"Stop and watch," said Dyke; and leaving the dog in charge, he went out
into the glorious light of day, feeling strong now, but horribly weak.
A contradiction, but a fact, for though he had drunk of the cool fresh
water several times, he had taken nothing since the previous morning,
and if he had to nurse Emson back to life, he knew that he must gather
force by means of food.
He had to carry on the work of the place still, he felt, as his brother
was helpless; and as he walked round to the back of the premises, he
began to feel something like wonder at the terrible despair from which
he had suffered since his return. For everything looked so bright and
cheery and home-like, and the world around him so beautiful, that he
felt ready for any new struggle in the great fight for life.
"She's always squatting over a fire," said Dyke to himself, as he went
round to the back, for there was Tanta Sal down in a wonderfully
frog-like attitude, turning herself into a very vigorous natural
bellows, to make the fire glow under the kettle.
She looked up and smiled, drawing back her thick lips as the lad
approached.
"Baas Joe die?" she said.
"Look here!" roared Dyke fiercely: "don't you say that to me again.
No--_No_--No--No!"
Tanta Sal stared at him and shook her head.
"Breakfast!" cried Dyke laconically.
That she understood, and Dyke hurried away to take a sharp glance round
before going back to his brother's side.
It was needed. The cows were not milked, and not likely to be; the
horses had not been fed, and the ostriches were clamouring for food.
Just then he saw Jack peeping at him from round the corner of one of the
sheds; but as soon as he caught sight of his young master, he drew back.
Instead of going on, Dyke darted round to the other side of the
building, knowing full well that if he ran after him, Jack would dash
off more quickly than he could. So stopping and creeping on over the
sand, he peeped round and saw the man before him just about to perform
the same act. Consequently Dyke was able to pounce upon the Kaffir,
whom he seized by the waist-cloth.
"Here, I want you," he cried sternly, and in a gruff voice which he
hardly knew for his own.
"Baas want?"
"Yes: go and begin milking the cows. I'll send Tant to you directly."
The man showed his teeth, and stood shaking his head.
To his utter astonishment Dyke shifted his grasp, and caught him by the
throat with one hand, and shook his fist in his face.
"Look here," he said; "you can understand English when you like, and
you've got to understand it now. Baas Joe's sick."
"Baas Joe go die," said the man.
"Baas Joe go live," cried Dyke fiercely, "and he'll flog you well if you
don't behave yourself. You go and milk those two cows, and then feed
the ostriches and horses, or I'll fetch Duke to watch you, so look out."
Jack's jaw dropped at the mention of the dog, and he hurried away; while
Dyke, after a glance at the wagon, which stood just where it had been
dragged with its load, was about to re-enter the house, when he caught
sight of three Kaffirs watching him from beyond one of the ostrich-pens.
"Who are you?" he said to himself. "What do they want?"
He went quickly toward them, but they turned and fled as hard as they
could go, assegai in hand, and the boy stopped and watched them for some
time, thinking very seriously, for he began to divine what it all meant.
"They have heard from Tant that Joe is dying, and I suppose I'm nobody.
They are hanging about to share everything in the place with our two;
but--"
Dyke's _but_ meant a good deal. The position was growing serious, yet
he did not feel dismayed, for, to use his own words, it seemed to stir
him up to show fight.
"And I will, too," he said through his teeth. "I'll let 'em see."
He went back into the house to find Emson sleeping, and apparently
neither he nor the dog had moved.
"Ah, Duke, that's right," said Dyke. "I shall want you. You can keep
watch for me when I go away."
Just then Tanta Sal came in, smiling, to tell him that breakfast was
ready, and he began to question her about when his brother was taken
ill. But either from obtuseness or obstinacy, he could get nothing from
the woman, and he was about to let her go while he ate his breakfast of
mealie cake and hot milk; but a sudden thought occurred to him. Had
those Kaffirs been about there before?
He asked the woman, but in a moment her smile had gone, and she was
staring at him helplessly, apparently quite unable to comprehend the
drift of his questions; so he turned from her in a pet, to hurry through
his breakfast, thinking the while of what he had better do.
He soon decided upon his first step, and that was to try and get Jack
off to Morgenstern's with his letter; and after attending to Emson and
repeating the medicine he had given the previous day, he went out, to
find that the animals had been fed, and that Jack was having his own
breakfast with his wife.
There was a smile for him directly from both, and he plunged into his
business at once; but as he went on, the smiles died out, and all he
said was received in a dull, stolid way. Neither Jack nor his wife
would understand what he meant--their denseness was impenetrable.
"It's of no use to threaten him," said Dyke to himself, as he went back;
"he would only run away and take Tant with him, and then I should be ten
times worse off than I am now. I must go myself. Yes, I could take two
horses, and ride first one and then the other, and so set over the round
faster. I could do it in a third of the time."
But he shook his head wearily as he glanced at where Emson lay.
"I dare not leave him to them. I should never see him again alive."
It was quite plain: the Kaffirs had marked down the baas for dead, and
unless watched, they would not trouble themselves to try to save him by
moving a hand.
Dyke shuddered, for if he were absent he felt the possibility of one of
the strangers he had seen, helping them so as to share or rob. No: he
dared not go.
But could he not have the wagon made comfortable, store it with
necessaries, get Emson lifted in, and then drive the oxen himself?
It took no consideration. It would be madness, he felt, to attempt such
a thing. It would be fatal at once, he knew; and, besides, he dared not
take the sick man on such a journey without being sure that he would be
received at the house at the journey's end.
No: that was impossible.
Another thought. It was evident that Jack was determined not to go back
alone to Morgenstern's, but would it be possible to send a more faithful
messenger--the dog? He had read of dogs being sent to places with
despatches attached to their collars. Why should not Duke go? He knew
the way, and once made to understand--
Dyke shook his head. It was too much to expect. The journey was too
long. How was the dog to be protected from wild beasts at night, and
allowing that he could run the gauntlet of those dangers, how was the
poor brute to be fed?
"No, no, no," cried the boy passionately; "it is too much to think. It
is fate, and I must see Joe through it myself. He is better, I am
sure."
There was every reason for thinking so, and nurturing the hope that his
brother had taken the turn, Dyke determined to set to work and go on as
if all was well--just as if Emson were about and seeing to things
himself.
"You know I wouldn't neglect you, old chap," he said affectionately, as
he bent over the couch and gazed in the sunken features; "I shall be
close by, and will keep on coming in."
Then a thought struck him, and he called the watchful dog away and fed
him, before sending him back to the bedside, and going out to examine
the ostriches more closely.
Dyke's heart sank as he visited pen after pen. Either from neglect or
disease, several of the birds had died, and were lying about the place,
partly eaten by jackals; while of the young ones hatched from the nest
of eggs brought home with such high hopes, not one was left.
"Poor Joe!" sighed Dyke, as he looked round despondently, and thought of
his brother's words, which, broken and incoherent as they were, told of
the disappointment and bitterness which had followed the long, weary
trial of his experiment.
And now, with the poor fellow broken down and completely helpless, the
miserable dead birds, the wretched look of those still living, and the
general neglect, made Dyke feel ready to turn away in despair.
But he set his teeth hard and went about with a fierce energy
rearranging the birds in their pens, and generally working as if this
were all a mere accident that only wanted putting straight, for
everything to go on prosperously in the future.
It was hard work, feeling, as Dyke did, that it was a hopeless task, and
that a complete change--a thorough new beginning--must be made for there
to be the slightest chance for success. But he kept on, the task
becoming quite exciting when the great birds turned restive or showed
fight, and a disposition to go everywhere but where they were wanted.
Then he fetched Jack, who came unwillingly, acting as if he believed
some new scheme was about to be tried to send him off to the old
trader's. But he worked better when he found that he was only to drag
away the remains of one or two dead birds, and to fetch water and do a
little more cleaning.
Dyke divided his time between seeing that the work was done, and going
to and fro to his brother's couch, now feeling hopeful as he fancied
that he was sleeping more easily. At the second visit, too, his hopes
grew more strong; but at the third they went down to zero, for to his
horror the heat flush and violent chill returned with terrible delirium,
and the boy began to blame himself for not doing something more about
getting a doctor, for Emson seemed to be worse than he was at his
return.
By degrees, though, it dawned upon him that this might not be a sign of
going back, only a peculiarity of malarial fever, in some forms of which
he knew that the sufferer had regular daily fits, which lasted for a
certain time and then passed away, leaving the patient exhausted, but
better.
This might be one of these attacks, he felt, and he sat watching and
trying to give relief; but in vain, for the delirium increased, and the
symptoms looked as bad as they could be, for a man to live.
And now once more the utter helplessness of his position came upon Dyke,
and he sat there listening to his brother's wild words, trying to fit
them together and grasp his meaning, but in vain. He bathed the burning
head and applied the wet bandages, but they seemed to afford no relief
whatever; and at last growing more despondent than ever, he felt that he
could not bear it, and just at dusk he went outside the door to try to
think, though really to get away for a few minutes from the terrible
scene.
Then his conscience smote him for what he told himself was an act of
cowardice, and he hurried back to the bedside, to find that, short as
had been his absence, it had been long enough for a great change to take
place.
In fact, the paroxysm had passed, and the poor fellow's brow was covered
with a fine perspiration, his breathing easier, and he was evidently
sinking into a restful sleep.
Dyke stood watching and holding his brother's hand till he could
thoroughly believe that this was the case, and then tottered out once
more into the comparatively cool evening air, to find Jack or his wife,
and tell them to bring something for him and the dog to eat, for he had
seen nothing of either of them for many hours.
He walked round to the back, but there was no fire smouldering, and no
one in the narrow, yard-like place; so he went on to the shed in which
the servants slept, and tapped at the rough door.
But there was no answer, and upon looking in, expecting to see Jack
lying there asleep, neither he nor his wife was visible.
How was that? Gone to fetch in fuel from where it was piled-up in a
stack? No: for there was plenty against the side of one of the sheds.
What then--water? Yes, that would be it. Jack and Tanta Sal had gone
together to the kopje for company's sake to fetch three or four buckets
from the cool fresh spring, of whose use he had been so lavish during
the past day. They had gone evidently before it was quite dark; and,
feeling hungry and exhausted now, he walked round to where the wagon
stood, recalling that there was some dry cake left in the locker, and
meaning to eat of this to relieve the painfully faint sensation.
He climbed up into the wagon, and lifted the lid of the chest, but there
was no mealie cake there; Jack or Tant must have taken it out. So going
back to the house where Emson was sleeping quietly, the boy dipped a
pannikin into the bucket standing there, and drank thirstily before
going outside again to watch for the Kaffir servants' return, feeling
impatient now, and annoyed that they should have neglected him for so
long.
But there was no sign of their approach. The night was coming on fast,
and a faint star or two became visible, while the granite kopje rose up,
softly rounded in the evening light, with a faint glow appearing from
behind it, just as if the moon were beginning to rise there.
He waited and waited till it was perfectly plain that the man could not
be coming from fetching water, and, startled at this, he shouted, and
then hurriedly looked about in the various buildings, but only to find
them empty.
Startled now, more than he cared to own to himself, Dyke ran back to the
Kaffir's lodge, and looked in again. There were no assegais leaning
against the wall, nothing visible there whatever, and half-stunned by
the thought which had come upon him with terrible violence, the boy went
slowly back to the house, and sat down by where Duke was watching the
sleeping man.
"Alone! alone!" muttered Dyke with a groan; "they have gone and left us.
Joe, Joe, old man, can't you speak to me? We are forsaken. Speak to
me, for I cannot even think now. What shall I do?"