The settlement of Komgha--called after an infinitesimal stream of that
name--was, like most frontier townships, an utterly insignificant place.
It consisted of a few straggling blocks of houses plumped down
apparently without rhyme or reason in the middle of the _veldt_, which
here was open and undulating. It boasted a few stores and canteens, a
couple of institutions termed by courtesy "hotels," an exceedingly ugly
church, and a well-kept cricket ground. To the eastward rose the Kei
Hills, the only picturesque element about the place, prominent among
these the flat, table-topped summit of Moordenaar's Kop, [Dutch,
"Murderer's Peak"] a tragical spot so named on account of the surprise
and massacre of a party of officers who had incautiously ventured up
there in small force during one of the previous wars. The village was
virtually the headquarters of the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police, the
substantial square barracks, which harboured the artillery troop of that
useful force, crowning the hill nearly a mile away, and there was
generally another troop or two quartered around the place. The main
road from King Williamstown to the Transkeian territories ran through
the village.
At the period of our story, however, there was no lack of life or stir
about the normally sleepy little place, for it was in process of
transformation into a huge _laager_ or armed camp. Waggons were coming
in from several directions--laden mostly with the families and household
goods of fleeing settlers, and the sharp crack of whips and the harsh
yells of their drivers rose high above the general turmoil. Men were
bustling to and fro, bent upon nothing in particular and looking as
though each and all carried the fate of a nation in his pockets, or
standing, in knots at street corners, discussing the situation, each
perchance with a little less knowledge than his neighbour. All sorts of
wild rumours were in the air, the least of which was that every white in
the Transkei had been massacred, and that Kreli was marching upon Komgha
at the head of the whole Gcaleka army.
Mrs Hoste, with her two young daughters, were at the door as the party
drove up. They received Eanswyth very cordially.
"At last--at last! Why, we have been looking out for you for the last
hour. I declare, I began to think you had stayed too long at Anta's
Kloof, and the Kafirs had taken you prisoner or something. How do you
do, Mr Milne? But--come in. We are going to have a dreadful storm in
a minute. Mercy on us! What a flash!"
The blue, steely gleam was followed by a roll of thunder, long, loud,
reverberating. There was a patter upon the zinc roof. A few raindrops,
nearly as large as saucers, splashed around, and then, almost before the
two men could get into their waterproof coats, the rain descended with a
roar and a rush, in such a deluge that they could hardly see to outspan
the trap.
"_Allamaghtaag_! but that's a fine rain," cried Hoste, with a farmer's
appreciation, as he swung himself free of his dripping mackintosh in the
little veranda.
"Especially for those who are under canvas," said Eustace with a
significant glance at a group of tents pitched upon the plain just
outside the village. For the surrounding _veldt_ had been turned into
something like a sea, and a miniature torrent roared down every
depression in the ground.
"Well, Mr Milne," cried Mrs Hoste, from the head of the table, as the
two men entered. "Its past three o'clock and dinner has been ready
since half-past one. We quite expected you then."
"Which, being interpreted, means that I must prepare for the worst," was
the rejoinder. "Never mind. I dare say we shan't starve. Well, and
what's the latest absurdity in the way of news?"
"Just what I was going to ask you. You're hand-in-glove with all the
Kafir chiefs. You ought to be able to give _us_ all the news."
Eustace smiled to himself. He could tell them a few things that would
astonish them considerably, if he chose. But he did not choose.
"We'll loaf round the village presently," said Hoste. "Likely enough
we'll hear something then."
"Likely enough it'll be about as reliable as usual," said Eustace.
"What was the last report? Kreli and the Gcaleka army encamped at the
Kei Drift--be here in two hours?"
"It's all very well to laugh," said Mrs Hoste. "But what if we were
attacked some fine night?"
"There isn't the ghost of a chance of it. Especially with all these
wondrous fortifications about."
"I wish I thought you were serious. It would be a relief to me if I
could think so."
"Pray do think so, Mrs Hoste. There is no sort of chance of this place
being attacked; so make your mind easy."
"What do you think of our crib, Milne?" struck in Hoste.
"It seems snug enough. Not palatial, but good enough for all purposes.
You were lucky to light upon it."
"Rather. There isn't so much as the corner of a rat hole to be had in
the whole place now. But, it's knocked off raining," as a bright gleam
of sunlight shot into the room. "Only a thunder-shower. We seem to
have done dinner. Let's go out and pick up the latest lie. By the way,
you don't want to go home again to-night, Milne? We can give you a
shake-down on the sofa."
"The fact is I don't. To-morrow will do just as well, and then I
suppose I'll have to trek with the stock down to Swaanepoel's Hoek,
while Tom, thirsting for death or glory, fills up that tally slick he
was telling us about last night."
"But don't you intend to volunteer for the front, like the rest?" asked
Mrs Hoste in astonishment.
"No. Not at present, anyway. _I've_ no quarrel with Jack Kafir; rather
the reverse. I own I should like to _see_ the campaign, but I couldn't
do that without drawing trigger, and that's just what I'd rather avoid,
except in a case of absolute necessity."
It might have been imagination, but Eustace fancied he could detect a
look of intense relief pass over Eanswyth's features as he announced his
desire to avoid the scene of hostilities. Yet with so many eyes upon
him--upon them both--he would not look directly at her. Such is the
effect of an _arriere-pensee_. Two days ago he would not have been
careful to study appearances. But a good deal can happen in two days,
notably the establishment of a thorough understanding between two
persons.
"We'll go round to Pagel's first," said Hoste, as the two men strolled
forth. "If rumour has taken shape at all, likely as not it's there we
shall pick it up."
They soon reached the hotel. The bar and smoking-room were crammed with
men--and smoke; men mostly of the farming class; men with large, sinewy
hands, and habited partially or entirely in corduroy. There was a very
Babel of tongues, for pretty nearly every man was talking at once,
mostly on the all-absorbing topic. Some were indulging in chaff and
loud laughter, and a few, we regret to say, were exceedingly unsteady on
their pins.
Rumour, our two friends found, had taken shape, and the great item of
news which everybody was discussing had received the _imprimatur_ of
official announcement. There had been a fight between the Gcalekas and
the Fingoes, and a body of Mounted Police, interfering on behalf of the
latter, had been defeated and forced to retire with the loss of a
sub-inspector and half a dozen men. This had happened in the Idutywa
Reserve two days previously.
Grave news, was the unanimous verdict. Grave news that the enemy should
have triumphed in the very first engagement. Another such success, and
every native from Natal to the Great Fish River would be up in arms.
The news would flash from tribe to tribe, from kraal to kraal, quicker
than a telegraphic message.
"That you, Payne?" cried Hoste.
The man addressed, who formed one of an arguing knot, turned.
"Thought it was," went on the first speaker, shaking hands. "Here's
Milne, on the scare like the rest of us. Carhayes is still on his farm,
standing out longer than even you, eh Payne? We brought in his wife
to-day, Milne and I."
"Then he's all right. If it wasn't for our women-kind we could all
stick to our farms right through," answered Payne. "Just think what
sort of effect it has on Jack Kafir to see every fellow cutting away
from him like mad."
"Why don't you practise what you preach then, old chap?" put in another
man, while three or four more laughed significantly, for Payne's
opinions were decidedly in disfavour among that gathering. "Why do you
_trek_ away and leave your own place?"
"Oh, blazes take you all! Ain't I jolly well hung round with
women-kind?" was the reply, in a rueful, comic tone which raised a roar
of laughter. "How can I?"
"What has become of that Britisher who was staying with you?" asked
Hoste.
A very quaint expression came into the other's face. "He's thinking
more of love than of war," he answered, lowering his voice for Hoste's
benefit. "Expect he'll take one of the said women-kind off my hands
mighty sharp. Won't be his fault if he doesn't."
"Britishers ain't no damn good!" said a burly fellow in corduroy, with a
lurch up against Eustace.
Some of the men looked awkward; others interested. The remark was
enough to provoke half a dozen fights, especially in that room,
frequented as it often was by Police troopers, many of whom were young
Englishmen of recent importation and thus likely to resent such a slur
upon the home-grown article. But it took a good deal more than this to
embark Eustace in active hostilities. The expression of his immobile
features was as if the remark had passed unheard. Besides, he saw at a
glance that the fellow was drunk.
"I say, you fellows--Hoste, Milne. Lets go and have a wet!" said Payne,
making a move towards the bar, partly with a view to avoiding any
further chance of a row. "Put a name to your pet poison and we'll drink
confusion to old Kreli. Hang it. This atmosphere is enough to float a
line-of-battle ship. Let's get out of it--when we've had our moistener,
not before."
"It's rather rough on me, this shindy," he continued as they found
themselves outside again. "What's the good of a fellow laying himself
out to improve his place? Here I've got a lot of splendid lands under
cultivation. Fountains Gap is a perfect jewel in that line, and now I
must sacrifice the whole lot. Well, we're all in the same boat, that's
one thing," he added philosophically. "So long, you fellows. I must go
home. Hallo! Wonder if those chaps have brought any news."
Three Police troopers rode quickly by, heading for the quarters of their
commanding officer. They had evidently ridden express direct from the
Transkei, and had not spared their horses either, for both the latter
and themselves looked jaded and travel-worn, besides being splashed from
head to foot with mud.
The evening passed pleasantly enough. Eustace declined his friend's
invitation to accompany him again into the village to try and learn some
more news. After that night Eanswyth and he would be parted--for how
long, Heaven only knew. But in that rather crowded circle there was no
such thing as even a minute's _tete-a-tete_, and this he well knew. The
conversation was all general, still he could delight his eyes with the
mere sight of her--could let his ears revel in the music of her voice.
Yet was there a something underlying the tone, the glance, of one or
both of them, which conveyed a more than ordinary meaning?
For, that night, long after the bugle calls from the Police camps and
the carolling of jolly souls wending somewhat unsteadily homeward from
the convivial bar, had sunk into silence, Mrs Hoste made unto her lord
and master a strange remark.
"What a pity Eanswyth didn't marry her husband's cousin instead of her
husband."
"Great Scott! What the very deuce do you mean?"
"Well, I mean it is a pity. Look how well they seem to suit each other.
Look at them here to-day. Anyone, any stranger coming in hap-hazard,
would at once have jumped to the conclusion that they belonged to each
other. And it's a pity they don't. Tom Carhayes isn't at all the man
for that dear Eanswyth. I should be uncommonly sorry to be his wife
myself, I know that much."
"I daresay you would. But Providence has been much kinder to you in
that line than you deserve. But oh, good Heavens, Ada, do be mighty
careful what you say. If you had propounded that idea of yours to
anyone else, for instance, there's no knowing what amount of mischief it
might open up."
"So? All right. There's no fear of my being such a fool. If you've
preached enough--have you? Well, go to sleep."