Chapter Five.Amongst the Cape Boers.The first week at Cape Town shook them up more than years of living in England could have done. They had been only boys when they first sighted Table Mountain, but in a week’s time they felt and acted like men.“It is a queer place, this Cape Town,” observed Ned, as they walked through the streets, and looked about them.It was queer because it was all so strange and new to these English-bred lads. The sandstorm that greeted them on their landing did not surprise the two colonial boys as it did Ned Romer. They endured the infliction philosophically, while Ned groaned, and wished for a few moments that he had stopped in dear old England.But this gust passed, and, being the first of his experience, it seemed the worst. In a short time he became accustomed to sand, shortness of water, and the lack of a host of conveniences which had appeared as necessities to him at one time.Stephanus Groblaar continued his protection and friendship to them all the time they were at Cape Town and its surrounding districts. He took them to his uncle’s house, and so saved them the expense of living at any of the hotels, which was a great saving to them.The South Africans are a hospitable people, and the town-educated Dutch very different from their country cousins, the Transvaal Boers.The lads were delighted with their reception and generous treatment. They explored Table Mountain, and passed several happy days before they had exhausted the sights of this ancient African capital.The uncle of Stephanus was the owner of a large and prosperous vineyard in Stellenbosch, and he had half a dozen fair, plump, and lively female cousins, ranging from seven years of age to twenty-three. Stephanus was engaged to the second oldest, a girl of nineteen. They had also eight brothers, all living at home and assisting in the different departments of the wine business.It was, therefore, a large household, and when the day’s work was over, a merry, home-like party in the evenings.It seemed to the lads as if they were transported back a couple of centuries while they rested in this vine farm. The buildings were nearly the same age as the great oak trees that surrounded them and shaded the roadways. The tiles and bricks with which they were built had been made in and brought from Holland. Everything was quaint, old-fashioned, and picturesque. The master of the house was patriarchal with his family and servants, and the mother was a real mistress after the good old style.Morning and evening the old Bible was brought out, and every one was forced to join in the religious exercise. The master did not greatly believe in his coloured servants having souls, yet as this had come to be a disputed question amongst some of the advanced Boers, Van Groblaar gave them the benefit of the doubt, and made them also attend family worship. He was a strict and severe master with these dark-skinned bondmen and bondwomen, yet his patriarchal system appeared to be the right one as far as they were concerned. On this farm they did their work much better than they would have done under the English system.The girls had been educated at the best Cape schools. They could play on the piano, and had all the other accomplishments of young ladies.Yet this did not make them disdain household and farm work. They were all able to milk the cows, make butter and cheese, and do all the other duties expected from a Dutch housewife. They reserved their fancy accomplishments for the evenings, and were up to their daily work long before the sun rose.Although it was a remarkably enjoyable life which the boys led at Stellenbosch, they quickly wearied of it, and began to long for something more exciting. The riding lessons which they took with the sons, and the gun practice were all very useful, yet humiliating also, since they could never hope to compete with those born marksmen and centaurs. It is almost impossible for a true Africander to miss his mark or be unseated from his horse.As soon, therefore, as they had learnt something about the managing of cattle and Kaffirs, and had found their way about the country, they began to find the society of their puritanical burgher friends slightly irksome. The charming scenery became monotonous, and the tinkle of a piano almost as hard to endure as a barrel-organ is to some ears.The desire to trek had come upon them, and whenever men or boys get that desire, no fertile oasis, no earthly paradise, can hold them back from the desert.Stephanus, who was in their confidence, had a private conversation with his uncle Groblaar, and communicated the result one morning to them as they were moping amongst the ripening grapes.It was not easy for the young ladies or the stolid sons of Van Groblaar to understand how any human being could be melancholy as long as there was plenty to eat and drink. In their own placid minds three of the daughters had decided that Ned, Fred, and Clarence had the makings of very good farmers and husbands in them, and for this felt gratified to Cousin Stephanus for bringing them.They were considerably startled, therefore, and not a little distressed, when they saw how our heroes brightened up after they heard the result of that family confab.The old Dutchman, who took a long time to decide upon anything, had been persuaded to send up his yearly consignment of wines and brandy to Johannesburg without any further delay. It would go by road as usual, and the new comrades were to go with the waggons.By doing this they would see the country, while the journey would not cost them anything.This offer was gladly accepted by the young men—for they were now, in their own and the estimation of the young ladies, such. They no longer wondered how time was to be killed, but eagerly began to prepare for the long and slow overland journey.The Groblaar wines and brandy were greatly prized, and fetched big prices everywhere in the market. In the Transvaal particularly they were vastly appreciated. The age was to be depended upon, and the quality; while the grower considered that the contents of these matured hogsheads would be ruined if transported by any other mode than oxen.Another reason they had for going by road instead of rail. There were numerous customers to be served en route, at places outside the line of the railway.Three of the eldest sons were deputed to go on this trek along with our heroes and Cousin Stephanus, and as they looked upon this journey as their annual holiday, they provided themselves with everything needful to enjoy themselves.Twenty teams were required to carry the stores, provisions, and merchandise. The oxen were all specially selected, and the waggons and drays reliable as well as strong; so that when they mounted their horses and inspanned, they were a very smart and prosperous-looking caravan.Our heroes made their farewells joyously, for they were heart-whole. They did not notice the sad looks that followed after them. Yet three of Van Groblaar’s young daughters did not display their customary appetite at dinner that day, nor did they seem much inclined for supper either that night. Next day, however, they all made up for their unusual fast.Ned was a little surprised when he came to say good-bye to the young lady who had given him most of her company during his stay, by her saying to him, in a slightly tremulous voice—“You are going out to a strange land, where there are many dangers. Take care!”“Oh, I’ll look out for number one, you bet, Miss Santa.”“Take care of the wild-beast traps.”“Oh yes, I know; open gaps, and that sort of thing.”“Yes; and”—she flushed scarlet while she whispered softly—“and look out also for Cousin Stephanus; he does not like you.”She turned from him swiftly as she gave this warning, and ran indoors, while he mounted his horse, wondering what she could mean.Then, as he rode slowly on, he recalled the accidents on the outward voyage, with other signs which might have escaped his notice but for this last whisper from the young Dutch maiden. He was not quite so guileless as he had been a few months before. Whatever the reasons were, he felt himself forced to the conclusion that Stephanus Groblaar did not care greatly for him, although he seemed attached to his two chums. Stephanus avoided him as much as possible while they had been on the farm, and he had caught sundry sullen and furtive glances which looked almost like hatred at times.Well, forewarned is forearmed to some extent. Ned shook the momentary uneasiness and depression from his heart, and soon was riding along merrily with the others.Not being a fool, however, he resolved to keep a wary eye on this supposed evil-wisher, and look out for any more awkward fits.It is nasty for any one to feel that he is disliked, much more so if he has done nothing to incur that disagreeable sentiment. Ned Romer was guiltless of anything as far as he knew. He was the most generous and happy of the party. As yet he had never entertained a single animosity towards a human being. Everything that he saw entertained him and provided him with amusement. He had no fear, and tried to make friends with every one.Besides, he felt specially obliged, in many ways, to Stephanus Groblaar, and therefore would have sacrificed a good deal to be his friend.But a new instinct had been roused in his nature by those parting words of Santa. The first seeds of suspicion were sown in that generous soil. This seed would grow until it destroyed the unwise trust of boyhood, and make of him a vigilant and discriminating man in the future. Truly he had left adolescence behind him when his horse walked under the shady oak avenues of Stellenbosch.Nothing occurred, however, to mar their harmony as they moved slowly upward through the populated portions of Cape Colony.Day after day went along with varying incidents and amusements. When they were able they spent the night at some friendly settler’s homestead, and were most hospitably welcomed and entertained. These were, without exception, Dutch farmers, and old friends of the Groblaars, so that they saw little enough of the British members of the community.They had mastered enough of the Cape Dutch and “Kitchen Kaffir” idioms to understand what was said, as well as express themselves to be understood by those they were so constantly thrown amongst by this time. As every one was alike free and kind, if a bit rough and homely, they took the most favourable impression possible of this industrious if slow-going and bigoted race.It was not nice to hear Englishmen so constantly spoken about with such contempt as a nation of cowards and oppressors; yet as the Boers gave their opinions good-naturedly, and exhibited such an utter want of knowledge in their statements, the lads could not help laughing also as they listened.The farther up they travelled the more crassly ignorant and prejudiced they found their hosts to be; yet, although they universally insulted and tried to bespatter the Union Jack, they universally made their English guests as heartily welcome as were their Dutch friends. The rites of hospitality were most generously observed. It was not that these Dutch Africanders were all uncouth and ignorant men and women. The majority of them were as well and even more highly educated than are these classes in England. A large proportion of them had likewise travelled and seen England and the Continent. It seemed the fashion to be prejudiced against England. They had taken their preconceived notions along with them wherever they went, accepting only such evidences and historical facts as suited their own side of the disputed question. “The English are a nation of liars, and don’t know much about anything useful. They are no use anywhere, and they are almost done for.”This was the universal opinion of the Dutch natives of Africa, and no argument could move them one iota. They all spoke banteringly and with good-tempered irony, as one might speak of something settled and past curing or dispute. They despised the English as a nation, abhorred Cecil Rhodes, and laughed at Gladstone as a friendly old imbecile. But they did not object to individuals.The boys listened and laughed with their bigoted but generous friends, and took all this talk in the same good part.
The first week at Cape Town shook them up more than years of living in England could have done. They had been only boys when they first sighted Table Mountain, but in a week’s time they felt and acted like men.
“It is a queer place, this Cape Town,” observed Ned, as they walked through the streets, and looked about them.
It was queer because it was all so strange and new to these English-bred lads. The sandstorm that greeted them on their landing did not surprise the two colonial boys as it did Ned Romer. They endured the infliction philosophically, while Ned groaned, and wished for a few moments that he had stopped in dear old England.
But this gust passed, and, being the first of his experience, it seemed the worst. In a short time he became accustomed to sand, shortness of water, and the lack of a host of conveniences which had appeared as necessities to him at one time.
Stephanus Groblaar continued his protection and friendship to them all the time they were at Cape Town and its surrounding districts. He took them to his uncle’s house, and so saved them the expense of living at any of the hotels, which was a great saving to them.
The South Africans are a hospitable people, and the town-educated Dutch very different from their country cousins, the Transvaal Boers.
The lads were delighted with their reception and generous treatment. They explored Table Mountain, and passed several happy days before they had exhausted the sights of this ancient African capital.
The uncle of Stephanus was the owner of a large and prosperous vineyard in Stellenbosch, and he had half a dozen fair, plump, and lively female cousins, ranging from seven years of age to twenty-three. Stephanus was engaged to the second oldest, a girl of nineteen. They had also eight brothers, all living at home and assisting in the different departments of the wine business.
It was, therefore, a large household, and when the day’s work was over, a merry, home-like party in the evenings.
It seemed to the lads as if they were transported back a couple of centuries while they rested in this vine farm. The buildings were nearly the same age as the great oak trees that surrounded them and shaded the roadways. The tiles and bricks with which they were built had been made in and brought from Holland. Everything was quaint, old-fashioned, and picturesque. The master of the house was patriarchal with his family and servants, and the mother was a real mistress after the good old style.
Morning and evening the old Bible was brought out, and every one was forced to join in the religious exercise. The master did not greatly believe in his coloured servants having souls, yet as this had come to be a disputed question amongst some of the advanced Boers, Van Groblaar gave them the benefit of the doubt, and made them also attend family worship. He was a strict and severe master with these dark-skinned bondmen and bondwomen, yet his patriarchal system appeared to be the right one as far as they were concerned. On this farm they did their work much better than they would have done under the English system.
The girls had been educated at the best Cape schools. They could play on the piano, and had all the other accomplishments of young ladies.
Yet this did not make them disdain household and farm work. They were all able to milk the cows, make butter and cheese, and do all the other duties expected from a Dutch housewife. They reserved their fancy accomplishments for the evenings, and were up to their daily work long before the sun rose.
Although it was a remarkably enjoyable life which the boys led at Stellenbosch, they quickly wearied of it, and began to long for something more exciting. The riding lessons which they took with the sons, and the gun practice were all very useful, yet humiliating also, since they could never hope to compete with those born marksmen and centaurs. It is almost impossible for a true Africander to miss his mark or be unseated from his horse.
As soon, therefore, as they had learnt something about the managing of cattle and Kaffirs, and had found their way about the country, they began to find the society of their puritanical burgher friends slightly irksome. The charming scenery became monotonous, and the tinkle of a piano almost as hard to endure as a barrel-organ is to some ears.
The desire to trek had come upon them, and whenever men or boys get that desire, no fertile oasis, no earthly paradise, can hold them back from the desert.
Stephanus, who was in their confidence, had a private conversation with his uncle Groblaar, and communicated the result one morning to them as they were moping amongst the ripening grapes.
It was not easy for the young ladies or the stolid sons of Van Groblaar to understand how any human being could be melancholy as long as there was plenty to eat and drink. In their own placid minds three of the daughters had decided that Ned, Fred, and Clarence had the makings of very good farmers and husbands in them, and for this felt gratified to Cousin Stephanus for bringing them.
They were considerably startled, therefore, and not a little distressed, when they saw how our heroes brightened up after they heard the result of that family confab.
The old Dutchman, who took a long time to decide upon anything, had been persuaded to send up his yearly consignment of wines and brandy to Johannesburg without any further delay. It would go by road as usual, and the new comrades were to go with the waggons.
By doing this they would see the country, while the journey would not cost them anything.
This offer was gladly accepted by the young men—for they were now, in their own and the estimation of the young ladies, such. They no longer wondered how time was to be killed, but eagerly began to prepare for the long and slow overland journey.
The Groblaar wines and brandy were greatly prized, and fetched big prices everywhere in the market. In the Transvaal particularly they were vastly appreciated. The age was to be depended upon, and the quality; while the grower considered that the contents of these matured hogsheads would be ruined if transported by any other mode than oxen.
Another reason they had for going by road instead of rail. There were numerous customers to be served en route, at places outside the line of the railway.
Three of the eldest sons were deputed to go on this trek along with our heroes and Cousin Stephanus, and as they looked upon this journey as their annual holiday, they provided themselves with everything needful to enjoy themselves.
Twenty teams were required to carry the stores, provisions, and merchandise. The oxen were all specially selected, and the waggons and drays reliable as well as strong; so that when they mounted their horses and inspanned, they were a very smart and prosperous-looking caravan.
Our heroes made their farewells joyously, for they were heart-whole. They did not notice the sad looks that followed after them. Yet three of Van Groblaar’s young daughters did not display their customary appetite at dinner that day, nor did they seem much inclined for supper either that night. Next day, however, they all made up for their unusual fast.
Ned was a little surprised when he came to say good-bye to the young lady who had given him most of her company during his stay, by her saying to him, in a slightly tremulous voice—
“You are going out to a strange land, where there are many dangers. Take care!”
“Oh, I’ll look out for number one, you bet, Miss Santa.”
“Take care of the wild-beast traps.”
“Oh yes, I know; open gaps, and that sort of thing.”
“Yes; and”—she flushed scarlet while she whispered softly—“and look out also for Cousin Stephanus; he does not like you.”
She turned from him swiftly as she gave this warning, and ran indoors, while he mounted his horse, wondering what she could mean.
Then, as he rode slowly on, he recalled the accidents on the outward voyage, with other signs which might have escaped his notice but for this last whisper from the young Dutch maiden. He was not quite so guileless as he had been a few months before. Whatever the reasons were, he felt himself forced to the conclusion that Stephanus Groblaar did not care greatly for him, although he seemed attached to his two chums. Stephanus avoided him as much as possible while they had been on the farm, and he had caught sundry sullen and furtive glances which looked almost like hatred at times.
Well, forewarned is forearmed to some extent. Ned shook the momentary uneasiness and depression from his heart, and soon was riding along merrily with the others.
Not being a fool, however, he resolved to keep a wary eye on this supposed evil-wisher, and look out for any more awkward fits.
It is nasty for any one to feel that he is disliked, much more so if he has done nothing to incur that disagreeable sentiment. Ned Romer was guiltless of anything as far as he knew. He was the most generous and happy of the party. As yet he had never entertained a single animosity towards a human being. Everything that he saw entertained him and provided him with amusement. He had no fear, and tried to make friends with every one.
Besides, he felt specially obliged, in many ways, to Stephanus Groblaar, and therefore would have sacrificed a good deal to be his friend.
But a new instinct had been roused in his nature by those parting words of Santa. The first seeds of suspicion were sown in that generous soil. This seed would grow until it destroyed the unwise trust of boyhood, and make of him a vigilant and discriminating man in the future. Truly he had left adolescence behind him when his horse walked under the shady oak avenues of Stellenbosch.
Nothing occurred, however, to mar their harmony as they moved slowly upward through the populated portions of Cape Colony.
Day after day went along with varying incidents and amusements. When they were able they spent the night at some friendly settler’s homestead, and were most hospitably welcomed and entertained. These were, without exception, Dutch farmers, and old friends of the Groblaars, so that they saw little enough of the British members of the community.
They had mastered enough of the Cape Dutch and “Kitchen Kaffir” idioms to understand what was said, as well as express themselves to be understood by those they were so constantly thrown amongst by this time. As every one was alike free and kind, if a bit rough and homely, they took the most favourable impression possible of this industrious if slow-going and bigoted race.
It was not nice to hear Englishmen so constantly spoken about with such contempt as a nation of cowards and oppressors; yet as the Boers gave their opinions good-naturedly, and exhibited such an utter want of knowledge in their statements, the lads could not help laughing also as they listened.
The farther up they travelled the more crassly ignorant and prejudiced they found their hosts to be; yet, although they universally insulted and tried to bespatter the Union Jack, they universally made their English guests as heartily welcome as were their Dutch friends. The rites of hospitality were most generously observed. It was not that these Dutch Africanders were all uncouth and ignorant men and women. The majority of them were as well and even more highly educated than are these classes in England. A large proportion of them had likewise travelled and seen England and the Continent. It seemed the fashion to be prejudiced against England. They had taken their preconceived notions along with them wherever they went, accepting only such evidences and historical facts as suited their own side of the disputed question. “The English are a nation of liars, and don’t know much about anything useful. They are no use anywhere, and they are almost done for.”
This was the universal opinion of the Dutch natives of Africa, and no argument could move them one iota. They all spoke banteringly and with good-tempered irony, as one might speak of something settled and past curing or dispute. They despised the English as a nation, abhorred Cecil Rhodes, and laughed at Gladstone as a friendly old imbecile. But they did not object to individuals.
The boys listened and laughed with their bigoted but generous friends, and took all this talk in the same good part.
Chapter Six.The Secret Message.There were many incidents on this overland journey, both humorous and adventurous, which might have formed subjects for future talk.But the after events dwarfed these minor adventures so completely that they were hardly ever mentioned.Small game was plentiful on some of the open parts, and afforded them good enough sport after a tame fashion. Here the Dutchmen displayed their wonderful skill as marksmen, and won unqualified admiration and respect. When they saw the unfailing and deadly precision of that shooting, and how little lead was wasted, the lads no longer felt any surprise at the surrender of Dr Jameson at Krugersdorp. Surrounded as he had been by such sharpshooters, he had not a chance of holding out, almost shelterless as he was. The Dutchmen were all mightily proud of the achievements of their friends in the Transvaal, and not at all delicate in their boasting. They were never tired of hearing and speaking about “Bronkhurst Spruit,” “Laing’s Nek,” and “Majuba Hill,” as well as this latest defeat at Krugersdorp. As for Johannesburg and its craven citizens, long before the lads saw this golden city of the veldt, its degradation had been forced deep into their hearts by this contemptuous banter.Stephanus Groblaar altered his manner in a most marked degree as they progressed up the country. On the voyage out and at Cape Town he had seemed one of the most advanced and liberal-minded of young Boers. He even appeared to take the part of the Uitlanders then, and thus had won their respect and confidence.But now he became the loudest and most insulting of the despisers and denouncers of everything British. He lost the small amount of humour that he seemed to have possessed, and which his franker cousins still retained, and grew savage instead of bantering in his expressions.He was returning home to Pretoria, after two years of social intercourse with Englishmen, as full of race hatred as any of his untravelled countrymen.Clarence Raybold saw this new phase with silent surprise, and listened to his exasperating observations with tightly closed mouth and lowering eyes.At last one night matters were brought to a crisis. They had crossed the Vaal river, and were outspanning on the open veldt.Eight of their heavy-laden teams were all that remained with them. The contents of the other twelve drays had been disposed of on the way up, and the teams sent down the country again with chance loads. The eldest of Santa’s brothers alone remained with the young men and Stephanus to look after the Transvaal business. He was a stolid, good-natured fellow, who did his utmost to keep peace in the camp, and turn his cousin’s ill-timed remarks into jokes.But Stephanus seemed bent on a quarrel that night, although with whom it was not easy to say.Clarence seemed to feel the insults the most keenly. Ned Romer, however, sat quietly, and watched the young Boer while he listened and waited. For the first time a strong desire to measure his strength with this Dutchman came upon him—the kind of desire that young Zulus have when they want to wash their virgin spears.A full moon shone over their heads and lighted up the level landscape with pale but vivid distinctness.“Well,” at last observed Clarence, with a lisping drawl; he always spoke slow and lazy-like when primed up for fighting—“well, not being in Johannesburg during the time you speak about, Stephanus Groblaar, I cannot contradict you as to the colour of their flag; yet if I had been, I think I’d have done my best, young as I am, to show that there was an equal mixture of red and blue as well as white about it.”“Hold on till you get to Pretoria. There we make Uitlanders walk with Kaffirs in the middle of the street.”“Is this the rule in Pretoria?” asked Ned, gently.“Yes, for the like of you; and we’ll make them do the same in Johannesburg before we have done with them,” cried Stephanus, turning on Ned with an ugly scowl.“Nonsense. I always like the side path, and I shall use that wherever I am,” answered Ned, laughing.“Will you? Why, curs like you could not use this veldt as you like unless with our permission, far less the sides of our streets.”“Ah, indeed, Mr Groblaar,” said Ned, rising to his feet slowly. “Is there any particular portion of this place that you as a free burgher might prohibit tonight?”“Yes; I defy you to pass me now.”They were all standing now with the exception of the cousin Groblaar, who lay on his back snoring.“Wait a moment, Ned,” said Clarence, softly. “I think Stephanus only meant to stop me from walking past him.”“No,” growled the Boer; “I did not mean you. I don’t want to interfere with you, nor with Fred either, for you are both colonial born and bred. It is this cur of a John Bull that I’d teach to keep his place.”“Good,” answered Ned. “Then this cur of a John Bull accepts your gentlemanly challenge, and will show you that he knows his place, and that place is, whatever spot of the earth he finds it expedient for the advance of civilisation to tread upon.”He walked steadily up to the Boer with his arms held limply down; then, before the other could put up his fists, Ned suddenly gripped him and sent him sprawling some feet away, while he stood where Stephanus had been.“This is Imperial ground, you Dutch Boer, upon which the Lion of Britain permits your people to play for the present.”It was a grand speech, which Ned felt proud to give voice to, and which his chums cheered. Another clear voice behind them cried, “Bravo, young cub!” but none looked round to hear who spoke. Stephanus did not give them time for that.With a hoarse roar he picked himself up, and made the rush like a wounded buffalo. He was a powerful young man come to his full strength, whereas Ned Romer was only ripening.But he was heavily built, and slow in his movements in spite of his rage. He had not had the training nor discipline which Ned could boast of; and lastly, he had been drinking “Cape smoke” that day, which rendered him stupid and careless. Possibly also the overweening conceit and insolence of his race made him contemptuous of this slender lad.Ned, on the other hand, was in splendid condition, as lithe and agile as a young panther, and as quick in the glance as he was active and cool. The past three months of horse exercise and open-air life had made his muscles like steel.As Stephanus rushed upon him with swollen features and blood-charged eyes, Ned waited quietly; then, with a sudden spring aside, he shot out one fist, and landed the Dutchman a thumper on the bridge of his nose, which caused him to see a perfect flare of fireworks, while it made him stagger in his tracks.For an instant he paused, and put up both hands to his bruised organ; then as he turned once more and removed his hands, a dark stream burst from his nostrils, and deluged his chin and shirt-front.“First blood, and well drawn,” cried the clear voice again. “Go it, my hearty; you have shown him the red, let him have the blue next stroke.”Fred and Clarence glanced round, to see a tall, broad-chested stranger in a light suit and soft felt hat standing behind them, with his horse beside him and its bridle over his arm.As he spoke Ned got in his second blow, and as the stranger had advised, smote his adversary higher up and right between the eyes. It was a loud-sounding smash, which completely blinded Stephanus, and made it apparent to all the onlookers that he had received his blue badge.“These will be pretty peepers tomorrow morning,” said the stranger; then, making a hasty step forward, he raised his heavy riding-whip, as he exclaimed, “Ha! you would show the white next, you treacherous dog, would you? Drop that knife instantly.”As he spoke he brought the stock of his whip smartly upon the wrist of Stephanus, causing him to utter a loud yell, while his glittering sheath-knife dropped gleaming to the ground. Holding his damaged wrist with one hand, the Transvaaler staggered blindly back, and abandoned the field to the calm and victorious Ned.“He has had enough of your fists, young man, for the present, I expect, only be on your guard with him for the future. Boers don’t forget blows, neither do they care much about fighting in the open. He will try a bead on you next from behind a kopje.”He was an immense figure of a man who had come out of the veldt so unexpectedly, considerably over six feet in height and broad in proportion. His skin was ruddy, with bold features, light, keen eyes, and he wore a small, fair moustache. As the boys looked at him, they each thought they had seen him somewhere before, but where they could not at the time remember. There was about him an air of kingly authority which fascinated them.“Have you any coffee left?” he asked gently.Clarence went instantly to the half-empty billy at the fire, and brought a pannikin filled. The stranger took it with a nod, and slowly sipped the contents, looking at them scrutinisingly as he drank.Cousin Groblaar still lay sleeping heavily within the shadow of one of the waggons. Stephanus had moved away to some considerable distance to brood over his defeat and bathe his eyes and nose at a water-hole. The Kaffirs were also sound asleep on their side of the fire, therefore they had this contested part of the veldt to themselves.“You managed that onslaught in very good style, my lad, and have made for yourself a pretty dangerous enemy, or I am much mistaken in my reading of faces.”“An avowed enemy is better than a secret one, sir, and I have good reasons to suspect Stephanus Groblaar of being one before this night,” replied Ned.“Ah, Groblaar is his name! Any friend of Groblaar, the vine-grower, of Stellenbosch?”“His nephew, sir. Yonder lies his son asleep.”“Let him sleep,” said the stranger, hastily. “Then the young man you punished must be the son of Burgher Groblaar, of Pretoria?”“I believe so, sir. At least, his home is in that city,” answered Ned.“Hum! thanks for this information. Then take my advice, part company with this Stephanus Groblaar as soon as possible, and also—don’t air those Imperial ideas too freely when you are going to Johannesburg. They are not fashionable there at present.”“I will never hear my nation insulted without resenting it, sir,” replied Ned, boldly.“Better swallow insult than run the risk of imprisonment.”“No, sir; I cannot endorse that sentiment.”“It is the sentiment generally held by the Transvaal Uitlanders.”“I do not care. It shall never be mine.”“Nor mine!” “Nor mine!” cried Fred and Clarence in chorus.“Good lads,” said the stranger, in feeling tones, holding out his large hand to our heroes, who grasped it by turns. “I like you for your pluck and freshness. Tell me your names, so that I may remember them if I can serve you at any time.”The lads at once produced their cards and presented them. The stranger smiled humorously as he took the paste-boards.“Ah, you are fresh from England, I see. All the better. You will see some sad and humbling sights in Johannesburg. But keep up your pluck, and don’t forget that you are sons of a mighty nation of free men.”“Depend upon it we shall never do that, so long as the great Cecil Rhodes stays in Africa, at any rate.” The stranger started, and a dusky tint seemed to overspread his face. Then he smiled and looked at the cards.“Edward Romer! I knew a Paul Romer, of Devonshire.”“That was my father, sir.”“Indeed! Then I must do something for you. Clarence Raybold. Ah, I know your father, if he lives at Johannesburg.”“He does, sir,” answered Clarence.The stranger looked at Fred with the others intently and silently for a few moments, then he drew nearer to Ned.“You can save me a journey tonight, young Romer, for I think I can depend upon you as well as upon your companions.”“I trust you can, sir,” replied Ned, modestly.“On your discretion as well as your loyalty and courage?”“I hope so, sir.”“Then I shall trust you.”He glanced round, and seeing the veldt clear and Stephanus still by the water-hole, he pulled a leaf from his pocket-book, and wrote something hastily upon it. This small note he folded up and addressed, then he gave it to Ned.“Put that inside your boot, and keep it there until you reach Johannesburg. When you arrive there, look at the address, and deliver it to the person it is for. You will find him easily. Meantime, be secret about it, and show it to no one except the person it is for. Much depends on its safe delivery—more on it not being taken from you or lost on the way. If you carry it safely, you will have rendered your country and the man you appear to admire a great, a very great, service.”He sprang on his horse as he spoke, and, taking his hat off, waved it to them as he rode swiftly away.“Remember that you are trusted by Cecil Rhodes. So long. We shall meet again.”He was off at a gallop, while our heroes looked after horse and man with open mouths.“What a slice of luck, Ned! Who could have expected it?” whispered Fred and Clarence, as soon as they recovered from their astonishment.Ned did not reply. Kneeling down he took off his boot, and secreted the precious bit of paper inside; then he rose up with a bright and proud light gleaming in his eyes.“It is, indeed, a piece of luck which we must all try to live up to,” he said at length, in a solemn voice. “My first skirmish with a Boer has resulted in an easy victory, and it has been witnessed by the greatest hero who lives. Let us hail it as a good omen.”
There were many incidents on this overland journey, both humorous and adventurous, which might have formed subjects for future talk.
But the after events dwarfed these minor adventures so completely that they were hardly ever mentioned.
Small game was plentiful on some of the open parts, and afforded them good enough sport after a tame fashion. Here the Dutchmen displayed their wonderful skill as marksmen, and won unqualified admiration and respect. When they saw the unfailing and deadly precision of that shooting, and how little lead was wasted, the lads no longer felt any surprise at the surrender of Dr Jameson at Krugersdorp. Surrounded as he had been by such sharpshooters, he had not a chance of holding out, almost shelterless as he was. The Dutchmen were all mightily proud of the achievements of their friends in the Transvaal, and not at all delicate in their boasting. They were never tired of hearing and speaking about “Bronkhurst Spruit,” “Laing’s Nek,” and “Majuba Hill,” as well as this latest defeat at Krugersdorp. As for Johannesburg and its craven citizens, long before the lads saw this golden city of the veldt, its degradation had been forced deep into their hearts by this contemptuous banter.
Stephanus Groblaar altered his manner in a most marked degree as they progressed up the country. On the voyage out and at Cape Town he had seemed one of the most advanced and liberal-minded of young Boers. He even appeared to take the part of the Uitlanders then, and thus had won their respect and confidence.
But now he became the loudest and most insulting of the despisers and denouncers of everything British. He lost the small amount of humour that he seemed to have possessed, and which his franker cousins still retained, and grew savage instead of bantering in his expressions.
He was returning home to Pretoria, after two years of social intercourse with Englishmen, as full of race hatred as any of his untravelled countrymen.
Clarence Raybold saw this new phase with silent surprise, and listened to his exasperating observations with tightly closed mouth and lowering eyes.
At last one night matters were brought to a crisis. They had crossed the Vaal river, and were outspanning on the open veldt.
Eight of their heavy-laden teams were all that remained with them. The contents of the other twelve drays had been disposed of on the way up, and the teams sent down the country again with chance loads. The eldest of Santa’s brothers alone remained with the young men and Stephanus to look after the Transvaal business. He was a stolid, good-natured fellow, who did his utmost to keep peace in the camp, and turn his cousin’s ill-timed remarks into jokes.
But Stephanus seemed bent on a quarrel that night, although with whom it was not easy to say.
Clarence seemed to feel the insults the most keenly. Ned Romer, however, sat quietly, and watched the young Boer while he listened and waited. For the first time a strong desire to measure his strength with this Dutchman came upon him—the kind of desire that young Zulus have when they want to wash their virgin spears.
A full moon shone over their heads and lighted up the level landscape with pale but vivid distinctness.
“Well,” at last observed Clarence, with a lisping drawl; he always spoke slow and lazy-like when primed up for fighting—“well, not being in Johannesburg during the time you speak about, Stephanus Groblaar, I cannot contradict you as to the colour of their flag; yet if I had been, I think I’d have done my best, young as I am, to show that there was an equal mixture of red and blue as well as white about it.”
“Hold on till you get to Pretoria. There we make Uitlanders walk with Kaffirs in the middle of the street.”
“Is this the rule in Pretoria?” asked Ned, gently.
“Yes, for the like of you; and we’ll make them do the same in Johannesburg before we have done with them,” cried Stephanus, turning on Ned with an ugly scowl.
“Nonsense. I always like the side path, and I shall use that wherever I am,” answered Ned, laughing.
“Will you? Why, curs like you could not use this veldt as you like unless with our permission, far less the sides of our streets.”
“Ah, indeed, Mr Groblaar,” said Ned, rising to his feet slowly. “Is there any particular portion of this place that you as a free burgher might prohibit tonight?”
“Yes; I defy you to pass me now.”
They were all standing now with the exception of the cousin Groblaar, who lay on his back snoring.
“Wait a moment, Ned,” said Clarence, softly. “I think Stephanus only meant to stop me from walking past him.”
“No,” growled the Boer; “I did not mean you. I don’t want to interfere with you, nor with Fred either, for you are both colonial born and bred. It is this cur of a John Bull that I’d teach to keep his place.”
“Good,” answered Ned. “Then this cur of a John Bull accepts your gentlemanly challenge, and will show you that he knows his place, and that place is, whatever spot of the earth he finds it expedient for the advance of civilisation to tread upon.”
He walked steadily up to the Boer with his arms held limply down; then, before the other could put up his fists, Ned suddenly gripped him and sent him sprawling some feet away, while he stood where Stephanus had been.
“This is Imperial ground, you Dutch Boer, upon which the Lion of Britain permits your people to play for the present.”
It was a grand speech, which Ned felt proud to give voice to, and which his chums cheered. Another clear voice behind them cried, “Bravo, young cub!” but none looked round to hear who spoke. Stephanus did not give them time for that.
With a hoarse roar he picked himself up, and made the rush like a wounded buffalo. He was a powerful young man come to his full strength, whereas Ned Romer was only ripening.
But he was heavily built, and slow in his movements in spite of his rage. He had not had the training nor discipline which Ned could boast of; and lastly, he had been drinking “Cape smoke” that day, which rendered him stupid and careless. Possibly also the overweening conceit and insolence of his race made him contemptuous of this slender lad.
Ned, on the other hand, was in splendid condition, as lithe and agile as a young panther, and as quick in the glance as he was active and cool. The past three months of horse exercise and open-air life had made his muscles like steel.
As Stephanus rushed upon him with swollen features and blood-charged eyes, Ned waited quietly; then, with a sudden spring aside, he shot out one fist, and landed the Dutchman a thumper on the bridge of his nose, which caused him to see a perfect flare of fireworks, while it made him stagger in his tracks.
For an instant he paused, and put up both hands to his bruised organ; then as he turned once more and removed his hands, a dark stream burst from his nostrils, and deluged his chin and shirt-front.
“First blood, and well drawn,” cried the clear voice again. “Go it, my hearty; you have shown him the red, let him have the blue next stroke.”
Fred and Clarence glanced round, to see a tall, broad-chested stranger in a light suit and soft felt hat standing behind them, with his horse beside him and its bridle over his arm.
As he spoke Ned got in his second blow, and as the stranger had advised, smote his adversary higher up and right between the eyes. It was a loud-sounding smash, which completely blinded Stephanus, and made it apparent to all the onlookers that he had received his blue badge.
“These will be pretty peepers tomorrow morning,” said the stranger; then, making a hasty step forward, he raised his heavy riding-whip, as he exclaimed, “Ha! you would show the white next, you treacherous dog, would you? Drop that knife instantly.”
As he spoke he brought the stock of his whip smartly upon the wrist of Stephanus, causing him to utter a loud yell, while his glittering sheath-knife dropped gleaming to the ground. Holding his damaged wrist with one hand, the Transvaaler staggered blindly back, and abandoned the field to the calm and victorious Ned.
“He has had enough of your fists, young man, for the present, I expect, only be on your guard with him for the future. Boers don’t forget blows, neither do they care much about fighting in the open. He will try a bead on you next from behind a kopje.”
He was an immense figure of a man who had come out of the veldt so unexpectedly, considerably over six feet in height and broad in proportion. His skin was ruddy, with bold features, light, keen eyes, and he wore a small, fair moustache. As the boys looked at him, they each thought they had seen him somewhere before, but where they could not at the time remember. There was about him an air of kingly authority which fascinated them.
“Have you any coffee left?” he asked gently.
Clarence went instantly to the half-empty billy at the fire, and brought a pannikin filled. The stranger took it with a nod, and slowly sipped the contents, looking at them scrutinisingly as he drank.
Cousin Groblaar still lay sleeping heavily within the shadow of one of the waggons. Stephanus had moved away to some considerable distance to brood over his defeat and bathe his eyes and nose at a water-hole. The Kaffirs were also sound asleep on their side of the fire, therefore they had this contested part of the veldt to themselves.
“You managed that onslaught in very good style, my lad, and have made for yourself a pretty dangerous enemy, or I am much mistaken in my reading of faces.”
“An avowed enemy is better than a secret one, sir, and I have good reasons to suspect Stephanus Groblaar of being one before this night,” replied Ned.
“Ah, Groblaar is his name! Any friend of Groblaar, the vine-grower, of Stellenbosch?”
“His nephew, sir. Yonder lies his son asleep.”
“Let him sleep,” said the stranger, hastily. “Then the young man you punished must be the son of Burgher Groblaar, of Pretoria?”
“I believe so, sir. At least, his home is in that city,” answered Ned.
“Hum! thanks for this information. Then take my advice, part company with this Stephanus Groblaar as soon as possible, and also—don’t air those Imperial ideas too freely when you are going to Johannesburg. They are not fashionable there at present.”
“I will never hear my nation insulted without resenting it, sir,” replied Ned, boldly.
“Better swallow insult than run the risk of imprisonment.”
“No, sir; I cannot endorse that sentiment.”
“It is the sentiment generally held by the Transvaal Uitlanders.”
“I do not care. It shall never be mine.”
“Nor mine!” “Nor mine!” cried Fred and Clarence in chorus.
“Good lads,” said the stranger, in feeling tones, holding out his large hand to our heroes, who grasped it by turns. “I like you for your pluck and freshness. Tell me your names, so that I may remember them if I can serve you at any time.”
The lads at once produced their cards and presented them. The stranger smiled humorously as he took the paste-boards.
“Ah, you are fresh from England, I see. All the better. You will see some sad and humbling sights in Johannesburg. But keep up your pluck, and don’t forget that you are sons of a mighty nation of free men.”
“Depend upon it we shall never do that, so long as the great Cecil Rhodes stays in Africa, at any rate.” The stranger started, and a dusky tint seemed to overspread his face. Then he smiled and looked at the cards.
“Edward Romer! I knew a Paul Romer, of Devonshire.”
“That was my father, sir.”
“Indeed! Then I must do something for you. Clarence Raybold. Ah, I know your father, if he lives at Johannesburg.”
“He does, sir,” answered Clarence.
The stranger looked at Fred with the others intently and silently for a few moments, then he drew nearer to Ned.
“You can save me a journey tonight, young Romer, for I think I can depend upon you as well as upon your companions.”
“I trust you can, sir,” replied Ned, modestly.
“On your discretion as well as your loyalty and courage?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Then I shall trust you.”
He glanced round, and seeing the veldt clear and Stephanus still by the water-hole, he pulled a leaf from his pocket-book, and wrote something hastily upon it. This small note he folded up and addressed, then he gave it to Ned.
“Put that inside your boot, and keep it there until you reach Johannesburg. When you arrive there, look at the address, and deliver it to the person it is for. You will find him easily. Meantime, be secret about it, and show it to no one except the person it is for. Much depends on its safe delivery—more on it not being taken from you or lost on the way. If you carry it safely, you will have rendered your country and the man you appear to admire a great, a very great, service.”
He sprang on his horse as he spoke, and, taking his hat off, waved it to them as he rode swiftly away.
“Remember that you are trusted by Cecil Rhodes. So long. We shall meet again.”
He was off at a gallop, while our heroes looked after horse and man with open mouths.
“What a slice of luck, Ned! Who could have expected it?” whispered Fred and Clarence, as soon as they recovered from their astonishment.
Ned did not reply. Kneeling down he took off his boot, and secreted the precious bit of paper inside; then he rose up with a bright and proud light gleaming in his eyes.
“It is, indeed, a piece of luck which we must all try to live up to,” he said at length, in a solemn voice. “My first skirmish with a Boer has resulted in an easy victory, and it has been witnessed by the greatest hero who lives. Let us hail it as a good omen.”
Chapter Seven.In Johannesburg.Stephanus Groblaar did not patronise the camp. Either he was too much ashamed or too sulky to show himself so soon after his ignominious defeat. While our heroes remained awake, his distant figure could still be seen bending over the water-hole.After that frustrated and cowardly attempt to draw his knife upon Ned Romer, even Fred Weldon, who had been the most friendly disposed towards him, gave him up. Neither English nor colonial-bred Britons could take the hand of a would-be assassin. All the instincts of their race are against this, as they are against using the feet in a fight. Only a Spaniard can endorse the one weapon, and a Frenchman tolerate the other mode of getting an advantage. Spaniards stab, Frenchmen kick, and cats scratch when they quarrel; Englishmen clench their fists and strike, or grip and throw.Inspired by the charge which had been given to them by their illustrious visitor, and influenced by his timely warning, our heroes resolved to part company with Stephanus and his cousin as soon as possible. Meantime, to ward against possible treachery, they also resolved to be watchful and wary. Therefore it was agreed that, while two slept, one would keep guard over the waggon. This they did by turns faithfully until they reached Johannesburg.Stephanus came to the waggon about midnight, while Fred was on duty. He did not speak to Fred, nor did he go inside, but ordered one of the Kaffirs, whom he roused up for the purpose, to bring out a rug for him. With this he sullenly retired to the shelter of one of the wine-drays, and there he spent the night. He was taking his beating in a nasty and Boer-like spirit.In the morning he appeared at breakfast wearing a large pair of smoke-coloured sun-spectacles, and his nose considerably enlarged. He did not make any remarks about the preceding evening, and his good-natured and unobservant cousin never noticed that there was anything amiss. The boys took their cue from this sulky Dutchman, and made no allusion to it either.As they were about to inspan, a party of armed burghers came on the scene, and gave them a foretaste of what they had to expect during their stay in the Transvaal.They represented the mounted police, or border tax-collectors. Well mounted and armed to the teeth, they rode in and delayed the start for a couple of hours, while they examined every packet most thoroughly.They were particularly rude and insolent to the three young Uitlanders, tumbling their packages about roughly, and scattering the contents over the ground in a reckless and wanton manner, as if desirous of destroying what they could not seize. All the ammunition and arms they took possession of, telling the young men that they would be sent on to Johannesburg, where, if they could gain permission from the authorities there, they might get them, or part of them, returned.The police gave no promise, however, neither did they favour them with any list of what they had taken. In fact, as the boys felt, with raging hearts, they were being treated exactly like prisoners in an enemy’s country. They were fleeced and left utterly defenceless, with the exception of their belt-knives.This was all the harder to bear when they saw that Stephanus and his cousin were permitted to retain their rifles, revolvers, and cartridges. It was privileges for the Boer, and none for the Uitlander.They protested against this gross injustice, but were told roughly that they ought to be thankful that they were not taken in charge for bringing arms of any kind into the country. Also, to their indignation, they were subjected to a close personal search, and every paper they had in their pockets opened and read. Ned now understood why he had been told to place that missive inside his boot, for even their shirts were felt over to see that they had nothing concealed inside. They were certainly at last inside a land of suspicion and gross tyranny.“So this is the result of democracy,” said Ned, with a bitter laugh. “I suppose every man here is either a tyrant, a traitor, or a spy.”“Take heed what you say, young fellow,” grunted one of the Boer policemen. “Remember you are not in England now, but in a country where wagging tongues are silenced pretty quickly.”“Ah! you need not remind me that I am not in England. Your actions have proved conclusively that we are subject to the glorious laws of the Republic. By Jove, though, I wonder what my countrymen would say if a foreigner was treated to this usage in England? Oh my! wouldn’t there be a public conflagration!”“We are free men here.”“You are, whatever your visitors may be.”The policeman looked at Ned with a suspicious and most unfriendly scowl.“Are you going to stay long in the Transvaal, younker?” he asked.“I don’t think so. Why?”“Because I fancy, if you were, that you would be likely to spend most of your time in the tronk and the stocks. That is where your sort mostly find a home here.”Ned prudently did not reply. His shirt had been examined and his pockets turned out. He did not want to have to unlace his boots next.“I’ll report that younker as a dangerous character. Keep an eye on him as you go along,” cried the chief to the Groblaars, as he rode off with his men.Stephanus took no part in this conversation, while his cousin only chuckled good-naturedly, as if it were a good joke. He was an easy-going fellow, and did not let anything trouble him much beyond the keeping of the wine cool and the oxen in good condition.It was about four o’clock the third afternoon after this that they lumbered into Johannesburg amidst a cloud of dust, and unharnessed for the last time together.Our heroes said good-bye with all friendliness to the vine-grower’s son; and with a cold word or two to the still sullen Stephanus, they went off together to the house of Clarence Raybold, senior.Taking it all through, their journey up-country had been an educating and a pleasant one. They had passed through a prosperous land, full of variety and strangeness. They had met all sorts of people, both white and coloured, and every description of pastures. They were brown with the fierce sun and covered with the white dust, and totally changed, outwardly and inwardly, from the schoolboys who left England such a little time ago.They had killed puff adders and other deadly snakes on their way, and had got over their shuddering horror for those obnoxious reptiles. They had also seen the best side of the Boer character, and had commenced to experience the other side—the Boer in power, with their countrymen under his feet.It was a new and a disagreeable experience to those proud young Britons to find their countrymen in the condition of serfs and door-mats, with clumsy and ignorant clowns tramping over them ruthlessly. As they walked through the streets of Johannesburg, and saw at every step evidences of the misrule of that hypocritical and false tyrant, Kruger, they felt a natural and deep disgust towards the Englishmen who had permitted such a condition of things to exist.They met gangs of Boers swaggering about fully armed, and jeering at the unarmed citizens. They saw Britons, or what looked like their countrymen, sneaking about and meekly eating the leek. Their generous young blood boiled within them as they looked up at the guns which the hoary tyrant of the Transvaal had planted on the fort to overawe the city. They felt as if they were inside the walls of a big prison, and every instinct within them moved towards rebellion.From the moment they caught sight of that fort, with the guns dominating the streets, they were filled with a hatred towards the Boers and a quenchless desire for slaughter.“I wonder what our people out here are made of to stand this sort of thing?” murmured Ned, as he looked at his chums’ blazing eyes. “Surely some of them have enough of the old blood left to risk it for the sake of liberty.”“I’ll not be able to stand it long,” answered Clarence, with a deep-drawn breath.“Nor can I,” said Fred.“It will be a lark if we are destined to light the spark,” continued Ned, musingly. “I think we could get over these walls some dark night without much trouble. Oh, let’s get on, boys, or I’ll be after having a try now,” he added impatiently, as he strode hastily forward.“There, now, who do you think you are shoving against?” he cried angrily, as he ran against a pair of burghers who were coming round a corner.It was Ned who had been at fault in his haste. In any other place he would have apologised, but seeing that they were Boers, he pushed them off the footpath and then turned to abuse them. It was the natural protest of a free man against unaccustomed tyranny. With those Krupp guns behind them, politeness looked like submission and fear. Fortunately for the safety of that billet in Ned’s boot, which he had for the moment forgotten, these burghers were good-tempered and stolid Dutchmen, who didn’t mind either a push or a cross word. They merely laughed boisterously, and passed on their way.Now, Ned felt both aggrieved and rebuked by the good nature of these Boers, who doubtless considered him to be a foolhardy fellow rendered extra brave through “Cape smoke.” Then he remembered his charge, and became utterly ashamed of his uncalled-for rudeness. He would have run after the burghers and apologised, only that might have made matters worse; besides, they had both gone into some building.“That is not how Cecil Rhodes acted when he was being badgered by some of the commissioners, nor what he advised,” Ned muttered to himself, as he bent his head with shame. “I must try to remember always that I am a gentleman, and not act like a clown.”At this moment Clarence proposed taking a cab, as the easiest and quickest mode of finding out his father’s house.Mr Raybold was one of the prominent citizens, and the moment the Jehu heard his name he knew where to drive to.“You have most chance of finding him at his private residence, if you want to see Mr Raybold personally.”“Yes,” answered Clarence. “Drive us straight there.”What a wonderful city this was, which had grown from nothing within the last six years! Grown up also in the teeth of as much discouragement and injustice as ever civilisation had to encounter, from narrow prejudice, extortion, and bigotry.Our heroes drove along streets fifty and ninety feet in width, with trams running through them, and massive, handsome shops lining them, with plate-glass windows, looking for all the world like some of the best West End London shops.It was a city where money was spent with lavish prodigality. There were crowds of flash hotels and clubs, and more than the ordinary number of low public-houses and canteens, every one crowded with thirsty customers.They passed banks, stores, and palatial-looking offices, with electric globes and gas lamps ranged over them. They passed crowds of fashionably dressed men and women, all seemingly busy and lively enough. In spite of those earthworks and guns which covered them wherever they went; in spite of the constantly blazoned fact that they were completely at the mercy of their armed masters, who patrolled the city as warders do a penal settlement,—they were allowed to earn and spend as much money as they pleased, after paying the exorbitant taxes, dress as they please, and drink what they could pay for.But they had no more civic rights than convicts or slaves have. They had no means to defend their women or children from insult. The male portion wore beards and dressed like men, but they were only men in outward appearance. They might as well have had chains upon their wrists and ankles. They were voluntary slaves and shadow citizens. They were just what their rude masters called them—Uitlanders—and on the same level as the vanquished and down-trodden Kaffirs.Yet they called themselves British, afraid as they were to show the Flag of England or to sing the National Anthem; all they could do was to dress, drink, and make money, and, like the servile clients of ancient Rome, bend their supple backs to their arrogant and uncouth patrons, and thank them for permission to live. Sixty thousand souls who had been born free, for the sake of gold bent the knee before sixteen thousand uncultivated retarders of civilisation.Their condition was ten times worse than that of the Scots when Edward enslaved them with his overpowering hosts. More degrading, because they were children of the nineteenth century, who had consented to be driven by a race who had not advanced past the benighted and rusty prejudices of the dark ages of bigotry and superstition. More shameful, since they outnumbered their tyrants five times over. No wonder that these Boers regarded Britons with contempt, and the Empire as a fallen tree.
Stephanus Groblaar did not patronise the camp. Either he was too much ashamed or too sulky to show himself so soon after his ignominious defeat. While our heroes remained awake, his distant figure could still be seen bending over the water-hole.
After that frustrated and cowardly attempt to draw his knife upon Ned Romer, even Fred Weldon, who had been the most friendly disposed towards him, gave him up. Neither English nor colonial-bred Britons could take the hand of a would-be assassin. All the instincts of their race are against this, as they are against using the feet in a fight. Only a Spaniard can endorse the one weapon, and a Frenchman tolerate the other mode of getting an advantage. Spaniards stab, Frenchmen kick, and cats scratch when they quarrel; Englishmen clench their fists and strike, or grip and throw.
Inspired by the charge which had been given to them by their illustrious visitor, and influenced by his timely warning, our heroes resolved to part company with Stephanus and his cousin as soon as possible. Meantime, to ward against possible treachery, they also resolved to be watchful and wary. Therefore it was agreed that, while two slept, one would keep guard over the waggon. This they did by turns faithfully until they reached Johannesburg.
Stephanus came to the waggon about midnight, while Fred was on duty. He did not speak to Fred, nor did he go inside, but ordered one of the Kaffirs, whom he roused up for the purpose, to bring out a rug for him. With this he sullenly retired to the shelter of one of the wine-drays, and there he spent the night. He was taking his beating in a nasty and Boer-like spirit.
In the morning he appeared at breakfast wearing a large pair of smoke-coloured sun-spectacles, and his nose considerably enlarged. He did not make any remarks about the preceding evening, and his good-natured and unobservant cousin never noticed that there was anything amiss. The boys took their cue from this sulky Dutchman, and made no allusion to it either.
As they were about to inspan, a party of armed burghers came on the scene, and gave them a foretaste of what they had to expect during their stay in the Transvaal.
They represented the mounted police, or border tax-collectors. Well mounted and armed to the teeth, they rode in and delayed the start for a couple of hours, while they examined every packet most thoroughly.
They were particularly rude and insolent to the three young Uitlanders, tumbling their packages about roughly, and scattering the contents over the ground in a reckless and wanton manner, as if desirous of destroying what they could not seize. All the ammunition and arms they took possession of, telling the young men that they would be sent on to Johannesburg, where, if they could gain permission from the authorities there, they might get them, or part of them, returned.
The police gave no promise, however, neither did they favour them with any list of what they had taken. In fact, as the boys felt, with raging hearts, they were being treated exactly like prisoners in an enemy’s country. They were fleeced and left utterly defenceless, with the exception of their belt-knives.
This was all the harder to bear when they saw that Stephanus and his cousin were permitted to retain their rifles, revolvers, and cartridges. It was privileges for the Boer, and none for the Uitlander.
They protested against this gross injustice, but were told roughly that they ought to be thankful that they were not taken in charge for bringing arms of any kind into the country. Also, to their indignation, they were subjected to a close personal search, and every paper they had in their pockets opened and read. Ned now understood why he had been told to place that missive inside his boot, for even their shirts were felt over to see that they had nothing concealed inside. They were certainly at last inside a land of suspicion and gross tyranny.
“So this is the result of democracy,” said Ned, with a bitter laugh. “I suppose every man here is either a tyrant, a traitor, or a spy.”
“Take heed what you say, young fellow,” grunted one of the Boer policemen. “Remember you are not in England now, but in a country where wagging tongues are silenced pretty quickly.”
“Ah! you need not remind me that I am not in England. Your actions have proved conclusively that we are subject to the glorious laws of the Republic. By Jove, though, I wonder what my countrymen would say if a foreigner was treated to this usage in England? Oh my! wouldn’t there be a public conflagration!”
“We are free men here.”
“You are, whatever your visitors may be.”
The policeman looked at Ned with a suspicious and most unfriendly scowl.
“Are you going to stay long in the Transvaal, younker?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because I fancy, if you were, that you would be likely to spend most of your time in the tronk and the stocks. That is where your sort mostly find a home here.”
Ned prudently did not reply. His shirt had been examined and his pockets turned out. He did not want to have to unlace his boots next.
“I’ll report that younker as a dangerous character. Keep an eye on him as you go along,” cried the chief to the Groblaars, as he rode off with his men.
Stephanus took no part in this conversation, while his cousin only chuckled good-naturedly, as if it were a good joke. He was an easy-going fellow, and did not let anything trouble him much beyond the keeping of the wine cool and the oxen in good condition.
It was about four o’clock the third afternoon after this that they lumbered into Johannesburg amidst a cloud of dust, and unharnessed for the last time together.
Our heroes said good-bye with all friendliness to the vine-grower’s son; and with a cold word or two to the still sullen Stephanus, they went off together to the house of Clarence Raybold, senior.
Taking it all through, their journey up-country had been an educating and a pleasant one. They had passed through a prosperous land, full of variety and strangeness. They had met all sorts of people, both white and coloured, and every description of pastures. They were brown with the fierce sun and covered with the white dust, and totally changed, outwardly and inwardly, from the schoolboys who left England such a little time ago.
They had killed puff adders and other deadly snakes on their way, and had got over their shuddering horror for those obnoxious reptiles. They had also seen the best side of the Boer character, and had commenced to experience the other side—the Boer in power, with their countrymen under his feet.
It was a new and a disagreeable experience to those proud young Britons to find their countrymen in the condition of serfs and door-mats, with clumsy and ignorant clowns tramping over them ruthlessly. As they walked through the streets of Johannesburg, and saw at every step evidences of the misrule of that hypocritical and false tyrant, Kruger, they felt a natural and deep disgust towards the Englishmen who had permitted such a condition of things to exist.
They met gangs of Boers swaggering about fully armed, and jeering at the unarmed citizens. They saw Britons, or what looked like their countrymen, sneaking about and meekly eating the leek. Their generous young blood boiled within them as they looked up at the guns which the hoary tyrant of the Transvaal had planted on the fort to overawe the city. They felt as if they were inside the walls of a big prison, and every instinct within them moved towards rebellion.
From the moment they caught sight of that fort, with the guns dominating the streets, they were filled with a hatred towards the Boers and a quenchless desire for slaughter.
“I wonder what our people out here are made of to stand this sort of thing?” murmured Ned, as he looked at his chums’ blazing eyes. “Surely some of them have enough of the old blood left to risk it for the sake of liberty.”
“I’ll not be able to stand it long,” answered Clarence, with a deep-drawn breath.
“Nor can I,” said Fred.
“It will be a lark if we are destined to light the spark,” continued Ned, musingly. “I think we could get over these walls some dark night without much trouble. Oh, let’s get on, boys, or I’ll be after having a try now,” he added impatiently, as he strode hastily forward.
“There, now, who do you think you are shoving against?” he cried angrily, as he ran against a pair of burghers who were coming round a corner.
It was Ned who had been at fault in his haste. In any other place he would have apologised, but seeing that they were Boers, he pushed them off the footpath and then turned to abuse them. It was the natural protest of a free man against unaccustomed tyranny. With those Krupp guns behind them, politeness looked like submission and fear. Fortunately for the safety of that billet in Ned’s boot, which he had for the moment forgotten, these burghers were good-tempered and stolid Dutchmen, who didn’t mind either a push or a cross word. They merely laughed boisterously, and passed on their way.
Now, Ned felt both aggrieved and rebuked by the good nature of these Boers, who doubtless considered him to be a foolhardy fellow rendered extra brave through “Cape smoke.” Then he remembered his charge, and became utterly ashamed of his uncalled-for rudeness. He would have run after the burghers and apologised, only that might have made matters worse; besides, they had both gone into some building.
“That is not how Cecil Rhodes acted when he was being badgered by some of the commissioners, nor what he advised,” Ned muttered to himself, as he bent his head with shame. “I must try to remember always that I am a gentleman, and not act like a clown.”
At this moment Clarence proposed taking a cab, as the easiest and quickest mode of finding out his father’s house.
Mr Raybold was one of the prominent citizens, and the moment the Jehu heard his name he knew where to drive to.
“You have most chance of finding him at his private residence, if you want to see Mr Raybold personally.”
“Yes,” answered Clarence. “Drive us straight there.”
What a wonderful city this was, which had grown from nothing within the last six years! Grown up also in the teeth of as much discouragement and injustice as ever civilisation had to encounter, from narrow prejudice, extortion, and bigotry.
Our heroes drove along streets fifty and ninety feet in width, with trams running through them, and massive, handsome shops lining them, with plate-glass windows, looking for all the world like some of the best West End London shops.
It was a city where money was spent with lavish prodigality. There were crowds of flash hotels and clubs, and more than the ordinary number of low public-houses and canteens, every one crowded with thirsty customers.
They passed banks, stores, and palatial-looking offices, with electric globes and gas lamps ranged over them. They passed crowds of fashionably dressed men and women, all seemingly busy and lively enough. In spite of those earthworks and guns which covered them wherever they went; in spite of the constantly blazoned fact that they were completely at the mercy of their armed masters, who patrolled the city as warders do a penal settlement,—they were allowed to earn and spend as much money as they pleased, after paying the exorbitant taxes, dress as they please, and drink what they could pay for.
But they had no more civic rights than convicts or slaves have. They had no means to defend their women or children from insult. The male portion wore beards and dressed like men, but they were only men in outward appearance. They might as well have had chains upon their wrists and ankles. They were voluntary slaves and shadow citizens. They were just what their rude masters called them—Uitlanders—and on the same level as the vanquished and down-trodden Kaffirs.
Yet they called themselves British, afraid as they were to show the Flag of England or to sing the National Anthem; all they could do was to dress, drink, and make money, and, like the servile clients of ancient Rome, bend their supple backs to their arrogant and uncouth patrons, and thank them for permission to live. Sixty thousand souls who had been born free, for the sake of gold bent the knee before sixteen thousand uncultivated retarders of civilisation.
Their condition was ten times worse than that of the Scots when Edward enslaved them with his overpowering hosts. More degrading, because they were children of the nineteenth century, who had consented to be driven by a race who had not advanced past the benighted and rusty prejudices of the dark ages of bigotry and superstition. More shameful, since they outnumbered their tyrants five times over. No wonder that these Boers regarded Britons with contempt, and the Empire as a fallen tree.
Chapter Eight.Mr Philip Martin.England was powerless to help the Uitlanders as long as they chose to remain inert and submissive under the yoke. Dr Jameson and his dauntless band had demonstrated that no outside heroism could lift the yoke from their shoulders while they bent beneath it so passively. Only from their own ranks must the Wallace and the Bruce rise to free them.Ned and his chums had already read some of the literature of these Uitlanders, explaining and excusing themselves for their inaction during the Raid, or even supporting the tyrants in their oppression. These books and pamphlets had, before they reached the country, made them grind their teeth with fury. Fancy a Wallace and a Bruce waiting for the sanction of the Government before they took up their swords! Fancy their supporters waiting for permission before they rose to help their heroes!Our heroes, although consuming with those high-souled ideas which all brave and romantic boys must feel, and which the men of Johannesburg had apparently outgrown, still watched with wonder the mighty edifices they passed.Their wonder increased as they came to the suburbs, and saw the avenues and tall, shady trees which had all sprung up like magic out of the bare veldt—stately groves, over a hundred feet in height, all created in six years; beautiful gardens, luxuriant shrubberies, costly and artistic villas, grassy lawns, orchards, and tropic climbers covering up unsightly places with cool and exquisite loveliness. It was as if Aladdin had rubbed his magic lamp, and lo! his enslaved genius had done the trick.The Uitlanders were the enslaved genii that had wrought this miracle upon that treeless veldt. Their civilised skill and educated intellects had accomplished what would have taken centuries to achieve under the Boer system. Yet the ignorant Boers were the masters, and ruled over intellect and civilisation. This, to our heroes, seemed even more incongruous and wonderful than the marvels which were spread out before them. However had it come to pass? However could it have gone on so long? How much longer could it possibly continue?They were still trying to solve the problem when they drove up through a delightful avenue of trees, and stopped in front of a large and stately mansion. It was the Transvaal home of Clarence Raybold.Everywhere they looked, the evidence of wealth and lavish outlay stared them in the face—in the grounds with its trees and lawns, which had been forced and kept green by expensive irrigation; in the vast columns and carved work of the masonry. Mr Raybold had expended a fortune on the rearing of this suburban palace as a testimony to his wealth. Even Clarence was impressed as he led the way up the steps and knocked at the heavy, polished front door.Mr Raybold, although surrounded by so much luxury, was a bluff and hearty man, who put on no airs of dignity. He welcomed his son with affectionate warmth and his two friends with genuine hospitality. Clarence had written about their intentions from Cape Town, so that they were expected, and found their rooms all prepared.While they were having something to eat to keep them going till dinner, a man was sent with a trap to bring their luggage.Mr Raybold heard the account of their arms being taken by the Boers with a grim smile; but he made no other comment than to say he would do his best to have them returned, or kept safely for them until they left the Transvaal.It was only when they were leaving the dining-room to have a bath and change their clothes, that he closed the door carefully, and said in an impressive undertone—“Be very careful how you express any opinion about the Government, outside or inside. Also trust no one, however friendly they may appear. Remember always that we are as much under surveillance here as people are in Russia. Paul Kruger has his spies and secret detectives everywhere.”“But this is most horrible,” cried the boys together. Mr Raybold merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled the same grim smile.“Careless words are sometimes very costly in Johannesburg, and a silent tongue is worth a great deal more than its weight in gold here. We don’t talk much in society here, and never about politics.”“But your wrongs?” asked Ned, “We leave that to the newspapers to air, and to those who have no money to be confiscated in fines.”The heart of Ned sank as he listened to these wise and prudent words of this successful citizen. Gold was the chain which the Uitlanders had forged for themselves; and while the supply continued, it seemed hopeless to expect them to make any effort towards deliverance.The three lads went off to dress themselves sadly and silently. Clarence hung his head with shame for all the splendour which appeared so many tokens of his father’s fall from independence; while his chums, out of sympathy and pity for him, refrained from looking at him.It is terrible for a brave and generous boy to feel ashamed of his father. Poor Clarence went into the sumptuous room appointed to him, and, after locking the door, he flung himself on a couch and groaned in the bitterness of his heart.He remembered his father before he had come to the Transvaal and before he was quite so rich. Thus he had good cause to look up to him with pride, for he was a strong, fearless, and self-reliant man, who could never have uttered such words as he had done that afternoon. What a change those six years of tyranny had wrought in him! He looked older now by a dozen years. His eyes had lost their straight, outward look, and his face had become softer and flabbier, while his voice had no longer its decided ring. All this was not the father he expected to meet.He did not remember much about his mother, for she had died while he was very young. Somehow he felt glad now for the first time to think that she had died before the Transvaal migration. It would have utterly broken his heart had he seen the same servile look on her face as he had seen on his father’s.All at once he pushed those wretched feelings from his heart, to replace them by an increased hatred for the Boers who had wrought this evil—the old obstinate baboon of Pretoria, who stood and with his darkened mind stemmed the tide of civilisation. Ah, how Clarence abhorred Oom Paul Kruger that afternoon!Fred Weldon bathed and dressed himself quietly, thinking all the time upon poor Clarence, and wishing that he could comfort him, as Clarence had done when he lost his father. He felt now that death was not the worst calamity which could happen to a boy with his father. Time cured that; but what could cure the death of respect?“Perhaps he is only lying low, like Brer Rabbit, and playing Indian for a special purpose. That would be quite fair in a game of this kind. I must give old Clar this idea and hope.”He grew cheerful after this, and very soon persuaded himself that such must be the case. Indeed, before he had finished dressing he was mentally regarding Mr Raybold as a dark conspirator, only waiting events to ripen, to blossom out into a daring hero of the William Tell order.Ned, when he got into his room, also locked his door behind him; then he unlaced his boots, and putting his hand inside, pulled out the folded sheet of paper.It was not so clear as he should have liked, but the address was readable and the paper intact.He was too honourable to open the missive, although, had he done so, he would have been no wiser, as the contents were written in cypher. The address was as follows:—“Mr Philip Martin, Johannesburg.”Having read it, and noted the name, he wrapped it up within a clean piece of notepaper, and placed it for the time within his purse.He meant to ask his host that night if he knew this gentleman, and if so, he would call upon him after dinner.But by good luck, when he got down to the library, where Mr Raybold was waiting for his young guests, he found the very man he wanted. He had come to dine with Mr Raybold.Ned looked at the man whom the great empire-maker had written to with interest, nor was he disappointed in his ideal.Philip Martin was a strong man, and looked a bold one also. He was about five feet eight inches in height, with a deep, wide chest and a massive neck. He had a good deal the air of a sailor about him, which his navy-blue serge suit and turned-down collar helped. His eyes were dark and piercingly bright, while over them were thick black eyebrows. His beard was cut short and pointed, and his features were pronounced, while his complexion was swarthy. He was quick and decided in his motions, and had a sonorous voice that loomed through the room. Altogether he looked a man of strength, character, and indomitable will. Just the sort of man that Ned could admire.Ned opened his purse, and took out his note, removing the outer covering without being observed. Then, watching his chance when he was left alone with Mr Martin, he approached him, and said—“I think this is for you, Mr Martin. I got it from a gentleman on the veldt three nights ago.”“Thanks.”Mr Martin opened the note carelessly; then, as soon as he saw the contents, he started, and crushed it quickly into his pocket.“You have not shown any one this note, have you?”“No; I was told to be careful about it, and give it only to you, sir.”“What kind of man was it who gave it to you?”“It was the Honourable Cec—”“Hush! I am satisfied. It is all right. Do not say any more.”He went over to the fire, and after reading it carefully, he put it amongst the logs, and watched it burn; then he stirred the ashes with his foot, and turned once more to Ned.“You have done a great service in giving me this so promptly, and I shall be happy if I can serve you in return.”“I was too proud to be entrusted with it, sir.”“Then you are one of the writer’s many admirers, I presume?”“Yes, sir. There is no man I admire so much or would like to serve more.”Mr Martin looked at Ned keenly for some time without speaking, then he said—“The writer of that note tells me I may trust you and your companions. He is seldom wrong in his reading of character, and in this instance my own opinion agrees with his, respecting you at least. I haven’t seen your chums yet.”“You may safely trust us all to the death, sir, in anything honourable. We have sworn to stick together.”“To the death, you say! Well, I may even want as desperate a pledge as that. But can I trust your temper and discretion?”Ned blushed as he remembered his afternoon fit of passion, but he replied firmly—“I hope so, sir.”“Had you that note on you this afternoon when you assaulted those two Boers?”Ned hung his head guiltily. Yet he answered truthfully—“Yes, sir. The sight of the fort made me lose my head for a moment, but it shall not occur again.”“You ran a frightful risk,” answered Mr Martin, severely. “The incident took place just opposite my window, and I saw it all, and expected you to be taken in charge. If you had been, that paper would have been discovered, and more damage done to the cause of freedom and federation than you at present could imagine. There, I shall not lecture you any more; only remember that to provoke a street row is not the way to qualify for a patriot. Say no more about this now, but after dinner I shall take you and your friends for a walk, show you some of the town by night, and perhaps also let you see how you may help the Uitlanders and—you know who else.”He pressed our hero’s hand warmly, as a token of his forgiveness, and at once began to ask him questions about his journey up the country.Mr Raybold came back while they were conversing, and then shortly afterwards Clarence and Fred. Almost at the same moment the dinner-gong sounded, and together they went in to dinner.In the lobby Mr Martin whispered something in the ear of Mr Raybold, who at once turned and looked with interest at Ned. That look cleared up the doubts of Ned like magic, so that he laid hold of Clarence, and said to him tenderly—“Cheer up, old chappy; your dad is all right!”“Do you think so, Ned? Fred is of the same opinion.”“I don’t think—I know, and so will you before the night is over. Take his advice and mine. Be discreet, for silence is golden. Just you wait a bit.”“Thank God!” answered Clarence, softly, a sudden moisture coming into his rich brown eyes.
England was powerless to help the Uitlanders as long as they chose to remain inert and submissive under the yoke. Dr Jameson and his dauntless band had demonstrated that no outside heroism could lift the yoke from their shoulders while they bent beneath it so passively. Only from their own ranks must the Wallace and the Bruce rise to free them.
Ned and his chums had already read some of the literature of these Uitlanders, explaining and excusing themselves for their inaction during the Raid, or even supporting the tyrants in their oppression. These books and pamphlets had, before they reached the country, made them grind their teeth with fury. Fancy a Wallace and a Bruce waiting for the sanction of the Government before they took up their swords! Fancy their supporters waiting for permission before they rose to help their heroes!
Our heroes, although consuming with those high-souled ideas which all brave and romantic boys must feel, and which the men of Johannesburg had apparently outgrown, still watched with wonder the mighty edifices they passed.
Their wonder increased as they came to the suburbs, and saw the avenues and tall, shady trees which had all sprung up like magic out of the bare veldt—stately groves, over a hundred feet in height, all created in six years; beautiful gardens, luxuriant shrubberies, costly and artistic villas, grassy lawns, orchards, and tropic climbers covering up unsightly places with cool and exquisite loveliness. It was as if Aladdin had rubbed his magic lamp, and lo! his enslaved genius had done the trick.
The Uitlanders were the enslaved genii that had wrought this miracle upon that treeless veldt. Their civilised skill and educated intellects had accomplished what would have taken centuries to achieve under the Boer system. Yet the ignorant Boers were the masters, and ruled over intellect and civilisation. This, to our heroes, seemed even more incongruous and wonderful than the marvels which were spread out before them. However had it come to pass? However could it have gone on so long? How much longer could it possibly continue?
They were still trying to solve the problem when they drove up through a delightful avenue of trees, and stopped in front of a large and stately mansion. It was the Transvaal home of Clarence Raybold.
Everywhere they looked, the evidence of wealth and lavish outlay stared them in the face—in the grounds with its trees and lawns, which had been forced and kept green by expensive irrigation; in the vast columns and carved work of the masonry. Mr Raybold had expended a fortune on the rearing of this suburban palace as a testimony to his wealth. Even Clarence was impressed as he led the way up the steps and knocked at the heavy, polished front door.
Mr Raybold, although surrounded by so much luxury, was a bluff and hearty man, who put on no airs of dignity. He welcomed his son with affectionate warmth and his two friends with genuine hospitality. Clarence had written about their intentions from Cape Town, so that they were expected, and found their rooms all prepared.
While they were having something to eat to keep them going till dinner, a man was sent with a trap to bring their luggage.
Mr Raybold heard the account of their arms being taken by the Boers with a grim smile; but he made no other comment than to say he would do his best to have them returned, or kept safely for them until they left the Transvaal.
It was only when they were leaving the dining-room to have a bath and change their clothes, that he closed the door carefully, and said in an impressive undertone—
“Be very careful how you express any opinion about the Government, outside or inside. Also trust no one, however friendly they may appear. Remember always that we are as much under surveillance here as people are in Russia. Paul Kruger has his spies and secret detectives everywhere.”
“But this is most horrible,” cried the boys together. Mr Raybold merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled the same grim smile.
“Careless words are sometimes very costly in Johannesburg, and a silent tongue is worth a great deal more than its weight in gold here. We don’t talk much in society here, and never about politics.”
“But your wrongs?” asked Ned, “We leave that to the newspapers to air, and to those who have no money to be confiscated in fines.”
The heart of Ned sank as he listened to these wise and prudent words of this successful citizen. Gold was the chain which the Uitlanders had forged for themselves; and while the supply continued, it seemed hopeless to expect them to make any effort towards deliverance.
The three lads went off to dress themselves sadly and silently. Clarence hung his head with shame for all the splendour which appeared so many tokens of his father’s fall from independence; while his chums, out of sympathy and pity for him, refrained from looking at him.
It is terrible for a brave and generous boy to feel ashamed of his father. Poor Clarence went into the sumptuous room appointed to him, and, after locking the door, he flung himself on a couch and groaned in the bitterness of his heart.
He remembered his father before he had come to the Transvaal and before he was quite so rich. Thus he had good cause to look up to him with pride, for he was a strong, fearless, and self-reliant man, who could never have uttered such words as he had done that afternoon. What a change those six years of tyranny had wrought in him! He looked older now by a dozen years. His eyes had lost their straight, outward look, and his face had become softer and flabbier, while his voice had no longer its decided ring. All this was not the father he expected to meet.
He did not remember much about his mother, for she had died while he was very young. Somehow he felt glad now for the first time to think that she had died before the Transvaal migration. It would have utterly broken his heart had he seen the same servile look on her face as he had seen on his father’s.
All at once he pushed those wretched feelings from his heart, to replace them by an increased hatred for the Boers who had wrought this evil—the old obstinate baboon of Pretoria, who stood and with his darkened mind stemmed the tide of civilisation. Ah, how Clarence abhorred Oom Paul Kruger that afternoon!
Fred Weldon bathed and dressed himself quietly, thinking all the time upon poor Clarence, and wishing that he could comfort him, as Clarence had done when he lost his father. He felt now that death was not the worst calamity which could happen to a boy with his father. Time cured that; but what could cure the death of respect?
“Perhaps he is only lying low, like Brer Rabbit, and playing Indian for a special purpose. That would be quite fair in a game of this kind. I must give old Clar this idea and hope.”
He grew cheerful after this, and very soon persuaded himself that such must be the case. Indeed, before he had finished dressing he was mentally regarding Mr Raybold as a dark conspirator, only waiting events to ripen, to blossom out into a daring hero of the William Tell order.
Ned, when he got into his room, also locked his door behind him; then he unlaced his boots, and putting his hand inside, pulled out the folded sheet of paper.
It was not so clear as he should have liked, but the address was readable and the paper intact.
He was too honourable to open the missive, although, had he done so, he would have been no wiser, as the contents were written in cypher. The address was as follows:—
“Mr Philip Martin, Johannesburg.”
Having read it, and noted the name, he wrapped it up within a clean piece of notepaper, and placed it for the time within his purse.
He meant to ask his host that night if he knew this gentleman, and if so, he would call upon him after dinner.
But by good luck, when he got down to the library, where Mr Raybold was waiting for his young guests, he found the very man he wanted. He had come to dine with Mr Raybold.
Ned looked at the man whom the great empire-maker had written to with interest, nor was he disappointed in his ideal.
Philip Martin was a strong man, and looked a bold one also. He was about five feet eight inches in height, with a deep, wide chest and a massive neck. He had a good deal the air of a sailor about him, which his navy-blue serge suit and turned-down collar helped. His eyes were dark and piercingly bright, while over them were thick black eyebrows. His beard was cut short and pointed, and his features were pronounced, while his complexion was swarthy. He was quick and decided in his motions, and had a sonorous voice that loomed through the room. Altogether he looked a man of strength, character, and indomitable will. Just the sort of man that Ned could admire.
Ned opened his purse, and took out his note, removing the outer covering without being observed. Then, watching his chance when he was left alone with Mr Martin, he approached him, and said—
“I think this is for you, Mr Martin. I got it from a gentleman on the veldt three nights ago.”
“Thanks.”
Mr Martin opened the note carelessly; then, as soon as he saw the contents, he started, and crushed it quickly into his pocket.
“You have not shown any one this note, have you?”
“No; I was told to be careful about it, and give it only to you, sir.”
“What kind of man was it who gave it to you?”
“It was the Honourable Cec—”
“Hush! I am satisfied. It is all right. Do not say any more.”
He went over to the fire, and after reading it carefully, he put it amongst the logs, and watched it burn; then he stirred the ashes with his foot, and turned once more to Ned.
“You have done a great service in giving me this so promptly, and I shall be happy if I can serve you in return.”
“I was too proud to be entrusted with it, sir.”
“Then you are one of the writer’s many admirers, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. There is no man I admire so much or would like to serve more.”
Mr Martin looked at Ned keenly for some time without speaking, then he said—
“The writer of that note tells me I may trust you and your companions. He is seldom wrong in his reading of character, and in this instance my own opinion agrees with his, respecting you at least. I haven’t seen your chums yet.”
“You may safely trust us all to the death, sir, in anything honourable. We have sworn to stick together.”
“To the death, you say! Well, I may even want as desperate a pledge as that. But can I trust your temper and discretion?”
Ned blushed as he remembered his afternoon fit of passion, but he replied firmly—
“I hope so, sir.”
“Had you that note on you this afternoon when you assaulted those two Boers?”
Ned hung his head guiltily. Yet he answered truthfully—
“Yes, sir. The sight of the fort made me lose my head for a moment, but it shall not occur again.”
“You ran a frightful risk,” answered Mr Martin, severely. “The incident took place just opposite my window, and I saw it all, and expected you to be taken in charge. If you had been, that paper would have been discovered, and more damage done to the cause of freedom and federation than you at present could imagine. There, I shall not lecture you any more; only remember that to provoke a street row is not the way to qualify for a patriot. Say no more about this now, but after dinner I shall take you and your friends for a walk, show you some of the town by night, and perhaps also let you see how you may help the Uitlanders and—you know who else.”
He pressed our hero’s hand warmly, as a token of his forgiveness, and at once began to ask him questions about his journey up the country.
Mr Raybold came back while they were conversing, and then shortly afterwards Clarence and Fred. Almost at the same moment the dinner-gong sounded, and together they went in to dinner.
In the lobby Mr Martin whispered something in the ear of Mr Raybold, who at once turned and looked with interest at Ned. That look cleared up the doubts of Ned like magic, so that he laid hold of Clarence, and said to him tenderly—
“Cheer up, old chappy; your dad is all right!”
“Do you think so, Ned? Fred is of the same opinion.”
“I don’t think—I know, and so will you before the night is over. Take his advice and mine. Be discreet, for silence is golden. Just you wait a bit.”
“Thank God!” answered Clarence, softly, a sudden moisture coming into his rich brown eyes.