A ROUGH JOURNEY
The four greys were fresh horses, in good condition and with a light
load behind them, so, notwithstanding the bad state of the tracks which
they call roads in South Africa, John made good progress.
By eleven o’clock that day he had reached Standerton, a little town
upon the Vaal, not far from which, had he but known it, he was destined
to meet with a sufficiently striking experience. Here he obtained
confirmation of the Bronker’s Spruit disaster, and listened with set
face and blazing eyes to the tale of treachery and death which was, as
he said, without a parallel in the annals of civilised war. But, after
all, what does it matter?—a little square of graves at Bronker’s
Spruit, a few more widows and a hundred or so of orphans. England, by
her Government, answered the question plainly—it matters very little.
At Standerton John was again warned that it would be impossible for him
to make his way through the Boers at Heidelberg, a town about sixty
miles from Pretoria, where the Triumvirate, Krüger, Pretorious, and
Joubert, had proclaimed the Republic. But he answered as before, that
he must go on till he was stopped, and inspanning his horses set
forward again, a little comforted by the news that the Bishop of
Pretoria, who was hurrying up to rejoin his family, had passed through
a few hours before, also intent upon running the blockade, and that if
he drove fast he might overtake him.
On he went, hour after hour, over the great deserted plain, but he did
not succeed in catching up the Bishop. About forty miles from
Standerton he saw a waggon standing by the roadside, and halted to try
if he could obtain any information from its driver. But on
investigation it became clear that the waggon had been looted of the
provisions and goods with which it was loaded and the oxen driven off.
Nor was this the only evidence of violence. Across the disselboom of
the waggon, its hands still clasping a long bamboo whip, as though he
had been trying to defend himself with it, lay the dead body of the
native driver. His face, John noticed, was so composed and peaceful,
that had it not been for the attitude and a neat little blue hole in
the forehead, one might have thought he was asleep, not dead.
At sunset John outspanned his now flagging horses by the roadside, and
gave them each a couple of bundles of forage from the store that he had
brought with him. Whilst they were eating it, leaving Mouti to keep an
eye to them, he strolled away and sat down on a big ant-heap to think.
It was a wild and melancholy scene that stretched before and behind
him. Miles upon miles of plain, rolling east and west and north and
south like the billows of a frozen sea, only broken, far along the
Heidelberg road, by some hills, known as Rooi Koppies. Nor was this
all. Overhead was blazing and burning one of those remarkable sunsets
which are sometimes seen in the South African summer time. The sky was
full of lowering clouds, and the sullen orb of the setting sun had
stained them perfectly blood-red. Blood-red they floated through the
ominous sky, and blood-red their shadows lay upon the grass. Even the
air seemed red. It looked as though earth and heaven had been steeped
in blood; and, fresh as John was from the sight of the dead driver, his
ears yet tingling with the tale of Bronker’s Spruit, it is not to be
wondered at that the suggestive sight oppressed him, seated in that
lonely waste, with no company except the melancholy “_kakara-kakara_”
of an old black _koran_ hidden away somewhere in the grass. He was not
much given to such reflections, but he did begin to wonder whether this
was the last journey of all the many he had made during the past twenty
years, and if for him a Boer bullet was about to solve the mystery of
life and death.
Then he sank to the stage of depression that most people have made
acquaintance with at some time or another, when a man begins to ask,
“What is the use of it? Why were we born? What good do we do here? Why
should we—as the majority of mankind doubtless are—mere animals be
laden up with sorrows till at last our poor backs break? Is God
powerful or powerless? If powerful, why did He not let us sleep in
peace, without setting us here to taste of every pain and
mortification, to become acquainted with every grief, and then to
perish miserably?” Old questions these, which the sprightly critic
justly condemns as morbid and futile, and not to be dangled before a
merry world of make-believe. Perhaps he is right. It is better to play
at marbles on a sepulchre than to lift the lid and peep inside. But,
for all that, they _will_ arise when we sit alone at even in our
individual wildernesses, surrounded, perhaps, by mementoes of our
broken hopes and tokens of our beloved dead, strewn about us like the
bleaching bones of the wild game on the veldt, and in spirit watch the
red sun of our existence sinking towards its vapoury horizon. They
_will_ come even to the sanguine, successful man. One cannot always
play at marbles; the lid of the sepulchre will sometimes slip aside of
itself, and we _must_ see. True, it depends upon individual
disposition. Some people can, metaphorically, smoke cigarettes and make
puns by the death-beds of their dearest friends, or even on their own.
We should pray for a disposition like that—it makes life more pleasant.
By the time that the horses had eaten their forage and Mouti had forced
the bits into their reluctant mouths, the angry splendour of the sunset
faded, and the quiet night was falling over the glowing veldt like the
pall on one scarce dead. Fortunately for the travellers, there was a
bright half moon, and by its light John managed to direct the cart over
many a weary mile. On he went for hour after hour, keeping his tired
horses to the collar as best he could, till at last, about eleven
o’clock, he saw the lights of Heidelberg before him, and knew that the
question of whether or no his journey was at an end would speedily be
decided for him. However, there was nothing for it but to go on and
take his chance of slipping through. Presently he crossed a little
stream, and distinguished the shape of a cart just ahead, around which
men and a couple of lanterns were moving. No doubt, John thought to
himself, it was the Bishop, who had been stopped by the Boers. He was
quite close to the cart when it moved on, and in another second he was
greeted by the rough challenge of a sentry, and caught sight of the
cold gleam of a rifle barrel.
“_Wie da?_” (Who’s there?)
“Friend!” he answered cheerfully, though feeling far from cheerful.
There was a pause, during which the sentry called to another man, who
came up yawning, and saying something in Dutch. Straining his ears he
caught the words, “Bishop’s man,” and this gave him an idea.
“Who are you, Englishman?” asked the second man gruffly, holding up a
lantern to look at John, and speaking in English.
“I am the Bishop’s chaplain, sir,” he answered mildly, trying
desperately to look like an unoffending clergyman, “and I want to get
on to Pretoria with him.”
The man with the lantern inspected him closely. Fortunately John wore a
dark coat and a clerical-looking black felt hat; the same that Frank
Muller had put a bullet through.
“He is a preacher fast enough,” said the one man to the other. “Look,
he is dressed like an old crow! What did _Oom_ Krüger’s pass say, Jan?
Was it two carts or one that we were to let through? I think it was
one.”
The other man scratched his head.
“I think it was two,” he said. He did not like to confess to his
comrade that he could not read. “No, I am sure that it was two.”
“Perhaps we had better send up to _Oom_ Krüger and ask?” suggested the
first man.
“_Oom_ Krüger will be in bed, and he puts up his quills like a
porcupine if one wakes him,” was the answer.
“Then let us keep the damned preaching Englishman till to-morrow.”
“Pray let me go on, gentlemen,” said John, still in his mildest voice.
“I am wanted to preach the Word at Pretoria, and to watch by the
wounded and dying.”
“Yes, yes,” said the first man, “there will soon be plenty of wounded
and dying there. They will all be like the _rooibaatjes_ at Bronker’s
Spruit. Lord, what a sight that was! But they will get the Bishop, so
they won’t want you. You can stop and look after our wounded if the
_rooibaatjes_ manage to hit any of us.” And he beckoned to him to come
out of the cart.
“Hullo!” said the other man, “here is a bag of mealies. We will
commandeer that, anyhow.” And he took his knife and cut the line with
which the sack was fastened to the back of the cart, so that it fell to
the ground. “That will feed our horses for a week,” he said with a
chuckle, in which the other man joined. It was pleasant to become so
easily possessed of an unearned increment in the shape of a bag of
mealies.
“Well, are we to let the old crow go?” said the first man.
“If we don’t let him go we shall have to take him up to headquarters,
and I want to sleep.” And he yawned.
“Well, let him go,” said the other. “I think you are right. The pass
said two carts. Be off, you damned preaching Englishman!”
John did not wait for any more, but laid the whip across the horses’
backs with a will.
“I hope we did right,” said the man with the lantern to the other as
the cart bumped off. “I am not sure he was a preacher after all. I have
half a mind to send a bullet after him.” But his companion, who was
very sleepy, gave no encouragement to the idea, so it dropped.
On the following morning when Commandant Frank Muller—having heard that
his enemy John Niel was on his way up with the Cape cart and four grey
horses—ascertained that a vehicle answering to that description had
been allowed to pass through Heidelberg in the dead of night, his state
of mind may better be imagined than described.
As for the two sentries, he tried them by court-martial and sent them
to make fortifications for the rest of the rebellion. Now they can
neither of them hear the name of a clergyman mentioned without breaking
out into a perfect flood of blasphemy.
Luckily for John, although he had been delayed for five minutes or
more, he managed to overtake the cart in which he presumed the Bishop
was ensconced. His lordship had been providentially delayed by the
breaking of a trace; otherwise, it is clear that his self-nominated
chaplain would never have got through the steep streets of Heidelberg
that night. The town was choked up with Boer waggons, full of sleeping
Boers. Over one batch of waggons and tents John saw the Transvaal flag
fluttering idly in the night breeze, marking, no doubt, the
headquarters of the Triumvirate, and emblazoned with the appropriate
emblem of an ox-waggon and an armed Boer. Once the cart ahead of him
was stopped by a sentry and some conversation ensued. Then it went on
again; and so did John, unmolested. It was weary work, that journey
through Heidelberg, and full of terrors for John, who every moment
expected to be stopped and dragged off ignominiously to gaol. The
horses, too, were dead beat, and made frantic attempts to turn and stop
at every house. But, somehow, they won through the little place, and
then were halted once more. Again the first cart passed on, but this
time John was not so lucky.
“The pass said one cart,” said a voice.
“Yah, yah, one cart,” answered another.
John again put on his clerical air and told his artless tale; but
neither of the men could understand English, so they went to a waggon
that was standing about fifty yards away, to fetch somebody who could.
“Now, _Inkoos_,” whispered the Zulu Mouti, “drive on! drive on!”
John took the hint and lashed the horses with his long whip; while
Mouti, bending forward over the splashboard, thrashed the wheelers with
a _sjambock_. Off went the team in a spasmodic gallop, and it had
covered a hundred yards of ground before the two sentries realised what
had happened. Then they began to run after the cart shouting, but were
soon lost in the darkness.
John and Mouti did not spare the whip, but pressed on up the stony
hills on the Pretoria side of Heidelberg without a halt. They were,
however, unable to keep up with the cart ahead of them, which was
evidently more freshly horsed. About midnight, too, the moon vanished
altogether, and they must creep on as best they could through the
darkness. Indeed, so dark was it, that Mouti was obliged to get out and
lead the exhausted horses, one of which would now and again fall down,
to be cruelly flogged before it rose. Once, too, the cart very nearly
upset; and on another occasion it was within an inch of rolling down a
precipice.
This went on till two in the morning, when John found that it was
impossible to force the wearied beasts a yard farther. So, having
luckily come to some water about fifteen miles out of Heidelberg, he
halted, and after the horses had drunk, gave them as much forage as
they could eat. One lay down at once, and refused to touch anything—a
sure sign of great exhaustion; a second ate lying down; but the other
two filled themselves in a satisfactory way. Then came a weary wait for
the dawn. Mouti slept a little, but John did not dare to do so. All he
could do was to swallow a little _biltong_ (dried game flesh) and
bread, drink some square-face and water, and then sit down in the cart,
his rifle between his knees, and wait for the light. At last it came,
lying on the eastern sky like a promise, and he once more fed the
horses. And now a new difficulty arose. The animal that would not eat
was clearly too weak to pull, so the harness had to be altered, and the
three sound animals arranged unicorn fashion, while the sick one was
fastened to the rear of the cart. Then they started again.
By eleven o’clock they reached an hotel, or wayside house, known as
Ferguson’s, situate about twenty miles from Pretoria. It was empty,
except for a couple of cats and a stray dog. The inhabitants had
evidently fled from the Boers. Here John stabled and fed his horses,
giving them all that remained of the forage; and then, once more,
inspanned for the last stage. The road was dreadful; and he knew that
the country must be full of hostile Boers, but fortunately he met none.
It took him four hours to cover the twenty miles of ground; but it was
not until he reached the _Poort_, or neck running into Pretoria, that
he saw a vestige of a Boer. Then he perceived two mounted men riding
along the top of a precipitous stone-strewn ridge, six hundred yards or
so from him. At first he thought that they were going to descend it,
but presently they changed their minds and got off their horses.
While he was still wondering what this might portend, he saw a puff of
white smoke float up from where the men were, and then another. Next
came the sharp unmistakable “ping” of a bullet passing, as far as he
could judge, within some three feet of his head, followed by a second
“ping,” and a cloud of dust beneath the belly of the first horse. The
two Boers were firing at him.
John did not wait for any more target practice, but, thrashing the
horses to a canter, drove the cart round a projecting bank before they
could load and fire again. After that, they troubled him no more.
At last he reached the mouth of the _Poort_, and saw the prettiest of
the South African towns, with its red and white houses, its tall clumps
of trees, and pink lines of blooming rose hedges lying on the plain
before him, all set in the green veldt, made beautiful by the golden
light of the afternoon, and he thanked God for the sight. John knew
that he was safe now, and let his tired horses walk slowly down the
hillside and across the space of plain beyond. To his left were the
gaol and the barrack-sheds, and gathered about them stood hundreds of
waggons and tents, towards which he drove. Evidently the town was
deserted and its inhabitants were in laager. When he was within half a
mile or so, a picket of mounted men rode out to meet him, followed by a
miscellaneous crowd on horseback and on foot.
“Who goes there?” shouted a voice in honest English.
“A friend who is uncommonly glad to see you,” John answered, with that
feeble jocosity in which we are all apt to indulge when at length a
great weight is lifted from our nerves.