England was powerless to help the Uitlanders as long as they chose to
remain inert and submissive under the yoke. Dr Jameson and his
dauntless band had demonstrated that no outside heroism could lift the
yoke from their shoulders while they bent beneath it so passively. Only
from their own ranks must the Wallace and the Bruce rise to free them.
Ned and his chums had already read some of the literature of these
Uitlanders, explaining and excusing themselves for their inaction during
the Raid, or even supporting the tyrants in their oppression. These
books and pamphlets had, before they reached the country, made them
grind their teeth with fury. Fancy a Wallace and a Bruce waiting for
the sanction of the Government before they took up their swords! Fancy
their supporters waiting for permission before they rose to help their
heroes!
Our heroes, although consuming with those high-souled ideas which all
brave and romantic boys must feel, and which the men of Johannesburg had
apparently outgrown, still watched with wonder the mighty edifices they
passed.
Their wonder increased as they came to the suburbs, and saw the avenues
and tall, shady trees which had all sprung up like magic out of the bare
veldt--stately groves, over a hundred feet in height, all created in six
years; beautiful gardens, luxuriant shrubberies, costly and artistic
villas, grassy lawns, orchards, and tropic climbers covering up
unsightly places with cool and exquisite loveliness. It was as if
Aladdin had rubbed his magic lamp, and lo! his enslaved genius had done
the trick.
The Uitlanders were the enslaved genii that had wrought this miracle
upon that treeless veldt. Their civilised skill and educated intellects
had accomplished what would have taken centuries to achieve under the
Boer system. Yet the ignorant Boers were the masters, and ruled over
intellect and civilisation. This, to our heroes, seemed even more
incongruous and wonderful than the marvels which were spread out before
them. However had it come to pass? However could it have gone on so
long? How much longer could it possibly continue?
They were still trying to solve the problem when they drove up through a
delightful avenue of trees, and stopped in front of a large and stately
mansion. It was the Transvaal home of Clarence Raybold.
Everywhere they looked, the evidence of wealth and lavish outlay stared
them in the face--in the grounds with its trees and lawns, which had
been forced and kept green by expensive irrigation; in the vast columns
and carved work of the masonry. Mr Raybold had expended a fortune on
the rearing of this suburban palace as a testimony to his wealth. Even
Clarence was impressed as he led the way up the steps and knocked at the
heavy, polished front door.
Mr Raybold, although surrounded by so much luxury, was a bluff and
hearty man, who put on no airs of dignity. He welcomed his son with
affectionate warmth and his two friends with genuine hospitality.
Clarence had written about their intentions from Cape Town, so that they
were expected, and found their rooms all prepared.
While they were having something to eat to keep them going till dinner,
a man was sent with a trap to bring their luggage.
Mr Raybold heard the account of their arms being taken by the Boers
with a grim smile; but he made no other comment than to say he would do
his best to have them returned, or kept safely for them until they left
the Transvaal.
It was only when they were leaving the dining-room to have a bath and
change their clothes, that he closed the door carefully, and said in an
impressive undertone--
"Be very careful how you express any opinion about the Government,
outside or inside. Also trust no one, however friendly they may appear.
Remember always that we are as much under surveillance here as people
are in Russia. Paul Kruger has his spies and secret detectives
everywhere."
"But this is most horrible," cried the boys together. Mr Raybold
merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled the same grim smile.
"Careless words are sometimes very costly in Johannesburg, and a silent
tongue is worth a great deal more than its weight in gold here. We
don't talk much in society here, and never about politics."
"But your wrongs?" asked Ned, "We leave that to the newspapers to air,
and to those who have no money to be confiscated in fines."
The heart of Ned sank as he listened to these wise and prudent words of
this successful citizen. Gold was the chain which the Uitlanders had
forged for themselves; and while the supply continued, it seemed
hopeless to expect them to make any effort towards deliverance.
The three lads went off to dress themselves sadly and silently.
Clarence hung his head with shame for all the splendour which appeared
so many tokens of his father's fall from independence; while his chums,
out of sympathy and pity for him, refrained from looking at him.
It is terrible for a brave and generous boy to feel ashamed of his
father. Poor Clarence went into the sumptuous room appointed to him,
and, after locking the door, he flung himself on a couch and groaned in
the bitterness of his heart.
He remembered his father before he had come to the Transvaal and before
he was quite so rich. Thus he had good cause to look up to him with
pride, for he was a strong, fearless, and self-reliant man, who could
never have uttered such words as he had done that afternoon. What a
change those six years of tyranny had wrought in him! He looked older
now by a dozen years. His eyes had lost their straight, outward look,
and his face had become softer and flabbier, while his voice had no
longer its decided ring. All this was not the father he expected to
meet.
He did not remember much about his mother, for she had died while he was
very young. Somehow he felt glad now for the first time to think that
she had died before the Transvaal migration. It would have utterly
broken his heart had he seen the same servile look on her face as he had
seen on his father's.
All at once he pushed those wretched feelings from his heart, to replace
them by an increased hatred for the Boers who had wrought this evil--the
old obstinate baboon of Pretoria, who stood and with his darkened mind
stemmed the tide of civilisation. Ah, how Clarence abhorred Oom Paul
Kruger that afternoon!
Fred Weldon bathed and dressed himself quietly, thinking all the time
upon poor Clarence, and wishing that he could comfort him, as Clarence
had done when he lost his father. He felt now that death was not the
worst calamity which could happen to a boy with his father. Time cured
that; but what could cure the death of respect?
"Perhaps he is only lying low, like Brer Rabbit, and playing Indian for
a special purpose. That would be quite fair in a game of this kind. I
must give old Clar this idea and hope."
He grew cheerful after this, and very soon persuaded himself that such
must be the case. Indeed, before he had finished dressing he was
mentally regarding Mr Raybold as a dark conspirator, only waiting
events to ripen, to blossom out into a daring hero of the William Tell
order.
Ned, when he got into his room, also locked his door behind him; then he
unlaced his boots, and putting his hand inside, pulled out the folded
sheet of paper.
It was not so clear as he should have liked, but the address was
readable and the paper intact.
He was too honourable to open the missive, although, had he done so, he
would have been no wiser, as the contents were written in cypher. The
address was as follows:--
"Mr Philip Martin, Johannesburg."
Having read it, and noted the name, he wrapped it up within a clean
piece of note-paper, and placed it for the time within his purse.
He meant to ask his host that night if he knew this gentleman, and if
so, he would call upon him after dinner.
But by good luck, when he got down to the library, where Mr Raybold was
waiting for his young guests, he found the very man he wanted. He had
come to dine with Mr Raybold.
Ned looked at the man whom the great empire-maker had written to with
interest, nor was he disappointed in his ideal.
Philip Martin was a strong man, and looked a bold one also. He was
about five feet eight inches in height, with a deep, wide chest and a
massive neck. He had a good deal the air of a sailor about him, which
his navy-blue serge suit and turned-down collar helped. His eyes were
dark and piercingly bright, while over them were thick black eyebrows.
His beard was cut short and pointed, and his features were pronounced,
while his complexion was swarthy. He was quick and decided in his
motions, and had a sonorous voice that loomed through the room.
Altogether he looked a man of strength, character, and indomitable will.
Just the sort of man that Ned could admire.
Ned opened his purse, and took out his note, removing the outer covering
without being observed. Then, watching his chance when he was left
alone with Mr Martin, he approached him, and said--
"I think this is for you, Mr Martin. I got it from a gentleman on the
veldt three nights ago."
"Thanks."
Mr Martin opened the note carelessly; then, as soon as he saw the
contents, he started, and crushed it quickly into his pocket.
"You have not shown any one this note, have you?"
"No; I was told to be careful about it, and give it only to you, sir."
"What kind of man was it who gave it to you?"
"It was the Honourable Cec--"
"Hush! I am satisfied. It is all right. Do not say any more."
He went over to the fire, and after reading it carefully, he put it
amongst the logs, and watched it burn; then he stirred the ashes with
his foot, and turned once more to Ned.
"You have done a great service in giving me this so promptly, and I
shall be happy if I can serve you in return."
"I was too proud to be entrusted with it, sir."
"Then you are one of the writer's many admirers, I presume?"
"Yes, sir. There is no man I admire so much or would like to serve
more."
Mr Martin looked at Ned keenly for some time without speaking, then he
said--
"The writer of that note tells me I may trust you and your companions.
He is seldom wrong in his reading of character, and in this instance my
own opinion agrees with his, respecting you at least. I haven't seen
your chums yet."
"You may safely trust us all to the death, sir, in anything honourable.
We have sworn to stick together."
"To the death, you say! Well, I may even want as desperate a pledge as
that. But can I trust your temper and discretion?"
Ned blushed as he remembered his afternoon fit of passion, but he
replied firmly--
"I hope so, sir."
"Had you that note on you this afternoon when you assaulted those two
Boers?"