“Nine carets ef it’s a blessed one.”
“Scale ‘im, an’ ye’ll find he’s a half better. Clear es a bottle o’
gin, an’ flawless es the pope! Tommy Dartmoor, ye’re in luck, s’ welp me
never ef ye ain’t, an’ that’s a brilliant yer can show the polis an’ not
get time fer.”
Tommy Dartmoor, who owed his surname to a crown establishment within the
restraining walls of which he had once enjoyed a temporary residence,
growled out a recommendation to “stow that,” and then added, “Boys,
we’ll wet this. Trek to Werstein’s.”
Forthwith a crowd of dirty, tanned diggers turned their heads in the
direction of Gustav Werstein’s American Bar, and walked toward it as
briskly as the heat and their weariness would admit of. The Israelite
saw them coming, straightened himself out of the half-doze in which
he had passed the baking afternoon, stopped down the tobacco in the
porcelain bowl of his long-stemmed pipe with stumpy forefinger, and,
twisting a cork off his corkscrew, stood in readiness.
“Name yer pizons, boys, an’ get outside ‘em, wishin’ all good luck to
R’yal Straight; R’yal Straight bein’ the name o’ this yer stone given by
Thomas D. Hesquire, original diskiverer an’ present perprietor.”
The orders were given,--bass at five shillings a bottle, champagne
(nee gooseberry) at five pounds, Cape smoke at two shillings per two
fingers,--and, at a given signal, there was an inarticulate roar from
dusty throats, an inversion of tumblers over thirsty mouths, and a
second inversion over the ground to show that all the contents had
disappeared.
Satan, the one cat and only domestic pet of the camp, saw that there was
a general treat going on, and bustling up for his drink took a can of
condensed milk at six shillings. Other diggers came trooping in as the
news spread, and Tommy Dartmoor, who was rapidly becoming mellow, for
he drank half a tumbler of raw whisky with every one who nodded to
him, stood them refreshments galore, while the greasy Jew began to see
visions of his adopted fatherland in the near distance.
So the Kaffirs, except those who had supplies of their own, kept sober
and peaceful, while the higher order of the human race at Big Stone
Hole, after the manner of their kind, began to squabble. It was natural
for them to do so, perhaps, for the weather was so hot, and the liquors,
for the most part, more so; and under these circumstances men do not
always cast about them long for a casus belli. One or two minor brawls
opened the ball, and Herr Gustav, scenting battle in the air, drew from
a locker a card, which he balanced against the bottles on a shelf above
his head. It read thus:
GENTS IS REKESTED TO SHOOT
CLEAR OF THE BARR-KEP.
BROKIN GLAS MAY BE PADE FOR
AT COST PRISE.
and had been written for the German by a gentleman who had had
some experience in Forty Rod Gulch, Nevada. The action elicited a
contemptuous laugh from one or two of the new hands, but the oldsters
began shifting sundry articles which depended from their belts into
positions from which they might be handled at the shortest notice;
and the black cat, more wise than any of them, having drunk his fill,
stalked solemnly out into the security of the darkness.
The sun went down,--went out with a click, some one declared,--and,
as no twilight interposed between daylight and darkness in the country
which Big Stone Hole ornamented, Herr Gustav lit his two paraffin-lamps.
Neither boasted more than a one-inch wick, and, as their glasses were
extremely smoky, the illumination was not brilliant; but it sufficed to
show the flushed, angry faces of a couple of men standing in the centre
of the room, with all the others clustered round, watching eagerly. One
was the Scholar. The other was a burly giant, whose missing left little
finger caused him to be nicknamed the Cripple. About what they had
originally fallen out was not clear to any one, to themselves least of
all. As the case stood when the second lamp was lit, Scholar had called
Cripple a something-or-other liar, and Cripple, who was not inventive,
had retorted by stigmatising Scholar as another. Further recriminations
followed, and their pistols were drawn; but as the audience had a strong
objection to indiscriminate shooting, by which it was not likely to
benefit, the belligerents were seized. No one was unsportsmanlike enough
to wish to stop the fight, and Jockey Bill, giving voice to the general
wish of the meeting, proposed that the gents be fixed up agin’ a couple
o’ posts outside, where they might let daylight into each other without
lead-poisoning casual spectators.
The motion was acted on, and after rectifying a slight omission on
the Cripple’s part--he had forgotten to put caps on the nipples of his
revolver--the pair of them were seated upon upturned barrels some ten
yards apart, each with a lamp at his feet, and told to begin when they
saw fit to do so. The swarthy, bearded diggers grouped themselves on
either side, and the cat, emerging from his retreat, scrambled on to
the shoulder of one of them, fully as curious as the rest to “see the
shootin’.” It was a weird sight,--dust, scorched grass, empty tins, rude
hovels, piles of debris, African moonlight,--yet, except, perhaps, in
the eyes of the newest comers, there was nothing strange in it. The
others were too wrapped up in what was going to take place to see
anything quaint in their every-day surroundings. There was no theatre in
the camp. The little impromptu drama riveted all attention.
But before the duel commenced, a galloping horse, which had approached
over the grassy veldt unnoticed during the excitement, drew up with a
crash between the two combatants, and its rider, raising his hand to
command attention, cried:
“Boys, there’s a white woman comin’!”
“A white woman!” was chorused in various tones of disbelief. “What,
here? White woman comin’ here, Dan?”
And then some one inquired if she was a Boer.
“Boer--no,” replied Dan; “English--English as I am; leastways Englisher,
bein’ Amurrican-born myself. Overtook her et Hottentot Drift. Thort I’d
spur on an’ tell yer. We’d do wi’ a clean-up, some on us.”
Dan spoke indistinctly, as a bullet had lately disarranged some of his
teeth; but his words had a wonderful effect.
Each man began instinctively to tidy himself. The would-be duellists,
forgetting their quarrel, stuck the revolvers in their belts and
followed the general example. The Cripple hied him to the store, and
after breaking down the door abstracted the only blacking-brush in the
camp,--putting down a sovereign on the counter in exchange for it,--and
set to polishing his high boots as if a fortune depended on their
brightness. The Scholar bought Herr Gustav’s white shirt for a fiver,
threatening to murder its owner if he did not render it up. And
Partridge, a good man from Norfolk, with a regrettable weakness for
shooting other people’s game, induced a friend to denude him of his
flowing locks by means of a clasp-knife and a hunk of wood, as no
scissors were procurable.
The wardrobes of Big Stone Hole were stocked more with a view to strict
utility than variety or ornamentation, and the slender resources of the
store utterly gave out under the sudden strain that was put upon them.
In every direction grimy, unkempt men might be seen attempting to
beautify themselves. Here was one enduring agonies from a razor that
would scarcely whittle a stick; here another recalling the feel of a
cake of soap; there a great fellow pulling faces as he struggled to get
the teeth of a comb into his shock of hair; there another brushing the
clay from his moleskin trousers with a tuft of stiff grass.
It seemed to these men ages since they had last seen a woman in
the flesh,--Kaffir women don’t count; they are not women, merely
Kaffirs,--and, with the natural instinct of males of every species, they
set about pluming their feathers.
These operations, though speedy as might be, were necessarily prolonged,
for most of the men required several buckets of water over the head
before they felt fit for such unaccustomed exercises, and they were
scarcely finished before the creaking of wheels and the cries of the
voorlooper as he urged his oxen announced that the wagon was within
earshot. Up it came, the great tilt gleaming white in the moonlight, and
every eye was fixed expectantly on the dark chasm within. The driver,
puffed up with his own importance, cracked his long whip and deigned not
to notice the men whom he usually greeted with a friendly hail, and the
Hottentot boy ahead, imitating his master, vouchsafed no explanation.
With more deathly slowness than usual did the lumbering vehicle crawl
along until the tired cattle pulled up before the door of the American
Bar. Then there was a rush and a bit of a scuffle for the honour of
handing the woman out. The Cripple was the fortunate man, and, after
assisting her to the ground, waved his tattered hat toward the gleaming
open doorway. But he did not speak. Words were beyond him. Indeed, the
diggers, who were none of them particularly remarkable for taciturnity
as a general thing, seemed, with one exception, to be stricken dumb.
But the Scholar proved himself equal to the occasion, and with courtly
phrase bade the new-comer welcome to the camp. He had always been a
popular man among women in his palmier days, though openly holding
rather a poor opinion of them; and as the one before him now was neat
of speech and comely of form, he was not at all averse to enjoying her
society and conversation.
“I should be much obliged if you would direct me to a hotel,” she said,
after taking a look around the cheap gaudiness of the saloon.
“I’m sorry to say that we have no hotel here as yet, Miss--er--?”
“Musgrave. Miss Mary Musgrave”--with a little bow. “But I heard that a
German had started a hotel here.”
“No; there is nothing but this. That”--pointing to Herr Gustave, who was
regarding the newcomer with an evil eye--“that is the German.”
Miss Musgrave appeared distressed.
“Then where can I go?” she asked. “Are there any lodgings to be had?”
“The lady may have my place,” chorused three eager voices, and every man
in the room repeated the offer.
She thanked them with a pretty smile and one comprehensive bow, and
looked up at the Scholar for help.
“I would offer you my hut if it were not such a wretched one. But, as
it is, I should advise you to take this man’s”--and he pointed to Tommy
Dartmoor.
“Why, mine’s twenty carats better than hisn!” exclaimed the Cripple.
“And mine better ‘n either,” growled Dan.
“Mine’s the best of the lot.”
“No, it isn’t; mine is,” yelled others, till there was a general roar,
which caused Miss Musgrave to look frightened and shrink nearer to the
Scholar, and that gentleman to raise his hand for silence.
“Look here,” said he, “we’ll pick out the twelve best, and their owners
can cut with one another from a pack of cards.”
After some discussion twelve were settled upon, but the number was
immediately raised to thirteen to prevent Jockey Bill disgracing the
camp by shooting before a lady. A pack of cards was placed on the bar,
and each man chose one, holding his selection face downward till all
were ready. Then the Scholar said, “Turn,” and there were exhibited five
aces, two kings, a queen, three knaves, and two smaller cards. This was
awkward, to say the least of it, and, while sarcastic laughter rippled
among the spectators, there was an instinctive movement of right hands
toward the back of the belt on the part of each of the thirteen.
But the Scholar’s voice, full of remonstrance, said, “Boys, you’re being
looked at,” and there was a regretful sigh or two, but no bloodshed.
Miss Musgrave gazed inquiringly from one to another, and the Scholar,
laying his hand on her arm, whispered something in her ear. She smiled,
whispered back, and was answered, and then, stripping off a pair of
well-fitting fawn gloves, she took the cards in a pretty little white
hand, and dealt out one to each of the competitors with charming
clumsiness.
“Ain’t touched a keard afore, bless her,” whispered Euchre Buck, giving
his neighbor Dan a nudge in the ribs to call attention to this wonderful
piece of girlish innocence. “Square a deal es George Washington mought
ha’ made.” Then, as the greasy pasteboards were turned up, and his
neighbour was handed the ace of clubs, he raised his voice and yelled
out, “Bully for you, Dan! Cut away an’ clar yer cabin out.”
Away scampered Dan out into the darkness, with the rest of the crew at
his heels. Their home comforts were very small, poor fellows; but each
gave of his best, though the gifts were often incongruous enough.
In half an hour the cabin was fitted out with a small cracked
looking-glass, two combs, an old hair-brush,--still wet from the
wash,--a pail, a frying-pan, three kettles, two three-legged stools, and
so many blankets that some were requisitioned to carpet the floor. The
whole crowd accompanied Miss Musgrave to her door and gave her a
cheer by way of good-night. She bowed to them, smiling her thanks, and
looking, as they thought, entrancingly lovely as she stood there, with
the pale moonbeams falling full on her.
Then she turned to go in, but as Euchre Buck stepped forward with an
admonishing cough, she waited and looked round at him.
“Miss,” said he, holding out a big revolver in his hard fist, “you take
this yer gun, an’ ef any one whistles, or otherwise disturbs you, let a
hole into him straight away, an’ we’ll see him buried decent.”
But Miss Musgrave courteously, and with profuse thanks, refused the
offer, and, saying that she had perfect confidence in all who were
around her, gave Euchre Buck a bewitching smile, went inside, and closed
the door after he.
Then the diggers returned to Gustav Werstein’s American Bar and
discussed the new arrival.
“I known Noomarket an’ Hascot an’ Hepson, an’ all the places where
swells goes in England,” said Jockey Bill, enthusiastically; “but never
one come there as pretty as she, stop my license if ther’ did.”
“Grand eyes, hain’t she?” said Tommy Dartmoor. “Regular fust-water ‘uns.
Here’s to ‘em!”
“And-a-hoof! See it peep below her gownd. S’ welp me ef it wer’ es big
as my ‘bacca-box!”
“An’ ‘er close, gentlemen! Made to measure, every thread on ‘em, I
allow.”
“She’s a lady, boys,” exclaimed he who had offered to see after a
funeral, “a reg’lar slap-up, high-toned, blow-yer-eyes-don’t-touch-me
lady; an’ as she sees fit to do the civil to this fellar”--striking
himself on the chest--“he’s just going to drop his professional name,
an’ arsk yer to call him Mister Samuel K. Gregson, Esquire. Play on
that.”
Next morning the inhabitants of Big Stone Hole were startled by reading
this announcement outside the cabin which Dan had resigned to Miss
Musgrave:
SINGING AND MUSIC TAUGHT.
LITERARY WORK DONE.
It was printed on a card, which was affixed to the door by means of a
drawing-pin, and from within came the sound of a contralto voice singing
to a guitar accompaniment. One by one the male residents of Big Stone
Hole drew near to that iron-roofed hut and stopped to listen; but after
commenting on the innovation in gleeful whispers--for guitar had never
twanged in that part of Africa before--they moved on to their work. No
consideration could cause them to neglect that. They might fritter away
the dull, rough gems when they had found them, but the lust of handling
diamonds once was the strongest passion they knew. And so the day’s
toil was not curtailed; but at the conclusion Miss Musgrave had an
application for instruction in music from every man in the camp, with
one exception. This one defaulter was Euchre Buck. He owned to having
no ear for music--thereby exhibiting more honesty than many of the
others--and confessed to knowing only two tunes, one of which was
“Hail Columbia,” and the other--wasn’t; and so he said he wanted some
“literary work done.” He proposed to Miss Musgrave that she should write
a history of his life at half a guinea a page, thereby--cute Yankee that
he was--thinking to appropriate the whole of her time.
But embarrassed by all these calls upon her, and obviously unable to
satisfy each of them, Miss Musgrave turned for help to the Scholar,
whom she appeared to regard as her special adviser; and he, promising a
solution of the difficulty in half an hour, drew off the whole crowd to
the American Bar, where the question was thrashed out in all its points.
It was clearly evident that Miss Musgrave could not surrender to each
individual the whole of her evening, even if any one had been willing to
let his neighbor monopolise it, which no one was; and therefore it
was necessary to formulate some scheme by which her talents might be
distributed over a larger area. But what the scheme should be was not
settled all in a minute. One man wanted to hear her sing, another to
hear her talk, another was willing to give five pounds an hour for the
privilege of talking to her. After a lengthened discussion, which was
excited throughout, and at times verged on the warlike, it was
decided to effect a compromise--subject, of course, to Miss Musgrave’s
inclinations; and a deputation was sent to learn her views on the
subject.
There was no assembly-room in the place, excepting Werstein’s
saloon,--which, of course, was not available for such a purpose,--and so
it was proposed to her, with much humility, that she should take up her
position in the evenings on a chair outside her hut, and there discourse
such vocal and instrumental music as she saw fit, interlarding the
same with friendly conversation. What was she to talk about?
Anything--absolutely anything. They didn’t mind what it was, so long as
they heard her voice. Five shillings, the committee had decided, was to
be paid by every man who came within earshot. And any one who wanted a
free list was requested to argue the matter out with Euchre Buck.
This call upon her powers seemed to take Miss Musgrave aback.
“I have never sung in public,” she pleaded, rather nervously. “Indeed,
my voice is not good enough for it; really it isn’t. Only I thought
I could teach a little perhaps, and that is why I came here. You see,
mother, is an invalid, and we were so very poor that--”
“Miss,” broke in Jockey Bill, “call it ten bob a ‘ead, an’ just ‘um to
us.”
“Oh no, Mr. William, it was not the money that I thought about; indeed,
five shillings would be far too much. But if you think that I should be
able to amuse you at all, I would do my very best--believe me, I would.”
“Miss,” growled Dan, with a clumsy endeavour to chase away her
diffidence, “all we asks is fer you to sit near us fer a spell. Ef you
sings or plays, we’d be proud; ef you just looks an’ talks, we’d be
pleased.”
So in the end Miss Musgrave yielded to the wishes of the community, and
the nightly conclave in the American Bar became so much a thing of the
past that Gustav Werstein was heard to threaten another emigration. The
songs were to the diggers new, and yet not new. There was nothing of the
music-hall type about them; they were nearly all old-fashioned ditties.
She sang to them of “Barbara Allen” and “Sally in our Alley”; she
gave them “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” and called for a chorus; she sang “The
Message,” “The Arrow and the Song”; and she brought back memories of
other days when Africa was to them a mere geographical expression--of
days when that something had not happened which had sent them away from
home.
Sunday came, the fifth day after her arrival, and it differed from the
usual Sabbath of Big Stone Hole. Sunday had been observed before by
the biggest drinking bout of the week, and a summary settlement of the
previous six days’ disputes. Now, to the huge surprise of the Kaffirs,
and to the still greater surprise of themselves, these diamond-diggers
sang hymns at intervals during the day, and refrained from indulging in
the orthodox carouse till after Miss Musgrave had retired for the night.
It was a wonderful change.
During the next week a fall of earth took place in Tommy Dartmoor’s
claim. Two Kaffirs were killed; and when the proprietor himself was
extricated from the debris of blue clay which held him down, he was
found to have a broken arm, besides other serious injuries.
“Don’t let on to her,” he managed to gasp out to his rescuers, wishing
to spare Miss Musgrave’s nerves a shock.
But she saw the men bearing him to his hut, joined them, and insisted on
being installed as sole nurse forthwith.
Twenty other men would willingly have broken an arm for such a reward;
and the recklessness displayed during the next few days was something
awful. But she saw that too,--little escaped those big blue eyes,--and,
ascribing it to drink, gave a pretty strong lecture on the bibulous
habits of Big Stone Hole, at her next concert.
There was an earnest meeting in the American Bar that night, at which
the following motion was put and carried unanimously: “On and after this
date, any drunken man is liable to be shot at sight, unless his friends
can prove that he has dug over three carats of diamonds during the day.”
And then, like other reformers, they went on to more sweeping measures:
“Only knife-fighting to take place in the camp. All disputes with
pistols, unless of a very pressing nature, to be settled out of earshot
of Dan’s house.” There were even some hints of appointing a closing-time
for the saloon--“it would make the place so much more like home.” But
the promoter eventually withdrew his suggestion, as it was justly felt
that such a motion would interfere with the liberty of the subject too
much. But a storm of cheers burst forth when it was proposed to
transfer the diamond-safe from Werstein’s keeping to a corner of the new
goddess’s shrine.
Even Satan, the cat, joined in the general adoration, and, more favoured
than the rest, enjoyed at times a chaste salute from Miss Musgrave’s
ripe-red lips.
Never, in so short a space of time, had a community been more changed
for the better than was that of Big Stone Hole. Never had woman’s
humanising influence made itself more clearly felt. The azure cloud
of blasphemy that hung over the workings and the rest of the camp was
replaced again by the normal dust. Each man tried to beautify the inside
of his shanty to the best of his means and ideas, for there was no
knowing when the only “she” would take it into her pretty, capricious
head to pay a call. In this latter line the Scholar had a decided pull.
Education had taught him taste; necessity, handiness; and by aid of
the two he transformed his rude dwelling into something approaching the
rooms in which he used to dawdle away the happy hours, time ago. It was
partly drawing-room, partly curiosity-shop. Cups, saucers, and spoons
appeared as if by magicians’ call, and one blazing afternoon the news
flashed round the diamond-pits that Miss Musgrave was “taking afternoon
tea with the Scholar.” But when the Scholar saw the dismay his simple
act had spread around him, he dissipated it with a kindly laugh and a
few reassuring words.
“Don’t mind me, boys. I was only doing the civil in a purely platonic
manner. Miss Musgrave is nothing to me, nor am I anything to her. Heaven
forbid! I’m too hard a bargain for any girl. If any one of you marries
her I’ll act as his best man if he asks me to, and wish him every
felicity without a thought of regret.”
“Bully for the Scholar!” yelled the delighted crowd; and Miss Musgrave’s
smiles were more sought after than ever.
So things went on day after day, week after week, till Miss Musgrave
became little short of an autocratic empress. But still she showed no
signs of taking unto herself a consort; she kept all men at a cousinly
distance, and those who felt intimate enough to address her as “Miss
Mary” accounted themselves uncommonly fortunate. Thus the little machine
of state worked perfectly harmoniously, and Big Stone Hole was as steady
and prosperous a settlement as need be.
Had these diggers refreshed their minds by looking back for historical
parallels, they might have been prepared in some degree for Miss
Musgrave’s exit from among them, but as none of them indulged in such
retrospections the manner of it took the camp somewhat by surprise.
It was first discovered in this wise. Work was over for the day. The
Kaffirs had been searched and had returned to their kraal. Pipes
were being lit after the evening meal, and a picturesque assembly was
grouping itself in an expectant semicircle on the sun-baked turf in
front of Miss Musgrave’s dwelling. She was usually outside to welcome
the first comers, and her absence naturally formed the staple topic
of conversation. Digger after digger arrived, threw himself down, and
joined in the general wonderment as to why Miss Mary wasn’t there, and
at last some one hazarded a suggestion that she “must be asleep.” There
was a general epidemic of noisy coughing for a full minute, and then
silence for another, but no sound from within the hut.
“Perhaps she’s ill,” was the next surmise.
After the etiquette to be followed had been strictly discussed, and a
rigid course of procedure set down, the Scholar got up and knocked at
the door. He received no answer, and so knocked again--knocked several
times, in fact, and then rattled the handle vigorously, but without
result.
“Better open it,” said a voice.
And he did so; and after looking inside, announced:
“She’s not there.”
At this moment Dan came up.
“My ole mar’ ‘s gone,” he said; “an’ she ain’t stampeded, neither, but
was stole. Tote-rope’s been untied, an’ saddle an’ bridle took as well.”
There was uncomfortable silence, which the Scholar broke by a low,
long-drawn whistle.
“Boys,” said he, “let’s look inside the safe.”
The three men who held the keys brought them up, the bolts were shot,
and the massive door swung back. There was every man’s little sack with
his name on it; but somehow or other the sacks looked limper than of
yore. Each one was eagerly clutched and examined, and many a groan and
not a few curses went up on the still night air as it was found that
every sack save Dan’s had been relieved of the more valuable part of its
contents.
So much heart-breaking labour under the burning sun thrown away for
nothing; the dreary work to commence afresh, almost from the beginning!
Had the thief been any ordinary one, the denunciation would have
been unbounded; but no one lifted his tongue very loudly against Mary
Musgrave. Yet mounted men were despatched on the three trails to bring
back the booty if possible, and the rest moved dejectedly toward their
old club. The greasy Jew did not attempt to conceal his exultation. He
served his customers with his wicked old face glowing with smiles, and
when a moment’s breathing-time came he observed:
“We all ‘az hour lettle surbrizes in dis wairld, an’ I most confaiss I
am asdonished myself to lairn that Mess Mosgrave is a thief--” But here
a crashing among the glassware announced that Tommy Dartmoor had begun
shooting with his left hand, and Herr Gustave sputtered out from behind
the fingers he held before his face, “Ach Gott! I say nozzing more!”