A lady’s account of the fearful ordeal she underwent as a young girl
on an estate in Natal--locked up in a tiny church, whither she had
gone to practise a Christmas voluntary, with a huge python!
It was Christmas Eve, and one of the hottest days I remember during my
sojourn in Natal. The recollection of that day, spite of the many years
that have since passed, is so vividly imprinted on my mind that I can
still see the heated atmosphere as it danced and shimmered over the cotton
bushes and the rows of beans down the hillside.
The last stroke of the twelve o’clock gong summoning the gangs of Kaffirs
to their midday repast and siesta had died away, and never a sound broke
the stifling noontide stillness save the booming of the surf on the lonely
sea-shore, three miles distant from my father’s plantation--the Beaumont
Estate, as it is now called. The eye ached as it travelled over the
glaring, sun-dried landscape that lay stretched before me, and sought
grateful relief in the shady depth of the dark orange grove and spreading
loquat trees that sheltered the veranda on which I lounged on my luxurious
cane couch.
My father was a retired Anglo-Indian officer, who, having won distinction
during the Indian Mutiny, had taken up a “military grant” of about two
thousand acres of land in the Colony of Natal. He judged this to be an
excellent opening for my brother Malcolm, who, although showing a strong
desire to follow in his father’s military footsteps, lacked the capability
and application requisite to pass the competitive examinations for the
Army.
We had been, by this time, about three years in the Colony, and had half
the estate under cultivation. Whether father was satisfied with the
results I do not know. But, drowsily reviewing the situation on this
particular afternoon, I came to the conclusion that a man who has spent
the best years of his life in the Army cannot metamorphose himself
immediately into an agricultural success.
I was aroused from my cogitations by Malcolm’s voice exclaiming: “Why,
Jessie, I do believe you were asleep!”
“I was, very nearly,” I confessed. “This heat makes the physical exertion
of unclosing my eyelids a task to which I do not feel equal.”
“When are you going down to the church?” he asked, as he tapped his cane
against the leg of his long riding-boot.
“Now,” I declared, sleepily, “if you will come with me. Sam says he has
got enough flowers and greenstuff to fill two churches.” Sam, I should
explain, was the Kaffir boy whose duty it was to ring the bell for
service, hand the collection-bag round, and gather the flowers for the
church decorations. St. John-in-the-Wilderness, as it was called, stood on
my father’s land, a shining beacon of corrugated iron and wood.
Struggling to my feet, I reached for my hat and green-lined umbrella, and
stood ready, waiting to accompany my brother.
“Don’t take Nellie,” I protested, as the fat old bulldog gambolled about,
panting and snorting in spite of the heat, in anticipation of a walk. But
Nellie proved obdurate alike to threats and entreaties, and presently
scampered off down the hill, leaving us to follow.
Half-way across the Flat we came to one of those exquisite little streams
that are so frequently met with on the coast of Natal. Crossing this on
stepping-stones, we reached the opposite bank, whence it was but a few
paces through the narrow bush path to the clearing in the jungle where
stood St. John-in-the-Wilderness.
“Look, Jessie, the door is open!” exclaimed Malcolm. “I suppose that
duffer Sam didn’t lock it properly this morning when he put the flowers
in.”
“Probably,” I returned, gaining his side on the vestry steps. “The lock
has got so stiff that I cannot turn the key myself, so I am not
surprised.”
The dim, subdued light inside the church caused us to pause a moment or so
before observing the extravagant profusion of flowers, palms, and ferns
that Sam had gathered--truly more than enough for the decoration of two
churches the size of ours.
“How glorious!” I cried, kneeling by the side of this floral wealth and
picking up a bloom of the delicately-tinted waxen ginger. “What would they
say to Christmas decorations like this in England?”
“I think,” announced my brother, ignoring my ecstasies, “that I will just
run over and inspect a gang at work at the other end of the Flat, and then
I’ll join you and we can work undisturbed.”
[Illustration: THE AUTHORESS, MRS. K. COMPTON, WHO HERE RELATES HER
TERRIFYING ADVENTURE WITH A HUGE PYTHON.
_From a Photo. by W. J. Hawker._]
I willingly agreed to this arrangement, as I wanted to practise some hymns
for the morrow. To astonish our scanty congregation I thought I would put
my musical genius to the test and attempt a voluntary.
Picking up his sun helmet and cane, Malcolm prepared to go.
“Don’t be long, there’s a dear,” I said. “And I think you had better lock
the door and take the key, because the door won’t keep shut unless it is
locked, and I do not care to have it open.”
“What are you afraid of?” laughed Malcolm, as he went out once more into
the sunshine.
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure, but when I am alone I prefer to have the door
shut.” Still laughing, he turned the key in the lock and went off.
Left by myself in the silent little church, I drew off my gloves and
prepared to open the harmonium.
It occupied a position under a window in the chancel, on the first of the
three wide steps leading to the sanctuary, on the right-hand side of the
church. Immediately opposite was the vestry door by which we had entered,
and between the harmonium and the vestry lay the pile of flowers and
greenstuff for the decorations, so that I, seated at the organ, had my
back towards the flowers. Two rush-bottomed chairs stood near, one bearing
a basket of extra choice white flowers I intended for the altar vases; the
other was on the right side by the harmonium, supporting the small
repertoire of music that I needed for the service.