Great-grandfather Joubert was a very patriarch in years. A full century had passed over his head. They had all been such active years, full of stirring memories. Through his rugged features there shone the same big-hearted kindliness which had marked all his days.
Petrus loved him. No one could tell quite such fascinating tales as he; thrilling tales of early adventure and conquests; of hair-breadth escapes from wild animals and savage natives in the final conquering of the African Veldt; tales of the terrible "Border Wars," and of long wars against the British.
To Great-grandfather Joubert his country's history was sacred history. It had all takenplace before his very eyes. In fact, he had helped to make it. Even in his eighty-fifth year he had scaled the Transvaal hills and done scouting duty with all but the agility of his sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons fighting bravely at his side.
He often sat thinking it over. Few of the old "Voor-trekker" Boers were still living—those who had "trekked" in their great ox-wagons across the deadly "Karroo," finally to settle in the Transvaal. But that great "Exodus"—known in Boer history as the "Great Trek of 1836"—was one of Great-grandfather Joubert's most vivid memories. He was but a boy then.
The mid-summer heat was so oppressive that Great-grandfather Joubert had asked to have his comfortable armchair moved over close by the open window, just above the syringa bush. He liked the scent.
But two weeks now remained until Christmastime—about the hottest season of the year in South Africa. In another week would come the yearly festival commemorating that tragic episode of December 16, 1836, "Dangaan's Daag," when the immortal Piet Retief, with a number of the Voor-trekkers, left the main party and made their way down into Natal, only to be massacred by the Zulus.
All day long Great-grandfather Joubert sat there beside the open window smoking his ornate pipe filled with fragrant tobacco and reading from the large, silver-bound Bible on his knees, whose open pages were swept by his long, grizzly beard. He was a typical "Takhaar" Boer.
Aunt Johanna had brought him the Sacred Book, with some hot coffee and rolls. From the window he could see Uncle Abraham riding about the farm to see that his beasts were all right, counting his flocks, and superintending his Kafirs.
The Hottentot maids fetched him his dinner. Then Petrus brought him the latest Johannesburg and London daily newspapers. He often sat and read to him carefully everything of interest—especially the latest "war-news"—which filled all the leading pages, nowadays, with accounts of the terrible "world-war" raging throughout Europe between Germany and the Allies. Thus Great Britain—their mother-country—had been plunged into the fearful conflict. Great-grandfather Joubert wished he was younger that he might go himself to fight for his king. "Race-hatred" had no place in his feelings. The Jouberts belonged to the more intelligent, unprejudiced class of Boers who had long ceased to regard the British as intruders. He had always believed with Paul Kruger—the great Boer leader of his day—that "Where love dwells prosperity follows."
As he re-read the old story of the wanderingsof the Israelites in the Wilderness—they scarcely knew whither—the trials and hardships they had encountered—it seemed to him that the Sacred Book was telling the story of the "Great Trek" of his own people. The Boers, too, had wandered forth—had suffered hardship and injustice no less than had the patriarchs of old—he told himself. Closing the book, he folded his hands, and, leaning comfortably back in his armchair, he gazed far across the grassy sweep of high veldt, with its red-brown scattered kopjes, towards the western horizon. Soon he was lost in the memories of a century.
Softly the room door opened. In a twinkling Petrus' arms were flung around the old man's neck.
"A penny for your thoughts, Grandfather dear! Please let me stay here with you a while," begged the boy.
"Ah, Koos, is it you, my boy? Yes, yes,you may stay a while if you do not ask too many questions. It is easy to guess your thoughts. Let me try. Your visit with Aunt Kotie at Johannesburg next week. Your trip to Cape Town with Lieutenant Wortley and George. Hurrying back home in time for Christmas. Isn't that right, Koos?"
"Yes, Grandfather, and George is expecting a big Christmas box from his Aunt Edith in England. Now for yours!"
"I should have to take you back to the early days in the Old Colony, Koos, when I was but a boy like yourself. And, like you, I used to beg my old grandfather for 'stories' of his country, which was France. He was one of several hundred French Huguenots who fled from their own country to South Africa, because they could not worship as they liked. Those were happy days in the Old Colony there on our large, quiet farms, before British rule became intolerable. Our people were prosperousslave-holders. My father owned as many as eighty Hottentots. But as British oppression became more and more intolerable—our slaves liberated, and indignities of every kind heaped upon us—our Boer leaders resolved to endure no more and the great 'Exodus'—known in history as the 'Great Trek of 1836'—began. I shall never forget those awful days. I was just a boy then."
"Why didn't the Boers rebel?" indignantly questioned Petrus.
"Rebellion was useless. But we knew of a vast land that stretched away to the north of us. To be sure, it was filled with savages and ferocious wild animals, but even that was preferable to British tyranny. There were about six thousand of us in all who left our fertile coastland farms and trekked forth into the unknown wilderness in search of new homes where we could live in peace. One by one, we loaded up our huge ox-drawn wagons, which were toserve as home, fort and wagon for many a long day on our journey. Inside these great covered wagons—'rolling-houses'—the Zulus called them—the women and children were seated. Outside—tramping alongside as a guard—carrying their well-oiled, long-barreled guns—were the men. The older children helped to drive and round up the great flocks and herds which accompanied our migration. Well do I remember the cries of a small, bare-foot boy of ten, running at the head of a long team of tired oxen, which now and then quickened its pace at the touch of his sjambok. Who do you suppose that bit of a boy was, Koos?"
"You, Grandfather?"
"No, no, Koos. That little fellow was only about half my size then, but, since those hard days, he has four times ruled our glorious Transvaal as its President, and often fought with us all for our country's freedom."
"Oh, I know! President Kruger?"
"Yes, Koos, that ragged little boy was none other than Paul Stephanus Kruger."
"Go on, Grandfather. Did the Voor-trekkers come straight to the Transvaal with all their covered ox-wagons and everything?"
"No, Koos. There were the great desolate stretches of the 'Karroo' to be crossed, with such dangers and hardships by day and night that many of our oxen soon trekked their last trek. The loud gun-like crack of the long ox-whips, as they whirled over the poor oxen's heads—and fell with a savage blow on their brown hides—to the driver's yell: 'TREK'!—is still in my ears. Those whips, made from the hide of giraffes, were usually eighteen or twenty feet long.
"This great 'Exodus'—or 'the Boer Mayflower trip'—as your cousins in New York City once described it—was full of all kinds of experiences and suffering. Vast herds of wild elephants impeded our way. Flocks of ostriches,with herds of zebras, antelopes, gnus and quaggas, covered the plains in such vast numbers that at times the whole landscape was obscured. Poisonous snakes glided from among the bushes in front of us—and there was scarcely a rocky kloof or kopje but sheltered a ravenous lion or leopard."
"Oh, Grandfather! and were your dangers over when you'd crossed that terrible Karroo?"
"No, Koos, they were just beginning. All the Voor-trekkers did not go in one direction. They spread out like a fan from the Mother Colony, advancing by different routes. About two hundred followed Hendrik Potgieter to the banks of the Vaal, into the land we now call the Orange Free State. Another small party trekked its way down to Delegoa Bay where all but two perished from the horrible poisonous marshes. I was with the main party, which continued on farther northward, and finally settled here in the Transvaal. Here we encounteredthe fierce Matebele, who attacked us in large numbers. Quickly we chained our wagons together into a huge circle—making a 'lagger' or fort of them, and fired on the savages from that ambuscade—our women bravely loading and re-loading our guns for us. They rushed madly upon us and fought like demons—stabbing in through the spokes of the wheels. Desperate as we were, Boers are good marksmen, and finally the Matebele were driven off, but not until many of our brave people were massacred, and six thousand head of our cattle and sheep taken. Then we had fifty years of terrible Kafir wars—Zulu wars—and Border Wars of the most horrible kind against the savage natives before we could possess the land—our own Transvaal—in peace."
"Oh, Grandfather! Grandfather! I'm so glad your life was spared!" cried Petrus, flinging his arms tightly about his great-grandfather's neck. "But you forgot to tell me thestory of 'Dangaan's Daag' and Piet Retief." Petrus never tired of hearing of that famous march of the Voor-trekkers to Natal under their heroic leader, Piet Retief. History tells us it was comparable only to the march of the Greek Ten Thousand in Asia.
"No, Koos, I've told you that story a hundred times. I'm thankful I did not join that fatal party. One of your uncles went."
"Was it Uncle Petrus Jacobus, Grandfather? The one who was made President next after Kruger, and who became a famous general? The one who was made commander-in-chief of all the Boer forces, and gained the victories of Majuba Hill and Laing's Neck, against the British? The uncle whose name I bear? Oh, Grandfather, may I see his picture? The one in your old iron chest?" begged Petrus excitedly.
"Here is the key, Koos. Lift out the things. It is in an old portfolio down in the very bottom."
One by one, Petrus spread the precious keepsakes from the Boer war on the floor about the old chest. It was a strange collection. The first thing his hand touched, was an old "bandoler"—or cartridge-belt—heavy with unspent cartridges—now green with mold. Petrus laid it on the floor at his great-grandfather's feet. Next came a long-barreled, old gun—the sight of which made Koos' eyes sparkle with interest, but a tear fell down the old Boer's bronzed cheek as he lifted the rusty Mauser and read the words cut on its stock thirteen years ago: "For God, Country, and Justice." Silently he examined it, but Koos could read in his flashing eyes that he was hearing again the distant rolling of artillery, the crackling of rifles, the shrieking of shells through the air—made bright by the sweeping searchlights of the enemy. Then Petrus lifted out an old broad-brimmed slouch hat. Embroidered on the band around its crown were the words:"For God and Freedom," and sewed on one side of the upturned brim was a rosette of the "Vier-kleur," and the fluffy brown tail of a meerscat. A small roll containing a blanket and a mackintosh came next.
"Grandfather, I don't see the portfolio," protested Koos, who had about reached the bottom of the old chest.
"Go on, Koos, you will find it along with my old Bible—the one I read between battles."
Carefully Petrus lifted out a great silken flag and unfurled it—its bright horizontal stripes of red, white and blue, being crossed by a band of green—the "Vier-kleur" of the Republic. Within the folds of the old flag he had found a well-worn pocket Bible and the portfolio.
"Hand me the flag, too, Koos," said the old man. He touched its silken folds tenderly—almost with affection. "This flag belonged to the days before the annexation of the Transvaal to Great Britain—before our present'Union of South Africa' existed. Its colors tell of the time when the Transvaal was the 'South African Republic,' Koos."
"Shall we always have to fly the 'Union Jack' in the Transvaal, Grandfather? George says it helps him to feel more at home down here."
"It may be God's will, Petrus. Let us hope that the worst of our troubles are forever over. During the thirteen years since peace was signed between Great Britain and the Transvaal our friendly relations have been deepening. A new era of progress, prosperity and peace seems to have come for the Transvaal. Our future looks bright."
"The portfolio, Grandfather? Is Uncle Petrus' picture there? And tell me all about his great victories of Majuba Hill and Laing's Neck, won't you? I've never heard enough about them."
"I can't talk of those days, Koos. Divinefavor guided our footsteps, and, victories though they were, those days cost us many of our best-loved kinsfolk—even your little thirteen-year-old cousin Martinus, who fought so bravely in the 'Penkop Regiment'—a whole regiment made up of school-children like himself. There were also great-grandfathers like myself. Paul Kruger was seventy-five, and hundreds of his gray-haired burghers fighting with him were even older. Your Uncle Petrus, when in command of all the Boer forces, was very close to seventy.
"We never wanted to fight and kill our fellow-beings. It was heart-rending to us," continued the aged man, vehemently, as he handed Petrus the picture of General Joubert. "All we asked for was peace to cultivate the soil, and worship together. But every burgher in the Transvaal—from President Kruger and your Uncle Petrus down to little Martinus—swore to yield his life's blood rather than failto defend his country's right to freedom. For that their fathers had suffered and died."
"I've heard Uncle Abraham say that it was just a 'Wait-a-bit' peace the Boers signed in 1902, Grandfather. Do you think so?"
"No, Petrus. Loyalty to the mother country is deepening in the Transvaal every day. Premier Botha and all his people are ready to fight in her behalf at any time. Now run along. There comes George galloping across to see you, Koos. I'll put these things back in the chest myself."
"Thank you, Grandfather dear, for all you've told me," called back Petrus, as he bounded downstairs to meet George, who had come to take part in the short twilight games of the early tropical evening which Petrus, Franzina, Yettie and Theunis always played together just before dinner-time.
Scarcely had darkness given place to a bright moonlight than Magdalena's favorite "freyer"[13]—Herculesvan der Groot—came riding over on his "kop-spuiling" courting horse—tossing his head, prancing and jumping all the way (being sharply bitted and curbed for the purpose). As Hercules always liked to look very imposing on these important courting occasions he had decked himself out in a fine yellow cord jacket, vest and trousers, changed his veldt-schoens for a pair of shiny tight patent-leather congress gaiters, above which he wore a pair of showy leather leggings. Waving gracefully in the breeze from one side of his broad-brimmed white felt slouch hat was a tall ostrich plume—and in his pocket he had not forgotten to place a nice box of "Dutch Mottoes." He had ridden twenty miles from his father's farm Vergelegen.[14]
Upon Aunt Johanna's inviting him to enter, he politely shook hands with each member of the family, then seated himself in a corner againstthe wall, patiently waiting for an opportunity to speak alone with Magdalena, when he quickly whispered in her ear: "We'll set oop this necht."
Finally, after the family had retired, Magdalena appeared dressed in a pink dress with bright ribbons of every shade, and much jewelry encircling her neck. In one hand she carried a match box and in the other a piece of candle, which—to Hercules' delight—he noticed was a long one. According to rigid Boer etiquette he must depart when the candle had burned out. Together they lighted the taper and placed it upon the table alongside the plate of "Candy Lakkers" which Magdalena had that morning made especially for her freyer, who produced his "Dutch Mottoes." As Hercules kept an eye on the diminishing candle, anxiously guarding it from drafts, seeing to it that it should not flit or flare, and trimming it from time to time, he told her how much he admired her uncle'snew horses, how well the oxen looked after the rain, and other such interesting things—not forgetting to assure her that he loved her very much. But as time flies with lovers so with lights, and the interview was abruptly terminated, but not before it was agreed they should be married on New Year's Day, and that their honeymoon trip should be to the Victoria Falls on the Zambesi.
For two days Johannesburg's great "Market Square" had been filled with out-spanned heavy ox-drawn wagons. Uncle Abraham and Petrus had arrived with hundreds of other Boer farmers from the surrounding country, for the semi-annual "Nachtmaal"—which really means "night meal" or "Sacrament." It was always an occasion of great excitement and bustle. For, besides the "Divine Service," which lasted all day, there was the pleasurable excitement of meeting old friends, making new ones, shopping, selling, and putting through of business deals. Most of the burghers brought their whole families with them. But Uncle Abraham and Petrus had had to come alone this year. Great-grandfather Joubert was not verywell. They greatly missed Aunt Johanna, Magdalena and the children.
Aunt Kotie had urged them to stay with her. But because of the big load of wool he had to sell, Uncle Abraham thought it best to remain in the "Market Square" where all the transactions were made.
To the Boer youths and maidens "Nachtmaal" meant a time of baptisms, confirmations, engagements, and marriages. After the services of the day were over, Boer sweethearts met under the blinking stars in the shadow of the tent-wagons and repeated love's old story to each other.
Half way to Johannesburg they had halted their wagon at a little "Negotic Winkel," or store, to lay in a good supply of sweets—"Lakkers" and "Mottoes"—of which both Uncle Abraham and Petrus were inordinately fond. As they had decided to eat alongside their wagon they purchased also numerous boxes ofsardines and sweet biscuits. Coffee they had brought from home.
The first "Divine Service" began at seven o'clock in the morning. The last was not over until long after dark. Before each service—if there was no business to be transacted—the men lingered about the church door discussing their crops, the latest hail storm or drought, their children and their troubles with their Kafirs. The women and girls gathered in chattering groups about the tent-wagons, in their stiff, new print dresses and heavily piped black "kappies"—well-lined and frilled, for the sake of protecting their complexions from the strong African sun.
At the first peal of the organ all trooped into the church, the "Kirkraad"—dressed in black with white neckties—entering first, with the minister, or Predikant, and seating themselves up in the front pews before the pulpit. Then the solemn rites began.
During the brief spaces between services Uncle Abraham and Petrus visited the various stores, carefully attending to the half-yearly shopping for Aunt Johanna. Uncle Abraham also disposed advantageously of his farm produce. He had never brought to market a better clip of wool than this. For it he had just received the very satisfactory price of three hundred golden sovereigns. Of this he had immediately paid out one hundred and fifty pounds in necessary household and agricultural purchases, such as a new cultivator, coffee to last until the next "Nachtmaal," barbed-wire and a large supply of strong, new wool-sacks. He was sorry to be deprived of Aunt Johanna's help.
But together he and Petrus made their purchases, always hurrying instantly back to their pew in the church at the first sound of the bell from the little "bell-tent." As, one by one, the items on the long list were purchased and crossed off, the home-load in the big wagon mountedhigher and still higher, until by evening it would hold no more.
It had been a good "Nachtmaal." The inspiring services, old friendships renewed, the large number of marriages and engagements, and the golden sovereigns in his pocket, all told him so. He handed Petrus a generous amount, telling him he might need it on his trip. The sun was sinking in the west, and the trek back to the farm a long one. So he in-spanned his long team of oxen just as Aunt Kotie's motor came whizzing up for Petrus. The boy hesitated. It was his first trip away from home alone. He had never been parted from his dear Uncle Abraham.
As he jumped into her car he could see through the gathering dusk many fathers of families, Bible in hand, standing in their wagons conducting evening service. Aunt Kotie's driver was a Zulu, he noticed, but not with alarm.
"Trek!" yelled Uncle Abraham to his oxen. Aunt Kotie had just promised him she would go with Koos to Kimberley and put him safely in Lieutenant Wortley's care. Petrus waved "good-by" as the big wagon rolled off and vanished in the deepening twilight.
Aunt Kotie lived in Parktown, the most fashionable quarter of the great metropolis. Next morning, from her upper veranda, Petrus got a wonderful bird's-eye view over the city, and off to the Mageliesberg Mountains. South of the city, as Aunt Kotie explained, the Vaal and other streams of the Orange River glided through gorges to the Atlantic Ocean, while northward they flowed to the Limpopo, and then on into the Indian Ocean.
Petrus noticed that a huge, black-skinned Zulu, who eyed him narrowly from time to time, served them at breakfast, and that still another black giant—a particularly evil-lookingfellow, under whose tread the very earth shook—helped him and his aunt into the waiting motor car for their sightseeing ride. Aunt Kotie explained that native boys did all her work. She found them more reliable than white help.
As they drove down broad streets, past great stone and marble buildings, palatial club-houses, fine churches, museums, and the High School, Aunt Kotie saw that something was wrong. The people walked briskly and excitedly about the streets. Ugly rumors of anti-German riots had reached her. "Market Square," of yesterday's peaceful "Nachtmaal" was now filled with striking miners, who were in open revolt, she was told, having already attacked and battered in the offices of the Rand gold mines.
So Aunt Kotie ordered her Zulu driver to keep far away from the "Market Square," and instead of visiting the gold-fields they would motor up to Pretoria and back—the Union'scapital city, which would be sure to interest Petrus.
In fact, Petrus was having his first glimpse of a great city. Johannesburg was the equal of any great metropolis of Europe, Aunt Kotie told him. It was the wonderful "Golden City" he had long wished to see. He had never been beyond the "Market Square" before. The "City of Midas," it had been called since the discovery of the famous "Witwatersrand" or "White Water's Ridge" south of the city.
As they sped in the direction of Pretoria, Petrus gained a panoramic view of gold mine after mine, from which fabulous wealth had been dug. Vast reservoirs, then mills, with a long row of great iron chimneys came in sight, and the roar of batteries crushing the quartz containing the gold reached their ears.
"These mines must be as rich as the Klondike, Aunt Kotie?" questioned Petrus.
couple in car looking at cottage"IT WAS A LONG, LOW, ONE-STORY COTTAGE, HALF-HIDDEN BY THE ROADSIDE TREES"
"IT WAS A LONG, LOW, ONE-STORY COTTAGE, HALF-HIDDEN BY THE ROADSIDE TREES"
"Hundreds of times as rich. And we are told that buried beneath Johannesburg still lies more gold than the world ever saw."
As their motor entered Pretoria's "Market Square" the band was playing to a gathering of the townsfolk. They could not pause to listen. It was nearly evening, barely time in which to give Petrus a hasty glimpse of the Capital's streets, and especially of the "Kantoors," the government offices for the Union of South Africa, of which General Botha had long been "Premier."
Before leaving Pretoria Aunt Kotie declared that Petrus must see Paul Kruger's old home, if only for one glance. It was a long, low one-story cottage, half-hidden by the roadside trees and shrubbery. Marble lions guarded either side of the entrance to the broad, shady stoop, where on many an afternoon President Kruger had enjoyed his coffee and smoked with his burghers.
"'Oom Paul' his people called him. Every Boer loved him. He was the close friend of your uncle, General Joubert, who commanded the Boer forces, and, of course, your father, grandfather, great-grandfather and Uncle Abraham, all knew him well," explained Aunt Kotie. "Now for home. To-morrow there'll be more sightseeing for you, Koos," added his aunt, who was becoming very fond of her bright young nephew from "Weltefreden."
A fearful dust-storm was raging over the Kimberley veldt. Gusts of sand and dirt blew into their faces as Aunt Kotie kissed Petrus good-by. He had just promised to spend his winter at High School in Johannesburg with her. Lieutenant Wortley and George were glad to see their little Boer friend again, but they feared a violent thunderstorm and drenching. The wind was unroofing houses, blowing down trees, and filling the air with rubbish and dirt at a terrific rate.
So the lieutenant hailed an old vehicle. There was just time between trains for a glance at the famous Kimberley diamond mines, which Petrus had never seen. The wheels of the old vehicle often sank a foot deep as it rattled alongthrough clouds of dust, past miserable corrugated-iron shanties and mounds of débris, left after the diamonds had been sorted out. Kimberley seemed to lie in a sea of sand.
To Petrus, the mine looked like a great human ant-hill whose inhabitants were all surging busily about at hard work. They paused at the brink of the gigantic caldron-like hole to take a look far down at the hundreds of naked Kafirs whose bodies looked no larger than rabbits. A man approached and asked if they would not like to be taken down. So they jumped into a hoist, from which a bucket of the precious "blue-stone" had just been discharged, and soon found themselves at the bottom of the vast crater. It was a wonderful sight. There it was that the most beautiful gems in all the world were found!
Hundreds of demon-like figures, hard at work, were emerging from the earth and reëntering it on all sides. They were chiefly Kafirs.
"Oh, I wonder which one of these wretched-looking Kafirs is Mutla's poor, sick brother, Diza!" exclaimed Petrus. "Mutla told me he is afraid Diza will die if he doesn't get away from this underground work here. If only he had the money he said he could get farm work in Rhodesia. I heard the Predikant of uncle's church say there were continual deaths among these wretched Kimberley mine boys who cannot get away," continued Petrus, anxiously scanning the black faces for one that might resemble Mutla's.
The boys hoped to catch a glimpse of a diamond. The ground had all been squared off into different claims—which had cut it up into blocks, cubes and rectangles. Each claim had its own wires and trollies bringing up the precious "blue" to the surface. As the countless tubes of the aerial tramway glided rapidly back and forth—upwards and downwards through the labyrinthine network of wire-rope stretchingover the sides of the mine—the vast abyss seemed filled with flights of birds fluttering to and fro.
"Uncle Abraham told me the story about the finding of the first rough gem here," said Petrus to George. "The children of a Dutch farmer had a small soapy-appearing stone for a plaything. They thought it was nothing but a pebble. But a visitor noticed the strange stone one day and offered to buy it. The mother laughed and gave it to him gladly. Then it was examined by many experts and pronounced a valuable diamond."
"That was the beginning of one of the greatest industries the world has ever known," added the lieutenant. "Then from the 'Premier Mine,' near Pretoria, was taken the great 'Cullinan diamond,' which weighed a pound and a half. That was the most valuable diamond ever found, its value being $2,500,000."
"And it was called the 'Star of Africa,' andpresented to King Edward, wasn't it, Daddy?" exclaimed George.
"Yes, George. And part of it is set in His Majesty's scepter and part in his crown," explained the lieutenant, as they were bobbing along in the same old vehicle through the sand and dirt and wind-storm for their train. Soon they were whirling towards Cape Town.
For nearly two nights and days the train continued on its way over vast stretches of arid plains. Only a few small, dried-up, lavender-colored "Karroo" bushes here and there were seen, with now and then a flat-topped kopje. They were crossing the "Great Karroo"—a region of limitless sky and sand. Desolation marked every mile of the way.
"It's just like that Kalahari Desert, Father! Some of it has gotten inside this car, too!" protested George. A fine white alkaline powder had penetrated the car, sifted into their baggage, down their collars, into their eyes, hair,and everywhere it should not be. Even the food tasted gritty. All the next day they were still passing over the same great burning waste of sandy, sun-swept veldt. "'Karroo' is a Hottentot name, meaning dry or barren," Petrus explained. Even the river-beds were dried up. Towards evening, when a sudden hard rain fell over the dry tussocky grass, the effect was magical. Hundreds of wild flowers burst suddenly into bloom, glowing brightly in the wilderness.
The boys' excitement in watching for the possible appearance of elephants and giraffes on the "Karroo" was giving way to doubt as none appeared. Petrus had read of as many as five hundred giraffes in one herd.
"All that, Petrus, was before the natives were given fire-arms," explained the lieutenant. "They were allowed to kill most of them off, but there are still plenty of leopards and hyenas left."
"I've heard you say, Daddy, that beforeLivingstone came and civilized the natives, white people scarcely dared live in Africa at all," interrupted George. "Then, after he taught them and doctored and protected and helped them, they called him 'Messenger of God.'"
"Yes, before Livingstone the Englishmen believed that Africa was a place little better than the Kalahari Desert, with its villainous salt water," declared the lieutenant, with a scowl at the memory.
"Oh, Lieutenant Wortley! One of Aunt Kotie's Zulus looked exactly like that Zulu who threw his assegai at our cart that day. He eyed me closely every minute. I believe he is that very one!" excitedly exclaimed Petrus. "Aunt Kotie said he'd not been with her long."
"Dirk? He'd better keep his distance from George and me if he knows what is good for him!" said the lieutenant, with a threatening look.
"Yes, Dirk! That's just what Aunt Kotiecalled him. I wish he'd go back to Zululand or the Kalahari Desert and stay there forever!" exclaimed Petrus. The view was fast changing from the "Karroo" and becoming more rugged. The train curved in and out of the narrowing valleys and zigzagged up and down between beautiful ravines and rugged kloofs. Soon the lofty cathedral-like jagged peaks of the Hottentot's Holland Mountains came in view. Before the boys scarcely knew it they had reached Cape Town and were rushing through the city's streets in a tram for their hotel.
"Oh!" exclaimed both boys at once, as they caught a fine view of towering "Table Mountain." They wanted to go at once down to the dock where they could get a better view of it, but the lieutenant said they must have something to eat first and rest a bit.
"But we are not tired!" protested the boys, as soon as they had eaten a slight meal. So their sightseeing commenced at once. Thestreets of the Colonial metropolis were thronged with a strange medley of busy humanity. Ladies in carriages bent on shopping, Europeans in white suits, turbaned Malay priests in gorgeous silken robes, and British officers and soldiers from the barracks—everywhere. There had been violent anti-German riots, so that now strong forces of police, soldiers, and fire brigades were all being held in readiness to stop further disturbances. General Botha had issued a message of protest.
After the lieutenant had taken George and Petrus down Adderly Street—the Broadway of Cape Town—and shown them the Parliament and Government Houses, the Fine Arts Gallery and the South African College, where Koos expected some day to study, the boys begged to be taken down to the dock.
The Malay driver of a passing hansom cab soon left them at the dock, where they found a strange and motley crowd of shabbily dressedKafirs, sea-faring men, scantily clad Kroomen from the coast, Russians, Greeks, Italians, Dutch and Polish Jews—all coming and going, with here and there Malays, whose wooden sandals with their strange toe posts, made a clattering noise as they walked.
Beneath the towering granite wall of "Table Mountain"—with its summit enveloped in a perpetual cloud-mist—lay "Table Bay," whose cobalt-blue waters looked smooth as glass—save for the long curving line of tidal ripples where the water and yellow sand met. A swarm of drowsy sea-fowl lightly rose at the approach of a ship. The thought thrilled Petrus. He was enjoying his first glimpse of the ocean.
"This is one of the most beautiful ports in the world," said the lieutenant, as he hailed a passing motor for a drive along the famous "Kloof Road." Soon they were passing through Cape Town's beautiful and picturesquesuburbs with its villas half-buried in sub-tropical foliage. Although there remained but a few days until Christmas, flowers were blooming everywhere, roses, purple-blossomed "kafirboom," in airy sprays, spiky aloes with their blood-red flowers, lobelias, and the lovely "Lily of the Nile" which bloomed the year round.
Barely time remained for a quick run out to see "Groote Schuur," the fine old home of Cecil Rhodes—a handsome, low, gabled residence, with an avenue of towering pines leading up to it.
"And was Rhodes buried, like Livingstone, in Westminster Abbey?" asked George.
"No," replied his father. "He was buried on the summit of a lonely mountain in the heart of the great land he developed for England—Rhodesia. His tomb, which was cut out of the native rock, lies in a spot full of grandeur, which he loved and called: 'The View of the World.'A part of his dream for the development of Africa was the vast scheme, now nearing completion, of the 'Cape to Cairo' railroad—a great British stretch of steel from Cape Town to the Mediterranean. People laughed at the wild project of a railway that should run through the entire length of the African continent. Much of the route—all that part in the region of the Equator—would pass through territory inhabited by wild and war-like native tribes, and jungles infested by lions and other wild beasts. But Rhodes toiled away at his vast undertaking until to-day its completion is a matter of but a few more years."
As they passed Newlands, at the foot of the mountain, Petrus and George noticed many picnickers and gay coaching parties "too-tooing" along the beautiful "Kloof Road." Farther on, a lively game of cricket was being played by fine athletic-looking British and South African boys side by side, and there were Malays, in redfezzes and gorgeously colored blazers, playing an interesting game of golf.
Petrus' one beautiful day of sightseeing in Cape Town was about over. Already darkness was fast settling over "Table Mountain" and the city below it, as the little party returned to their hotel through the business streets of the city, which they found thronged with the troops, police, and immense crowds which had gathered in a rather threatening spirit, and were singing, as with one voice, "Rule Britannia." In large headlines all the evening papers told Cape Town's citizens the startling news that one more great power had gone mad and thrown herself into the fearful "world-war."
It was Christmas Day. In the ideal mid-summer weather, neighbors and relatives rode over in groups all morning, until the farmhouse gathering at "Weltefreden" was a large one by the time Petrus reached home. Aunt Johanna had lengthened the tables until thirty were seated for the big Christmas dinner, which she and Magdalena together had prepared. The genuine spirit of hospitality was felt by all. Songs by Aunt Johanna herself, splendid stories by Uncle Abraham, with recitations and organ-playing by the children had followed.
There was to be a dance in the evening in honor of Magdalena and Hercules, and "cross-country" riding parties had been formed forthe afternoon. Aunt Johanna's gift of gracious hospitality always made Christmas and New Year's Day rare occasions, long to be remembered.
Over at Lieutenant Wortley's a surprise awaited George. With his "Christmas box" from England had come his beloved Aunt Edith herself. She could only remain until New Year's Day, but for George's sake she had taken the long trip to South Africa. It was George's first Christmas without his dear mother. Aunt Edith was afraid he would be homesick. As the "tree" was to be a large one, with a dance, and presents for all, she told George he might invite all his little friends from Johannesburg and the surrounding farms.
Of course Petrus promised heartily to be there, then added over the telephone—Boer children and grown-ups, too, can now "call up" their friends on the telephone just as do our American boys and girls—"come over thisafternoon, George, can't you? Uncle Abraham promised that I should go to the Kafir children's party—if only for a few minutes. The Chief's giving the party himself. He always gives his people an 'ox-roasting,' you know, on New Year's Day. It's their 'Ancestral Meat Feast.' This year, because of Magdalena's wedding, Uncle Abraham promised him three oxen with which to celebrate. Perhaps that is why he has invited me to their party. Anyway, I shan't enjoy it without you, George. Will you come?"
There was a pause. "Aunt Edith says I can go, Koos, if I'm sure to be back home here before dark—before supper-time. She'll be worried if I'm not. Are you ready to start now?"
"Yes, George. Ride over on your pony. I'll be waiting for you at the front stoop on Ferus."
"All right, Petrus," came George's hearty reply, and by the time Petrus had Ferus up-saddled,George had arrived, and together they started to the kraals, passing on the way gay parties of Magdalena's friends at the tennis courts, and others on the croquet lawns, enjoying themselves in the shade from the orchard trees.
As the Kafir party was to be a very special occasion, with over a hundred little black children present, elaborate preparations for several days past had been under way at the Chief's kraal. The older girls had made fine bead-work, grass and copper-wire bangles for their wrists, arms, knees, ankles and waists. They softened up the skins of wild animals and worked them prettily, making leathern aprons to wear. Most of the girls smeared their bodies over with a fine powdered soft stone mixed with oil or fat, while nearly all the boys plastered white paint over themselves, and the little children tattoed their bodies with pointed sticks, or made circular burns on their arms.
On the morning of the party—ChristmasDay—the mothers anxiously gave a final touch to their children's toilet by a special coating of grease, and sent the boys off to catch rats, mice and birds with which to delight their guests' appetites, and instructed all—for the hundredth time—not to forget to be especially polite to the Chief.
As Petrus' and George's ponies galloped up to the Chief's kraal—or the "Great Place," as it was called—they could see long strings of gayly decked little black children all hurrying from the different huts over to the "Great Place," which was, of course, by far the largest of all the kraals in the great semi-circle which looked for all the world like a gigantic fairy-ring of mushrooms with elongated stalks—for their upright poles reached as much as five feet before their tops were lashed to the thatched roof, with "monkey-rope."
Arriving at the "Great Place," all the laughing, fat, little black children swarmed about thenarrow doorway, which was but a foot and a half high, then got down on their hands and knees and crawled in the kraal.
Petrus and George struggled through after them. Inside, the air was dense with smoke which made their eyes smart. About the mud-walls rested bright bunches of assegais, and small stabbing knives were stuck into the thatch. In single file all the children walked up to the Chief, by whose side stood the sturdy little "Bull of the Kraal"—or "Crown Prince" as we might say—and pausing a moment before him, saluted him with the word: "Bayette!" which means "Great Chief." Then, discovering Petrus and George, they crowded around them, yelling: "Azali!" "Azali!" which is just Kafir for "A present! A present!" Knowing what to expect, Petrus came prepared with a large box of "Candy Lakkers" which he presented to the little "Bull of the Kraal."
Then came the most important event of the party—the refreshments, which consisted of such delicate titbits as fried mice, locusts, mutton, goat, and old hens, which had been roasted over the embers.
After all had been gobbled up, various violent games, such as "Horses," "Wolf," and so on, were played by the children. Many of the bigger boys crawled about frightening the younger ones, pretending to be lions.
Petrus and George, beginning to tire of all this, were about to thank their kind host, the Chief, for their pleasant afternoon, mount their ponies and strike out for home. They peered anxiously through the kraal door to see if their ponies were all right. It was nearly dark. George looked anxious as he recalled his promise to his Aunt Edith. "We must go!" he said to Petrus.
"All right, George. I think so, too. Come on. It's late!"
Just at that moment there appeared the "Great Wife," as she was called. Of all the Chief's many wives she was his favorite—the "wife of his heart"—and the mother of the little "Bull of the Kraal," who was heir to the chieftainship.
"Mabiliana" was her name. Petrus and George had long heard of her beauty. They had heard, too, that five men had been assegaied before she became the undisputed property of the gallant Chief, who had paid the large "lobola"[15]of fifty of his fattest oxen for her.
All the pickaninnies hailed her appearance with a great shout of joy. They crowded about her, clamoring for "A story!" "A story!"
"Just one moment longer, Petrus—just till she begins her story," promised George, as Mabiliana gracefully seated herself before thechildren who quickly ranged themselves in a circle on the floor about her feet.
Her dress was in keeping with her beauty. A broad band of blue and white beads encircled her forehead, while hanging in a gracefully pendant curve over her eyelids, sparkled another string of the same white beads giving to her eyes a languid look. About her slender round throat were negligently hung many more sparkling strings. Bead and brass bracelets encircled her wrists, arms and slender ankles, where also was noticed a fringe of monkey's hair, while fastened about her waist was a little leathern apron, tastefully ornamented with blue, red and white beads.
"Which shall it be, children? The 'Story of the Shining Princess' or 'Nya-Nya Bulembu,' 'The Fairy Frog,' or 'The Beauty and the Beast'?" asked Mabiliana, very gracefully taking a pinch of snuff from time to time.
"The Beauty and the Beast!" shouted allthe little blacks with one voice. That story is a great favorite with Kafir children.
"Then 'The Beauty and the Beast' it shall be," sweetly assented the young Kafiress.
Mabiliana was really distressed at being urged to tell a fairy-story by daylight. To do so—according to all Kafir traditions—was to invoke the wrath of a wicked spirit. Many a beauty had been known to become as hideous as an "Imbula," or ogre, after that. But rather than refuse the children, many of whom she loved dearly, Mabiliana decided to tell the story, then she asked for a piece of glass. Tucking this quickly into her hair, to ward off the evil, she combed her woolly locks over it, using the long mimosa thorn which she carried stuck through her ear. Then carefully replacing the thorn, and, taking a pinch of snuff, she began her story.
The children listened in breathless, big-eyed silence. Spellbound they held their breath asthe story reached the terrible moment when the "Mollmeit" appeared—the monster "who killed and ate little girls, and—"
Outside the loud sound of approaching hoof-beats stopping at the kraal startled the boys.
"Oh, it's daddy come for me!" whispered conscience-stricken George to Petrus, as he burst from the kraal into the inky blackness outside, calling:
"Daddy! Where are you?"
Petrus dashed after him. He heard one terrified shriek, followed by the thud, thud, thud, of a galloping horse's hoofs—growing fainter and fainter, then silence, but for the loud cackling and barking of the hens and dogs.
"George! Where are you? George! George!" frantically called Petrus, peering through the inky darkness in every direction.
Only the commotion among the fowls and dogs broke the dead silence.
"George! George!" louder called Petrus, in despair.
There came no answer.
Petrus looked about for the ponies. There they were both quietly standing just where he had left them. Shobo—the Bushboy—rushed up.
"Cluck, cluck, click, click—nhlpr—nh!" he cried out, gesticulating wildly to Petrus, and pointing far off to the west.
"Oh, my master! My master!" cried Mutla, galloping breathlessly up. "The Zulu! The Zulu! He got Master George!"
Petrus' foot struck against something hard. He shuddered. There lay a six-foot long, iron-tipped assegai. One just like it fell into the flying cart that day. He had it yet. The horrible truth came home to him—George was gone!
"Quick, Ferus!" cried Petrus, springing into the saddle with the assegai under one arm.Ferus shot over the ground at a slashing pace. Soon his master was within sight of Lieutenant Wortley's home. The soft glow of evening lights came from the windows. From one there came the sparkle of many little candlelights. They were on a tree. Petrus could see George's Aunt Edith carefully arranging the presents for the evening party—George's party.
They reached the door. Petrus sprang from Ferus and dashed up the steps, crying—
"Oh, Lieutenant Wortley! George is gone!"
Only low-growling Hector and little Theunis, looking down from his bedroom window, saw them silently depart. In the cold gray dawn-light Petrus waved a quick "good-by" up to the wondering child and they were off.
Long before sun-up, faithful Mutla had had the three ponies up-saddled and waiting under the orchard trees. He had strapped a small roll containing a pair of blankets and a rain-coat to the front of his master's saddle, and to that of the lead-horse he had tied a large piece of biltong, or sun-dried meat, a good supply of biscuit and coffee, and fastened an iron kettle in which to make it. Petrus had hurriedly pressed a Testament into the pocket ofhis moleskin trousers, and made sure that the two Mausers they were carrying were well oiled. There was no time to lose. They hoped to overtake Dirk on the road.
True, the lieutenant had offered a reward of five hundred pounds in gold to the one who returned his little son alive to him; but love for his little English friend and neighbor was the real motive for Petrus' suddenly planned flight over the dangerous Drakensberg Mountains.
All night long the lieutenant, heading a large searching party of his friends and neighbors, with half a hundred Kafirs, had scoured the neighboring woods and hills for some trace of George. In a fever of excitement, Aunt Edith, who spent the night at "Weltefreden," declared it was her belief that the poor boy must have been killed—assegaied—or thrown into some stream and perhaps devoured alive by the crocodiles.