A HOMERIC COMBAT
When Mr. Alston and Ernest found themselves safe upon Transvaal soil,
they determined to give up the idea of following any more big game for
the present, and to content themselves with the comparatively humble
wilderbeeste, blesbok, springbok, and other small antelopes. The plan
they pursued was to slowly journey from one point of the country to
another, stopping wherever they found the buck particularly plentiful.
In this way they got excellent sport, and spent several months very
agreeably, with the further advantage that Ernest obtained considerable
knowledge of the country and its inhabitants, the Boers.
It was a wild rough life that they led, but by no means a lowering one.
The continual contact with Nature in all her moods, and in her wildest
shapes, to a man of impressionable mind like Ernest, was an education
in itself. His mind absorbed something of the greatness round him, and
seemed to grow wider and deeper during those months of lonely travel.
The long struggle, too, with the hundred difficulties which arise in
waggon-journeys, and the quickness of decision necessary to avoid
danger or discomfort in such a mode of life, were of great service to
him in shaping his character. Nor was he left without suitable society,
for in his companion he found a friend for whose talents and
intelligence he had the highest respect.
Mr. Alston was a very quiet individual; he never said a thing unless he
had first considered it in all its bearings; but when he did say it, it
was always well worth listening to. He was a man who had spent his life
in the closest observation of human nature in the rough. Now you, my
reader, may think that there is a considerable difference between human
nature “in the rough,” as exemplified by a Zulu warrior stalking out of
his kraal in a kaross and brandishing an assegai, and yourself, say,
strolling up the steps of your club in a frock coat, and twirling one
of Brigg’s umbrellas. But, as a matter of fact, the difference is of a
most superficial character, bearing the same proportion to the common
substance that the furniture polish does to the table. Scratch the
polish, and there you have best raw Zulu human nature. Indeed, to
anybody who has taken the trouble to study the question, it is simply
absurd to observe how powerless high civilisation has been to do
anything more than veneer that raw material, which remains identical in
each case.
To return. The result of Mr. Alston’s observations had been to make him
an extremely shrewd companion, and an excellent judge of men and their
affairs. There were few subjects which he had not quietly considered
during all the years that he had been trading or shooting or serving
the Government in one capacity or another; and Ernest was astonished to
find, although he had only spent some four months of his life in
England, how intimate was his knowledge of the state of political
parties, of the great social questions of the day, and even of matters
connected with literature and art. It is not too much to say that it
was from Mr. Alston that Ernest imbibed principles on all these
subjects which he never deserted in after-life, and which subsequent
experience proved to be for the most part sound.
And thus, between shooting and philosophical discussion, the time
passed on pleasantly enough, till at length they drew near to Pretoria,
the capital of the Transvaal, where they had decided to go and rest the
oxen for a month or two before making arrangements for a real big-game
excursion up towards Central Africa. They struck into the Pretoria road
just above a town called Heidelberg, about sixty miles from the former
place, and proceeded by easy stages towards their destination.
As they went on, they generally found it convenient to out-span at
spots which it was evident had been used for the same purpose by some
waggon that was travelling one stage ahead of them. So frequently did
this happen, that during their first five or six out-spans they were
able on no less than three occasions to avail themselves of the dying
fires of their predecessors’ camp. This was a matter of lively interest
to Ernest, who always did cook; and a very good cook he became. One of
the great bothers of South African travelling is the fire question.
Indeed, how to make sufficient fire to boil a kettle when you have no
fuel to make it of is the great question of South African travel. A
ready-made fire is, therefore, peculiarly acceptable; and for the last
half-hour of the trek Ernest was always in a great state of expectation
as to whether the waggon before them had or had not been considerate
enough to leave theirs burning.
Thus it came to pass that one morning, when they were about fifteen
miles from Pretoria, which they expected to reach the same evening, and
the waggon was slowly drawing up to the outspan-place, Ernest,
accompanied by Mazooku, who lounged about after him like a black
shadow, ran forward to see if their predecessors had or had not been
considerate. In this instance energy was rewarded, for the fire was
still burning.
“Hoorah!” said Ernest. “Get the sticks, Mazooku, and go and fill the
kettle. By Jove! there’s a knife.”
There was a knife, a many-bladed knife, with a buck horn handle and a
corkscrew in it, left by the dying fire. Ernest took it up and looked
at it; somehow it seemed familiar to him. He turned it round, examined
the silver plate upon it, and suddenly started.
“What is the matter, Ernest?” said Mr. Alston, who had joined them.
“Look there,” he answered; pointing to two initials cut on the knife.
“Well, I see some fellow has left his knife; so much the better for the
finder.”
“You have heard me speak of my friend Jeremy. That is his knife; I gave
it to him years ago. Look—J. J.”
“Nonsense! it is some knife like it; I have seen hundreds of that
make.”
“I believe that it is the same. He must be here.”
Mr. Alston shrugged his shoulders.
“Not probable,” he said.
Ernest made no answer. He stood staring at the knife.
“Have you written to your people lately, Ernest?”
“No; the last letter I wrote was down there in Secocoeni’s country; you
remember I sent it by the Basutu who was going to Lydenburg, just
before Jeffries died.”
“Like enough he never got to Lydenburg. He would not have dared to go
to Lydenburg after the war broke out. You should write.”
“I mean to, from Pretoria; but somehow I have had no heart for
writing.”
Nothing more was said about the matter, and Ernest put the knife into
his pocket.
That evening they trekked down through the “Poort” that commands the
most charming of the South African towns, and, on the plain below,
Pretoria, bathed in the bright glow of the evening sunshine, smiled its
welcome to them. Mr. Alston, who knew the town, determined to trek
straight through it and outspan the waggon on the farther side, where
he thought there would be better grazing for the cattle. Accordingly,
they rumbled on past the gaol, past the pleasant white building which
afterwards became Government House, and which was at that moment
occupied by the English Special Commissioner and his staff, about whose
doings all sorts of rumours had reached them during their journey, and
on to the market-square. This area was at the moment crowded with Boer
waggons, whose owners had trekked in to celebrate their “nachtmaal”
(communion), of which it is their habit, in company with their wives
and children, to partake four times a year. The “Volksraad,” or local
Parliament, was also in special session to consider the proposals made
to it on behalf of the Imperial Government, so that the little town was
positively choked with visitors. The road down which they were passing
ran past the buildings used as Government offices, and between this and
the Dutch church a considerable crowd was gathered, which, to judge
from the shouts and volleys of oaths—Dutch and English—that proceeded
from it, was working itself up into a state of excitement.
“Hold on,” shouted Ernest to the voorlooper; and then, turning to Mr.
Alston, “There is a jolly row going on there; let us go and see what it
is.”
“All right, my boy; where the fighting is, there will the Englishmen be
gathered together;” and they climbed down off the waggon and made for
the crowd.
The row was this. Among the Boers assembled for the “nachtmaal”
festival was a well-known giant of the name of Van Zyl. This man’s
strength was a matter of public notoriety all over the country, and
many were the feats which were told of him. Among others it was said
that he could bear the weight of the after-part of an African buck
waggon on his shoulders, with a load of three thousand pounds of corn
upon it, while the wheels were greased. He stood about six feet seven
high, weighed eighteen stone and a half, and had a double row of teeth.
On the evening in question this remarkable specimen of humanity was
sitting on his waggon-box with a pipe, of which the size was
proportionate to his own, clinched firmly between his double row of
teeth. About ten paces from him stood a young Englishman, also of large
size, though he looked quite small beside the giant, who was
contemplating the phenomenon on the waggon-box, and wondering how many
inches he measured round the chest. That young Englishman had just got
off a newly arrived waggon, and his name was Jeremy Jones.
To these advances a cringing Hottentot boy of small size. The Hottentot
is evidently the servant or slave of the giant, and a man standing by
Jeremy, who understands Dutch, informs him that he is telling his
master that an ox has strayed. Slowly the giant rouses himself, and,
descending from the waggon-box, seizes the trembling Tottie with one
hand, and, taking a reim of buftalo-hide, lashes him to the
waggon-wheel.
“Now,” remarked Jeremy’s acquaintance, “you will see how a Boer deals
with a nigger.”
“You don’t mean to say that great brute is going to beat that poor
little devil?”
Just then a small fat woman put her head out of a tent pitched by the
waggon, and inquired what the matter was. She was the giant’s wife. On
being informed of the straying of the ox, her wrath knew no bounds.
“Slaat em! slaat de swartsel!” (Thrash him! thrash the black creature!)
she cried out in a shrill voice, running to the waggon, and with her
own fair hands drawing out a huge “sjambock,” that is, a strip of
prepared hippopotamus-hide, used to drive the after-oxen with, and
giving it to her spouse. “Cut the liver out of the black devil!” she
went on, “but mind you don’t hit his head, or he won’t be able to go to
work afterwards. Never mind about making the blood come! I have got
lots of salt to rub in.”
Her harangue, and the sight of the Hottentot tied to the wheel, had by
this time attracted quite a crowd of Boers and Englishmen who were
idling about the market-square.
“Softly, Vrouw, softly; I will thrash enough to satisfy even you, and
we all know that must be very hard where a black creature is in
question.”
A roar of laughter from the Dutch people round greeted this sally of
wit, and the giant, taking the sjambock with a good-humoured smile—for,
like most giants, he was easy-tempered by nature—lifted it, whirled his
great arm, thick as the leg of an average man, round his head, and
brought the whip down on the back of the miserable Hottentot. The poor
wretch yelled with pain, and no wonder, for the greasy old shirt he
wore was divided clean in two, together with the skin beneath it, and
the blood was pouring from the gash.
“Allamachter! dat is een lecker slaat” (Almighty! that was a nice one),
said the old woman; at which the crowd laughed again.
But there was one man who did not laugh, and that man was Jeremy. On
the contrary, his clear eyes flashed and his brown cheek burned with
indignation. Nor did he stop at that. Stepping forward, he placed
himself between the giant and the howling Hottentot, and said to the
former, in the most nervous English:
“You are a damned coward!”
The Boer stared at him and smiled, and then, turning, asked what the
“English fellow” was saying. Somebody translated Jeremy’s remark,
whereupon the Boer, who was not a bad-natured fellow, smiled again, and
remarked that Jeremy must be madder than the majority of “accursed
Englishmen.” Then he turned to continue thrashing the Hottentot, but,
lo! the mad Englishman was still there. This put the Dutchman out.
“Footsack, carl; ik is Van Zyl!” (Get out, fellow; I am Van Zyl!) This
was interpreted to Jeremy by the by-standers.
“All right; and tell him that I am Jones, a name he may have heard
before,” was the reply.
“What does this brain-sick fellow want?” shouted the giant.
Jeremy explained that he wanted him to stop his brutality. “And what
will the little man do if I refuse?” “I shall try to make you,” was the
answer. This remark was received with a shout of laughter from the
crowd which had now collected, in which the giant joined very heartily
when it was interpreted to him.
Giving Jeremy a shove to one side, he again lifted the great sjambock,
with the purpose of bringing it down on the Hottentot. Another second,
and Jeremy had snatched the whip from his hand, and sent it flying
fifty yards away. Then, realising that his antagonist was really in
earnest, the great Dutchman solemnly set himself to crush him. Doubling
a fist which was the size of a Welsh leg of mutton, he struck with all
his strength straight at the Englishman’s head. Had the blow caught
Jeremy, it would in all probability have killed him; but he was a
practised boxer, and, without moving his body, he swung his head to one
side. The Boer’s fist passed him harmlessly, and, striking the panel of
the waggon, went clean through it. Next instant several of the giant’s
double row of teeth were rolling loose in his mouth. Jeremy had
returned the stroke by a right-hander, into which he put all his power,
and which would have knocked any other man backwards.
A great shout from the assembled Englishmen followed this blow, and a
counter-shout from the crowd of Dutchmen, who pointed triumphantly to
the hole in the stout yellow-wood panel made by their champion’s fist,
and asked who the madman was who dared to stand against him.
The Boer turned and spat out some of his superfluous teeth, and at the
same instant a young Englishman came and caught hold of Jeremy by the
arm.
“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, be careful! That man will kill you;
he is the strongest man in the Transvaal. You are a fellow to be proud
of, though!”
“He may try,” said Jeremy laconically, stripping off his coat and
waistcoat. “Will you hold these for me?”
“Hold them?” answered the young fellow, who was a good sort; “ay, that
I will, and I would give half I have to see you lick him. Dodge him;
don’t let him strike you, or he will kill you. I saw him stun an ox
once with a blow of his fist.”
Jeremy smiled.
“Stop,” he said. “Ask that coward, if I best him, if he will let off
that miserable beggar?” and he pointed to the trembling Hottentot.
The question was put, and the great man answered, “Yah, yah! I will
make you a present of him!” ironically, and then expressed his
intention of knocking Jeremy into small pieces in the course of the
next two minutes.
Then they faced one another. The giant was a trifle over six feet seven
high; Jeremy was a trifle under six feet two and a half, and looked
short beside him. But one or two critical observers, looking at the
latter now that he was stripped for the encounter, shrewdly guessed
that the Dutchman would have his work cut out. Jeremy did not, it is
true, scale more than fourteen stone six, but his proportions were
perfect. The great deep chest, the brawny arms—not very large, but a
mass of muscle—the short strong neck, the quick eye, and massive leg,
all bespoke the strength of a young Hercules. It was evident, too, that
though he was so young, and not yet come to his full power, he was in
the most perfect training. The Boer, on the other hand, was enormous,
but his flesh was somewhat soft. Still, knowing his feats, the
Englishmen present sighed for their champion, feeling that he had no
chance.
For a moment they stood facing each other; then Jeremy made a feint,
and, getting in, planted a heavy blow with his left hand on his
adversary’s chest. But he was to pay for it, for the next second the
Dutchman got in his right hand, and Jeremy was lifted clean off his
feet, and sent flying backwards among the crowd.
The Boers cheered, the giant smiled, and the Englishmen looked sad.
They knew how it would be.
But Jeremy picked himself up little the worse. The stroke had struck
the muscles of his chest, and had not hurt him greatly. As he advanced,
the gradually increasing crowd of Englishmen cheered him warmly, and he
swore in his heart that he would justify those cheers, or die for it.
It was at this juncture that Ernest and Mr. Alston came up.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the former; “it is Jeremy.”
Mr. Alston took in the situation at a glance.
“Don’t let him see you; you will put him off,” he said. “Get behind
me.”
Ernest obeyed, overwhelmed. Mr. Alston shook his head. He recognised
that Jeremy had a poor chance, but he did not say so to Ernest.
Meanwhile Jeremy came up and faced the Dutchman. Encouraged by his late
success, presently his adversary struck a tremendous blow at him.
Jeremy dodged, and next instant succeeded in landing such a fearful
right and left full on the giant’s face that the latter went reeling
backwards.
A yell of frantic excitement arose from the English portion of the
crowd. This was indeed a David.
[Illustration: “This was indeed a David.”]
The Dutchman soon recovered, however, and, rendered more cautious, in
his turn, kept out of Jeremy’s reach, trying to strike him down from a
distance. For a round or two no important blow was struck, till at last
a brilliant idea took possession of the young fellow who had charge of
Jeremy’s coat.
“Hit him about the body,” he whispered; “he’s soft.”
Jeremy took the advice, and next round succeeded in getting in two or
three blows straight from the shoulder, every one of which bruised the
Boer’s huge body sadly, and made him rather short of wind.
Next round he repeated the same tactics, receiving himself a stroke on
the shoulder from Van Zyl’s right hand that for a moment rendered his
left arm helpless. Before another second was over, however, Jeremy had
his revenge, and the blood was pouring from his adversary’s lips.
And now the popular excitement on both sides grew intense, for to the
interest attaching to the encounter was added that of national feeling,
which was then at a high state of tension. Englishmen, Dutchmen, and a
mob of Kafirs yelled and shouted, and each of the former two felt that
the honour of his people was on the issue. And yet it was an unequal
fight.
“I believe that your friend will be a match for Van Zyl,” said Mr.
Alston, coolly, but the flash of his eye belied his coolness; “and I
tell you what, he’s a devilish fine fellow, too.”
At that moment, however, an untoward thing happened. The giant struck
out his strongest, and Jeremy could not succeed in entirely warding off
the blow, though he broke its force. Crashing through his guard, it
struck him on the forehead, and for a moment he dropped senseless. His
second rushed up and dashed some water over him, and in another instant
he was on his legs again; but for the rest of that round he contented
himself with dodging his adversary’s attack, at which the Dutchmen
cheered, thinking that his iron strength was broken.
But presently, when for the sixth time Jeremy came up with the same
quiet look of determination in his eyes, and, except that the gaping of
the nostrils and the twitching of the lip showed a certain measure of
distress, looking but little the worse, they turned with anxiety to
examine the condition of the giant. It was not very promising. He was
perspiring profusely, and his enormous chest rose and fell in jerks.
Wherever Jeremy’s strokes had fallen, also, a great blue bruise had
risen on his flesh. It was evident that his condition was the worse of
the two, but still the Boers had little doubt of the issue. It could
not be that the man could be worsted by an English lad, who, for a bet,
with one hand had once quelled the struggles of a wild ox, holding it
for the space of five minutes by the horn. So they called on him to
stop playing with the English boy, and crush him.
Thus encouraged, the giant came on, striking out with fearful force,
but wildly, for he could not box. For thirty seconds or more Jeremy
contented himself with avoiding the blows; then, seeing an opportunity,
he planted a heavy one on his adversary’s chest. This staggered Van Zyl
and threw him off his guard, and, taking the offensive, Jeremy dodged
in right under the huge fists that beat the air above him, and hit
upwards with all his power. Thud, thud! The sound of the blows could be
heard fifty yards off. Nor were they without their effect. The giant
staggered, threw up his arms, and, amidst fearful shouts and groans,
fell like an ox struck with a pole-axe. But it was not over yet. In
another moment he was on his legs again, and, spitting out blood and
teeth, whirling his hands like the sails of a windmill, reeled straight
at Jeremy, a fearful and alarming spectacle. As he came, again Jeremy
hit him in the face, but it did not stop him, and in another second the
huge arms had closed round him and held him like a vice.
“Not fair! no holding!” shouted the Englishmen; but the Boer held on.
Indeed, he did more. Putting all his vast strength into the effort, he
strained and tugged, meaning to lift Jeremy up and dash him on the
ground. But lo! amid frantic shouts from the crowd, Jeremy stood firm,
moving not an inch, whereupon the Boers called out, saying that he was
not a mortal, but a man possessed with a devil! Again the Dutchman
gripped him, and this time succeeded in lifting him a few inches from
the ground.
“By George, he will throw him next time!” said Mr. Alston to Ernest,
who was shaking like a leaf with the excitement; “look!—he is turning
white; the grip is choking him.”
And, indeed, Jeremy was in evil case; his senses were fast being
crushed out of him in that fearful embrace, and he vas thinking with
bitter sorrow that he must fail after all, for an Englishman does not
like to be beaten even when he has fought his best. Just then it was,
when things were beginning to swim around him, that a voice he loved,
and which he had been listening for these many months, rang in his
ears; whether it was fancy or whether he really heard it he knew not.
“Remember ‘Marsh Joe,’ Jeremy, and _lift him._ Don’t be beat. For God’s
sake, lift him!” said the voice.
Now there was a trick, which I will not tell you, but which a famous
Eastern Counties’ wrestler, known as Marsh Joe, had taught to Jeremy.
So well had he taught him, indeed, that at the age of seventeen Jeremy
had hoisted his teacher with his own trick.
Just at the moment that Jeremy heard the voice, the giant shifted his
hold a little, preparatory to making a fresh effort, and thus enabled
his antagonist to fill his lungs with air. Ernest saw the broad white
chest heave with relief, for by this time most of the upper clothing of
the combatants had been wrenched away, and the darkening eye grow
bright again, and he knew that Jeremy had heard him, and that he would
conquer or die where he was.
And then—lo, and behold! just as the Boer, feeling that at last he was
master of the situation, leisurely enough prepared himself for the
final struggle, suddenly the Englishman advanced his right leg a few
inches, and with the rapidity of lightning entirely shifted his grip.
Then he gathered himself for the effort. What secret reserve of
strength he drew on, who can say? But Ernest’s voice had excited it,
and it came at his call: and he did a thing that few living men could
have done, and the fame of which will go down in South Africa from
generation to generation. For the Englishman’s lithe arms had found
their hold; they tightened and gripped till they sunk in almost level
with the flesh of his mighty foe. Then slowly Jeremy began to gather
purchase, swaying backwards and forwards, and the Dutchman swayed with
him.
“Make an end of him! make an end of him!” shouted the Boers. But
behold! their champion’s eyes are starting from his blackened face; his
head sinks lower and lower, his buttocks rise: he cannot stir.
To and fro sways Jeremy, and now the giant’s feet are lifted from the
ground. And then one slow and mighty effort—oh, gallant Jeremy!—up,
still up above the gasping of the wonder-stricken crowd, up to his
shoulders, Heaven, over it!
Crash!
Van Zyl fell, to be carried away by six strong men a cripple for life.