The red Kaffir is a man with a good deal of character, which he does his
best to destroy. The pure kraal Kaffir, who lounges negligently in his
red blanket or squats on his loins by the fire at night, telling
interminable stories about nothing in particular, has many points which
mark him from the "town boy"--the spoiled child of civilisation, who
treads tenderly in his hard "Blucher" boots, and covers his corduroy
trousers with bright patches of other material; who has to support his
weary frame against every pillar and post and corner he comes across,
and who is generally shiftless, saucy, and squalid.
The kraal Kaffir is lean, long, and tough, dignified in his movements,
courteous to his friends, given over to long spells of silence broken by
fits of noisy eloquence, his sullen, solemn face seldom lit up by a
smile, and his black smoke-stained eyes smouldering always with an
unquenchable fire, that flames out when he meets a Fingo on the highway,
or when the fire-water runs through his veins at the beer-drinking.
The red Kaffir is a warrior. He is also a lawyer. I am not certain
whether he most prefers to settle a dispute by argument or by the
kerrie, but I think his idea of greatest happiness would be a long
disputation extending over a week, to be rounded off with the clashing
of kerries. Some people, who have seen the wide smile on the face of a
West Coast negro, accept that all-pervading grin as the main feature of
the entire black race, and argue from it that all blacks are
good-tempered children, prone to every impulse. That is not true of the
Kaffir. He is of the Bantu stock, which includes the Zulu and the
Basuto, whose chief sentiment is stern pride of race, whose ruling
expression is one of sullen reserve, and whose national impulse is to
fight. They were cradled somewhere in the valley of the Nile, the hot
nursery of fierce races; their remote ancestors swept South, destroying
as they went, and the southernest fringe are Amaxosa of the Cape
frontier, the men who have waged five separate wars with the red-coats
of England and the sure-shooting border settlers. Pringle has, in these
lines, given a vivid picture of the Kaffir:
"Lo! where the fierce Kaffir
Crouches by the kloof's dark side,
Watching the settlers' flocks afar--
Impatient waiting till the evening star
Guides him to his prey."
Under the fierce ordeal of war the Kaffir thrived. His limbs were free
and straight, his step springy, his eyes far-seeing, his nostrils could
sniff the taint in the air, his deep melodious voice could boom the
war-cry or the message across the wide valleys. As a man of peace he
looks squalid in his broken clothes; he moves stiffly in his boots; he
sings hymns in a queer, high note, with great melancholy but little
meaning; goes reeling home from dirty canteens, and is a hopelessly
casual labourer. He is the victim of civilisation, of strange laws, and
in the confusion of many counsellors his only hope is the goal which has
been offered to the already civilised labourer of a more favoured race--
three acres and several cows, with a title of his own. There lies his
salvation. If he could get his title to a plot of land sufficient for
his wants, he may retain some of those characteristics which made
conquerors of his warrior ancestors, if not he will go under in the
struggle in a pair of uncomfortable boots, with a bottle of brandy in
his hands, and strange oaths of civilised man on his lips.
"Yes," said Abe; "the Kaffir can use two things better'n a white man,
easy--his tongue and his stick. I seed a Kaffir onct get the better of
a fencing master.
"I were sitting in the schoolyard, away up in town, where a sergeant
from the barracks were showing the big boys how to use a singlestick.
There were a Kaffir, leaning his chin on the top of the gate, looking
on, with no more life in his face than a chip of mahogany.
"Bymby the sergeant he spotted the Kaffir, and he sed, sed he, `Now, you
boys; I'll jes' show you what singlestick play is,' and he called to the
Kaffir to come in.
"Well, the black feller, he came in--very slow, pulling his blanket up
to his chin, and looking like a young horse all ready to bolt in a
minnit. The end of his long kerrie peeped out below his blanket, and
the sergeant touched it with his ash stick, then stood on guard.
"`You keep your eye on my wrist-play, boys,' sed the sergeant, swellin'
out his chest till the brass buttons nearly popped off. `You keep your
eye on me,' he sed, `and you'll see how I get over his guard every
time.'
"The Kaffir he jes' stood there, looking solum, and the sergeant poked
him in the stomjack.
"`Yinnie!' sed the Kaffir, backing off an' snappin' fire from his eyes.
You see he didn't know what the sergeant were about, and though he
wern't fool enough to strike a _rooibaaitje_ in the town, his dander got
up at that poke.
"`Do you want to fight this chap?' sed I.
"`I want to show these boys what real wrist-play is,' sed the sergeant,
making an under-cut with his stick; `and this Kaffir will do well as a
block. Tell him to put up his kerrie.'
"I jes' tole the Kaffir, and had a quiet larf. To think of anyone bein'
sich a simple ijiot as to play at sticks with a Kaffir. I tole the
`boy,' and he said, `Yoh!' in surprise. Then a sort of smile flickered
about his mouth, and his black eyes began to shine. He let slip the
blanket offen his shoulders, and caught it on his left arm. Then he
took his kerrie by the end, and held it out the full length of his arm,
with his head forrard and his toes apart, and back so that he leant
forward. You know the fighting kerrie, about five feet long, and tough
as steel.
"The sergeant--he smiled--threw forrard his right foot, balanced hisself
on his left, crooked his elbow, and pointed his stick slanting.
"`You see, boys,' he sed; `you must stand naturally, with your body
nicely balanced, ready to advance or retreat. Look at me, and look at
the Kaffir,' he said. `He stands on his toes, and if he lost his
balance he would fall on his face. Watch me get over his guard.'
"`Ready!' he sed, and they begun.
"Well the boys watched, I tell you. There were a grunting, a clatter
and a whirlwind of sticks--outer which whizzed chips of ash and bits of
the basket-hilt. They didn't see nuffing of the sergeant's wrist-play,
I tell you. No, sir, all they seed was that whirling of sticks like the
spokes of a wheel, and bymby outer the dust come the sergeant.
"He didn't look the same man. His face were red an' angry, his
basket-hilt was all smashed in, his knuckles were raw, and there were no
more'n but a foot left of his stick.
"The Kaffir stood there, solum as a judge, with jes' a touch of fire in
his eyes. There were not so much as a mark on his smooth skin, as he
slipped the blanket over his shoulder, and waited for more.
"The sergeant fished up sixpence, and gave it to the boy, without a
word.
"`You'd better go,' I sed.
"`Yoh,' sed the Kaffir, looking at the sixpence; `is he done? Let him
take another stick; we were but playing, and no one's head is broken.'
"`You go,' I said; and he went, looking mighty troubled.
"I tell you what, sonny; the Queen should take a thousand of these yer
red Kaffirs, and make soldiers of 'em for service in a hot country. Not
here, of course, but away off in Injia. It's a pity to waste 'em, and
they'd do more good scouting than drinkin' Cape brandy, lifting cattle,
and loafin' around. A black battalion of Kaffirs and Zulus would be no
small pumpkins, an' they could be officered by Colonials who know the
language."