All that night and all next day rain came down on the land in continuous
floods. The settlers had previously been visited with occasional
storms, which had roused some alarm among the timid and done a little
damage, but nothing like this had yet befallen them. The water appeared
to descend in sheets, and not only did the great rivers wax alarmingly,
but every rill and watercourse became a brawling river.
The Skyds, and one or two others who, like themselves, had built too
near the edge of streams, were the first to suffer.
"This won't do," said John Skyd, on the evening of the second day, as he
and his brothers sat in front of their cavern gazing at the turbid
river, which, thick and yellow as pea-soup, was hurrying trees, bushes,
and wrack in formidable masses to the sea. "We must shift our abode.
Come along."
Without a word more the brothers entered their cave, and began to carry
out their goods and chattels. They were strong and active, but they had
miscalculated the rapidity of the flood. Fortunately most of their
valuables were removed to higher ground in time, but before all was got
out a sudden increase in the rushing river sent a huge wave curling
round the entire piece of ground on which their farm lay. It came on
with devastating force, bearing produce, fences, fruit-trees, piggeries,
and every movable thing on its foaming crest. The brothers dropped
their loads and ran. Next moment the cavern was hollowed out to twice
its former size, and the sofa, the rude cupboard, the sea-chest, and
family bed were seen, with all the miscellaneous improprieties,
careering madly down the yellow flood.
In their trousers and shirt-sleeves--for they had thrown off their
coats, as all active men do in an emergency--the brothers watched the
demolition of their possessions and hopes in solemn silence.
"I think," said John at length, with a sigh, "I've made up my mind to
join Frank Dobson now."
Bob and Jim smiled grimly, but said never a word.
Meanwhile the settlers of Mount Hope farm were not idle. Although not
fully alive to the danger of the storm, they saw enough to induce a
course of rapid action. Goods and cattle were removed from low-lying
buildings to higher ground, but the dwelling-house, being on the highest
point in the neighbourhood--with the exception of the hills themselves--
was deemed safe.
In these arrangements the family were ably assisted by the unexpected
accession of their friends. Hans, Considine, and Dobson taxed their
activity and strength to the utmost, so that things were soon put in a
state of security. Dobson did, indeed, think once or twice of his old
chums on the river, but a feeling of gallantry prevented his deserting
the ladies in the midst of danger, and besides, he argued, the Skyds are
well able to look after themselves.
Just as this thought passed through his mind the chums in question
appeared upon the scene, announcing the fact that their entire farm had
been swept away, and that _the water was still rising_.
"Well, it can't rise much higher now," said Edwin Brook, after condoling
with his young friends on their misfortunes, "and the moment it begins
to abate we shall go down to save all we can of your property. You
know, my poor fellows, that I shall be only too glad to help you to the
utmost of my power in such a sad extremity as this."
The brothers thanked their neighbour, and meanwhile aided the others in
removing the farm-produce and implements to higher ground.
Night at length settled down on the scene, and the wearied party
returned to the cottage for food and rest.
"Do you think, Mr Marais," said Gertie, looking up timidly at the
handsome young Dutchman, "that the worst of it is over?"
Hans, who felt somewhat surprised and chilled by the "Mister," replied
that he hoped it was.
But Hans was wrong. Late that night, after they had all lain down to
rest, Edwin Brook, feeling sleepless and uneasy, rose to look out at the
window. All was comparatively still, and very dark. There was
something grey on the ground, he thought, but judged it to be mist. The
noise of the storm, with the exception of rushing streams, had gone
down, and though it still rained there was nothing very unusual to cause
alarm. He lay down again and tried to sleep, but in vain. Then he
thought he heard the sound of the river louder than before. At the same
time there was a noise that resembled the lapping of water round the
frame of the house.
Jumping up, he ran to his door, opened it, discovered that the supposed
mist was water, and that his dwelling was an island in a great sea.
To shout and rouse the household was the work of an instant. His guests
were men of promptitude. They had merely thrown themselves down in
their clothes, and appeared in an instant. Mrs Brook and Gertie were
also ready, but Mrs Scholtz, being fond of comfort, had partially
undressed, and was distracted between a wild effort to fasten certain
garments, and restrain Junkie, who, startled by the shout, was roaring
lustily.
"Not a moment to lose!" said Brook, running hastily into the room, where
all were now assembled. "Everything is lost. We must think only of
life. Lend a helping hand to the women, friends--mind the boy.--Come,
wife."
Brook was sharp, cool, and decisive in his manner. Seizing his wife
round the waist, he hurried her out into the dark night, stepping, as he
did so, above the ankles in rising water.
Dobson, Considine, and the three brothers turned with a mutual impulse
towards Gertie, but Hans Marais had already taken possession of her,
and, almost carrying her in his powerful arms, followed her father.
"Come, my howlin' toolip," said George Dally, "you're my special and
_precious_ charge. Shut up, will you!"
He seized the child and bore him away with such violence that the
howling was abruptly checked; while Scholtz, quietly gathering his still
half-clad spouse under an arm, followed with heavy stride.
The others, each seizing the object that in his eyes appeared to be most
valuable--such as a desk or workbox,--sprang after the household and
left the house to its fate. They first made for the cattle-kraals, but
these were already flooded and the cattle gone. Then they tried a barn
which stood a little higher, but it was evidently no place of refuge,
for the stream just there was strong, and broke against it with
violence.
"To the hills," shouted Hans, lifting Gertie off the ground altogether,
as if she had been a little child.
There was no time for ceremony. Edwin Brook lifted his wife in the same
manner, for the water was deepening at every step, and the current
strengthening. The darkness, which had appeared dense at first, seemed
to lighten as they became accustomed to it, and soon a terrible state of
things became apparent. Turbid water was surging among the trees and
bushes everywhere, and rushing like a mill-race in hollows. One such
hollow had to be crossed before the safety of the hills could be gained.
The water reached Edwin's waist as he waded through. To prevent
accident, John Skyd and Considine waded alongside and supported him.
James Skyd performed the same office for Hans, and Bob waded just below
Scholtz and his burden--which latter, in a paroxysm of alarm, still
tried frantically to complete her toilet.
The hills were reached at last, and the whole party was safe--as far, at
least, as the flood was concerned--but a terrible prospect lay before
them. The farm of Mount Hope was by that time a sea of tumultuous
water, which seemed in the darkness of the night to be sweeping away and
tearing up trees, bushes, and houses. Behind and around them were the
hills, whose every crevice and hollow was converted into a wild
watercourse. Above was the black sky, pouring down torrents of rain
incessantly, so that the very ground seemed to be turning into mud, and
slipping away from beneath their feet. Fortunately there was no wind.
"To spend the night here will be death to the women and child," said
Edwin Brook, as they gathered under a thick bush which formed only a
partial shelter; "yet I see no way of escape. Soaked as they are, a
cavern, even if we can find one, will not be of much service, for our
matches are hopelessly wet."
"We must try to reach Widow Merton's farm," said John Skyd. "It is only
three miles off and stands on highish ground."
"It's a bad enough road by daylight in fine weather," said George Dally,
on whose broad shoulder Junkie had fallen sound asleep, quite regardless
of damp or danger, "but in a dark night, with a universal flood, it
seems to me that it would be too much for the ladies. I know a cave,
now, up on the hill-side, not far off, which is deep, an' like to be
dryish--"
"Never do," interrupted Hans Marais, to whose arm Gertie clung with a
feeling that it was her only hope; "they'd die of cold before morning.
We must keep moving."
"Yes, let us try to reach the widow's farm," said poor Mrs Brook
anxiously, "I feel stronger, I think; I can walk now."
"Zee vidow is our only chanze.--Hold up, mein vrow," said Scholtz,
taking a firmer grasp of his wife, who, having leisure to think and look
about her now, felt her heart begin to fail. "I know zee road vell,"
continued Scholtz. "It is bad, but I have zeen vurse. Ve must carry
zee vimen. Zey could not valk."
As the women made no objection, those who had carried them from the
house again raised them in their arms--Mrs Scholtz insisting, however,
on being treated a little less like a sack of old clothes--and the march
along the hill-side was begun.
George Dally, knowing the way best, was set in advance to take the
responsibility of guide as well as the risk of being swept away while
fording the torrents. The brothers Skyd, being free from precious
burdens, marched next, to be ready to support the guide in case of
accident, and to watch as well as guard the passage of dangerous places
by those in rear. Then followed in succession Mr Brook with his wife,
Charlie Considine, Hans with Gertie, and Scholtz with his vrow, the
procession closing with Frank Dobson and Junkie, the latter having been
transferred to Frank when Dally took the lead.
It was a slow as well as dangerous march on that dreary night, because
every step had to be taken with care, and the rivulets, white though
they were with foam, could scarcely be seen in the thick darkness. Many
a fall did they get, too, and many a bruise, though fortunately no bones
were broken. Once George Dally, miscalculating the depth of a savage
little stream, stepped boldly in and was swept away like a flash of
light. Jack Skyd made a grasp at him, lost his balance and followed.
For a moment the others stopped in consternation, but they were
instantly relieved by hearing a laugh from George a few yards down the
stream as he assisted Skyd to land. At another time Scholtz was not
careful enough to follow exactly in the footsteps of Hans, and, while
crossing a torrent, he put his foot in a deep hole and went down to the
armpits, thereby immersing his vrow up to her neck. A wild shriek from
the lady was followed by "Zounds! hold me op!" from the man.
Hans turned short round, stretched out his long right arm--the left
being quite sufficient to support Gertie,--and, seizing the German's
shaggy hair with a mighty grip, held on till one of the Skyds returned
to the rescue.
It was also a melancholy march on that dismal night, for poor Edwin
Brook was well aware, and fully alive to the fact, that he was a ruined
man. His labour for the previous three years was totally lost, and his
property swept entirely away. Only life was spared,--but for that he
felt so thankful as to feel his losses slightly at the time. The
brothers Skyd were also painfully alive to the fact that they were
ruined, and as they staggered and stumbled along, a sinking of heart
unusual to their gay and cheerful natures seemed to have the effect of
sinking their steps deeper in the soft mire through which they waded.
Only two of the party were in any degree cheerful. Gertie, although
overwhelmed by the sudden calamity, which she had yet very imperfectly
realised, felt a degree of comfort--a sort of under-current of peace--at
being borne so safely along in such powerful arms; and Hans Marais, huge
and deep-chested though he was, felt a strange and mysterious sensation
that his heart had grown too large for his body that night. It
perplexed him much at the time, and seemed quite unaccountable!
The storm had revelled furiously round the widow Merton's wattle-and-dab
cottage, and the water had risen to within a few feet of its
foundations, but the effect on her mind was as nothing compared with
that produced by the sudden storming of her stronghold by the Mount Hope
family in the dead of night, or rather in the small hours of morning.
The widow was hospitable. She and her sons at once set about making the
unfortunates as comfortable as the extent of their habitation and the
state of their larder would admit.
But the widow Merton was not the only one of the Albany settlers who had
to offer hospitality during the continuance of that terrible catastrophe
of 1823, and Edwin Brook's was not the only family that was forced to
accept it.
All over the land the devastating flood passed like the besom of
destruction. Hundreds of those who had struggled manfully against the
blight of the wheat crops, and Kafir thefts, and bandit raids, and
oppression on the part of those who ought to have afforded aid and
protection, were sunk to the zero of misfortune and despair by this
overwhelming calamity, for in many cases the ruin was total and
apparently irremediable. Everywhere standing crops, implements of
husbandry, and even dwellings, were swept away, and whole families found
themselves suddenly in a state of utter destitution. The evil was too
wide-spread to admit of the few who were fortunate enough to escape
rendering effectual assistance to the many sufferers, for it was obvious
that hundreds of pounds would not be sufficient to succour the infant
colony.
In this extremity God's opportunity was found. The hearts of men and
women far away, at Capetown, in India, and in England, were touched by
the story of distress; generosity was awakened and purses were opened.
Men such as HE Rutherfoord of Capetown, the Reverend Doctor Philip, the
Reverend W Shaw, and others like-minded, entered heartily into the work
of charity, and eventually some ten thousand pounds were distributed
among those who had suffered. To many this was as life from the dead.
Some who would never have recovered the blow took heart again, braced
their energies anew, and ere long the wattle-and-dab cottages were
rebuilt, the gardens replanted, and the lands cultivated as before.
The existence of the settlement was saved, but its prosperity was not
yet secured. The battle had gone sorely against the valiant band of
immigrants, and very nearly had they been routed, but the reinforcements
had enabled them to rally and renew the fight. Still, it _was_ a fight,
and much time had yet to come and go before they could sit down in the
sunshine of comparative peace and enjoy the fruits of their industry.
Meanwhile the oppressions and mismanagements of the Colonial Government
went on as before. It were useless in a tale like this to inflict
details on our readers. Suffice it to say that in the distribution of
lands, in treaties with the Kafirs, in the formation of laws for the
protection of Hottentots and slaves, in the treatment of the settlers, a
state of things was brought about which may be described as confusion
worse confounded, and the oppressed people at last demanded redress with
so loud a voice that it sounded in England, and produced the Royal
Commission of Investigation already referred to in a previous chapter.
The arrival of the gentlemen composing this Commission followed close on
the Floods of 1823. The event, long looked for and anxiously desired,
was hailed with a degree of eager delight scarcely to be understood
except by those who had gone through the previous years of high-handed
oppression, of weary wrangling and appeal, and of that hope deferred
which maketh the heart sick. Expectation was raised to the highest
pitch, and when it was heard that the Commissioners had reached Capetown
preparations were made in Grahamstown to give them a warm reception.