"Rather different sort of country this--eh, Dick?"
"Yes. But the worst of it is there's nothing to shoot."
"There never is where there are Kafir locations," rejoined Harley
Greenoak.
On either side of the road lay spread the green, undulating plains of
British Kaffraria, open, or dotted here and there with mimosa. The sky,
dazzling in its vivid blue, was without a cloud, and the air of the
winter midday warm and yet exhilarating. The Cape cart had just left
behind the steep slope of the Gonubi Hill, and was bowling along the Kei
Road, facing eastward.
"Think the Kafirs really do mean to kick up a row, Greenoak," said Dick,
as three ochre-smeared samples of that race strode by, favouring those
of the dominant one with a defiant stare.
"I'm dead sure of it. You see, they haven't had a fight for nearly a
quarter of a century, and now they're spoiling for one. I didn't care
to say so while we were down in the Colony though, for fear of setting
up a scare. It's simply the Donnybrook spirit. This squabble about the
Fingoes is a mere pretext."
"Well, I'm jolly glad," rejoined Dick Selmes. "It would have been a
proper sell to have come all this way and there to be no war after all."
"Sell? I'm hoping that same sell may be ours."
"What? You're hoping there'll be no war?"
"Certainly. Think what a row I should get into with your dad for
countenancing your taking part in it, Dick."
"Oh, don't you bother about that, old chap," was the breezy rejoinder.
"Didn't the dad leave me here to see all there was to be seen, and if
there was a jolly war and I didn't see something of it, why, I shouldn't
be seeing all there was to be seen? Besides, I've seen nothing of the
Kafirs yet."
"You'll see enough and to spare of them directly. Meanwhile you're
about to begin, for here we are at Draaibosch."
Our friend Dick had about recovered his normal spirits, the enjoyment of
travel, the ever-changing novelty of it at every turn, and the prospect
of excitement ahead had done that for him. But he could not banish the
recollection of that bright, sweet personality from his mind, nor had he
any wish to. When he had done with his experiences he would find out
Hazel Brandon in her own home, and would speak out boldly and in no
uncertain manner. Meanwhile, advised by common-sense and Harley
Greenoak, he decided to make the best of things at present, and to let
the future take care of itself.
As they topped a rise the wayside inn and canteen came into view just
beneath. Before the latter squatted or lounged in groups quite a number
of red-blanketed figures, and the deep bass hum of their voices, and an
occasional laugh, rose not unmelodiously upon the still air.
"Well, MacFennel, and how's trade?" said Greenoak, shaking hands with
the innkeeper, who had come out to meet them.
"Oh, so so. What's the latest thing in scares?"
"You ought to know that better than me. You're nearest the spot."
"All the more reason why I shouldn't. More than half these scares are
cooked up down in the Colony. We don't hear much of 'em up here."
"That won't be good news for my young friend there"--with a nod in the
direction of Dick Selmes, who had strolled away to inspect nearer the
groups of Kafirs by the canteen. "He's just spoiling for war."
"Haw--haw!" guffawed the other. "But who is he?"
Greenoak told him, and just then Dick returned.
"Faugh!" he exclaimed. "Those chaps _are_ a bit `strong' when you get
too near them."
"Yes, stale grease and red clay don't make a fragrant combination,"
laughed Harley Greenoak. "I hope you can get us some dinner directly,
MacFennel; for I can tell you we both feel like it."
"Yes, it's ready now. Come on in. Bring the shooters inside. It isn't
safe to leave them in the cart with all these loafers about."
The while they had been outspanning, and now, handing over the horses to
a native stable-boy, they entered.
"I say, what about the war?" said Dick to the hotel-keeper, as the
latter came in to see how they were getting on. "Think there'll be
one?"
"Well, Mr Selmes, I don't know what to say. But one can only hope
not."
Dick dropped his knife and fork, and stared.
"Hope not?" he echoed. "But think what a lot of fun we shall be done
out of."
The hotel-keeper laughed good-naturedly.
"Fun?" he said. "Well, it may be fun to you, but it'll be death to some
of us, as some fable-mongering feller said about something else--I
forget what. It may be all very well for young gentlemen with plenty of
money, wandering about the world on the look-out for excitement; but for
us ordinary chaps who've got to make a living--and not an easy one at
that--it spells anything but fun I can tell you. What price my place
being sacked and burnt to the ground some fine night? I've got a wife
and kiddies too--what if we didn't get long enough warning to clear them
off to Komgha quick enough? Well, that's what war spells to us."
"By George! I never thought of it in that light," cried Dick Selmes, to
whom the other's quiet but good-natured reproof appealed thoroughly.
"But--surely you'd get warning in time, wouldn't you?"
"Warning. Look at those chaps out there"--designating the groups of
Kafirs, now momentarily increasing, in front of the canteen, some of
them visible from the window. "Some fine day they come along just as
you see them now, only with businesslike assegais hidden under their
blankets. Then, a sudden signal and a rush, and--where do we come in?
Kafirs don't give warning, they take you on the hop; ain't I right,
Greenoak?"
Greenoak nodded. Dick Selmes was conscious of feeling rather small.
Just then, as though to emphasise the hotel-keeper's remarks, a
considerable hubbub arose outside, voices were raised--many of them, and
all talking at once, and through them running a note of anger; and a lot
of angry and excited Kafirs all talking at once _are_ capable of raising
a very considerable hubbub indeed.
"Why, they're going to have a row, I do believe," cried Dick, springing
to the door, and looking out. But MacFennel never turned a hair.
"Oh, it's only some feller got too drunk in the canteen," he said.
"Been chucked out by my assistant. It often happens, but they blow off
steam in no time."
In this case, however, no such safety-valve seemed to be in working
order. A rush of excited Kafirs surged round the further end of the
building. Blankets were thrown off, and with a tough kerrie in each
hand, they fell to. Shouts and vociferations, the clash and splintering
of hard-wood, and the more sickening crunch, as the latter fell in upon
skull or shoulder--the moving mass swayed and leaped. At the same time,
as though magically evolved, lines of Kafirs, some mounted on rough
ponies, some afoot, came pouring along the hillside, shrilling war
whistles or uttering loud whoops, and, arriving on the scene of action,
flung themselves into the fray with a whole-heartedness that left
nothing to be desired. The fight became one roaring general _melee_.
"It's only a faction rumpus," said the hotel-keeper, who had dived into
an inner room to arm himself with a revolver, which, however, he didn't
show. "Sandili's and Ndimba's chaps are always getting 'em up. Rotten
for me too, for it gives my place a bad name."
The stoep, railed off, stood about four feet above the ground. In front
the said ground, perfectly open, sloped away gently to a _sluit_,
constituting a first-rate arena for a rough-and-tumble. Round on to
this now, the warring savages swirled, mad with fury and blood lust,
some with drink. The three white men--four now--for they had been
joined by MacFennel's assistant, who had prudently locked the canteen
door--stood on the stoep watching the tumult.
"How about the rifles, Greenoak?" said Dick Selmes, in hardly to be
repressed excitement.
"No. We mustn't show sign of scare," was the quiet answer. "We've got
our pistols, but we needn't show them unless absolutely necessary."
The struggling crowd now had broken up into groups. No attempt at
forming sides had been made, twos and threes they fought, and as soon as
one individual went down the victors proceeded to batter the life out of
him as he lay, unless others sprang to the rescue, which was often the
case. Then there would be a renewed scrimmage, with slashings and
parryings, and soon the ground was scattered with writhing, struggling
bodies, and others, indeed, deadly still; the while the strident war
whistles rent the air. Black, striving demons, eyes blazing and white
teeth bared, seemed to have taken the place of the careless laughing
groups of a few minutes ago.
On the left, some thirty yards away from the stoep, where stood the
white spectators, was a small orchard, bounded by a low sod wall. For
this, one Kafir, hardly pressed, was seen to make, with three others hot
on his heels. He gained it, but his foot caught, tumbling him headlong
into the ditch on the other side. With a yell his pursuers were on him,
and although the spectators could not see him, the nasty crunch of the
knob-kerries battering out his brains and his life, told its own tale.
Dick Selmes, who had never seen any real bloodshed before, began to feel
rather sick.
"Can't we stop this, Greenoak?" he said, rather quaveringly, as a big
savage, hotly pursued by four or five others, came staggering up to the
stoep itself, to fall, almost at their very feet, the blood pouring from
a wound in his skull.
"It's their own quarrel," answered Greenoak, decisively. But paying no
heed to the words, the impetuous Dick had sprung down the steps and was
standing over the prostrate Kafir, his revolver pointed.
"Stand back, you cowardly dogs!" he roared. "Hit a man when he's down,
would you? I'll let daylight into you."
Of this they understood, of course, not one word. But there was no sort
of misunderstanding the pointed pistol, the flashing eyes, and the pale,
determined face of the young Englishman. Growling, ferocious, like the
disappointment of hungry beasts, they halted--calling to those behind
them. Many of those swarmed up, kerries raised. This was no white
man's business, they roared. Let the white men interfere and they would
kill the lot. All of which, of course, Dick Selmes, for his part, did
not understand one word. But Harley Greenoak did.
Quickly he called out to them in their own tongue, urging that it was
not worth while their losing many lives for the sake of one, which in
all probability was already gone; that they themselves were well armed,
and that Dick Selmes would certainly never be frightened into giving
way; and further, that the sound of firing would be sure to bring the
Mounted Police down upon them.
For a moment his words seemed to produce the desired effect, then a roar
of defiance went up from those further back. The savages were in an
ugly and dangerous mood, and their fighting blood was roused. They were
armed only with sticks it was true, but they had already demonstrated
what a formidable weapon an ordinary hard-wood kerrie can be in the hand
of one who knows how to use it; and there were upwards of a hundred of
them on the ground already, while more and more were still pressing up
along the veldt paths. They seemed to have laid aside their mutual
feud, and now with a scowl of hate and defiance upon each grim
countenance they crowded up before the white men. And these were but
four.
Harley Greenoak had his finger upon the pulse of the crowd. His keen
glance in particular took in the expression of those nearest to Dick.
His hand was closed round the butt of his revolver, but not yet had he
drawn it. The while Dick, still pointing his, stood over the fallen
man, his eyes upon the savage threatening faces which fronted him, but
shining from them the steeliness of a deadly determination.