When a hard unyielding substance such as a lump of rock, thrown with the
full force of a vigorous arm, hits a man fairly on any part of--what Mr
Seth Pecksniff, Emperor of servile hypocrites, once described as--"that
delicate and exquisite portion of human anatomy, the brain," that man
may think himself exceedingly fortunate if he escapes with no more
serious injury than a broken head and a temporary deprivation of his
senses. And such was the first thought that entered the mind of our
friend Tom Flinders when, some hours after he was struck down in the
manner recorded in the foregoing chapter, he found himself capable of
thinking at all--in other words, when he so far recovered from the
stunning effects of the blow he had received as to be able to realise
the fact that he was still in the land of the living.
But though Tom recovered consciousness he certainly did not at once
recover the full use of his reasoning faculties, otherwise he would have
had "nous" enough to remain beneath the friendly shelter of the waggon
until he could be sure that the coast was clear; whereas, instead of
doing this, he must needs crawl out on to the road and take a look round
him. The consequence of his rashness was that four Caffres, who were
still prowling about, pounced upon him before he had time to offer any
resistance, and, pinioning his arms with leathern thongs, marched him
off in triumph.
Wounded as he was, breathless and almost insensible, the poor lad was
half-dragged, half-carried by his savage captors, first across the
Keiskamma Drift, then up the precipitous mountain side, until, shortly
after sunset, they reached a small kraal situated on one of the rocky
spurs of the Amatolas. Here the wretched prisoner's appearance was
hailed with loud shouts of exultation by the few men and the numerous
women and children who inhabited the kraal; and after he had been well
beaten and loaded with abuse (not a word of which he understood) the
thongs that bound his arms were cut, he was stripped of the greater
portion of his clothing, and then ignominiously kicked into a hut, where
his enemies left him to pass the night as best he might, without a drop
of water or the smallest morsel of food.
That Tom Flinders' reflections as he lay, almost in a state of nudity,
on the mud floor of the miserable hut--the interior of which swarmed
with noxious insects and vermin--were not of an agreeable nature may be
readily imagined. A dull feeling of pain racked his weary limbs, his
temples throbbed violently, and a burning thirst consumed him, added to
which his mental anguish bade fair to drive him mad.
He could not help calling to remembrance all that he had heard
concerning the appalling cruelties practised by the Caffres on those
unhappy creatures who chanced to fall into their hands; and the
recollection of these horrors almost made him wish that the piece of
rock had struck him just a little _harder_, or that his captors had put
an end to his existence when they discovered him, instead of reserving
him for a doom of protracted and unutterable suffering.
But Tom was not one to willingly give way to gloomy forebodings, and he
strove hard to change his thoughts; so that presently he found himself
thinking of his parents, especially of his mother, and of their grief at
his sad fate; and next he began to wonder what had become of Captain
Jamieson and faithful Patrick Keown (for when Tom crawled from beneath
the waggon he had not noticed the mutilated bodies of those brave men
lying by the road-side), and of the rest of his comrades--whether any of
them had escaped, and if so whether they would make any search for him.
"They might as well look for a needle in a bundle of forage," said he
half aloud.
But thinking of his absent friends was good for poor Tom, for it made
him remember that he had One Friend who was never absent; and,
reproaching himself for his rebellious and ungrateful feelings and his
want of trust, he rose to his knees and offered up an earnest prayer for
pardon, and for deliverance from his savage enemies.
After which he stretched himself on the floor of his foul prison, and
(in spite of his painful condition and wretched surroundings and the
pangs of almost overwhelming thirst) he at length fell into a heavy
sleep.
Tom remained in a heavy drowsy slumber--half sleep, half stupor--for
eight or nine hours, and when at length he opened his eyes it was broad
daylight. On attempting to get up he discovered that his ankles were
secured by a stout cord, though his arms were still free.
"So the beggars have been paying me a visit during the night," said he,
assuming a sitting posture and taking a look round the hut. "I must
have slept uncommonly sound, for them to have lashed my feet together
without rousing me! Halloa! what's this?" he went on as his eye lighted
upon a gourd and a few green mealies placed just within his reach.
"Come, they don't intend that I should die of thirst, after all!" And
eagerly seizing the gourd, which contained about a pint and a half of
sour milk, he drained it to the dregs.
"I don't remember ever having enjoyed a drink so much!" exclaimed the
poor fellow as he threw down the empty vessel with a sigh. "But oh,
don't I wish there had been three times the quantity!"
The day passed without a soul visiting the prison except one repulsive
old woman, who brought Tom another and larger vessel of milk and some
more mealies during the afternoon, and who, after regarding him with
looks of fiendish malignity, deliberately spat in his face as she left
the hut.
"Beastly old crone!" growled Tom as he raised the milk to his lips and
took a long draught. "What on earth did she want to do that for?" he
added, putting down the half-emptied vessel.
By this time Tom was suffering from the pangs of hunger as well as those
of thirst, and so he set to work on the hitherto neglected mealies, and
managed to dispose of half of them, untempting though they were.
Next day our captive hero was left entirely alone, receiving neither
food nor drink; driven almost to despair he had serious thoughts of
freeing himself from his bonds and rushing out upon his foes, regardless
of consequences, but he found he was too weak to make the attempt. Then
he became quite light-headed, and jabbered and sang to himself, until at
last he fell into a regular stupor; and when he once more awoke to
consciousness he found that there was another prisoner in the hut, and
that prisoner was--Frank Jamieson!