He should be killed by slow torture!
But how?
And then they talked together, and the victim, for the first time in his
life, called on God to have mercy upon him, the sinner.
And Zoonah was there--Zoonah, who, in early youth, had been fostered and
kindly trained by white men, and taught who God was, and how all the
beautiful and pleasant gifts of earth came from God--and Zoonah mocked
him, and cried aloud--
"Is your God black or white?"
Then all was still again, and it was decided how he should die; and they
took their assegais, and drew a red circle round his throat, and sat
down to see the beginning of their work, sharpening their weapons, and
bidding the young boys take good aim at the quivering and bleeding form
with their knob-kierries. Some of the women came, and looked shyly at
him at first, and so went away, and danced and returned; and it was at
this period of the tragic drama that a girl caught sight of a carbine in
the bush above, and shrieked her warning--
"The soldiers!--the soldiers!--and the Fingo dogs!"
They fled, but left their victim no chance of life from his fellow-men.
Jasper Lyle was quite dead when they unbound him from the oak, down the
bark of which the blood streamed from his mangled limbs.
It was riven by lightning afterwards, and, till Mr Trail had it cut
down, stood all white and ghastly, an unsightly memento of the convict's
awful death.
The hour fixed for Gray's execution passed by--the world was already
dead to him; but had Mr Trail, the kind, the thoughtful, the unselfish,
forgotten him?
How clear are the heavens! how serene and still! how balmy the autumnal
breeze of Kafirland.
Hark to the sullen roar of artillery close at hand! It shakes the
darkened hut of the poor prisoner.
Cries of anger and defiance disturb the silence of the majestic hills;
men rush by with clattering arms.
The dusky host has gathered on the mountain slopes; they hover about in
clouds. Gray recognises the well-known challenge, "Izapa!" it is
answered by a volley of musketry. Again the deep-mouthed guns open wide
their fiery throats, and a hearty English cheer announces that shot and
shell have told upon the savage foe.
But the wild war-cry rings out shrill and strong again; it draws nearer,
and is answered by the Fingoes.
Gray could see but little from the aperture of his hut. He noticed
though that the Kafirs, emboldened by their superiority of numbers, came
muzzle to muzzle with the infantry; they grappled with the soldiers,
they snapped their reed-like assegais in two and gave back stab for
stab; they gibbered, they leaped, they dropped as if dead into the bush,
only to rise the next moment and wound their adversaries in the back;
they came bounding down the hills in fresh bodies, among which the
British artillery soon began to make havoc; but, for those that fell,
numbers started from behind the rocks and shrubs, and dashed forward to
the onslaught.
They stepped into the open ground. Up rose the warlike Fingoes from
beneath their shields! Their spears glittered in the glowing sun; the
mass extended, it spread east and west, and they advanced to the charge.
Slave and master meet in the deadly strife! How the dark eyes of each
glare with vengeance and detestation! but the Fingoes not only know the
warfare of their enemy, they also fight with the skill and coolness of
the British. They will die rather than yield, for they feel that to
surrender were worse than death.
And they do conquer, before the outlying picquets posted in the mountain
glens, by the experienced orders of Sir Adrian Fairfax, emerge from
their ambush to meet the retiring warriors.
It was a deadly struggle. The Kafirs, beaten back from the encampment,
hoped to find safe shelter in their strongholds; but Sir Adrian's policy
was as deep as their own. He, too, had had his spies scattered through
the land; and albeit these specious savages had sworn to sit still--had
humbled themselves like dogs, and sworn by the bones of their dead
chiefs to keep faith, he knew that when they professed most they meant
least; and, on being informed that Sir John Manvers's large force was
scattered, and that some of the burghers had anticipated their
dispersion, and were about to depart, he hurried his march, after
closing his treaties with the Boers, whom he contrived also to
conciliate, and made such an admirable disposition of his troops that
the Kafirs were deceived completely.
The soldiers, dispersed among the kloofs, appeared to the Gaikas to be
making roads and hewing wood: they little knew that, at a certain sound
of the bugle, they would be up and ready at any hour of the day or
night.
Hundreds of the enemy were left dead, after the action, near Sir John
Manvers's camp: and, alas! many a family in England, whose best
sympathies had been enlisted in favour of this "ill-used race," "driven
from their land"--"a peaceful, inoffensive people, asking only grass for
their cattle," mourned the loss of a gallant son or brother shot down or
assegaied by these cunning and untameable beings.
And all day long, and through the dark night, the wailing cry of women
mourning for their dead resounded in the mountains, and, lo! from the
British camp the triumphant chorus of the Fingoes answered it.
The enemy were beaten, and councils were held, and the warriors crawled
to the feet of their "white Father," and prayed to be forgiven as little
children!
But melancholy experience teaches us the value of a Kafir's word!
A little pyramid marks the spot where, on the evening of that fatal day,
a funeral party of British soldiers dug a grave for the comrades who had
fallen in the fray.
There are other monuments around it, for a town stands now where long
lines of tents dotted the green-sward, and a church is rising in the
midst. Within it is a grand monument to the memory of Sir John Manvers,
who died ere the body of his murdered son was brought into the
encampment.
Divided in their lives, are they united in eternity?
Within the encampment there were no great signs of the struggle which
had taken place on the preceding day. On the contrary, there was an
unusual stillness about it, for short and conclusive as had been the
battle, the heavy wings of Death had cast a dark shadow on the scene,
which had its influence on all. The cottages were closed, there were no
people at work in the gardens, men spoke apart and in whispers, and,
though morning was in her prime, a stillness like that of night
prevailed.
Presently, there came forth from the tents soldiers fully accoutred;
then their officers; next Sir Adrian Fairfax and his staff. All wore
the same grave aspect.
But the brilliant uniforms, the glittering arms, the waving plumes, made
a dazzling array, as the troops fell in and formed three sides of a
square.
Nine or ten men stepped out from the rest.
Beyond the soldiery, were the Fingo warriors, seated on the turf; and a
few Kafir women and children looked from the hills upon the scene, which
they could not understand, for, with arms bound, and head uncovered,
there walked into the square a young man, whose whole air and aspect
bespoke him anything but a malefactor--a rebel doomed to die: it was
Gray!
Mr Trail was with him. The prisoner advanced with steady step, but the
flush of shame overspread his face, as he felt that the gaze of hundreds
was fixed upon him. He would have read sincere and sorrowful pity in
that gaze, had he seen it, but his eyes were fixed upon the ground.
Anon, there swelled upon the air that solemn march for the dead that
thrills to the very soul when we hear it. The sudden burst of the drum
startled the prisoner, and he looked up. He saw his coffin borne before
him; he moved on mechanically to the time of the wailing music; he
passed the long lines of soldiers; he did not lose his presence of mind.
As he drew near Sir Adrian Fairfax, he raised his eyes for an instant,
and lifting his fettered hands, bowed on them. Frankfort's heart beat
with the dread of being overcome to tears; Colonel Graham brushed the
drops away from his eyes, and one young soldier fainted in the ranks.
All at last was ready; the drum ceased to beat.
The prisoner's eyes were bound; it was observed that he cast one long,
lingering look upon the bright and lovely scenes around him, ere this
was done.
He wished to take a last look of earth!
He was told that some moments would be allowed him for prayer at the
last. He pressed Mr Trail's hands within his own, and the good
minister left him.
The lightest whisper might have been heard while the prisoner was
absorbed in prayer. He never moved when the firing party knelt down,
although their arms and accoutrements broke the silence sharply. The
officer in command of this party uttered the word, "Ready!" in a voice
so clear that it penetrated to the farthest in the ranks.
Did Gray hear it? None could tell.
"Present!"--he heard that, for he lifted his head and dropped his hands
before him, awaiting the fiery shower of musketry.
Still, not a movement in those disciplined ranks!
"Prisoner!"
It was another voice that spoke.
The General had bid the party wait his order to fire, and, lest any
fatal error should occur, had warned the men, that he should step before
them to address the prisoner.--"Remember," said Sir Adrian, "if you do
not strictly adhere to my orders, you will shoot me."
None but the firing party and Mr Trail were prepared for this pause in
the ceremonial.
"Prisoner--"
Gray remained kneeling, but bent his head in recognition of the voice
addressing him.
"The offence of which you were found guilty on the --th of--should have
been punished yesterday by death; but the events of that day delayed
your doom. Extenuating circumstances induced your merciful judges to
reconsider your case, and finally to accept your own assertions as
evidence in your favour. God is the judge of your word, whether true or
false. In the name then of Him, who loves mercy better than sacrifice,
I entreat you to redeem your past errors by a deep repentance.
Prisoner, rise!--you are pardoned!"
Some one removed the bandage from Gray's eyes--the light dazzled them--
he could see nothing; but, though faint and powerless, he knew it was in
Mr Trail's kind arms that he reclined.
He heard the clattering arms of the dispersing soldiers, and the drums
and fifes beating merry time in marching off the ground, but he felt
utterly unable to help himself. He was lifted up--he fainted as they
carried him away, and on reviving, found himself in the little room he
had occupied in Mr Trail's cottage.
But it was strangely metamorphosed--a carpet covered the hitherto matted
floor, snowy curtains shaded the small windows, there were books on the
table, and a glass with wild flowers, and, beside the sofa on which he
leaned, stood a lady tall and fair, who looked to him like some
ministering angel.
It was Lady Amabel Fairfax.
Peace was proclaimed in Kafirland--peace for a time.
There were busy artificers on the camp-ground; fortifications were in
progress, and traders were opening their stores. Everything gave
promise of establishing a thriving town; wagons were winding down the
green slopes of the western hills, and fine herds of cattle and flocks
of sheep and goats were passing through on their way to fresh
pasture-lands.
A cumbrous and old-fashioned, but comfortable, English carriage with
four fine horses stood at the gate of the Daveneys' cottage. Ormsby,
somewhat wasted by his wounds--happily the one on the temple, was but a
cut from a passing assegai--led Lady Amabel to her equipage, and Mr
Daveney followed, leading Eleanor in deep mourning. Major Frankfort
stood at the gate with Sir Adrian; he gave his hand to Lady Amabel--she
felt it tremble.
He could not see Eleanor's face, it was closely veiled; they had never
met since that fearful night at Annerley, but now she held her hand out
to him. He heard her utter the word "Farewell."
Sir Adrian shook hands with him, and Lady Amabel leaned forward to say
"God bless you."
But Frankfort answered not a word.
"Farewell." In after-years, in the deep solitude of midnight, on the
sea, in the still noon of summer days in English woods, where he loved
to cast himself beneath the umbrageous oaks, and dream of Kafirland,
that soft and sorrowful voice still whispered "Farewell."
Lady Amabel retired with her young and mourning guest to the shades of
Newlands. Eleanor never accompanied her friend to the busy scenes of
Government House. Her father and mother soon established themselves in
a lovely spot within a day's journey of Cape Town, and here she hoped to
find that seclusion and repose, which she had vainly sought before.
Marion and Ormsby were married, and embarked for England; soon
afterwards, Lady Amabel and Eleanor bade them adieu, as they stepped
into the boat awaiting them in the treacherous waters of Table Bay; poor
Marion's cheeks were flooded with tears.
Eleanor was calm and pale, but it seemed now as though she never could
weep.
Lady Amabel longed to see some change in her demeanour, but nothing
seemed to move her. The evening after her sister's departure she sat so
still within the embrasure of a window, that her kind friend thought she
must be asleep; but no, the large mournful orbs were fixed on the
darkening heavens in which the sentinel stars were mustering their
radiant hosts. Her thoughts were not of earth--they were with her angel
boy--her lost Francis--that link between herself and the mysterious
world, of which we know nothing, save that there is no sin there, and
therefore no sorrow.
The dwelling purchased and improved by the Daveneys commanded a
magnificent view of the sea.
Eleanor sat in one of her mournful reveries, as was usual with her at
eventide. In the daytime she resolutely employed herself--mechanically,
if possible. She never sang now, but she would play whole pages of
difficult music, then work in the garden; walking, or riding for miles
with her father, filled up the afternoons; but the evening time was
truly the dark hour with her. She loved best to be alone at this time.
So there she sat, her book dropped listlessly on her knee, and her
melancholy gaze fastened on the shining waters of the moonlit ocean,
that washed the rocky boundary of the grounds she had helped to fashion
and to plant with orange-groves.
Her father and mother were in an adjoining room; she heard a door open,
and some one, not of the household, spoke in a low voice; but she
recognised it--it was May's.
She went to meet him, and give him welcome; the poor little bushman
cried and laughed with joy.
And Fitje came, and Ellen, and they sat down in the doorway, and said
they would stay, if they might. May was going to Cape Town, and would
come back again, and be gardener and groom, and everything, if Daveney
would have him.
"Going to Cape Town?"
"Yes, with Master--Master Frankfort." They were travelling by land from
Algoa Bay, and had come to see the Knysna River, and May had a letter
for the _Bass_. It contained an inclosure.
Eleanor retreated into the other room.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eleanor's Note to Frankfort.
"Most generous Friend,--
"I love you too well to take undue advantage of your kindness. Return
to England; there, earlier and happier impressions may be revived; and
although I would not have you forget me, think only of the unfortunate
Eleanor as one whose hopes are fixed on Heaven.
"Farewell."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Trails, weary with the repeated aggressions on their property in
Kafirland, came nearer the civilised districts of the Cape; they
established a mission and a school within a few miles of the Knysna
River. A young assistant of Mr Trail's attracted the notice of all the
farmers' daughters around, but he paid no heed, did "that handsome young
teacher," to the bright glances aimed at him. He seldom entered the
houses of the richer settlers, except in cases of sickness, when Mr
Trail was absent from home.
The Vanbloems had returned to an old family farm, which they had
deserted in the hopes of bettering themselves by seeking "larger
pastures;" they were wiser than their rebellious brethren, for, instead
of flying beyond the boundary, they retreated to their original
settlement, and contented themselves with less land but surer ground. I
speak of the elder Vanbloem, with whom Frankfort and Ormsby made
acquaintance in their first days of travelling.
Gray--for he was the young teacher--had resolved one day on asking Mr
Trail to make some inquiries of Amayeka, albeit he dreaded the issue of
such inquiry.
Poor Amayeka!--Surely the younger Vanbloem's had not deserted her; but
she might have been taken from them by violence.
That day old Vanbloem came to tell Mr Trail that his son's wagon was
outspanned in a valley an hour's ride from the station; he and some
neighbours were going to meet him, would Mr Trail go too?
The party passed the mission station that evening; there were horsemen
and wagons, quite a cavalcade--for some one from every family had gone
out to welcome the new-comers, returning to the land of their
forefathers.
It was dusk when Mr Trail returned home; Gray started on hearing his
master's voice.
"Master"--so he called the missionary--"master, are there bad tidings?--
has she survived the fury of her people?"
"Come hither, Gray," said Mr Trail; "Amayeka is here."
Meek and trembling, poor Amayeka had seated herself on the lowest step
of the stoep; her head was bent low, and her cloak drawn around her.
"Amayeka," said Mr Trail, "rise, and come in."
She shook her head, and crouched lower.
"Master," whispered she, "I am ashamed--"
"Amayeka," said another voice beside her.
Mr Trail had prepared her to meet her lover.
He left them together.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Next day a group entered the chapel of the mission station; it was said
there was to be a wedding--a strange wedding; the young English teacher
was to be married to a Kafir girl--it was quite true.
At first the settlers in the neighbourhood turned away their heads when
the young teacher and his dusky wife passed them by; but Amayeka was so
humble, so industrious, so neat, what could be said against her?
Mrs Trail helped her to establish a school. To look into her room on
Sabbath nights, and see her the centre of a crowd of children, would do
your heart good. She is no longer young--at thirty the women of her
race are old--but her voice is musical and girlish as ever; and were you
to hear her and her husband leading the Evening Hymn, you would never
recognise, in the grave and neatly-dressed catechist and his wife, the
young unhappy pair whom I once introduced to you sitting forlorn and
wretched by the riverside in Kafirland, with the eyes of the Wizard
Amani glaring at them from his ambush.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ormsby's patrimony was large; his family at first were disposed to
receive his wife with hauteur--they were among that class of English
owls who fancy themselves eagles, especially in their own county.
Ormsby took possession of his fine estate, and left the army, glad that
he had been a soldier for many reasons; but, above all, because he had
thus been given the means of finding a fair and happy-tempered wife in
Kafirland. He made his sisters welcome to Ormsby Park, and they
confessed, among their country friends, that she was to be "tolerated."
Frankfort's cousin, the Duchess, the former friend of Mrs Daveney,
begged to be introduced to young Mrs Ormsby at a ball, and asked
affectionately about her mother's welfare. The Duchess was childless,
had led "the most monotonous life in the world;" she was dying to hear
of Kafirland.
"Did the people there live on the white men they killed in war time? and
how was it that Marion was so fair, and would Mr and Mrs Daveney ever
come to England again?" etc.
"Yes; Marion expected them to spend a year with her, and, after that,
they would return; for her father and mother had many interests and
occupations in Southern Africa which they would not wish to give up."
"Interests and occupations!"--the Duchess yawned, and begged Mr Ormsby
to find her carriage, and "was glad the ball was over; but it was marked
by one pleasant fact, that of meeting Marion, the daughter of her old
friend."
They shook hands cordially.
"Who on earth is the Duchess of M--shaking hands with so heartily?" said
the member's wife.
"Mrs Ormsby, of Ormsby Park."
"Oh! yes; the uncle is dead, and has left young Ormsby seven thousand a
year, has he not?"
"Nine, they say," replied the other speaker.
"Dear me, how fortunate!--his wife is pretty, rather; I should like to
know her."
Summer was dying in all her pomp, the woods of Ormsby were arrayed in
their mantles of green and gold and crimson and rich brown; the shadows
from the old oaks were lengthening on the grass, when the lodge-gates
were thrown open to admit the carriage which had been sent to Portsmouth
to meet the voyagers from Kafirland.
A touch of the old ambitious feeling thrilled through Mrs Daveney's
heart, as the elegant equipage swept along the noble aisles of
horse-chestnut trees and beeches, through which the mansion, with
windows illuminated by the setting sun, showed fair and stately.
But Eleanor's face was opposite, revealing its mournful history of past
suffering. It had lost its look of anxiety, and something like pleasure
shone in the large dark orbs as they caught sight of Marion's home, and
her sister and husband, with Marmion between them, in the open doorway,
waving their handkerchiefs.
Who thought that, instead of an embowered porch, rudely built and
thatched with rushes, they now met beneath the stately colonnade of a
noble mansion!
Oh! those precious meetings, when the sea has long divided us.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The cultivated lands of England! the fields crowded with reapers! the
heavily-laden wains--women and youths and children singing along the
roads, as if rejoicing in the plentiful harvest; the noble woods,
stretching afar, and glowing in the mellow light of autumn!--all
contributed to bring repose to Eleanor's soul. She lived a new life--
she seemed to begin a new career in a new world. Here she was indeed at
peace--no fearful storms, no savage war-cry, no dread of an enemy
stalking in and making desolate the hearth! The space between her and
the past seemed suddenly widened.
Sir Adrian and Lady Amabel were of the party; there were no strangers--
neighbours there were none within five miles.
The events of former years were scarcely ever alluded to; Marion's twins
were painfully like their little cousin buried in the African desert;
but no one spoke of him. The children lived almost in Eleanor's room.
One evening, after she had gone upstairs to dress for dinner, these
little creatures detained her till the second bell rang. Her hair was
hanging over her dressing-gown, and, finding that she could not possibly
be in time, she ran to Marion to say she would join the little circle at
tea.
"Marion! Marion!"--but Marion had gone. Ormsby's study door was open;
there was a light within! She called to him--no answer.
The children ran up to her; they threw the door wide open; two
wax-lights were burning on the table, and before the fire stood
Frankfort.
And for the first time for many long years Eleanor uttered a cry of joy.
She forgot that she was in her dressing-gown, that her hair hung
disordered about her, that the children were half-frightened at the
sight of a stranger.