"Moodie's" was concession ground, and belonged to a company; but as
"findings is keepings" is the first law of the prospector, there were
quite a number of people, otherwise honest and well-principled, who
thought that it would be the right thing to rush it and peg it, and
parcel it out among themselves upon such terms and conditions as a
committee of their own number might decide.
So of course they rushed it!
They were good men and true, and they were strong in their righteous
indignation, but in nothing else; and when it came to trying conclusions
with a Government, they, being penniless, short-rationed, and few in
numbers, went under, and were carried off under arrest to Pretoria, the
committee designate going in bulk, with their proposers and seconders
thrown in.
It was then that the real inwardness of an embarrassing position was
revealed. The case of "The State _versus_ H. Bankerpitt and Twenty-nine
Others" could not come on for many weeks, and the Government, being
mistrusted by the Pretoria tradesmen, who would no longer accept
"good-fors" of even a few shillings value, attempted to masquerade stern
necessity as simple grace, and offered to release the prisoners on bail.
The offer was rejected with derision.
Next day Government went one better and offered to release them on
parole without bail. But even this did not tempt them, and eventually a
delegate was deputed to interview the prisoners so as to ascertain their
wishes. The unanimous reply was:
"You brought us here. You can keep us here. We are quite contented."
It was then realised that the matter was serious, and a meeting of the
Executive Council was called and the gravity of the situation explained
by the President of the State. The result of the deliberations was the
presentation by the Government of an ultimatum, which was in effect,
"Choose between a compromise and a freeze-out."
They accepted the compromise.
It was that the Government should find them in lodging and they should
find their board.
It was not a very grand compromise, but it was better than a freeze-out,
and during the ensuing months in which "The State _versus_ H. Bankerpitt
and Twenty-nine Others" sustained many adjournments and much publicity
in the Pretoria press, only once was the _modus vivendi_ thus
established in any way threatened.
The younger members of the party had begun to keep irregular hours. One
or two remonstrances failing to effect an improvement, the worthy gaoler
resolved upon the extremest measure. He posted the following notice on
the door:
"Anyone failing to return by nine p.m. will be locked out."
There was no further trouble.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some months had passed since the trial. The State had vindicated its
authority; the inherent right of man was thrown out of court; and "H.
Bankerpitt and Twenty-nine Others" had paid the penalty for their
mistaken zeal. The man in the street had ceased to prophesy that the
case would lead to war with the suzerain power, the weekly newspaper
resumed its normal appearance, and the "constant reader" was no longer
haunted by a headline more constant than himself.
"Moodie's" was controlled by its rightful owners, but its name was as
wormwood in the prospector's mouth, and the quondam Promised Land became
a spot accursed and despised.
Across the valley of the Kaap, over the rock-crested mountains of
Maconchwa, out into the shattered hills and ranges of Swazieland, and
over the hot bush-hidden flats the prospectors took their ways to find
something somewhere which would be their own.
They went singly and in pairs, and they "humped swag and tucker" when
they had no donkeys to pack. It was a rule with few exceptions that
they only went in parties and without swag when there was a rush on.
This was one of the exceptions.
Seven men in irregular Indian file, and at irregular distances apart,
were toiling up the green slopes of the Maconchwa.
They were following a path, and one after another would stop and turn
panting to pay tribute to the steepness of the hill and the beauty of
the view below.
Far below them, and farther still ahead, the smooth-worn path meandered
over the hill's face like a red-brown thread woven in the green. The
sun was fiercely strong, but the breath of the mountain was cool, and
they drank it in gratefully at each rest.
They were all marked with the "out-of-luck" brand. It was stamped on
their faces. They were all tired, and most of them looked hungry as
well. When the leader reached the top, he looked expectantly around on
all sides, then, stepping briskly towards an outcrop near by, from which
a better view was obtainable, he looked again long and carefully. Then
he came back to the path where the others had already assembled, and
cursed the country and all in it from the bottom of his bitter soul.
"There's no house and there's no kraal, and there's no God-damn-nothing.
It's eight hours since we started on the `two-mile' tramp, and I knew
from the start we were fooled. If Choky Wilson had _known_ anything he
would have come himself, and not told _you_."
He scowled at a younger member of the party who was standing by chewing
a stem of grass and looking down across the Crocodile and Hlambanyati
valleys.
"What did the Swazie boy say?" asked another, turning readily on the
youngster as the convenient scapegoat.
The younger one answered good-temperedly:
"He said that the White Induna was on the Maconchwa, near the first
water that came out of the white rock."
"Maconchwa!" snarled the leader, "why, it's twenty miles long! The
whole damned range is Maconchwa. Any idiot might be expected to know
that."
"Yes, that's why I didn't offer to explain," said the younger one.
The thrust passed unnoticed, and while a general _indaba_ was going on
the last speaker moved to the same spot from which the leader had viewed
the country.
He knew the Kaffir and his language and his habits, and he could read
the face of the country as well as the niggers themselves, so they
heeded him when he spoke, although he was the youngest member of the
party, and when a few minutes later, he cut into the conversation with
the remark that "there was a cattle kraal near by and they had better go
on there and ask the way," there was a general chorus of "Where?" and an
incredulous "Darned if I can see it!" from the leader.
The youngster replied again:
"Nor can I, but it's there all the same."
"How do you know?"
"Look," he said, pointing to a slope about a mile distant.
"Well, look at what?"
"Can't you see that red patch on the rise there?"
"What, those water-worn dongas?"
"Not dongas--cattle tracks. They are from the drinking-place. That
must be the White Rock up there, and I expect the house must be behind
the clump of trees."
They walked on until the trees were reached and they could see the small
rough stone house through a thinner portion of the Bush, and there they
waited awhile to take counsel. It was finally decided that they should
all go up together, but they looked to the one who seemed to be their
leader to act as spokesman.
"If he's a white man at all," remarked he in front, "he won't refuse us
grub, anyhow; but that's just it. They say he's no more white than old
Bandine, that he hates the sight of white men, and keeps as far from
them as he can. He's been so long among the darned niggers that he's
just one of them himself."
They passed along the path to the house, and six of the party waited
below while the leader mounted the steps of the mud stoep.
A tall man with a long brown beard stepped out of an open doorway and
met him.
The whole party offered "good-evening" with more or less _empressement_,
and certainly with a greater show of politeness than was customary with
them; but the man only slid his hands easily into the pockets of a light
duck-coat, and looked with critical and not too friendly glance at the
leader, ignoring the others.
"We're out prospectin' about here," began the leader, "and we thought
we'd just come along and look you up."
As there was no reply to this, not even a change in the look nor a
twitch of a muscle to be construed into acknowledgment of the remark,
the speaker resumed quickly and with less composure:
"The niggers told us you hung out about here, and, bein' the only white
man in these parts, we kind o' came along to see what was doin', and if
there was any chance of reefin', and about the licences and water and
that."
The owner of the house continued to look steadily and in silence at the
speaker. The latter, when the invitation of a second pause passed
unaccepted, flushed up and, abandoning the previous method, asked
curtly:
"Can you sell us any food? Fowls or crushed mealies, or anything.
We're half dead o' trampin' over your damned hills, and I want food for
self and mates. We're far down enough, but we reckon to pay for what we
get. We're not loafin'!"
The man did not appear to notice this hostile tone any more than he had
the former conciliatory one; but, after another deadly pause, he asked,
in a quiet, clear voice:
"Your name?"
"Bankerpitt," said the other. The faintest trace of a smile lit up the
man's face as he remarked quietly:
"Ah, _H_. Bankerpitt"--and glancing for the first time at the rest of
the party--"_and twenty-nine others_!"
He turned and walked slowly into the house, closing the door after him.