The kind uncle referred to by Mrs Daveney was imprudent enough to
speculate, and lost a large sum; but, wiser or better-principled than
most men who gamble, he forswore speculation for ever, and retired to
England, to live on the residue of his property. It had been his
intention to apportion his wife's niece on winding up his affairs; but
ready money in colonial commerce was at that time a dream, and as he had
fine available land in one of the most flourishing districts of the
colony, he proposed that Captain Daveney should leave the army, and take
possession of the land, which was excellent. A magistracy fell vacant
at this time, and, by Mr Morland's influence, was offered to Daveney.
Thus the alternative was offered the soldier, of a plentiful estate,
with an excellent house, built indeed on the ashes of a former
homestead, and to be held by force of arms, but all preferable, as it
appeared to Mr Morland, to life with a regiment at home. The corps was
on the eve of embarkation, his wife on the eve of her confinement, and,
within a month of the offer, Daveney had "made his book" in his corps,
and, with a goodly stock of furniture from the kind merchant's store, he
bade adieu to his brother-officers, and _trekked_ from the town to the
wilderness.
He promised his soldier friends he would see them all again before they
marched, and so he did, but from a distance. On the morning that the
Forty --th were to start from Graham's Town, he reached the hill
overlooking the green parade-ground at Fort England. The men were
hurrying from quarters, oxen were yoking to the baggage-wagons--men and
officers were fully accoutred--they fell into the ranks--he could see
some of them looking up the road--were they watching for him? The
regiment formed column, the band struck up "The girl I left behind me,"
and Daveney's old comrades turned their backs upon him.
He sat motionless on his horse, watching, with a swelling heart, the
long cavalcade of troops and baggage. He could see it all passing
through the wide streets of the great straggling African town. People
came running from their houses, waving their hands in token of farewell;
Daveney heard the soldiers cheer, and then, with something more like a
sob than a sigh, he turned his horse's head homewards, led it slowly
down the steep irregular pathway, let it browse upon the sweet green
pasturage, and sat down to shed a flood of tears.
Still he felt he had acted, as far as he could judge, for the best. A
career of trust and command was before him. He was to think for others
as well as himself. He was in possession of house, land, and cattle.
He was to be umpire, in a large district, between the great powers of
might and right. He stood with ten talents in his hand, for which he
was to be responsible.
A certain spasm shot through his wife's heart, as well as his own, when
the old uniform was laid aside for ever--the sword hung up, the number
cut from the forage-cap; but within her mind lay, deeper than in his,
the germ and elements of an unrecognised ambition. Had she been born to
power at home, she would have exercised it with the same lofty bearing
with which, on one occasion, in her husband's absence on duty, she had
set her house in array to receive a troop of savages, who had been seen
stalking, brand and assegai in hand, through the passes of the district.
The letter we have quoted was but a girlish effusion. Still, the shrewd
woman of the world, the embryo Duchess, read her friend and playmate
aright when, on laying down this epistle from a soldier's wife, she
remarked to a friend who had heard its contents, "Africa will suit
Eleanor Daveney. In England she could neither be seen nor heard above
her compeers. I know her better than she knows herself. She is just
one of those who profess self-abnegation in their desire to be placed in
a sphere of usefulness, but whose enthusiasm would fall to the ground
without the excitement of success or applause."
"There is some good sense, though, and much good feeling," observed the
other lady, "in all Eleanor says, and, without intending it, she has
placed her husband in a pleasant light. I should think he was just the
man to appreciate the good sense, and turn the warmth of heart to wise
account."
"Yes, I dare say," replied Eleanor's friend, with an absent air, as she
walked to the window, overlooking Piccadilly, and watched the restless
thoroughfare through her eye-glass. Then a carriage, in most perfect
taste, drove up, a portly man, with a hook nose and rubicund visage,
descended, and the Duchess-elect forgot Mrs Daveney's existence for
many years, till her cousin Frankfort, by a letter, revived for a short
time the old association.
But let future events develop the characters I have faintly sketched.
Supper is ready in the eating-room, and Mr Daveney, as we shall for the
future style him, having introduced his guests to his tiny
dressing-room, where they refreshed themselves with clean water and a
slight change of dress, taps at the door and waits to usher them to his
hospitable board.
The sportsmen gladly acceded, and followed him to the dining-room, where
Mrs Daveney and two daughters awaited them.
Frankfort's eye rested at once upon the pale face of Eleanor, the elder
of these daughters. He recognised the high thoughtful forehead of the
father, but the long grey eye, with dark lashes, resembled her mother's,
so did the lip, that had narrowly escaped being scornful; and, though
strongly resembling her mother, the features of the youthful face were
soft. But much older than that young fair face was the expression it
wore,--_wore_, for it was not natural to it. Was it the result of
mournful experiences? Yes, surely so, thought Frankfort, as Mr Daveney
took his daughter's hand, and placing her beside himself, introduced her
to his guests.
She looked up, and bending gracefully to both gentlemen, her eyes and
Frankfort's met. Oh, the mysterious charm cast on the traveller from
the depths of those earnest, melancholy orbs!
Ormsby soon found that both sisters had been, in Cape Town, Marion
within the last twelve months, visiting some friends of her father, who
were enjoying the Cape climate after the sultry sun of India. He was
fully prepared to admire his fair neighbour's bright eyes, and at the
same time enjoy the repast spread before him; it was plentiful, savoury,
and far from inelegant. Before the host was that first-rate Irish dish,
a cold shoulder of corned mutton, garnished with fresh, green, crisp
parsley; on lifting the cover from the side-dishes, a fragrant steam
arose, that warmed a hungry man's heart as he inhaled it. In one was a
fine cucumber, scooped hollow, and then stuffed with seasoned meat, and
stewed in rich sauce. In another smoked a famous Dutch _plat_, called
_La partje_, square inches of mutton, skewered on little sticks, dipped
in sauce, made of tomatoes and capsicums and eschalots if none better
offers, and toasted over a wood fire. A third contained a pile of rice,
white as snow; the next a _rechauffe_ of ox-tail curry; added to these
were potatoes, baked with their jackets on in the ashes, roasted
_meelies_ (Indian corn), so delicious when young, grated biltongue,
excellent butter, some delicious rolls, a household loaf on a trencher,
with a knife beside it, whereof the handle was of polished horn from the
head of the African gemsbok; then there was such preserved quince, and
marmalade, as a Scotchman's soul would have delighted in, to say nothing
of poached eggs, brought in hot after all had sat down. It was all like
magic to the travellers, and had they seen the old Malay in the kitchen,
with his mysterious contrivances, which no European cook would
condescend to understand, they would have been still more astonished.
He was an old creature, who had lived with the Morlands, and then
followed the Daveneys to the wilderness, where he had his own way, and
sent forth all manner of savoury dishes from a huge fireplace, without a
grate, before which he was seated all day, issuing his orders to an
assistant imp, something like May.
There were no fine wines, no foaming English ale, but the Cape Madeira
made good beverage, mixed with water; and there was an old-fashioned
silver service before Mrs Daveney, from which she distilled coffee
clear as amber, and steaming milk; the table-linen was white as an
African sun can bleach it, and the light from two tall wax candles,
mantled in the cherry-patterned delf. The ladies took some coffee, in
compliment to their guests--what trifles place people at ease with one
another. Their light supper was long since over; but Mr Daveney, who
had been busy about his farm defences all day, enjoyed his meal the more
for the companionship of brother-soldiers.
At the sound of Eleanor's voice, Ormsby, who had paid no attention to
her appearance beyond a bow, glanced across the table, and, with his
usual air of nonchalance, put aside the light on his left hand, that he
might have a better view of the speaker; and having satisfied himself
that the pale cheek and braided hair of the one sister was less
attractive to him than the radiant smile and sunny ringlets of the
other, he helped himself to the smoking _La partje_, and prepared to do
full justice to the good cheer he so little expected to find in the
wilderness.
Frankfort, as he looked round upon this family group, entered with deep
interest into Mr Daveney's anecdotes of sport and peril--his anxieties
for the present, his projects for the future. They went back together
to the crowded homes of England, its pallid manufacturing children, its
cities with dark buildings jammed together, its thronged populace,
toiling; toiling on, with heaven's sunlight bricked out; its gigantic
schemes,--some successful, blazing up and illuminating the world; some,
like rockets, aiming at the sky, and falling in smoke upon the great
ocean of eternity; some lying in gloom, with hopeless projectors, whose
thoughts were to be seized and worked out by men who could and _would_
be heard. They talked too, of the struggle of the better classes to
"keep up appearances," to "get their sons on," and their daughters
"settled;" they, who had scarcely wherewithal to buy food and raiment,--
while here was a fair, plentiful country lying waste--a savage
hunting-ground--space for thousands--a wild and lovely country, awaiting
the hand of civilisation to make it prosperous and peaceful for all.
Frankfort could see that to touch on domestic questions was tender
ground. His host turned the tide of conversation to the troubles of the
colony, its grand resources; and Mrs Daveney, as she listened to the
conversation, at times joining in it, said earnestly to Frankfort, how
she wished that such as he might stand up in the council-chambers of
England, and plead the cause of the colonist of Southern Africa. But
Eleanor only joined in the discussion with a smile or a sigh, as her
father's reference to past events demanded. Still, Frankfort read the
heart, as he looked into those deep eyes, and pondered afterwards on
trifling things, which would have escaped a man not enthralled with
their expression of deep melancholy.
The meal ended, the ladies retired to a table, on which books and work
had been scattered in some confusion on the arrival of the sportsmen and
their wagons. The cloth was withdrawn from the polished oaken table; a
little kettle, with its spirit-lamp, was glowing beside Mr Daveney, and
he was about to blew some mulled Pontac, the rich red wine of the Cape,
when Frankfort begged to withdraw, in order to make inquiries concerning
the absent Piet.
Some unusual sounds without had already caught the ear of the master of
the dwelling. The dogs were growing restless in the yards; the people
were astir in the outbuildings; and at the moment that Daveney and
Frankfort rose together to go out and reconnoitre, Ormsby comfortably
establishing himself in a camp arm-chair, brought from his wagon, the
door was thrown open, and May rushed in; terror was in his face, the
passage behind him was filled with servants, and, gasping for breath, he
exclaimed--"Master, good Master Frankfort, come out and see, come out
and listen; the fires are lighted on the hills; but that is not all--
open your ears, and hear the war-cry on the mountains. Oh! master,"
cried the poor bushman, in a voice of despair, "what shall I do?--my
wife! my little child!"
Mrs Daveney stood up, silent, but appalled; Marion's cheek faded to the
hue of death; Eleanor went up to her father, and put her arm through
his.
"My dear," said he, "you must summon all your presence of mind, for I
must go."
"I know it, father, but tell us what you would have us do; the house is
already defensible"--the windows had been partially bricked up for some
days, in consequence of intelligence from the towns--"but you must
appoint us our places, if you are obliged to leave us."
"Your mother," said Mr Daveney, "has had my instructions these three
days; she has an able coadjutor in you; but Marion is faint-hearted, I
am afraid."
Excellent arrangements had indeed been made, in preparation for defence,
if besieged by the savages, which Mr Daveney could not think was
probable, from various circumstances.
The enemy had got so much plunder lately, that he considered they could
scarcely have disposed of it with sufficient security to enable them to
go openly to war. He had many other arguments against a sudden attack;
but he was an old soldier, who knew that _there is nothing so likely to
keep a foe away as to be always ready to receive him_. Furthermore, he
never disdained advice, or scoffed at information, and he had lately
heard of immense stores of ammunition finding their way into Kafirland
in a manner incredible to him, but perfectly intelligible to the reader.
The house, then, had been duly set in order. Arms and ammunition were
stored in a large closet adjoining the dining-room; small bags, filled
with sand, were ready to be placed against all apertures left to give
light; a room had been prepared by Mrs Daveney for the wounded, a table
spread with lint, tourniquets, and various salves and styptics;
provisions had been collected together in a store-room, where also stood
several barrels of water; and, in short, it would be quite possible to
hold out against assailants for many days.
Unfortunately, the cattle, horses, and sheep were unprotected; the stone
wall and blockhouses, begun some weeks back, were yet unfinished. The
plan was admirable, but, owing to want of hands, required much time to
carry it out.
But I must defer my description of these buildings till a future
occasion. May disappeared in the same frantic way he had entered, and
the master of the house having, with quiet decision, repeated his
instructions to his principal servants, and succeeded in calming his
younger daughter's terrors, proceeded to the _stoep_ of the house,
cautioning the inmates about displaying lights, and followed by his
daughter Eleanor.
On emerging from the house, a scene was presented, so brilliant, yet so
terrific, as to mock the efforts of my poor pen in describing it. In a
few minutes the whole household were drawn together by one impulse in
the verandah; all the servants clustered in a group at the foot of the
steps.
The plains which the travellers had journeyed over had to them been
invisible till now, that they were fairly lit up for miles round. The
mountains, stretching, as I have observed, from the left of the
homestead, and extending in a south-westerly direction, were enwreathed
with fire, clearly defining their shape and altitude against the glowing
sky. Some rose proudly to the heavens; some formed a dark but distinct
foreground; some were covered, others only dotted with burning bush,
and, from the most distant peak, crowned with its diadem of basaltic
rock, to the nearest acclivity, sloping seawards, these wreaths of vivid
flame blazed with steady splendour, illuminating acres of trackless
country. From the mountain-tops in the back-ground, great tongues of
flame shot up from time to time, lit the air for a few minutes, and
raided into darkness; anon, some answering light gleamed out from a
distant height, and so disappeared; thus, in all directions, these
luminous telegraphs sparkled and died away, while on the plains, at no
great distance from the settlement, a shimmer here and there proved that
the savages were astir in all directions.
Mr and Mrs Daveney stood together, and held a parley; their guests
surprised at the steady reasoning of the lady, no less than at the close
calculations of the host.
"These fires," said Mrs Daveney, "are the forerunners of an open
declaration of war; but I doubt their attacking the settlement,
especially to-night, for the scouts ere this will have told the tale of
a reinforcement at Annerley; you have been tracked hither."
"The drought of this year has been nothing considerable," remarked her
husband, "and therefore I am inclined to attach some importance to these
illuminations, which are common at this period, when the earth is
parched, and the Kafirs improve the vegetation by burning the old grass
out of the pasture. Still, as there has been no public proclamation of
war--I, as a magistrate, must have received notice of it if there had
been--I can scarcely believe these to be signals of open defiance to our
authorities, however the enemy may translate them between themselves."
"Ah! father," interposed Eleanor Daveney, who had wound her arm round
the trembling Marion's waist, "the rivers may have risen, the
post-riders may be shot, or their despatches seized."
"Right, Eleanor--we know not what intelligence these luminous telegraphs
may convey from the Fish River to the Kei, while our poor heralds lie
dead in the bush. We may be thankful," continued the host, bowing to
Frankfort and Ormsby, "for our gallant reinforcement. Marion, are you a
soldier's daughter, and afraid?"
The light--for it was clear as day beyond the house, the verandah
shading the group out partially--fell on the upturned face of the
frightened girl.
"Not only for myself," said his daughter; "what would become of hundreds
in the district if you fell in a conflict with these savages?"
Her father put aside the ringlets from her brow and kissed her. "Let us
hope for the best," said he. "If these demonstrations be hostile,
troops from the garrisons must be on the march; the colony is ill
prepared for war, and the Dutch farmers, to say the least, are
uncertain; but, if once the word to arm is given, thousands of brave and
ready burghers will be up and stirring; for, however incredulous the
authorities may have been, the settler has slept with arms in hand: and
now, let us hold a council of war."
So saying, he opened a door leading from the stoep to the eating-room,
and, desiring Griqua Adam to arm the trustiest herds, and place them as
sentinels in the kraals and angles of the outbuildings, he sat down with
his family and guests to confer as speedily as might be on the present
emergency.
What it was immediately necessary to guard against was the stealthy
advance of the enemy on the right; certain duties were also assigned to
the ladies; poor Marion's white lips sadly belied the readiness with
which she obeyed her father in telling off percussion-caps by dozens.
To be sure, Ormsby seated himself beside her to assist her in the task,
and the calmness of her mother and elder sister was her best incentive
to courage.
A strange sight it would have been to English eyes to see Mrs Daveney
and her elder daughter bringing the muskets from the store-room, Mr
Daveney and Frankfort piling them in readiness for those whom Griqua
Adam had summoned to receive them in a trellised passage at the back of
the dining-room.
In a few minutes a very fair plan of operations was sketched out for the
instruction especially of the two officers, each having a particular
post allotted him.
Poor May, who had been patiently sitting on the stoep awaiting his
master's decision, at last tapped in despair at the door, which Mr
Daveney, a little disconcerted by the interruption, opened.
"Ah! sir," said the poor bushman, "I am heart-sore for my wife and
child; they must be in danger, for these schelms are all round us. Come
out, sir, once more. Oh! master," observing Frankfort advancing, "the
_vrouw_ and the _kiut_ will be murdered;" and thereupon poor May--
merry-hearted, honest, hopeful, keen-witted May--sat down upon the
ground, and cried like a child.
"Something must be done, certainly, for this poor fellow," said Mr
Daveney; "let us at once arm the people, and steal out cautiously to
reconnoitre."
Advancing to the right of the mansion, the two gentlemen looked up
towards the kloof; it was in profound darkness; but, on the krantz above
it, the dark figures of Kafirs, looking more like, demons than human
beings, were seen flitting about, and leaping from ledge to ledge of the
rocky precipices with firebrands in their hands. Below the _stoep_ some
of the Hottentots and Fingo servants of the farm, stood watching these
creatures, and calculating the meaning of every movement with a coolness
that gave Frankfort great confidence in their courage and sagacity.
The distant signals still shot up at intervals like sky-rockets, and, as
May affirmed, were evidently questions and answers passing between the
Gaika and T'Slambie tribes.
"See there," observed Mr Daveney; "at the very farthest ridge is a
gleam like a star, this is but a link in the chain which began in some
far valley within the frontier line, and is passing from hill to hill to
the distant bluffs overhanging the sea near the Kei."
The servants were assembling in the trellised passage to wait their
master's orders, the ladies and Ormsby were still busied in the
dining-room, and Frankfort was intent on May's entreaties that a party
might be sent under his guidance in search of Piet's wagon, when the
deep stillness of the night was broken by a cry so unearthly, so shrill,
yet so strangely prolonged, that all stood still to listen.
It was the war-cry of Kafirland!
It came from the farthest mountain-tops, advanced as though a voice,
trumpet-tongued, passed over the hills, descended to the plains, rose
again, the echoes following it. Fainter, fainter, it dies away at last
into a wailing cry, only to be repeated at the starting point, taken up,
passed on as before, and sent again wailing through the great solitudes
from the Amatolas to the ocean.
Silence, dread and profound, fell upon many tenants of the mansion in
that appalling hour. Mr Daveney and his guest re-entered the
dining-room--Eleanor had sunk upon a chair to receive her falling sister
in her arms, Marion's face was buried in her sister's lap; Mrs Daveney,
in the act of giving a musket to the Griqua, stood transfixed with awe,
for she well knew what that unearthly cry portended, and Ormsby had
opened the door leading to the trellised passage, and stood there with
the servants drawn up awaiting the orders of their master.
We read of the heroines of old, who armed their heroes for the battle,
or went forth commanding armies; but it is not to such as these our
hearts yield the tribute of earnest admiration: that calm fortitude,
which stands in better stead than the daring elicited by excitement--
that dignified resignation, which prepares itself to meet danger--that
self-abnegation, which sets aside all difference of opinion, and unites
with all ranks of life in the common cause of defence, is worth all the
sudden impulses of bravery which history has immortalised. The records
of our colonies would furnish forth subject-matter for many a bard; but
they want, so to speak, dramatic colouring, though one would think the
terrific scenes of blazing homesteads and blood-stained hearths were not
without what reporters would call "effect." Verily, our English
settlers' wives, with their patient, work-a-day endurance, would need
the pen of a Goldsmith or a Crabbe to set them in their proper light.
Eleanor Daveney would have made a charming foreground for such a picture
as men like these have loved to draw.
Mrs Daveney issued orders in conjunction with her husband, apportioned
to each man his store of ammunition, loosed to the priming of the
muskets in the hands of the herd-boys, who were more accustomed to the
assegai and the knob-kierrie than to our firearms; but Eleanor, while
she soothed her more excitable sister's fears, had a word of
encouragement for every one; and, rousing Marion, bid her accompany her
to the stoep, and comfort the women, who were there huddled together in
mute terror.
Poor May, who, in the extremity of danger to the household, could not
obtain a hearing, now rushed past the sisters like a madman, and,
springing over the gateway, sped out into the wilderness. They could
hear the terrier yelping at his heels ever so far, and Frankfort,
thoroughly dismayed at the idea, at once gave his faithful bushman up
for lost.
Eleanor had some comfort for him.
"These defiances from the hills," said she, "are so decided, that there
is no doubt the assegai hangs over our heads by a single hair; still the
object of these creatures is plunder. When they attack the settlement,
it will be in a quiet guise. If May keeps his wits about him as he
used--as he used to do--he will find his way uninterrupted."
"Ah!" said Frankfort, "you have seen my friend May before?"