It was a respectable and fair-sized house of the ordinary colonial
fashion, with a broad covered verandah in front, and fine shady trees
inside the rails--a comfortable and homely place, with nothing special
about it to denote the character or position of its owner, except those
two heavily armed sentinels at the gate.
Yet our heroes shivered slightly at the thought of the coming interview,
and wished they could have put it off.
They were not frightened physically of this avowed and relentless enemy
of their countrymen. Whatever he might sentence them to, they were
prepared to meet and endure bravely.
It was his craft that they dreaded, lest he should by some devilish
artifice lure them into a trap, and so get something out of them which
would hurt their friends. They were frightened of themselves, not of
this wily and ferocious Boer of Boers.
They were going to be sounded by the man who had been able to deceive
and outwit the smartest British diplomatists, and instinctively they
felt how powerless they would be in his hands.
That they were taken before him, prior to their examination by the
landdrost, was a sign that he suspected them of being in the possession
of some secret, which he would do his best to worm out of them. His
scowls and threats they could defy, but his preternatural cunning they
trembled to think about.
"Courage, boys, and caution," whispered Ned, as they paused for a moment
outside the gate. "Let me conduct the palaver as much as possible with
this ponderous Machiavelli."
"Right you are, Ned," answered his chum in awestruck tones. "I wish we
were safe back in the tronk, though."
"So do I."
Kruger, the man who could spoof Great Britain, and drive his own people
like a flock of sheep, appeared, before they saw him in their
imagination, to be almost as colossal a character as their ideal hero,
Cecil Rhodes. Throughout Africa these two giants stood facing each
other, while the rest of the world watched and waited the result of
their deadly duel. Kruger, the champion of everything that was
despicable, oppressive, and false; Rhodes, the champion of chivalry,
humanity, and progress.
Kruger had won his past triumphs by treachery and unscrupulous
steadfastness. He stood like a rock, defying reform. Rhodes also was
another rock, guarding the lands outside this camp of treason. Kruger
had been able to humbug the Imperial Government, and get what he wanted
from them easily; but he could not humbug this sleepless and powerful
watcher.
Kruger had his agents and spies everywhere; so also had Rhodes. He was
fighting this Boer with his own weapons.
Kruger was rich, but he liked to hoard his capital, and get as much as
he could for nothing or by promises. Cecil Rhodes spent his wealth
lavishly.
Kruger was working for his own hand, and with the malignant purpose of
weakening his enemy and causing discord amongst the nations. Rhodes had
devoted his life and his wealth for his country's welfare, and for the
security of Africa. The one was a tyrant of the worst order; the other
was inspired by the purest and most disinterested patriotism. The one
was distrusted and disliked generally all round, even by a large section
of his subjects; the other was universally respected and loved for his
courage, brain-power, and unimpeachable honesty.
Our heroes had seen for a few moments the first champion of
civilisation; they were now about to look upon his antagonist, the
impious father of lies.
There was an air of stillness and depression about the place, which
these two immovable policemen accentuated. The shady verandah looked
dark almost in contrast with the blazing brightness outside. As the
boys looked under the branches, the idea occurred to them that they were
about to enter the web of a gigantic human spider. They could get in
easy enough, but how would they come out?
They were not, however, kept long waiting at the gate. Their guards
stopped suddenly, grounded their rifles; then, while the two gatekeepers
saluted, they were pushed forward and entered the shadows. In another
moment they were ushered, without ceremony, into the presence of the
master.
It was a large reception-room in which Kruger sat, with a wide stretch
between the door and the table at his side.
On the table were placed a huge silver tobacco-box, a large clasp Bible,
and what the young men noted more particularly, the small "three ace"
watch-guard tokens which had been taken from them with their other
effects. There were also a few papers placed handy for, the president
to reach.
He sat in a big, crimson-covered armchair, with a spittoon at his feet,
and his pipe in his mouth. Behind him, on the wall, they saw through
the tobacco mist a large and harshly painted oil portrait of himself.
The room was smelling like a tap-room, while clouds of rank tobacco reek
floated densely overhead.
Yet that portrait riveted their eyes, and forced them to look at it
before even the original could command their attention--it was such an
exaggerated and hideous reproduction of all his worst points. It was
also so crudely and vilely painted that it seemed like a gross
caricature. Indeed, it was hardly human, but rather as if it had been
an imaginative attempt on the part of a house-painter, to depict a
gorilla-like, semi-humanised monster.
A large red face, with swollen heavy features; narrow, bestial forehead;
small, crafty, and sullen eyes, with a baboon-like fringe of white-grey
hair running from the large flapping ears to below the heavy chin. The
lips were shapeless, yet relentless in their downward curve.
A strange guttural and gurgling sound growled out, and drew their
wondering looks from the portrait to the man himself. President Kruger
was speaking; at least, they supposed that loud and deep mouthful of
explosive gutturals and gurglings was his mode of expressing himself.
It must have been an order, for as they glanced round, they noticed the
guards quitting the apartment, and found themselves alone with the
monster and his secretary or interpreter.
He was looking at them from under his sullen, pent brows, with ice-cold,
piggish eyes that made them shiver again in spite of their efforts to
appear brave. He was so horribly ugly, so revoltingly animal-like, and
so utterly unsympathetic, that they instinctively recoiled before him.
He grinned ogreishly as he observed this step backward, and taking his
pipe in his huge, hairless, flabby hand, he puffed out a volume of smoke
and expectorated loudly into the spittoon. Then he resumed his pipe,
and leaned back in his chair, still watching them intently. He had awed
them, and he was evidently delighted with the effect which he had
produced, for he chuckled hoarsely as he sent out another huge volume of
smoke from his wide mouth.
That grim chuckle, with the undertaker-like costume and vulgar
deportment of the animal, undid the first effect of his savage glare.
The boys looked again, and saw only an unmannerly, brutal, and hog-like
old man, with the ugliest face they had ever seen; with elephantine
proportions and shapeless great feet, filling out a gimcrack crimson
chair, while his fat, coarse hands gripped the sides. His portrait had
not flattered him, yet it was distinctly like him, with all its artistic
faults. The narrowness and dense ignorance were all there in both
picture and sitter, so also the intolerance, obstinacy, and brutality
painfully pronounced with his greed, cunning, and plebeian meanness. He
was the same sort of Boer as those that they had seen on the farms
ill-treating their servants and cattle, the same superstitious and rude
dopper who read his Bible and doggedly shut out charity from his heart.
All the rudeness, filthy habits, and moroseness of his race were here in
unbending and irredeemable force, carved and cemented by age and habit
into the hardness of cast iron.
They were no longer appalled by his ugliness; instead, they were looking
at him with undisguised loathing and contempt. Was this the man who had
hoodwinked men of intellect--this low-bred, stupid, and surly beast,
whose only qualities were vindictive hatred and ignorant, stupid conceit
and arrogance? Surely he could deceive no one who stood face to face
with him, for that countenance was an open index of all the mean vices
which make men abhorred and despised? He looked and acted as if his
proper place was amongst hod-carriers, not politicians.
They had hit upon the keynote of his dangerous power in their misplaced
contempt. It was this appearance of stupidity that threw keen men off
their guard when dealing with him--this and his hypocritical cant. He
looked no more intellectual than an ignorant local preacher, and as he
was constantly preaching, they forgot to look under his words. Behind
all these state platitudes, and copy-book texts, he plotted with the
cunning and ferocity of a relentless savage.
After watching them for full five minutes with half-shut eyes, while he
puffed like a steam-engine at his pipe, he made a motion with one blunt
forefinger towards the table. His attendant at once rose and handed him
the tobacco-box.
This was not what he wanted; still, while it was there, he filled his
pipe and lit it afresh. Then he beckoned again. This time the
secretary handed him one of the ace trinkets. He took it in the palm of
his paw, and regarded it with suspicious eyes; then the lips widened and
the cheeks bulged out, while another mouthful of harsh sounds were
belched forth. The secretary explained this jumble of gutturals to our
heroes.
"Why do you wear this badge? What does it signify?"
Ned explained that it was the badge of a club in Johannesburg, of which
he and his companions were members.
The president broke out as soon as he had spoken, and the secretary went
on with his questions.
"We know that well enough; but how came you strangers to be members of
this club?"
Ned answered because they wished it. There was no law against
Englishmen joining it at once on their arrival.
"Take care, younker, and remember where you are. Answer questions, but
don't make remarks. How many members are there?"
"I don't know."
"What is the object of this club? Take care how you answer. We know
already that its object is against the State."
"Then it is more than I do," answered Ned, boldly.
"What is done there?"
"Magazine and newspaper reading and letter-writing. Some of the members
smoke, some play dominoes, but not often."
"And this design--what does it mean?"
"The ace of hearts, the ace of spades, and the ace of diamonds."
"Yes?"
"That's all."
"Why not the ace of clubs as well?"
"Ah! I don't think the citizens of Johannesburg have got that ace,"
answered Ned, innocently.
A chuckle came from the armchair. Then President Kruger for the first
time spoke in very fair English--the tongue he understood perfectly but
hated so viciously. As he spoke he smiled a fat wrinkly smile that gave
his face a simple and grotesque expression of good humour. His voice
was thick and rumbling.
"You are a slim carl for your age, younker. How old are you?"
"Eighteen," replied Ned.
"And you, my young brakjes?"
Not knowing that "brakje" was a term of contempt, they answered freely
enough. Again Kruger chuckled, while he shook his ponderous head and
pointed his clumsy finger at them.
"Far too young to be mixed up in conspiracy and treason. Young
gentlemen like you ought to stay in your own country, and not come here
breaking the laws and making riots."
"We have done nothing, your Excellency," said Ned.
"Do you call it nothing to knock down four honest burghers, smash the
nose of one and the jawbone of another? Do you call it nothing to
threaten my police with a revolver, and use the insolent language you
have done?"
He had risen to his feet by this time, pulled himself out of the chair
ponderously and by degrees. As he stood now towering above them like a
hippopotamus, he impressed them with his physical strength. His eyes
were beginning to lighten up dangerously.
"I have you in the hollow of my hand, you miserable brakjes, as I hold
every dog in my country. What you have so foolishly spoken entitles you
to hard labour for some years. The assault you committed on the
authorities is punishable by death. Do you think I can allow my men to
be injured in this way by boys--eh?"
"We were only defending ourselves. They struck at us first and without
the slightest cause."
"It is a verodomde lie. You belong to a nation of liars and vipers,
allermachtij!" shouted Kruger, savagely, an ominous gurgle coming from
his throat, while his right arm began to swing as if about to strike
them, and his eyes became buried under the flesh of his upper lids.
Ned bit his lips and remained silently facing this ogre, with flashing
looks.
"Ugh!" gurgled the president, controlling his rising temper as suddenly
as it had been raised. "I can do all this to you, and no one dare stop
me, not even your queen," he added childishly. "I am master here, and
what I will is fate. I can send you to my worst prison, where you will
rot all your miserable days. But I can also be kind and merciful to
those who deserve my clemency. Now, if you will be good younkers and
tell me all that you know, I shall pardon you, and never send you for
trial at all--nay, more, I'll give you each a nice billet, where you can
serve the Republic and make your fortune. Now, are you going to be good
younkers and give me all your confidence freely, as if I was your
father, or your tender-hearted uncle--Oom Paul, you know," he chuckled
unctuously--"or must I send you to rot in the tronk?"
"We are English, your Excellency, and sons of the Empire, not Dutch
spies and traitors," answered Ned, for his companions, proudly and
without a pause.
"Then go and--rot!" roared Kruger, bringing his big fist down on the
table with a bang that made tobacco-box and Bible jump. "Send these
ruffians to the landdrost, and let the law take its course."
The last our heroes saw, for that time, of the humane president of the
Republic, was him puffing furiously at his pipe, with his ugly face
distorted and his eyes out of sight.
"I guess he doesn't like to be contradicted," said Ned, as the police
once more marched them off.