"Curious sort of `condemned cell' this," whimsically thought Colvin
Kershaw to himself, as he gazed around the place wherein he was
confined, and whence Frank Wenlock had escaped. For Commandant
Schoeman's promise that he should take the late prisoner's place had
been carried out to the letter, and here he was, shut up within Gideon
Roux' stable, only to leave it to go forth and meet his death.
He had pleaded to be allowed the use of the tent he had hitherto
occupied--at any rate, until nightfall. Not many more hours of God's
air and sunshine would be his, he had urged. But a decided refusal had
been returned--a refusal tinged with characteristic sanctimoniousness.
He would be better in confinement. There he would find nothing to
distract his thoughts in his preparation for the great and solemn
change, he was told, as would be the case if he were where he could see
and hear everyday sights and sounds, and others moving about him. So
here he was, under a strong guard, locked up within a not very clean or
sweet-smelling stable for the few remaining hours of his life.
He looked around. Even then he could hardly realise it. More than once
he had been in here before, seeing to his horse, on such occasions as he
visited Gideon Roux. The worm-eaten and much bitten crib, the pile of
old forage ends, and stamped-in grains of stale mealies underneath it,
and a curry-comb and brush, and an old headstall or two hanging from a
peg--the forage cutter had been taken away--all looked so home-like and
everyday. It seemed incredible, incongruous, even absurd to try and
realise that this place was for him as truly a condemned cell as the
massive walls and stone floor of the preliminary living tomb in old
Newgate or Holloway.
He could hear the sounds of the camp--the hum of harsh voices, and now
and then the tramp of a horse. Sounds, too, redolent of peaceful and
everyday life--the clucking of poultry, the bleat of a goat, the fretful
yelp of a child, and the now monotonous, now querulous voices of women,
for the house was but a few score yards away. Yes, it was hard to
realise that these four brick walls constituted but the ante-room to the
far narrower walls of earth, which by that time to-morrow would have
closed round his bloody and lifeless remains.
Was there no prospect of escape? Again and again, while pacing up and
down his strange prison, had he calculated his chances. Frank Wenlock
had escaped, but only through aid from without. Who would aid him, and
if any would, how could they? As for any efforts of his own, of what
avail? The window was strongly barred, and two guards, armed with
magazine rifles, were posted immediately beneath, as he was reminded by
the frequent appearance of a face at the said bars. Two more were
before the door, and as for drilling an aperture in the wall, why he had
nothing to do it with. The possibility, too, of tunnelling under the
foundation of the further wall occurred to him, and here his eye once
more rested on the old curry-comb. But the floor of the place was stone
paved, and the noise inevitable to the undertaking would betray him
twenty times over, even at night. Moreover, he was only too well aware
that in view of the former escape the vigilance of his custodians would
be more than doubled.
He remembered Andries Botma's final offer of assistance, and his first
appeal had been that the judgment upon himself should be postponed until
he had communicated with the man for whom these here professed such
profound veneration. But this proposal Schoeman had curtly negatived,
nor would he permit any communication whatever with the outside world.
Such farewell words as the prisoner had to leave for relatives or
friends he might remit to the _predikant_, but even these must be
written in the presence of Mynheer himself.
Once the thought of sending for Adrian De la Rey crossed his mind. An
appeal to Adrian's superstitions and a solemn warning to him to withdraw
from this deliberate act of murder might be effectual. But the idea was
scouted as soon as conceived. Adrian had everything to gain by his
destruction--and was he likely to throw away the crowning triumph of his
plot at the very moment of grasping it? Not in the very least likely,
and besides, the barrier of pride rose up against any such course.
And what of Aletta? Never now would he get at the mystery which had
dictated that enigmatical message, never now ascertain what had caused
her great love to fail and waver in distrust and doubt. That Adrian was
behind this, too, he was equally certain. He had not been mistaken in
Aletta. Her nature was no ordinary one to be disturbed and shaken by a
mere ordinary motive for doubt, however craftily suggested. Yet what
was the secret of that doubt? Try, rack his brains as he would, he got
no nearer to it than before. Her words were always in his mind:
`Remember, _I saw_,' but never suggesting even the feeblest glimmer of
explanation. What had she seen--when, where, and how? Nothing that
regarded him. On that point his conscience was perfectly clear. Since
they had exchanged their mutual love vows his conscience, as towards
her, was as clear as the sky above them at that moment. Yes, looking
back now upon those long and happy months, he realised that the latter
end of his life, at any rate, had contained for him all that was worth
living for. And now that he had touched its outer edge, a strange
philosophical feeling of satisfaction that she, at any rate, would not
have her life spoiled by his memory, if she had already learned to
distrust him, came over him--a satisfaction that well-nigh quenched the
bitterness and disillusioning that she had done so. Almost, but not
quite--for, after all, he was but human.
The hours wore on. His guards thrust food and drink--of the coarsest
description--into his prison, and retired without a word, carefully
relocking the door. It was evident that they were under very special
orders, and would answer no questions. He was left once more to his own
thoughts.
Colvin stood in no greater fear of death than most other men who have
more than once seen it very near; yet that helpless sense of being shut
up, to meet it in cold blood at a given time, was a trifle creepy and
unnerving. More than once, in his dreams, he had been under sentence of
death, had even come to the steps of the scaffold, and each time had
seemed every bit as realistic as the last, or, if possible, more so.
Was this, too, a dream? Should he wake up directly and find himself
back again at Pretoria, or at Ratels Hoek, or his own farm? He looked
around. Was he really awake--or was this, too, only another nightmare?
Ah no. It was very real.
About his worldly affairs he felt but scant anxiety. They were all in
order. He was a fairly methodical man, and before leaving for the
theatre of battle and hourly risk he had seen to all that. After all,
some would be the gainers by his end--some perhaps who needed to be,
very sorely--some who would even in consequence remember him with a
little kindness and gratitude. Yet there was but little of the last in
this world, he reflected, tolerantly cynical.
The sun dropped, and the shadows of evening darkened his place of
confinement, and then with the deepening gloom a feeling of great
desolation came over the man, a feeling of forsakenness, and that never
again would his ears receive a word of sympathy or friendship, let alone
love. He hungered for such then. It was the bitterest moment he had
known yet. Seated there on an old wheelbarrow in the close, fusty
smelling stable, with the long night before him, he well-nigh regretted
that he had been allowed the extension of time. It would all have been
over by now. He would have sunk to rest with the evening's sun. Then
upon the black gloom of his mind came the consciousness of approaching
voices--then the rattle and rasping of the padlock, and the door was
opened. One of the guards entered, ushering in three men. He was
bearing, moreover, a lantern and a chair, which having set down, he
retired.
By the somewhat dingy light of the lantern Colvin recognised his
visitors: Schoeman, Jan Grobbelaar, and the _predikant_. He greeted the
last-named, with whom he was already acquainted. Then a thrill of hope
went through his heart. Had they thought better of it and were here to
offer him deliverance?
"We have given your case every consideration, nephew," began the
Commandant in his dry, emotionless, wooden tones. "You have professed
yourself one of us, and by way of proving yourself to be so have
committed the act of a traitor, in that you have set one of our enemies
at large."
"Pardon me, Mynheer Commandant," interrupted Colvin. "I have done no
such thing. I deny it here on the brink of the grave. I will be candid
enough to say that I might have done so had it been in my power. But
you know perfectly well it was not."
"You have committed the act of a traitor," went on Schoeman, ignoring
the protest as completely as though the other had not spoken, "and
therefore you have been adjudged to meet a traitor's doom. But our good
brother Mynheer Grobbelaar here and others have pleaded for you, and so
we have decided to remit that judgment upon you, subject to one
condition. You are to have a chance of proving your good faith. You
are to undertake to serve in arms with the Republican forces where and
whenever required, until it shall please the good God to bring this
cruel and unrighteous war to an end and give victory unto those who
serve Him. And to this end you will sign this declaration."
Colvin took the paper, and by the light of the lantern closely scanned
it--not without eagerness. It was written in Dutch and contained an
oath of submission to the South African Republics and an undertaking to
bear arms on their behalf even as Schoeman had set forward.
"And if I sign this your sentence is not to be carried out, Mynheer
Commandant?" he said quickly.
"In a word, this is the price of my life?"
"That is so," said Schoeman.
"Then I refuse the conditions. I will not sign it. I refuse to draw
trigger on my own countrymen!"
"_Toen_, Colvin. Sign it, man. Sign it!" broke in Swaart Jan eagerly.
"We don't want you to be shot, _kerel_."
"Thanks, Oom Jan. I don't believe _you_ do. But I can subscribe to no
such declaration, be the consequences what they may."
Then Jan Grobbelaar, who was really well disposed towards the prisoner,
became voluble. Why would he persist in throwing away his life in that
foolish manner? He was one with them now, why not throw in his lot with
them openly? It did not matter in the long run. The Republics were
bound to win, since God and justice were on their side--and so on, and
so on. All in vain.
"It is of no use, Oom Jan. I'm grateful to you all the same. But under
no circumstances whatever can I consent to fire on my own countrymen."
The little man was really distressed, and was pouring forth his
volubility once more. But Schoeman interrupted.
"Then you refuse the chance we offer you?"
"On those terms--absolutely."
"Be it so. Your blood be upon your own head. And now we will leave you
with Mynheer, for your hours are but few indeed."
And the two went out--Swaart Jan shaking his head lugubriously over the
astonishing obstinacy of the man he would fain befriend.
Colvin was not one of those who sneer at religion, though his views upon
the subject were broad enough to have earned the thorough disapproval of
the professors of more dogmatic creeds. As we have already hinted, his
motive in sending for the _predikant_ was primarily one of policy,
partly in order to gain time, partly to placate those in whose hands he
was. Yet now that Mynheer had come he was not sorry, in that he had
someone to talk to, and, as we have said, his loneliness had been
getting terribly upon his nerves. So he listened while _the predikant_
read some Scripture and said a few prayers, and when the latter asked
him if he forgave those at whose door lay his death, he answered that he
had no feeling against them; that if they were doing him to death
unjustly--well, he supposed he had done things to other people some time
or other in his life, which they didn't like, and this might go as a
set-off against such. Adrian De la Rey was the hardest nut to crack,
but, on the other hand, he had a grievance which he, Colvin, ought to be
the first person to make allowances for. No--he didn't think he wanted
Adrian to come to grief, although he had said so that morning. It
didn't matter to himself anyhow.
Then he wrote some final letters relating to his worldly affairs, the
_predikant_ having obtained for him, at some difficulty, the requisite
materials. He left a few lines for Stephanus De la Rey, and more than a
few for Aletta. Even then of the girl's presence in the camp Mynheer
Albertyn did not inform him, and the reason lay in Aletta's own wish.
She had decided not to see him. She had saved him--as she thought--and
it were better not to see him. It was part of the bargain with Adrian,
likewise it would bring back all too forcibly the last time she had seen
him.
"Well, Mynheer," said Colvin at length, "now we have put all that
straight we can chat for a little. It seems rather selfish keeping you
up all night like this, and it was very good of you to come. You won't
regret it either. But you don't have to sit up every night with a poor
devil who's going to be shot at sunrise anyhow."
This cheerful calmness under the circumstances was clean outside the
_predikant's_ experience. He felt as though he must be dreaming. It
was unreal. Here was a man whose life had reached the limits of a few
hours, who was to be led forth to die in cold blood, in the full glow of
his health and strength, yet chatting away as unconcernedly as if he
were at home in his own house. Jesting, too, for Colvin had touched on
the comic element, not forgetting to entertain Mynheer with the joke
about old Tant' Plessis and Calvinus. So the night wore on.
The doomed man slept at last, slumbering away the fast waning hours that
remained to him of life.