his horse, and confronts the savages, with a calmbrow and revolver in hand. Death has overtaken him at last. He hasstared the grim Monarch in the face full oft, but now his time has come.He feels that his lucky star has set; his meeting with Lilianyesterday--only yesterday--was the beginning of the end. What can a mando when his star has set? All this runs through his mind like alightning-flash.
It is a marvellous picture, that last scene in the awful drama on thislonely mountain top. The sweet golden sunshine falls upon a crowd ofbounding shapes, sweeping forward in a fast diminishing semicircle, andthe still air is rent with fiendish howls. Eyeballs roll with amerciless gleam, white teeth are bared in grinning triumph, and thepointed blades of the assegais bristle like a forest among the leaping,naked red bodies. And turning to confront this hideous array--calmlyawaiting the approach of his destroyers, this one man--cool, fearless,and noble-looking--sits his horse, whose terrified restiveness he canscarcely curb with one hand, while in the other he holds his revolver ina firm, steady grasp. Before him, the spears of the savage host;behind, the awful brow of the cliff. A ghastly choice.
The Kafirs have ceased firing and are advancing eagerly to secure theirprey. They will take him alive.
"Ha, ha, ha!" A mocking laugh goes up from their midst. "You are in atrap, white man. Better yield!" cry some; while others, eager for sucha rare spectacle as a man taking a flying leap into four hundred feet ofspace, wave their weapons and shout madly in the hope of terrifying thehorse and driving it over.
"Does even a wolf yield without biting?" is the cold, scornful answer.Not a dozen paces lie between him and the brink of the precipice,towards which he is backing his horse, step by step.
Fifty yards--forty--thirty. They approach more leisurely now, sure oftheir capture.
He raises his revolver and fires. One of the foremost falls headlongupon the ground, clutching it with his hands, as his body quivers in thethroes of death. But the young horse, maddened by the sudden flash andreport and the onward rush of the advancing crowd, plunges and rears,uttering a frenzied squeal. Three steps more. No power short of amiracle can save him now. The frantic hoof-strokes rip up the sward inlong furrows--and then a plunge--a slide and a struggle--they are gone!Horse and man have disappeared. A moment of dead silence--a crash and adull thud is heard far beneath. And then a wild shout--in which awe,and admiration, and baffled rage are all mingled--arises from thesavages, one and all of whom press forward to peer over the giddyheight.
Nothing can they see, however. A few leaves and broken twigs, scatteredby the fall of a heavy body through the tangled bushes sprouting hereand there from a crevice or ledge in the face of the cliff, float uponthe air; beneath, the great sweep of dense bush lies silent andunbroken; a few vultures glide lazily off from the rugged cliffsopposite, looking in the distance like great white feathers as they soarover the broad valley; but nothing is to be seen lying below, neitherhorse nor man. At length their keen eyes detected a spot where
the bushwas slightly displaced.
"Ha--there he is! Good. His bones will be like the stamped mealies inthe mortar, after that jump. Aow!"
A low laugh greeted this speech, and the Kafirs were about to turn awayin quest of fresh excitement, when one of their number--a tall,evil-looking barbarian--who had been lying flat on his stomach narrowlyscanning the bush beneath, exclaimed:
"Wait. Are you going to leave him on the _chance_ of his being dead?He may not be dead, I tell you. He may not be even hurt."
A mighty shout of laughter greeted this utterance.
"Ha, ha! Not dead--not even hurt! Whaaow! What madness! Is the whiteman a bird, that he can fly down there? Did any one see his wings?"Such were the derisive comments on the proposal of the first speaker,who waited with a sneer upon his face until they had done, and then wenton:
"He is not a bird, but he is something else. He is a wizard--a devil.I tell you I know this white man. He is no ordinary man. I have seenhim escape where no one but a wizard could have done it; not once, buttwice, three times. Now, are you sure he is dead? Will you leave it tochance?"
A murmur of mingled assent and incredulity rose from the listeners.Some shook their heads and smiled scornfully, but the majority evidentlythought there was "something in it."
"And even if he is dead," continued the first speaker. "Even if he isdead, what a war-potion could be made out of the heart of such a man!Haow!"
This decided them, and, with a ferocious hum of anticipation, theystarted off to descend into the valley round the end of the cliff, andmake sure of their prey; leaving a few behind to secure the missionary.
The unfortunate preacher was still lying where he had fallen in a faint,and the Kafirs had been too fully occupied with their principal foe topay any attention to him. Now, however, they clustered round him,examining him curiously.
"Get up, white man!" cried one of the party, roughly, adding force tothe injunction by a sharp prick with his assegai. The victim gave agroan and opened his eyes, but shut them again with a gasp of terror,and a prayer for mercy escaped his lips at the sight of the scowlingdark faces and gleaming assegai points, some of them red with blood.
A muttered consultation took place. The captive must be taken to thechief, Sandili. He was the first white man captured alive during thewar.
"Whaow! It is not a warrior, it is a miserable _Umfundisi_," [Preacher]said the most important man of the group, with a contemptuous scowl onhis fierce, wrinkled countenance. "We shall frighten him to death if weare not careful. Here, _Umfundisi_!" he continued in a persuasive tone."Get up. We are not going to hurt you. Don't be frightened."
The poor missionary could hardly believe his ears.
"No, no. I am not frightened," he replied, in a quavering voice,sitting up and looking around; while several of the younger Kafirsspluttered with laughter at his abject appearance. "No, no--you willnot hurt me; I am your friend. I like the Kafirs. You know me--I am aman of peace--not a fighting man--a man of peace."
The savage leader contemplated him with a sneer upon his face, then witha muttered injunction to the rest, he turned away with a grunt ofcontempt, whisking the tops off the grass-stalks with his knobkerrie ashe strode off in the direction taken by the bulk of the party. A screamof terror arose from the unfortunate missionary. His hands had alreadybeen tied behind him; and just then one of the young Kafirs, in sheerdevilment, jerked his head back and held the cold edge of an assegaiagainst his throat. The unhappy prisoner thought his hour had come, andclosed his eyes, shuddering. A roar of laughter arose from thespectators, and his tormentor let go of him, uttering a disdainful"click."
"Take care," warned one of the older men. "You'll kill him with fear,among you. That won't do. He must be taken to the Great Chief."
Meanwhile the searching party had reached the base of the cliff and wereworking their way along with some difficulty through the bush, while twomen remained above to designate the exact spot where the fugitive hadfallen. So dense and tangled was the profuse vegetation that it wassome time before they could find it, and the rock above, half veiled bylargish trees growing up against its surface, afforded no clue.Suddenly a shout announced that the object of their search was found.There, in a hollow formed by its own weight, lay the unfortunate horse.Its legs were doubled under its body, the bones in many places hadstarted through the skin, and it was horribly mangled. The girths hadgiven way and the saddle lay, bent and scratched, partly detached fromthe carcase. It was a horrid sight.
By twos and threes the Kafirs straggling up, clustered around withexclamations of astonishment. Then a shout arose:
"Where is the white man?"
They looked at one another in blank amazement. There was the horse,sure enough--but--where was the rider?
Where, indeed? The ground all round had been carefully searched, and,unless he was gifted with wings as some of them had derisivelysuggested, he could not have escaped, for at that point the cliff wassheer. Involuntarily they glanced upwards as if they half expected tosee him soaring in the air, laughing at them. They turned over thecarcase of the horse, with a kind of forlorn hope that he might be lyingcrushed beneath--but no--he was not there, nor had they even expected hewould be. Fairly puzzled they shook their heads, and a volley ofejaculations expressing astonishment, dismay, even alarm, gave vent totheir unbounded surprise.
"There is no trace. He has disappeared into air?" they said.
From all this discussion the tall barbarian who had first suggested thesearch, had stood aloof. Now he struck in with a kind of "I told youso" expression in his look and voice:
"Did I not say that the white man was a wizard? Who laughs now? Whereis he? Where is the man who jumped from yon height?"
He might well ask. For of the fugitive, alive or dead, there wasabsolutely no trace. Had his body stuck in one of the trees, or restedon a ledge? No. Those above could see every projection in the rock,and the trees were free from any such burden. And around the spot wherethe horse lay and on to which it had fallen straight, there was no signor shadow of a footmark to show whither the human performer of thatfearful leap had betaken himself, even if he had reached the groundalive--which was impossible. He had melted into air, and it was nearlyevening; to continue the search would be useless.
The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier Page 43