From Veldt Camp Fires

In two minutes Seleti, a Bechuana youth, clad in a ragged flannel shirt and a pair of his master’s discarded riding breeches, came shuffling round. She spoke to him in Sechuana.

“Seleti,” she said, “I heard some one calling in the trees there not very far away. Go and look. Straight beyond that biggest tree there!”

The lad went off, walked two hundred yards into the woodland, becoming lost amid the timber, and then his voice sounded back towards the house.

“Missie May! Missie May! Here is Engelsman. Come quick.” Snatching up a broad-brimmed straw hat from within doors, the girl went quickly in Seleti’s direction. In less than three minutes she was by his side, among the trees and tall grass, leaning over the body of a young sunburnt Englishman, which the Bechuana supported in his arms. The man had no coat on, and May Felton saw at once, from the blood-stained flannel shirt, that he was badly wounded, he looked just now so lifeless that he might well be dead; yet the girl remembered that only a few minutes before she had heard him call. She had plenty of courage, and, young as she was, in that rough farming life amid the wilderness she was accustomed, as a matter of course, to many things that a girl at home would shrink from.

As she looked intently at the inert figure before her, she noted that the man still breathed; once he groaned very softly. There was nothing for it but to pick him up and carry him to the house. It was a heavy task, but with May carrying him by the legs and Seleti supporting him under the arms, they managed, with great exertion, to get him to the stoep.

There they laid him down for a moment, while May ran indoors and fetched out her mother.

As they came out to the stoep, bearing brandy and water, it was apparent that the young man’s wound had broken out afresh. Blood was slowly soaking through the already blood-soddened shirt, and silently forming a pool on the stone flooring. There was no time to be lost. They got him to bed and washed and bound up his wound. A bullet had gone right through the shoulder, making clear ingress and egress, but cutting some vein in its passage, and he had lost evidently quite as much blood as he could afford. Then they gave him brandy and water, and presently he came round from his long faint. When he had had some soup and a little bread later on, he was able to tell them something of his tale.

His name was James Harlow. He was a Volunteer under Lieutenant Nesbitt, in an expedition in an armoured train, which had been turned over and shelled at Kraaipan, on the border, some twenty miles away. After keeping the attacking Boers at bay for several hours, things began to look queer for the small British party. Nesbitt and a number of his men were wounded, the Dutch were creeping up.

Nesbitt had a letter which he wanted delivered somehow at Vryburg. It was urgent, and he gave it to Harlow to get away with and carry somehow to its destination. Harlow crept away through the grass, but, just as he thought he was getting out of range, and raised himself for a moment to reconnoitre, a bullet pierced his left shoulder and laid him in the dust. He rose presently and crawled on. Out of sight of the Boer fighting men, he had got to his feet, and, notwithstanding his wound, walked westward. A friendly native had given him a lift for twelve or fourteen miles on a led horse, but, towards sundown, having sighted three or four mounted men, had become alarmed and abandoned him. After a miserable night, he had crept about – sometimes walking feebly, sometimes moving on hands and knees – all that blazing day, trying to find some house or farmstead. No water or food had touched his lips. Towards evening, just as he had given up all hope, and sunk down despairingly, he had set eyes on the Feltons’ homestead through the trees. His last remaining strength was ebbing from him – his consciousness failing; but he raised two feeble shouts and then fell senseless. The rest May and her mother knew.

“And now,” said the poor fellow, with a painful grin at his own weakness, “how am I to get my dispatch down to Vryburg? Somehow Mr Tillard, the resident magistrate there, must have that letter by to-morrow evening. I know it’s important I doubt if I can ride to-morrow. What’s to be done?”

“Certainly you can’t ride to-morrow; you couldn’t sit a horse if you tried; so don’t think about it,” said May, decidedly. “I scarcely know what’s to be done. Our two native boys are poor, trembling creatures, scared at the mention of a Boer. I’ll go myself. It’s barely fifty miles from here, and I know the road well.”

“My dear May,” put in her mother. “You couldn’t think of such a thing. Why you might be stopped by Boers. It’s quite possible they will be holding the old road by this time. I can’t have you go, really!”

“My dear mother,” returned the girl, with a bright look in her dancing brown eyes. “I must go. This letter has to be delivered. It is probably of the greatest importance, and may even mean the safety of Vryburg. You and father pride yourselves on being loyal subjects of the Queen. You wouldn’t have me hold back from so small a piece of service. Why I can ride the distance easily on ‘Rocket’ in eight hours, allowing for off-saddles.”

May was a girl accustomed to having her own way in the Feltons’ household, and so, with a sigh and a protest, her mother gave in and the thing was settled.

At sunrise next morning, after looking in on the wounded trooper, who had had a feverish night, May, kissing her mother tenderly, mounted her chestnut pony and rode off. The precious dispatch, stained with Harlow’s blood, she had neatly sewn up in the inner part of her stays. She carried with her in her saddle-bag some sandwiches, another letter, requesting the Vryburg doctor to come up and see the wounded trooper, and a water bottle full of limejuice and water hung from her saddle. Pulling her broad-brimmed felt hat over her eyes, the girl cantered off and was soon lost to view amid the woodlands.

She struck, in the first instance, by a rough track across country, for the old post-road, running south from Setlagoli to Vryburg. Her good pony sped along with free elastic strides, and at a steady pace they reeled off mile after mile. It was hot, but not so oppressive as the day before. Presently, cutting the old road, they pushed steadily on beneath that aching void of sky above them – a sky of brass with just a suspicion of palest blue far up in the zenith. Fifteen miles were traversed and they stood at Jackal’s Pan, a lonely little oasis on the road, where they could off-saddle, and the horse could be watered.

Half an hour’s rest, and then on again. The blazing ride now became infinitely monotonous. From Jackal’s Pan to the next stopping place, Monjana Mabeli, the flat veldt road runs alongside the telegraph wires. How sick May became of that gaunt, unending line of posts stretching before her. She counted them – seventeen to the mile they went – oh! how often! and then hated herself for having counted them.

No sign of life cheered her ride, save now and again a desert lark, which rose suddenly from the grass, clapping its wings loudly, for twenty or thirty feet, uttered an odd, sustained, single note, and sank to earth again. May felt grateful even to the dull, speckled brown lark for its presence; anything to break that wearisome monotony. Even her good pony, “Rocket,” seemed to feel the isolation, the endless void of that mighty grass plain. He seemed depressed and dull. Still when his mistress spoke to him and patted his neck, he pricked his ears gaily, shook his bit, and reached out with never tiring stride.

At last! at last! May sighted in the distance the twin, rounded hills of Monjana Mabeli, and in another three quarters of an hour had ridden up to the farmhouse. Three waggons were outspanned there, and, before she could realise her danger, the girl found herself in the centre of a little knot of the Boers of the district, on their way to welcome their brethren of the Transvaal, now raiding across the border. A quarter of a mile away she had some thought of turning from the road to avoid the outspan and its risks, but it was too late. She saw that she was watched, that mounted men were ready for a pursuit, and so she judged it better to go boldly on. The leader of the band interrogated her as to her business. She produced her letter to the Vryburg doctor and stated her mission. Her story was evidently only half believed, and she was requested to step into the farmhouse and submit to be searched by the Commandant’s wife, a grim-looking Boer woman, who seemed quite in earnest over her task. The door of the inner room being shut and locked, May made the best of a hateful business, and, taking off some of her things, let the woman search her. She could have struck with her clenched fist that dull, emotionless face so close to hers, had she dared, but it would not do. Neither would it do to appear backward. Boldness might save her. She slipped off her stays and carelessly offered them for the woman’s inspection. The woman looked at them, turned them over, and handed them back. The girl’s heart, which had stood still for a thrilling second or two, beat easily again. She had triumphed. The missive, so cunningly hidden within her stays, still reposed snugly in its hiding-place. Her wonderfully neat sewing had passed muster. She was safe – safe, that is, if she could get away. The search was at length over, and the Vrouw Erasmus, in a grumbling way, expressed herself satisfied. As she buttoned the last button of her holland riding bodice, May turned, with flashing eyes, upon her tormentor. She spoke Cape Dutch fluently and her words told.

“I shall not forget your insulting search, Mevrouw Erasmus,” she said, “as long as I live. I know quite well who you are and where you come from. You have made a big mistake. You think your people are going to get the best of this war. You know nothing about the strength of England. You don’t know, and I suppose you won’t believe until it is too late, that the Queen of England will send out ten thousand men after ten thousand, until your insolent attack is beaten down and put an end to. When it is all over,” she went on, in more cutting tones, “you will look very foolish. You and your husband will lose your good farm here in Bechuanaland, and what will you do then? Instead of being prosperous on your own farm, under a good Government, you will become mere wretched Trek Boers, without a morgen of land you can call your own. You really ought to be ashamed of yourselves, coming out to fight against a Government, which, here in British Bechuanaland, has done nothing but good for you!”

The girl had better have held her tongue. Vrouw Erasmus was mad, her huge, pallid face was flushed to a deep crimson.

“You schepsel!” she cried, “to speak to me, the wife of a good burgher, like that! I have a mind to take a sjambok to you. You shall stay in this house no longer. This is my man’s farm now. You English never had a right in the country, and the Burghers will in future enjoy the land. Go you out, and sit there under the waggon shade, and keep a civil tongue in your head!”

May was more than pleased; she had no wish at all to remain indoors. She walked out to the nearest waggon, found her saddle, took her sandwiches from the saddle-bag, and, with the help of her limejuice and water, made a good lunch.

Meanwhile Vrouw Erasmus went up to her husband, who with the rest of the Dutch farmers was saddling up for some expedition, and spoke earnestly to him. She was evidently impressing commands, for in a minute or two he came up to May and told her she was not to go for the present. She would stay at the waggons till evening, when he and some of his men would be back. Then he would see what should be done with her. May protested, but unavailingly, and the big Dutchman moved away, mounted his horse, and rode off with the rest of the Boers waiting for him.

In spite of her practical duress, there were two little gleams of satisfaction radiating in the mind of the English girl. One of these arose from the fact that there was not a single Dutchman left at the camp; the other for the reason that she saw an instrument of release lying almost ready to her hand. When Commandant Erasmus had taken down his Mauser rifle from the inside of the waggon just in front of her, she noted that he had left another weapon hanging on its hooks. From the same hooks depended a bandolier, well filled with cartridges. There was only one doubt in her mind. Did those cartridges fit the Martini-Henry carbine hanging there? She was a courageous girl, quick-witted, and knowing her own mind. If the cartridges were right, she meant to make a bold stroke for freedom.

For half an hour she sat there, demurely enough, in the shade of the waggon, now keeping an eye on the retreating forms of the Boer horsemen disappearing westward, now looking at the grim, massive Boer woman sitting under the shelter of a waggon sail on the far side of her husband’s waggon. At length the last Dutchman’s head had vanished in the warm distance.

It was very hot, and Vrouw Erasmus, sitting guard there over the English girl, palpably dozed at her post. She had lately dined, and she was in the habit of sleeping after the mid-day meal. Her eyes closed. May rose, crept to the waggon, climbed softly to the box; in another second she had taken down the carbine from its hooks, slung the bandolier over her shoulder, opened the breech of the weapon and pushed in a cartridge. Thank Heaven it fitted! She was safe! The click of the breech action roused the sleeping woman. She opened her eyes, looked across to the other waggons, her prisoner was gone! She rose hastily, came forward, and there, on the voor-kist of her own waggon was this terrible English girl, pointing her husband’s carbine at her. She retreated a few paces at the apparition.

“Now, Mevrouw Erasmus,” said May, smilingly, in Dutch, “it is my turn. See, this carbine is loaded,” – she opened the breech, took out the cartridge and replaced it, and snapped the action to again. “I know how to use a rifle, and I mean to shoot if you try to hinder me. Your ‘boys’ are all away in the veldt with the trek oxen. I heard your man say so. I know there is only that one Griqua lad about, and I am not afraid of him. Remember, I shoot if I am interfered with.”

The woman was paralysed at the audacity of her prisoner. She could do nothing. She looked across the empty plain and then at the ragged Griqua herd lad, sitting there on his heels at the ashes of the fire, scraping out a cooking pot with a piece of wood, and grinning at the mad English girl, and she found no help. There was not another gun handy; nor, if there were, did she know whether, with this formidable, accursed, well-armed girl, she or the boy would dare to lay hold of it. She muttered something very unpleasant between her teeth, and then spoke aloud, in her sourest tones, to May Felton.

“Have your own way,” she said, “I cannot prevent you. What do you want?”

“I mean to saddle up and be off,” returned May, in her most angelic voice, “I know, dear Mevrouw Erasmus, that you hate English company, and as I don’t approve of your husband having so many weapons about him in these troublous times, I am going to take this rifle and these cartridges with me. They belong fairly – considering that your man is playing a traitor’s game – to the British Government.”

Vrouw Erasmus took a step forward, as if she would have made for the girl, but, as May raised her weapon, thought better of it. Once in her huge arms, she could have easily mastered the girl, but the risk was too great.

“If you take the gun,” she said, threateningly, “it is stealing, and if we catch you again we shall try you under Transvaal law. We are all Transvaalers now, or shall be directly,” she added, triumphantly.

“There you are quite wrong, dear mevrouw,” returned May, in her sweetest tones. “Now if you had behaved nicely and politely, as I know you can do, I might, yes, really, I think I might have returned the gun. But you know perfectly well that it is fairly forfeited, and I shall hand it over to the resident magistrate at Vryburg.”

Vrouw Erasmus ground her teeth again, shook her head, and growled dissent. How she hated this bantering English girl.

“Now, mevrouw,” pursued May, “if you will seat yourself nicely under the tent-sail there, and if your boy remains quietly where he is, I shall do you no injury.”

The vrouw sat down heavily on her waggon chair, with an air of gloomy resignation. There was nothing to be done. May went to her pony, which stood tied up to the waggon wheel, and still holding her carbine and keeping a watchful eye on her two guardians, picked up her saddle, adjusted it, girthed up, and put on the bridle. Then she mounted and rode off at a smart canter.

“Farewell, dear Mevrouw Erasmus,” she cried as she went. “We’ll take great care of the carbine; don’t forget to give my compliments to your husband.”

The Boer woman waited till she had gone a hundred yards or more, and then roused the Griqua lad. “Get a rifle and cartridges,” she cried, pointing to the house. “Indoors, yonder. Quick, you schelm!”

The lad rose and went indoors, none too willingly, and brought out a sporting rifle and a cartridge belt.

“Put in a cartridge and shoot, you fool,” shrieked the enraged vrouw, pointing to the retreating figure. “Hit the horse! Hit the girl; stop them somehow!” The Griqua lad put in a cartridge and raised the rifle. The girl was now two hundred and fifty yards away, galloping fast.

“No, mevrouw,” he said, lowering the gun again, “you can sjambok me, but I can’t fire. If I hit her, it’s murder, and I daren’t do it.”

Speechless almost with rage, the woman struck him in the face with her hand.

“You dog,” she shouted. “By the Almighty, you shall suffer for this.”

Meanwhile May Felton was speeding along over the eighteen miles of veldt road that led her to Vryburg and comparative safety. (It was before Vryburg had been surrendered.) She galloped it in one piece, and, thanks to her good pony, compassed the distance in rather more than two hours, having ridden close on fifty miles since dawn.

Arrived at Vryburg, she delivered her dispatch, together with the captured rifle and cartridges, to the resident magistrate, receiving his hearty congratulations in return. Next day, accompanied by the doctor, and a couple of policemen, she started for home again. Making a long détour, and avoiding Monjana Mabeli, they reached her father’s homestead just at sunset.

Chapter Twelve.

A Transvaal Morning

They were sitting by a big camp fire, close to the junction of the Marico and Crocodile Rivers – on the Bechuanaland side, where the old trade road to the interior runs – a motley and yet very interesting gathering of hunters, transport riders, and traders, and as usual they had been yarning. It was nearing Christmas, 1891; the weather was waxing very hot, and the night was so warm that even the oldest man of the party, “old John Blakeman,” easily to be recognised by his white head and grizzled beard, sat in his flannel shirt, without a coat, his sleeves rolled up, his brawny, sunburnt arms folded across his chest. The night was very still; scarcely an air of wind stirred; occasionally a kiewitje plover uttered its mournful, chiding cry; the not unmusical croak of frogs was heard, bubbling softly from a swamp a little way off; these, with an occasional cough from the trek oxen, as they lay peacefully at their yokes, were the only sounds that here broke the outer silence of the veldt. Tales of adventure are a never failing source of interest at these fireside gatherings, and a number of hunting stories, more or less well-founded, had been trotted out. A somewhat assertive up-country trader, lately returned from the Ngami region, had just finished a highly-coloured narrative, in which a couple of lions had been easily vanquished. According to his theory these great carnivora are as readily bagged as wild duck at a vlei.

“That’s all very well,” rejoined old John Blakeman, taking his pipe from his mouth and a pull at his beaker of whiskey and water. “You may have had a stroke of luck, Heyford, and killed a brace of ’em without much trouble or danger, but in my judgment lions are not to be played with. A hungry lion, and more especially a starved, worn-out old ‘mannikie,’ who can’t kill his natural food properly, is, on a dark, stormy night, the most dangerous, cruel, and persistent beast in Africa – the very devil incarnate. Guns and gunners have a good deal tamed the extraordinary boldness of lions in the last thirty years. I can remember the time when they killed cattle, ay, and even Kaffirs, in this very country where you now sit, in open daylight. Why! Katrina Visser, wife of a Marico Boer, lost her child, a lad of six years old, by a lion, in broad daylight, killed at four o’clock in the afternoon, within fifty yards of her door. That happened four and thirty years ago, in 1857, in the Marico country, within less than sixty miles of this very outspan. I remember it but too well. The following morning, which happened to be Easter Day, was one of the saddest and at the same time the most exciting I ever experienced.”