Stephen Orpin, with the goods of earth in his waggon and the treasures
of heaven in his hand, chanced to be passing over a branch of the
Amatola Mountains when the torch of war was kindled and sent its horrid
glare along the frontier. Vague news of the outbreak had reached him,
and he was hastening back to the village of Salem, in which was his
bachelor home.
Stephen, we may remark in passing, was not a bachelor from choice.
Twice had he essayed to win the affections of Jessie McTavish, and twice
had he failed. Not being a man of extreme selfishness, he refused to
die of a broken heart. He mourned indeed, deeply and silently, but he
bowed his head, and continued, as far as in him lay, to fulfil the end
for which he seemed to have been created. He travelled with goods far
and wide throughout the eastern districts of the colony, became a
walking newspaper to the farmers of the frontier, and a guide to the
Better Land to whoever would grant him a hearing.
But Stephen's mercantile course, like that of his affections, did not
run smooth. At the present time it became even more rugged than the
mountain road which almost dislocated his waggon and nearly maddened his
Hottentot drivers, for, when involved in the intricacies of a pass, he
was suddenly attacked by a band of "wild" Bushman marauders. The spot
chanced to be so far advantageous that a high precipice at his back
rendered it impossible to attack him except in front, where the ground
was pretty open.
Orpin was by no means a milksop, and, although a Christian man, did not
understand Christianity to teach the absolute giving up of all one's
possessions to the first scoundrel who shall demand them. The moment,
therefore, that the robbers showed themselves, he stopped the waggon at
the foot of the precipice, drew his ever-ready double-barrelled
large-bore gun from under the tilt, and ran out in front, calling on his
men to support him. Kneeling down, he prepared to take a steady aim at
the Bushman in advance, a wild-looking savage in a sheepskin kaross and
armed with an assagai. The robbers were evidently aware of the nature
of a gun, for they halted on seeing the decided action of the trader.
"Come on!" shouted Orpin to his men, looking back over his shoulder; but
his men were nowhere to be seen: they had deserted him at the first
sight of the robbers, and scrambled away into the jungle like monkeys.
To resist some dozens of savages single-handed Stephen knew would be
useless, and to shed blood unnecessarily was against his principles. He
therefore made up his mind at once how to act. Rising and turning
round, he discharged his gun at the precipice, to prevent the Bushmen
from accidentally doing mischief with it; then, sitting down on a piece
of fallen rock, he quietly took out his pipe and began to light it.
This was not meant as a piece of bravado, but Stephen was eccentric, and
it occurred to him that there was a "touch of nature" in a pipe which
might possibly induce the Bushmen to be less rude to him personally than
if he were to stand by and look aggrieved while his waggons were being
pillaged.
In this conjecture he was right. The robbers rushed towards the waggon
without doing him any harm. One of them, however, picked up the gun in
passing. Then the leader seized the long whip and drove the waggon
away, leaving its late owner to his meditations.
Stephen would have been more than human if he could have stood the loss
of all his earthly goods with perfect equanimity. He groaned when the
oxen began to move, and then, feeling a desperate desire to relieve his
feelings, and a strong tendency to fight, he suddenly shut his eyes, and
began to pray that the robbers might be forgiven, and himself enabled to
bear his trials in a becoming manner. Opening his eyes again, he beheld
a sturdy Bushman gazing at him in open-mouthed surprise, with an
uplifted assagai in his hand. Stephen judged that this was the chief of
the band, who had remained behind to kill him. At all events, when he
ceased to pray, and opened his eyes, the Bushman shut his mouth, and
poised his assagai in a threatening manner.
Unarmed as he was, Stephen knew that he was at the man's mercy. In this
dilemma, and knowing nothing of the Bushman language, he put powerful
constraint on himself, and looked placidly at his wallet, in which he
searched earnestly for something, quite regardless, to all appearances,
of the deadly spear, whose point was within ten feet of his breast.
The Bushman's curiosity was awakened. He waited until Stephen had drawn
a lump of tobacco from his pouch--which latter he took care to turn
inside out to show there was nothing else in it. Rising quietly, the
trader advanced with a peaceful air, holding the tobacco out to the
Bushman, who looked suspicious--and distrustfully shook his assagai; but
Stephen took no heed. Stopping within a couple of yards of him, he held
out the tobacco at the full length of his arm. The Bushman hesitated,
but finally lowered his assegai and accepted the gift. Stephen
immediately resumed his pipe, and smiled pleasantly at his foe.
The Bushman appeared to be unable to resist this. He grinned hideously;
then, turning about, made off in the direction of his comrades as fast
as his naked legs could carry him.
It was Booby, the follower of Ruyter the Hottentot, who had thus robbed
the unfortunate trader, and, not two hours afterwards, Ruyter himself
fell in with Stephen, wending his way slowly and sadly down the glen.
Desiring his men to proceed in advance, the robber chief asked Orpin to
sit down on a fallen tree beside him, and relate what had happened.
When he had done so, Ruyter shook his head and said in his broken
English--
"You's bin my friend, Orpin, but I cannot help you dis time. Booby not
under me now, an' we's bof b'long to Dragoener's band. I's sorry, but
not can help you."
"Never mind, Ruyter, I daresay you'd help me if you could," said
Stephen, with a sigh; then, with an earnest look in the Hottentot's
face, he continued, "I'm not, however, much distressed about the goods.
The Lord who gave them has taken them away, and can give them back again
if He has a mind to; but tell me, Ruyter, why will you not think of the
things we once spoke of--that time when you were so roughly handled by
Jan Smit--about your soul and the Saviour?"
"How you knows I not tink?" demanded the Hottentot sharply.
"Because any man can know a tree by its fruit," returned Orpin. "If you
had become a Christian, I should not now have found you the leader of a
band of thieves."
"No, I not a Christian, but I _do_ tink," returned Ruyter, "only I no'
can onderstan'. De black heathen--so you calls him--live in de land.
White Christian--so you calls _him_--come and take de land; make slabe
ob black man, and kick 'im about like pair ob ole boots--I _not_
onderstan' nohow."
"Come, I will try to make you understand," returned Orpin, pulling out
the New Testament which he always carried in his pocket. "_Some_ white
men who call themselves Christians are heathens, and _some_ black men
are Christians. We are all,--black and white,--born bad, and God has
sent us a Saviour, and a message, so that all who will, black or white,
may become good." Orpin here commenced to expound the Word, and to tell
the story of the Cross, while the Hottentot listened with rapt
attention, or asked questions which showed that he had indeed been
thinking of these things since his last meeting with the trader, many
years before. He was not very communicative, however, and when the two
parted he declined to make any more satisfactory promise than that he
would continue to "tink."
Stephen Orpin spent the night alone in a tree, up which he had climbed
to be more secure from wild beasts. Sitting there, he meditated much,
and came to the conclusion that he ought in future to devote himself
entirely to missionary labours. In pursuance of that idea, he made his
way to one of the Wesleyan mission stations in Kafirland.
On the road thither he came to a Kafir kraal, where the men seemed to be
engaged in the performance of a war-dance.
On being questioned by these Kafirs as to who he was, and where he came
from, Orpin replied, in his best Kafir, that he was a trader and a
missionary.
The chief looked surprised, but, on hearing the whole of Orpin's story,
a cunning look twinkled in his eyes, and he professed great friendship
for the missionaries, stating at the same time that he was going to one
of the Wesleyan stations, and would be glad to escort Orpin thither.
Thereafter he gave orders that the white man should be taken to one of
his huts and supplied with a "basket" of milk.
The white man gratefully acknowledged the kind offer, and, asking the
name of the friendly chief, was informed that it was Hintza. Just then
a court fool or jester stepped forward, and cried aloud his
announcements of the events of the day, mixed with highly complimentary
praises of his master. Stephen did not understand all he said, but he
gathered thus much,--that the warriors had been out to battle and had
returned victorious; that Hintza was the greatest man and most
courageous warrior who had ever appeared among the Kafirs, to gladden
their hearts and enrich their bands; and that there was great work yet
for the warriors to do in the way of driving certain barbarians into the
sea--to which desirable deed the heroic, the valiant, the wise, the
unapproachable Hintza would lead them.
Orpin feared that he understood the meaning of the last words too well,
but, being aware that Hintza was regarded by the colonists as one of the
friendliest of the Kafir chiefs, he hoped that he might be mistaken.
Hintza was as good as his word, and set out next day with a band of
warriors, giving the white man a good horse that he might ride beside
him. On the way they came on a sight which filled Orpin with sadness
and anxiety. It was the ruins of a village, which from the appearance
of the remains had evidently been occupied in part by white men. He
observed that a gleam of satisfaction lit up Hintza's swarthy visage for
a moment as he passed the place.
Dismounting, the party proceeded to examine the ruins, but found
nothing. The Kafirs were very taciturn, but the chief said, on being
pressed, that he believed it had been a mission station which wicked men
of other tribes had burned.
On the outbreak of this war some of the missionaries remained by their
people, others were compelled to leave them.
The station just passed had been deserted. At the one to which Hintza
was now leading Orpin the missionaries had remained at their post.
There he found them still holding out, but in deep dejection, for nearly
all their people had forsaken them, and gone to the war. Even while he
was talking with them, crowds of the bloodstained savages were returning
from the colony, laden with the spoils of the white man, and driving
thousands of his sheep and cattle before them. In these circumstances,
Stephen resolved to make the best of his way back to Salem. On telling
this to Hintza, that chief from some cause that he could not understand,
again offered to escort him. He would not accompany him personally, he
said, but he would send with him a band of his warriors, and he trusted
that on his arrival in the colony he would tell to the great white chief
(the Governor) that he, Hintza, did not aid the other Kafir tribes in
this war.
Stephen's eyes were opened by the last speech, and from that moment he
suspected Hintza of treachery.
He had no choice, however, but to accept the escort. On the very day
after they had started, they came to a spot where a terrible fight had
obviously taken place. The ground was strewn with the mangled corpses
of a party of white men, while the remains of waggons and other signs
showed that they had formed one of the bands of Dutch emigrants which
had already begun to quit the colony. The savages made ineffectual
attempts to conceal their delight at what they saw, and Orpin now felt
that he was in the power of enemies who merely spared his life in the
hope that he might afterwards be useful to them.
The band which escorted him consisted of several hundred warriors, a few
of whom were mounted on splendid horses stolen from the settlers. He
himself was also mounted on a good steed, but felt that it would be
madness to attempt to fly from them. On the second day they were
joined--whether by arrangement or not Orpin had no means of judging--by
a band of over a thousand warriors belonging to a different tribe from
his escort. As the trader rode along in a dejected state of mind, one
of the advance-guard or scouts came back with excited looks, saying that
a large band of Dutch farmers was encamped down in a hollow just beyond
the rise in front of them. The chief of the Kafirs ordered the scout
sternly to be silent, at the same time glancing at Orpin. Then he
whispered to two men, who quietly took their assagais and stationed
themselves one on either side of their white prisoner--for such he
really was.
Orpin now felt certain that the group of principal men who drew together
a little apart were concerting the best mode of attacking the emigrant
farmers, and his heart burned within him as he thought of them resting
there in fancied security, while these black scoundrels were plotting
their destruction. But what could he do--alone and totally unarmed? He
thought of making a dash and giving the alarm, but the watchful savages
at his side seemed to divine his intentions, for they grasped their
assagais with significant action.
"A desperate disease," thought Orpin, "requires a desperate remedy. I
will try it, and may succeed--God helping me." A thought occurred just
then. Disengaging his right foot from the stirrup, he made as if he
were shortening it a little, but instead, he detached it from the
saddle, and taking one turn of the leather round his hand, leaped his
horse at the savage nearest him and struck him full on the forehead with
the stirrup-iron. Dashing on at full speed, he bent low, and, as he had
hoped, the spear of the other savage whizzed close over his back. The
act was so sudden that he had almost gained the ridge before the other
mounted Kafirs could pursue. He heard a loud voice, however, command
them to stop, and, looking back, saw that only one Kafir--the leader--
gave chase, but that leader was a powerful man, armed, and on a fleeter
horse than his own. A glance showed him the camp of the emigrant
farmers in a hollow about a mile or so distant. He made straight for
it. The action of the next few seconds was short, sharp, and decisive.
The Dutchmen, having had a previous alarm from a small Kafir band, were
prepared. They had drawn their waggons into a compact circle, closing
the apertures between and beneath them with thorn-bushes, which they
lashed firmly with leather thongs to the wheels and dissel-booms or
waggon-poles. Within this circle was a smaller one for the protection
of the women and children.
Great was the surprise of the farmers when they heard a loud shout, and
beheld a white man flying for his life from a solitary savage. With the
promptitude of men born and bred in the midst of alarms, they seized
their guns and issued from their fortified enclosure to the rescue, but
the Kafir was already close to Orpin, and in the act of raising his
assagai to stab him.
Seeing the urgency of the case, Conrad Marais, who was considered a
pretty good shot among his fellows, took steady aim, and, at the risk of
hitting the white man, fired. The right arm of the savage dropped by
his side and the assagai fell to the ground, but, plucking another from
his bundle with his left hand, he made a furious thrust. Stephen Orpin,
swaying aside, was only grazed by it. At the same time he whirled the
stirrup once round his head, and, bringing the iron down with tremendous
force on the skull of his pursuer, hurled him to the ground.
"Stephen Orpin!" exclaimed Conrad Marais in amazement, as the trader
galloped up.
"You've got more pluck than I gave you credit for," growled Jan Smit.
"You'll need all your own pluck presently," retorted Orpin, who
thereupon told them that hundreds of Kafirs were on the other side of
the ridge, and would be down on them in a few minutes. Indeed, he had
not finished speaking when the ridge in question was crossed by the
black host, who came yelling on to the attack,--the few mounted men
leading.
"Come, boys, let's meet them as far as possible from the waggons," cried
Conrad.
The whole band of farmers, each mounted and carrying his gun, dashed
forward. When quite close to the foe they halted, and, every man
dismounting, knelt and fired. Nearly all the horsemen among the enemy
fell to the ground at the discharge, and the riderless steeds galloped
over the plain, while numbers of the footmen were also killed and
wounded. But most of those savages belonged to a fierce and warlike
tribe. Though checked for a moment, they soon returned to the attack
more furiously than before. The Dutch farmers, remounting, galloped
back a short distance, loading as they went; halting again, they
dismounted and fired as before, with deadly effect.
There is no question that the white men, if sufficiently supplied with
ammunition, could have thus easily overcome any number of the savages,
but the waggons stopped them. On reaching these, they were obliged to
stand at bay, and, being greatly outnumbered, took shelter inside of
their enclosure. Of course their flocks and herds, being most of them
outside, were at once driven away by a small party of the assailants,
while the larger proportion, with savage yells and war-cries, made a
furious attack on their position.
Closing round the circle, they endeavoured again and again to break
through the line or to clamber over the waggon-tilts, and never did
savage warriors earn a better title to the name of braves than on that
occasion. Even the bristling four and six-inch thorns of the
mimosa-bushes would not have been able to turn back their impetuous
onset if behind these the stout Dutchmen, fighting for wives and
children, had not stood manfully loading and firing volleys of slugs and
buckshot at arm's-length from them. The crowded ranks of the Kafirs
were ploughed as if by cannon, while hundreds of assagais were hurled
into the enclosure, but happily with little effect, though a few of the
defenders--exposing themselves recklessly--were wounded.
While Conrad Marais was standing close to the hind-wheels of one of the
waggons, watching for a good shot at a Kafir outside, who was dodging
about for the double purpose of baulking Conrad's intention and
thrusting an assagai into him, another active Kafir had clambered
unobserved on the tilt of the waggon and was in the very act of leaning
over to thrust his spear into the back of the Dutchman's neck when he
was observed by Stephen Orpin, who chanced to be reloading his gun at
the moment.
With a loud roar, very unlike his usual gentle tones, Orpin sprang
forward, seized a thick piece of wood like a four-foot rolling-pin, and
therewith felled the savage, who tumbled headlong into the enclosure.
"Oh, father!" exclaimed a terrified voice at that moment, while a light
touch was laid on Conrad's shoulder.
"What brings you here, Bertha?" said Conrad, with an impatient gesture.
"Don't you know--"
"Come, quick, to mother!" cried the girl, interrupting.
No more was needed. In a moment Conrad was in the central enclosure,
where, crowded under a rude erection of planks and boxes, were the women
and children. An assagai had penetrated an unguarded crevice, and,
passing under the arm of poor Mrs Marais, had pinned her to the family
trunk, against which she leaned.
"Bertha could not pull it out," said Mrs Marais, with a faint smile on
her pale face, "but I don't think I'm much hurt."
In a moment her husband had pulled out the spear, found that it had
penetrated her clothing, and only grazed her breast, took time merely to
make sure of this, and then, leaving her in Bertha's hands, returned to
the scene of combat.
He was not an instant too soon. A yell was uttered by the savages as
they rushed at a weak point, where the thorn-bush defences had been
broken down. The point appeared to be undefended. They were about to
leap through in a dense mass when ten Dutchmen, who had reserved their
fire, discharged a volley simultaneously into the midst of them. It was
a ruse of the defenders to draw the savages to that point. Whilst the
Kafirs tumbled back over heaps of dead and dying, several other farmers
thrust masses of impenetrable mimosa bush into the gap and refilled it.
This discomfiture checked the assailants for a little; they drew off and
retired behind the ridge to concert plans for a renewed and more
systematic attack.