Of the people who live lonely lives, on the veld or elsewhere, few do so
of their own free choice. Some there are shut off from all their kind--
souls sheathed in some film invisible, through which no thrill of
sympathy may pass; some barred by their self-consciousness, heart hungry
still, who never learned in childhood to make friends; some have a
secret or a grief; some, thoughts too big or bad for comradeship. But
most will charge to Fate the thoughtless choice, the chance, or hard
necessity, that drew or drove them to the life apart; they know the
lesson that was learned of old: "It is not good for man to be alone."
Go out among them, ever moving on, whose white bones mark the way for
others' feet--who shun the cities, living in the wilds, and move in
silence, self-contained. Who knows what they think, or dream, or hope,
or suffer? Who can know? For speech among that hard-schooled lot is
but a half-remembered art.
Yet something you may guess, since with the man there often goes--his
dog; his silent tribute to The Book. Oh, it's little they know of life
who cannot guess the secret springs of loneliness and love that prompt
the keeping of a trifling pet; who do not know what moves a man who
daily takes his chance of life and death--man whose "breath is in his
nostrils"--to lay his cheek against the muzzle of his comrade dog, and
in the trackless miles of wilderness feel he has a friend. Something to
hold to; something to protect.
There was old Blake--"mad, quite mad," as everybody knew--of whom they
vaguely said that horses, hounds, coaches, covers, and all that goes
with old estates, were his--once. We knew him poor and middle-aged.
How old to us! Cheery and unpractical, with two old pointers and a
fowling-piece, and a heart as warm as toast. We did not ask each
other's business there; and, judging by the dogs and gun, we put him
down as a `remittance man.' But that, it seems, was wrong. They were
his all.
He left no letters--a little pile of paper ash; no money and no food!
That was his pride. He would not sell or give away his dogs! That was
his love. When he could not keep them it seemed time to go! That was
his madness. But before he went, remembering a friend in hospital, he
borrowed two cartridges and brought him in a brace of birds. That was
old mad Blake, who `moved on' and took his dogs with him, because they
had always been together, and he could not leave their fate to chance.
So we buried him with one on either side, just as he would have liked
it!
There was Turner, who shot the crocodile that seized his dog, and
reckless of the others, swam in and brought the dog to land.
There was the dog that jumped in when his master slipped from the rock,
and, swimming beside him, was snapped down in his stead! And there was
the boy who tried a rescue in the dark--when a rustle, yelp and growl
told that the lions had his dog--and was never seen again.
So it goes, and so it went, from year to year: a little showing now and
then, like the iceberg's tip, from which to guess the bulk below.
There was a Boy who went to seek his fortune. Call him boy or man: the
years proved nothing either way! Some will be boyish always; others
were never young: a few--most richly dowered few--are man and boy
together. He went to seek his fortune, as boys will and should; no
pressure on him from about; no promise from beyond. For life was easy
there, and all was pleasant, as it may be--in a cage. `To-day' is sure
and happy; and there is no `to-morrow'--in a cage.
There were friends enough--all kind and true--and in their wisdom they
said: "Here it is safe: yonder all is chance, where many indeed are
called, but few--so few--are chosen. Many have gone forth; some to
return, beaten, hopeless, and despised; some to fall in sight outside;
others are lost, we know not where; and ah! so few are free and well.
But the fate of numbers is unheeded still; for the few are those who
count, and lead; and those who follow do not think `How few,' but cry
`How strong! How free!' Be wise and do not venture. Here it is safe:
there is no fortune there!"
But there was something stronger than the things he knew, around,
without, beyond--the thing that strove within him: that grew and grew,
and beat and fought for freedom: that bade him go and walk alone and
tell his secret on the mountain slopes to one who would not laugh--a
little red retriever; that made him climb and feel his strength, and
find an outlet for what drove within. And thus the end was sure; for of
all the voices none so strong as this! And only those others reached
him that would chime with it; the gentle ones which said: "We too
believe," and one, a stronger, saying: "Fifty years ago I did it. I
would do it now again!"
So the Boy set out to seek his fortune, and did not find it; for there
was none in the place where he sought. Those who warned him were--in
the little--right: yet was he--in the greater--right too! It was not
given to him as yet to know that fortune is not in time or place or
things; but, good or bad, in the man's own self for him alone to find
and prove.
Time and place and things had failed him; still was effort right; and,
when the first was clear beyond all question, it was instinct and not
knowledge bade him still go on, saying: "Not back to the cage. Anything
but that!"
When many days had passed, it was again a friend who met him, saying:
"Commonsense is not cowardice. You have made a mistake: repair it while
you may. I have seen and know: there is nothing here. Come back with
me, and all will be made easy." And answer, in reason, there was none;
for the little truth was all too plain, and the greater not yet seen.
But that which had swelled to bursting and had fought within for freedom
called out: "Failure is the worst of all!" And the blind and struggling
instinct rose against all knowledge and all reason. "Not back to the
cage! Not that!"
And the heart that had once been young spoke up for Auld Lang Syne: the
old eyes softened and dropped: "God speed you, Boy--Good-bye!" And as
the mail-coach rumbled off the Boy put up his head--to try again.
The days passed, and still there was no work to do. For, those who were
there already--hardened men and strong, pioneers who had roughed it--
were themselves in straitened case, and it was no place for boys.
So the Boy moved on again, and with him a man in, equal plight, but,
being a man, a guide and comfort to the Boy, and one to lead him on the
way. Hungry, they walked all day; yet when the sun went down and light
began to fail the place where work and food and sleep should be was
still far off. The mountain tracks were rough and all unknown; the
rivers many, cold and swift: the country wild; none lived, few ever
passed, that way. When night closed in the Boy walked on in front, and
the man lagged wearily, grumbling at their luck. In the valley at the
mountain foot they came at midnight upon water, black and still, between
them and the cabin's lights beyond; and there the man lay down. Then
the Boy, turning in his anger, bade him come on; and, dragging him out
upon the further bank, had found--unknowing--some little of the fortune
he had come to seek.
Still, morning brought no change; still, was there no work to do. So
the man gave up, and sagging back, was lost. And the Boy went on alone.
Rough and straight-spoken, but kindly men and true, were those he came
among. What they could they did: what they had they gave. They made
him free of board and bed; and, kinder still, now and then made work for
him to do, knowing his spirit was as theirs and that his heart cried
out: "Not charity, but work! Give me work!" But that they could not
do, for there was no work they could not do themselves.
Thus the days and weeks went by. Willing, but unused to fend for
himself--unfit by training for the wild rough life, heart and energy all
to waste, the little he did know of no value there--the struggle with
the ebbing tide went on; it was the wearing hopeless fight against that
which one cannot grapple, and cannot even see. There was no work to be
done. A few days here and there; a little passing job; a helping hand
disguised; and then the quest again. They were all friendly--but, with
the kindly habit of the place: it told the tale of hopelessness too
well. They did not even ask his name; it made no difference.
Then came a day when there was nowhere else to try. Among the lounging
diggers at their week-end deals he stood apart--too shy, too proud to
tell the truth; too conscious of it to trust his voice; too hungry to
smile as if he did not care! And then a man in muddy moleskins, with
grave face, brown beard, and soft blue eyes, came over to him, saying
straight: "Boy, you come along o' me!" And he went.
It was work--hard work. But the joy of it! Shovelling in the icy
water, in mud and gravel, and among the boulders, from early dawn to
dark. What matter? It was work. It was not for hire, but just to help
one who had helped him; to `earn his grub' and feel he was a man, doing
the work of his friend's partner, `who was away.'
For three full weeks the Boy worked on; grateful for the toil; grateful
for the knowledge gained; most grateful that he could by work repay a
kindness. And then the truth came out! The kindly fiction fell away as
they sat and rested on the day of rest. "The claim could not stand two
white men's grub" had fallen from the man, accounting for his partner's
absence.
It was the simple and unstudied truth and calm unconsciousness of where
it struck that gave the thrust its force; and in the clear still air of
the Sunday morning the Boy turned hot and cold and dizzy to think of his
folly, and of the kindness he had so long imposed upon. It was a little
spell before his lips would smile, and eyes and voice were firm enough
to lie. Then he said gently: If he could be spared--he had not liked to
ask before, but now the floods were over and the river turned perhaps it
could be managed--he would like to go, as there were letters waiting,
and he expected news.
Up the winding pathway over rocky ledge and grassy slope, climbing for
an hour to the pass, the toil and effort kept the hot thoughts under.
At the top the Boy sat down to rest. The green rock-crested mountains
stood like resting giants all around: the rivers, silvered by the sun,
threaded their ways between: the air was clear, and cool, and still.
The world was very beautiful from there.
Far, far below--a brownish speck beside the silver streak--stood the
cabin he had left. And, without warning, all came back on him. What he
had mastered rose beyond control. The little child that lies hidden in
us all reached out--as in the dark--for a hand to hold; and there was
none. His arms went up to hide the mocking glory of the day, and, face
buried in the grass, he sobbed: "Not worth my food!"
Science tells that Nature will recoup herself by ways as well defined as
those that rule mechanics. The blood flows upward--and the brain's
awhirl; the ebb-tide sets--and there is rest. Whatever impulse sways
the guiding hand, we know that often when we need it most there comes
relief; gently, unbidden, unobserved.
The Boy slept, and there was peace awhile. Then came faint echoes of
the waking thoughts--odd words shot out, of hope and resolution;
murmured names of those at home. Once his hand went out and gently
touched the turf, reaching for the friend and comrade of the past--one
who knew his every mood, had heard his wildest dreams described, had
seen him, hot-eyed, breathless, struggling to escape the cage; one to
whom the boyish soul was often bared in foolish confidence; one who
could see and hear and feel, yet never tell--a little red retriever left
at home; and the boy stirred and sighed, for answer to the soft brown
eyes.
No! It is not good for man to be alone. A wisp of drifting cloud came
by, a breath of cooler air, and the fickle spirit of the mountain
changed the day as with a wand. The Boy woke up shivering, dazed,
bewildered: the mountain of his dreams had vanished; and his dog was not
there! The cold driving mist had blotted out the world. Stronger and
stronger grew the wind, driving the damp cold through and through; for
on the bleak plateau of the mountain nothing broke its force.
Pale and shaken, and a little stiff, he looked about; then slowly faced
the storm. It had not struck him to turn back.
The gusts blew stronger, and through the mist came rain, in single
stinging drops--portents of the greater storm. Slowly, as he bent to
breast it, the chilled blood warmed, and when the first thunderclap
split overhead, and lost itself in endless roars and rumblings in the
kloofs and hills around, there came a warmth about his heart and a light
into his eye--mute thanksgiving that here was something he could battle
with and be a man again.
On the top of the world the storms work all their fury. Only there come
mist and wind and rain, thunder and lightning and hail together--the
pitiless terrible hail: there, where the hare hiding in the grass may
know it is the highest thing in all God's world, and nearest to the
storm--the one clear mark to draw the lightning--and, knowing, scurries
to the sheltered slopes.
But the Boy pressed on--the little path a racing stream to guide him.
Then in the one group of ghostly, mist-blurred rocks he stopped to
drink; and, as he bent--for all the blackness of the storm--his face
leaped out at him, reflected for one instant in the shallow pool; the
blue-white flame of lightning, blinding his aching eyes, hissed down;
the sickening smell of brimstone spread about; and crashing thunder
close above his head left him dazed and breathless.
Heedless of the rain, blinking the blackness from his eyes, he sat still
for head to clear, and limbs to feel their life again; and, as he
waited, slowly there came upon a colder stiller air that other roar, so
far, so dull, so uniform; so weird and terrifying--the voice of the
coming hail.
Huddled beneath the shelving rock he watched the storm sweep by with
awful battering din that swamped and silenced every other sound--the
tearing, smashing hail that seemed to strip the mountain to its very
bone.
Oh! the wanton fury of the hail; the wild, destructive charge of hordes
of savage cavalry; the stamping, smashing sweep along the narrow strip
where all the fury concentrates; the long black trail of death and
desolation! The birds and beasts, the things that creep and fly, all
know the portents, and all flee before it, or aside. But in the
darkness--in the night or mist--the slow, the weak, the helpless, and
the mothers with their young--for them is little hope.
The dense packed column swept along, ruthless, raging, and unheeding,
overwhelming all... A sudden failing of its strength, a little
straggling tail, and then--the silence!
The sun came out; the wind died down; light veils of mist came slowly
by--bits of floating gossamer--and melted in the clear, pure air.
The Boy stepped out once more. Miles away the black column of the
falling hail sped its appointed course. Under his feet, where all had
been so green and beautiful, was battered turf, for the time transformed
into a mass of dazzling brilliants, where jagged ice-stones caught the
sunlight on their countless facets, and threw it back in one fierce
flashing glare, blinding in its brilliance.
On the glittering surface many things stood out.
In the narrow pathway near the spring a snake lay on its back, crushed
and broken; beyond it, a tortoise, not yet dead, but bruised and
battered through its shell; then a partridge--poor unprotected thing--
the wet feathers lying all around, stripped as though a hawk had
stricken it, and close behind it all the little brood; and further
afield lay something reddish-brown--a buck--the large eyes glazed, an
ooze of blood upon its lips and nose. He stooped to touch it, but drew
back: the dainty little thing was pulp.
All striving for the sheltering rocks; all caught and stricken by the
ruthless storm; and he, going on to face it, while others fled before--
he, blindly fighting on--was spared. Was it luck? Or was there
something subtle, more? He held to this, that more than chance had
swayed the guiding hand of fate--that fortune holds some gifts in store
for those who try; and faith resurgent moved him to a mute Te Deum, of
which no more reached the conscious brain than: "It is good to be alive!
But... better _so_ than in the cage."
Once more, a little of the fortune that he had come to seek!
At sunset, passing down the long rough gorge, he came upon one battling
with the flood to save his all--the white man struggling with the
frightened beasts; the kaffir swept from off his feet; the mad
bewildered oxen yielding to the stream and heading downwards towards the
falls--and in their utmost need the Boy swam in and helped!
And there the long slow ebb was stayed: the Boy was worth his food.
But how recall the life when those who made it set so little store by
all that passed, and took its ventures for their daily lot; when those
who knew it had no gift or thought to fix the colours of the fading
past: the fire of youth; the hopes; the toil; the bright illusions gone!
And now, the Story of a Dog to conjure up a face, a name, a voice, or
the grip of a friendly hand! And the half-dreamed sound of the tramping
feet is all that is left of the live procession long since passed: the
young recruits; the laggards and the faint; the few who saw it through;
the older men--grave-eyed, thoughtful, unafraid--who judged the future
by the battered past, and who knew none more nor less than man--
unconscious equals of the best and least; the grey-hued years; the
thinning ranks; the summons answered, as they had lived--alone. The
tale untold; and, of all who knew it, none left to picture now the life,
none left to play a grateful comrade's part, and place their record on a
country's scroll--the kindly, constant, nameless Pioneers!