The last refugee train was drawn up at the down-country departure
platform at Park Station, Johannesburg.
The scene upon the platform was one of indescribable hubbub and
confusion. Passengers, representing all ages and sexes, vociferated in
various tongues, and tumbled over piles of luggage, and swore, or
snapped or whimpered according to sex or age. Some, belated, thanks to
a final call at the refreshment bar, charged furiously through the
clamourous crowd by main force, panic-stricken lest they should lose
their seats. Seats? They were lucky to get any accommodation at all.
Carriages and compartments, cattle vans and open trucks alike, were
literally crammed. The enforced republicanism of the hour and the
situation crowded all classes together indiscriminately; and the man of
wealth and luxurious living was jostled and shouldered by the roughest
mine hand, who in habits and ideas rose little, if at all, above the
level of the savage. The densely packed compartments afforded scenes
and sounds of wild weird Babel, being resonant with the squalling of
children and the altercations of hustled and excited women, and in the
open trucks men elbowed and cursed and fought for mere standing room.
The while, jeering Zarps, [Note 1], posted about the platform by twos
and threes, stood enjoying the fun. They felt no call to keep the peace
on this occasion, to interfere in quarrels between the enemies of their
land. Let these accursed Uitlanders settle their own differences. They
would have plenty of time to do it in before they got clear of the
country, decided the guardians of law and order with a certain grim
satisfaction.
The train, which was of vast length, began to move slowly out of the
station, and as it did so somebody, with more patriotism than sense of
humour, conceived the idea of striking up "Rule, Britannia." It took,
and the chorus rolled forth lustily from the fleeing crowd, mighty in
volume, but varied--exceedingly--as to time and tune, causing the Zarps,
who understood English, to break into boisterous and derisive laughter,
and to call out after the singers that, whatever Britannia ruled, it was
not the Transvaal, and if she thought otherwise she had better hurry up
her _rooi-baatjes_ [Redcoats] and try. Which comment, after all, was
not without pertinence.
Upon others, however, the effect of the parting challenge was different.
A group of armed burghers had been standing at the end of the platform,
surveying, with glances of hatred and contempt, the swirling confusion
of the crowd of refugees. Now, as they grasped the burden of the song,
several were seen to slap cartridges into their rifles, with many a
threatening scowl in the direction of the train. The latter, very
fortunately, had got sufficiently under way, for already several rifles
were pointed at the receding trucks full of packed fugitives. The
burghers were in an ugly mood, and racial feeling had reached its
highest point of tension. Something of a massacre might easily at that
moment have resulted from the display of rash and ill-timed defiance.
The result of a volley poured into those closely crowded trucks would
have been too ghastly for anything.
Few indeed were the Uitlanders who remained upon the platform as the
train disappeared, and such as did wore a grave and anxious expression
of countenance; and well they might, for the hour of retreat was past,
and they had deliberately and of their own free will elected to stay in
the Republic and face the horrors and risks of war, and that at the
mercy of the enemies of their countrymen. Such being the case, it may
be imagined that the seeing-off contingent attendant upon the departure
of the last train was not large.
Conspicuous among it were two persons--a man and a girl. They were not
together. They were not, apparently, acquainted, and they were
unmistakably English. Yet they were looking at each other--and had been
for some time--now furtively, now openly, now in a would-be casual
fashion that deceived neither.
The man's attention was drawn to the girl because she was very pretty.
The girl's attention might have been drawn to the man, because he
represented the masculine equivalent of that form of attractiveness in
her. He was of a good height, well set up, with clean-cut features and
brown eyes, clear and searching, lighting up a healthy sun-browned face;
a good-looking man beyond the ordinary, and one likely to attract the
attention of the other sex.
But the expression of countenance worn by this member of the other sex
seemed to convey more than the idea of a mere casual attraction, for it
passed through varying phases. Now a puzzled frown knitted the brows,
now the velvety-blue eyes dilated in a gaze of fixed scrutiny, then
brightened into a gleam as of one who has solved a perplexing riddle,
and has solved it to her complete satisfaction. Then she came right up
to the other, putting forth her hand, as she said demurely:
"Well, this is a surprise! Why, whenever did you come up here?"
But the stranger responded with something of a stark. The expression of
his face conveyed astonishment, plain and undiluted.
"Pardon me," he said, slightly raising his hat. "I think there must
be--er--some mistake."
It was the girl's turn to exhibit amazement. Then her face flushed,
hardening into a set look of sullen indignation.
"Some mistake?" she echoed. Then witheringly, "Yes, I think there must
be. Pardon _me_, Mr Kershaw. I am very dense. I ought to have seen
that you did not wish to know your friends in another country and under
different circumstances."
"Yes, that is my name. But--er--really it is very remiss of me--but--
Where did we meet?"
May Wenlock stared, as well she might.
"What part are you trying to act now?" she blazed forth indignantly.
Then softening: "But only tell me, Colvin. Is it perhaps that you have
reasons for not wanting them to know who you are?" with a quick anxious
side glance around, as though fearful of being overheard.
"Pardon me again," was the reply. "But my name is not Colvin."
"Not Colvin?" was all poor May could gasp in her bewilderment.
"Certainly not I was christened Kenneth."
"But--you said your name was Kershaw?"
"So it is. Kenneth Kershaw. Now you mention it, though, I have a
relative named Colvin: er--a first cousin."
"First cousin? Why, you might be his twin brother," burst forth May
impulsively. "Why, the voice--even your way of talking--No, I never saw
such a wonderful likeness in my life." And then, catching a curious
expression in the other's eyes, she suddenly remembered the position,
and flushed hotly, realising how completely she must have given herself
away. The man, looking at her, was thinking to himself, "What a pretty
girl! What a devilish pretty girl! Lucky Colvin, wherever he may be!
Lucky as usual." But aloud he said:
"Is that so? I believe we used to be considered rather alike, but we
haven't seen each other for quite a number of years. Have you seen him
lately, Miss--er--Miss--"
"Wenlock," supplemented May.
"Miss Wenlock--thanks. Now we know each other, and I cannot
sufficiently appreciate the good fortune that drew me here this morning
to see that trainload of fools off."
Even then May could hardly believe her senses. The look, the voice, the
easy and perfectly unembarrassed manner, every inflection of tone even,
was simply Colvin reproduced. Could it really be himself, trying how
completely he could take her in? Yet something told her it could not
be. He was not addicted to practical jokes--indeed, rather disliked
them.
"Why do you call it a trainload of fools, Mr Kershaw?" she said; "I am
more inclined to think that is the word for some of us who are left
behind."
"Oh, they are. For instance, it is strange how sparsely distributed is
a sense of humour and of the eternal fitness of things! As if race
feeling is not at sufficiently high pressure already, those idiots must
needs flourish the red rag in the Dutchmen's faces. The patriotic song
may be all right in its proper place, but it doesn't come well from a
crowd engaged in running away as fast as its legs--or, in this case its
wheels--can carry it. For two pins those fellows over there,"
designating the group of sullen, scowling burghers, "would have blazed
into the whole mob."
The group referred to comprised one unit to whom the speaker was clearly
an object of very great interest indeed; not on account of the words
just uttered, for they had been spoken in by no means a loud tone, and
the distance was great enough to render them quite inaudible. This man
had been among the first to level his rifle at the receding train, and
the contemptuous hatred stamped upon the countenances of the group had
in no instance been shown more plainly and uncompromisingly than upon
that of this one. But from the moment he had caught sight of these two
conversing at the other end of the platform, that sinister expression
had perceptibly deepened. At the same time he had drawn back into the
centre of his fellow-burghers, as though desirous of remaining
unobserved, while continuing to watch, and that narrowly, the object of
his rancour. The latter, serenely unconscious of being a disturbing
factor in the equanimity of anybody, went on:
"I suppose you and my--er--cousin are pretty friendly--eh, Miss
Wenlock?"
"Oh yes. We lived next door to each other down in the Colony, and so of
course we saw a good deal of each other." And then she coloured again,
remembering how readily and naturally she had addressed this man by his
supposed Christian name. What must he be thinking of her?
"I see," he answered, tranquilly. "And so you took me for him. That
isn't so very strange either."
Strange! Great Heavens! Even yet May was hardly quite sure the whole
thing was not a make-believe. Strange? Why, even this man's way of
accepting the situation, passing over all detail, taking everything for
granted, was Colvin's way.
"Now that we have made each other's acquaintance in this very unexpected
manner, Miss Wenlock, perhaps you will allow me to see you, at any rate,
a part of your way home. You might tell me a little about my relative.
Where are you staying, by the way?"
"Just this side Doornfontein. Yes. I shall be delighted, if I am not
taking you out of your way."
"Who are you, _kerel_, and have you a permit to remain here?"
interrupted, in Dutch, the peremptory voice of a Zarp.
Now "kerel"--meaning in this context "fellow"--is a pretty familiar, not
to say impudent, form of address as proceeding from a common policeman.
The tone, too, was open to objection on the same ground. But May,
glancing at her new friend, noticed that he seemed in no wise ruffled
thereby. He merely glanced at his interlocutor as though the latter had
asked him for the time.
"I have applied for a permit and am awaiting it," he answered, in the
same language. "So, my good friend, don't bother, but go and drink my
health with your mates."
The Zarp's hand closed readily upon the image and superscription of Oom
Paul, and Kenneth Kershaw and his companion passed out of the station.
"Oh, you are so like Col--er--your cousin," was May's comment on the
above transaction. "That is exactly how he would have treated matters
under the circumstances. Now, Frank would have wanted to go for the man
at once, and then what a row there would have been! And I hate rows."
"So do I. But--who's Frank?"
"My brother. He is perfectly rabid ever since this trouble has begun.
He says he never can look at a Dutchman now without wanting to fight
him."
"So? Well, now is his opportunity. Is he up here?"
"Oh no. Down in the Colony. I am staying up here with some relatives.
I wanted to go back, but they wouldn't let me. They have interest with
the Government at Pretoria, and say that it is safer, if anything, here
than down in the Colony."
As they walked along, taking the road which runs parallel with the
railway line in the direction of Doornfontein, something of the state of
affairs was apparent in the utter stagnation that prevailed. A deserted
look was upon everything. The tram service had ceased, and there was
not a vehicle to be seen down the long vista of road. Houses shut up
and abandoned, their blinds down, and in many cases with broken windows,
spoke eloquently of the prevailing desolation, and save for a
subdued-looking native or two the street was deserted; while, dominating
all, the fort on Hospital Hill frowned down flat and threatening, ready
to let loose its thunders of ruin and of death.
Turning a corner suddenly, a troop of armed burghers debouched into the
road--hard, weather-beaten, bearded men, wearing wide hats and
bandoliers full of cartridges and with rifle on thigh. They were riding
in no particular order, and most of them were smoking pipes.
Many a head was turned, and shaggy brows were knit in sullen hatred, at
the sight of the tall Englishman and his very attractive companion, as
they rode by. For a moment their leader seemed disposed to halt and
call the pedestrians to account, then appeared to think better of it.
But that speculation was rife as to their identity was only too clear.
May Wenlock chatted brightly to her new acquaintance as they walked.
She was naturally of a communicative disposition, and it was not long
before she had put him into possession of the main facts and
circumstances and surroundings of her life. Without the least
consciousness of the fact on her part, without seemingly vivid interest
on his, he had yet manoeuvred the conversation so that it was confined
mainly to the time during which she had known Colvin, on the subject of
whom, before she had uttered a dozen sentences, she had, to the
practised eye and ear of her companion, completely given herself away.
Where was Colvin now? Why, at home, she supposed, on his own place,
close to theirs. No wonder she had been so startled at the
extraordinary likeness. Anyhow, the mistake was very excusable. Was it
not?
"It was a very fortunate mistake for me," Kenneth replied. "I hope we
may meet again," he went on, for by this time they were at her own door.
He could even read what was passing in her mind--how she was treading
down an impulse to ask him in, remembering that, after all, their
introduction had been startlingly unconventional.
"Yes, indeed, I hope we may," she answered. "At any rate, you know
where I'm staying. Good-bye. Thanks so much for bringing me back."
Kenneth Kershaw turned away, and as he strolled along his thoughts were
busy.
"By Jove, that _is_ a pretty little girl," he was saying to himself.
"Not quite up to the mark in other ways perhaps, but pretty enough even
to make up for that," with a recollection of the bright smile, and the
look in the sea-blue eyes, which had accompanied the farewell handclasp.
"And Colvin? She let go a lot about him. Likely to turn up here, is
he? Reputed to stand in too much with the Boers! Suspicion of
entanglement with a Boer girl--She shut up like an oyster when she came
to that part, though. Well, well. This day's work may turn out not
bad. Colvin on this side, the two peas likeness between us, that dear
little girl in there whom I can simply twist round my finger, and turn
to any account, _and_ the war! Strange if my luck doesn't take a sudden
turn in the right direction. Colvin, the only obstacle, worth reckoning
on, that is. Obstacles have to be removed sometimes. Yes, his luck has
run too long. Hurrah for the war?"
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Note 1. From the letters Z.A.R.P. (Zuid Afrikaansche Republieke
Politie--South African Republic's Police). The joke has passed into a
recognised popular term.