The state of excitement prevailing in Komgha during the period of
hostilities within the Transkei, was as nothing to that which prevailed
now that the tide of war was rolling around the very outposts of the
settlement itself.
The once sleepy little village had become a vast armed camp, garrisoned
by regular troops, as well as being the halting place for numerous
bodies of irregulars--mounted burghers or Fingo levies--once more called
out or volunteering for active service, the latter with more zest this
time, inasmuch as the enemy was within their very gates. It was the
headquarters of operations, and all day long--frequently all night too--
what with expeditions or patrols setting out, or returning, or
preparing; the arrival of reinforcements; the flash and trappings of the
military element; the exaggerated and conflicting rumours varying with
every half-hour that went by. With all these things, we say, the
sojourners in that favoured settlement found things as lively as they
could wish.
There was no mistaking the position of affairs now. The Gaikas, whose
locations occupied the whole northern half of British Kaffraria, the
Hlambi clans, who held the rugged country along the eastern slopes of
the Amatola Mountains, were all up in arms. All, that is, save an
insignificant fraction, who applied to the Government for protection as
`loyals'; their loyalty consisting in taking no part in hostilities
themselves, but aiding with supplies and information those who did--as
well as affording a refuge in time of need to the women and cattle
belonging to their hostile countrymen. Communication with the Colony
was practically cut off--for, except to strong parties, the King
Williamstown road was closed. A strong escort, consisting of Police and
military, was attacked within a few miles of the settlement itself, only
getting through by dint of hard fighting; and ever in their bushy hiding
places, on the surrounding hills, hovered dark clouds of armed Savages
ready to swoop down upon lonely express-rider or waggon train
insufficiently guarded. The smoke of ruined homesteads rose from the
fair plains of British Kaffraria, and by night the lurid signals of the
hostile barbarians flamed forth from many a lofty peak.
In the Transkei matters were rather worse than before the previous three
months of campaigning. Very far from crushed, the Gcalekas swarmed back
into their oft-swept country, and with the aid of their new allies set
to work with redoubled ardour to make things as lively for the white man
as they possibly could. This kept nearly all the forces then at the
front actively employed in that direction, leaving the field open to the
residue of the Gaikas and Hlambis to burn and pillage throughout British
Kaffraria at their own sweet will. The destruction of property was
great and widespread.
Still, on the whole, men seemed rather to enjoy the prevailing state of
things than otherwise, even those who were severe losers, strange to
say. The colonial mind, adventurous at bottom, dearly loves excitement,
once it has drunk at that enchanted fountain. Perhaps one of the best
illustrations of this is to be found in the numbers who remained, and do
remain, on at Johannesburg after the collapse, in a state of
semi-starvation--rather than exchange the liveliness and stir of that
restless and mushroom town for the surer but more sober conditions of
life offered by the scenes of their birth. In British Kaffraria, the
renewed outbreak of hostilities afforded plenty of excitement, which
went as a set-off against the aforesaid losses--for the time being at
any rate. Those who had already taken part in the first campaign either
volunteered for the second or stayed at home and talked about both.
Though whether he had been out or not made no difference as regarded the
talking part of it, for every man jack you might meet in a day's
wandering was open to give you his opinion upon what had been done, and
what hadn't been done; above all upon what _should_ have been done; in a
word, felt himself entirely competent to direct the whole of the field
operations there and then, and without even the traditional minute's
notice.
But however enjoyable all this may have been to society at large, as
there represented, there was one to whom it was intolerably irksome, and
that one was Eustace Milne. The reasons for this were diverse. In the
first place, in the then crowded state of the community, he could hardly
ever obtain an opportunity of talking, with Eanswyth alone; which was
not wholly without advantage in that it enabled the latter to keep up
her _role_; for if her former sorrowing and heart-wrung condition had
now become the hollowest mockery, there was no reason why everybody
should be informed thereof, but very much the reverse. He could not see
her alone in the house, for it was always full of people, and when it
was not, still, the walls were thin. He could not take her for a ride
outside the settlement, for in those early days the enemy was daring,
and did not always keep at a respectful distance. It would not do to
run any more risks. In the next place, all the "talking big," and
indeed the talking at all, that went on, morning, noon, and night, on
the well-worn, and threadbare topic was wearisome to him. The thing had
become, in fact, a bore of the first water. But the most distasteful
side of it all was the notoriety which he himself had, all
involuntarily, attained. A man who had been reported slain, and then
turned up safe and sound after having been held a prisoner for some
weeks by the savage and ordinarily ruthless enemy they were then
fighting, was sure to attract considerable attention throughout the
frontier community. Friends, neighbours, intimates, people they had
never seen or heard of before, would call on the Hostes all day and
every day--literally in swarms, as the victim of these attentions put
it--in order to see Eustace, and haply, to extract a "yarn" as to his
late captivity. If he walked through the township some effusive
individual was bound to rush at him with an "I say, Mister, 'scuse me,
but we're told you're the man that was taken prisoner by old Kreli.
Now, do us the favour to step round and have a drink. We don't see a
man who has escaped from them black devils every day." And then, under
pain of being regarded as churlish to a degree, he would find himself
compelled to join a group of jovial, but under the circumstances
excessively unwelcome, strangers, and proceed to the nearest bar to be
cross questioned within an inch of his life, and expected to put away
sundry "splits" that he did not want. Or those in charge of operations,
offensive and defensive, would make his acquaintance and ask him to
dine, always with the object of eliciting useful information. But to
these Eustace was very reticent and proved, in fact, a sore
disappointment. He had been treated fairly well by his captors. They
were savages, smarting under a sense of defeat and loss. They might
have put him to death amid cruel torments; instead of which they had
given him his liberty. For the said liberty he had yet to pay--to pay
pretty smartly, too, but this was only fair and might be looked upon in
the light of ransom. He was not going to give any information to their
detriment merely because, under a doubtfully administered system of
organisation, they had taken up arms against the Colony. Besides, as a
matter of fact, it was doubtful whether he had any information to give.
So his entertainers were disappointed. Everyone who accosted him upon
the objectionable topic was disappointed. He became unpopular.
The infinitesimal intellect of the community felt slighted. The far
from infinitesimal sense of self-importance of the said community was
wounded to the core. Here was a man who had passed through strange and
startling experiences which everyone else was dying to share--at second
hand. Yet he kept them to himself. Who was he, indeed, they would like
to know? Other men, had they gone through the same experiences, would
have had them on tap all day long, for the benefit of all comers, good
measure and brimming over. This one, on the contrary, was as close as
death itself. Who was he that he should affect a singularity?
When a man is unpopular in a small community, he is pretty sure before
long to be made aware of that fact. In this instance there were not
wanting individuals the ingenuity of whose inventive powers was equal to
the occasion. No wonder Milne was reticent as to what he had gone
through--hinted these--for it was almost certainly not to his credit.
It was a singular thing that he should have emerged from the ordeal
unhurt and smiling, while poor Tom Carhayes had been mercilessly
butchered. It looked, fishy--uncommonly so. The more you looked at it,
the more it began to take on the aspect of a put-up job. Indeed it
would not be surprising if it turned out that the expedition across the
Bashi was a cunningly devised trap, not originating with the Kafirs
either. The escape of Hoste and Payne was part of the programme--no
motive existing why these two should be put out of the way.
Motive? Motive for desiring Tom Carhayes' death? Well, any fool could
see that, one might have thought. Was there not a young and beautiful
widow in the case--who would succeed lo the dead man's extremely
comfortable possessions, and whom, by this time, any one could see with
half an eye, was desperately in love with the plotting and unscrupulous
cousin? That was motive enough, one would think.
It was easy, moreover, now to see through the predilection of that
arch-schemer for their native neighbours and now enemies. It was all
part of the plot. Doubtless he was even no sending them secret
information and advice in return for what they had done for him. It
would be surprising if he turned out anything better than a Kafir spy,
were the real truth known.
These amiable hints and innuendoes, sedulously buzzed around, were not
long in reaching the object of them. But they affected his impenetrable
self-possession about as much as the discharge of a pea-shooter might
affect the back of the mail-plated armadillo. His philosophical mind
saw no earthly reason for disturbing itself about any rumours which a
pack of spiteful idiots might choose to set afloat. Hoste's advice to
him, to run two or three of these amiable gentry to earth and visit them
with a good sound kicking, only made him laugh. Why should he mind what
anybody said? If people chose to believe it they might--but if they
didn't they wouldn't, and that was all about it.
True, he was tempted, on one or two occasions, to follow his friend's
advice--and that was when Eanswyth was brought into the matter. But he
remembered that you cannot strangle a widespread slander by force, and
that short of the direst necessity the association in an ordinary row of
any woman's name is justifiable neither by expediency nor good taste.
But he resolved to get her to move down to Swaanepoel's Hoek at the very
earliest opportunity.