Ward
Jasper Lyle
Chapter Eight.
The War-Cry in the Mountains
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 rechauffé 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?”
Eleanor hesitated, but only for a moment, and replied—
“Yes, we remember him when quite a boy.”
Candour evidently prevailed over a seeming reluctance to refer to the past; and yet there was nothing singular in Eleanor Daveney’s remembrance of May, who had been employed from childhood about the English quarters and locations. It was simply her sudden pause, hesitation, and hurried tone in admitting the truth, which had attracted Frankfort’s notice.
Ormsby, on hearing the bushman had sped into the wilderness, grew furious with Piet, and wished Frankfort had taken his advice in forbidding Fitje’s accompanying her husband. Frankfort reproached himself for not riding in the rear of the cavalcade, and keeping the party together, but time was too precious for unavailing regret; it was deemed prudent to close and secure the front of the dwelling, Eleanor consoling Marion by reminding her that, for the present, the war-cry of Kafirland was their best personal security, since “you know,” said she, “that unlike the honest faces of civilised lands, the Kafir comes not with beating drum and flying standard; and the settler of South Africa is safest when face to face with his wicked neighbour. Yet,” added Eleanor, “why should I call the Kafir wicked?—it is not for me to judge.”
Again there arose that shrill, terrific war-cry. Marion shuddered, and wound her arms round her sister’s slender waist.
“Poor wretches!” said Eleanor, lifting her mournful eyes to heaven—“poor misguided beings!” and, clasping her hands, her lips moved in inaudible prayer.
Frankfort watched her as she implored Heaven in behalf of the unhappy savages, and could not help contrasting her mild courage with her mother’s authoritative air of resolution and her sister’s utter helplessness and terror.
All night long the little garrison of Annerley stood to its arms, the sentinels immovable at the outposts, Daveney and Frankfort going the rounds at intervals, Ormsby in command of the party guarding the rearward premises, his head-quarters being the trellised passage, from which he occasionally looked in upon the ladies. He had been particularly requested by his host to act under the directions of the old Griqua, who had been a soldier in the Cape Corps, and whose experience was invaluable; and, what was more than Frankfort had expected, Ormsby had the good sense to see this, and acknowledge it.
Daveney, albeit far from easy as to the safety of his family, would not permit his domestic troubles to interfere with his duties as master of a household.
Once, when on his rounds with Frankfort, he looked in upon the group, and asked how all went on. Marmion had made his way into the sitting-room, and stretched himself at Eleanor’s feet, with his black muzzle to the ground, and ears and eyes wide open, keeping watch and ward over the group. Marion lay on a couch, her head pillowed on her sister’s arm, and fast asleep, her ringlets hanging, all dishevelled, round her, and Mrs Daveney’s anxious gaze was riveted on a loop-hole looking eastward, watching with weary heart the long-coming of the dawn.
So wore on the night. The fires on the hills died away; the gorgeous sun, opening his gates of glory, came forth to dispel the smoke and vapours that obscured the distant mountains and floated over the plains; the night sentinels were relieved, and other watches set; the house was put in order for the morning refreshment, so much needed; the herdsmen, well armed, led the cattle to the open ground fronting the settlement, and the ladies retired to their own apartments for a while.
Frankfort then expressed his deep anxiety about the missing members of his train; but as it was considered by his host highly imprudent to reduce the force of the garrison under present circumstances, there was nothing for it but to leave May to his known sagacity, and hope that old Piet had not brought himself and others into danger through his obstinacy and imprudence; for there was no denying that the vley indicated by May as the outspan was flanked on one side by a dense bush, a notorious haunt of Kafirs.
Our two sportsmen were ushered by Mr Daveney into a tolerably-sized apartment, divided by a wooden partition running little more than half way to the roof. Everything was in the most homely style, but exquisitely neat. In each domicile was a small camp bedstead, table, chair, and chest of drawers, all manufactured by their ingenious host. Sheepskin mats were spread on the earthen floor, and the walls, originally white-washed, were gaily papered with manifold prints and engravings from some of those publications which, for the last fifteen years, have taken England and her customs through the length and breadth of the earth. The windows were, of course, partially screened by brickwork; but the sun pierced one of the loops, and shed its rays on the picture of a popular danseuse. Frankfort would have smiled at the associations called forth by such an anomaly, but his heart misgave him about his faithful servant, and though he lay down, he could not rest, and he longed to start in search of May; but that would have been absurdly imprudent.
