Chapter Thirteen.Tronk Life.Although our heroes had been brought up amidst the comforts and refinements of better-class English life, they were not fastidious.Their recent overland experience among the burgher farmers had taken a good deal of the fine edge off their susceptibilities as to eating, drinking, and lodgment. It had also opened their eyes considerably as to the inconsistency of humanity. Those bare, dirty, and barn-like homesteads which satisfied the Boers generation after generation, and compared to which many of the huts of the Kaffirs were fragrant—the cow-dung and blood-blended plaster and flooring—were, to say the least, peculiar in their aroma to the nostrils of strangers. Added to this, the strong flavour of the Boer tobacco, with which those dens reeked, rendered the atmosphere more powerful than pleasant to any except a Boer family. To them, however, it smelt home-like and grateful.Outside, the approaches to a Boer farm were kept in a state of absolute and traditional disregard to all sanitary laws. The refuse and decay teemed with disease and abomination. No wanderer required a candle in the window to light them to these abodes of the dopper. Their olfactory organs would have been quick enough, even while suffering under the most virulent cold, for at least half a league distant. Wherever the Boer settled, that part of the veldt became a pigsty.Our heroes had experienced all this, and become case-hardened against unholy perfumes and disgusting sights. Their digestive organs had also become used to the tough biltong, vile coffee, and unvaried nightly stews. Thus they were able to stand a good deal of dirt and discomfort without noticing details.They had also gained a considerable insight of the Boers’ other peculiarities. Their utter lack of humour and sullen stolidity; their merciless barbarity to their servants and cattle, joined to their stern and one-sided religious fervour. The Bible, the cowhide, and the rifle were always kept handy for constant use by those pious dopper farmers. The word of God for themselves and families. The cowhide for their cattle and servants, and the rifle where the cowhide failed to convince.They had seen these farmers flog the Kaffirs within an inch of their lives for the slightest offence, or perhaps because the master was in a bad temper, and the Kaffir chanced to be in his road. They had seen them bring out their guns, if the braced-up and lacerated natives looked nasty, and deliberately shoot them dead, then go indoors immediately after, read their Bibles, sing their psalms, and thank the Lord of hosts for giving them grace. Their infernal cruelties never touched their consciences in the slightest degree, and they had no fear of the laws of the land condemning them. Each Boer made his own laws, and these were merciless. There was no justice for the native; he was a beast to be down-trodden and enslaved. His land and his life were theirs, the chosen people of the Lord, to abuse or murder as they pleased.Yet they never neglected family worship. Nor would they permit the stranger to go from them without reading a chapter, and delivering themselves of an unctuous prayer. Sylvan life amongst the pious doppers was very unlovely and revolting.Having already experienced so much, the young men hardly noticed the filthy and disgraceful conditions of the Johannesburg tronk, or jail. That they were crammed into a small cell of ten by twenty feet, along with twenty-five other prisoners, was nasty; yet they endured this fate with as much philosophy as they could.Twenty-eight prisoners, waiting their trial, were immured in this suffocating, dark, and noisome den, which could be compared with nothing else than the hold of a slaver, or the black hole of Calcutta. A third of these were Kaffir women, and the majority of the rest, the vilest and most foul-mouthed scum in Johannesburg.There was no separation of the sexes; they were all crushed together, regardless of their ages or offences. The atmosphere was horrible, for there was no other ventilation than what the opening of the door gave.It was opened occasionally by the warders as they thought fit, to give the captives a little air and prevent suffocation.The floors were cemented, and the roof of corrugated iron; but as water is a luxury in Johannesburg, and the Boers are averse to washing and also are regardless of dirt, weeks if not months had passed since last the accumulations had been shovelled out. The mind of an Englishman at home could not conjure up any idea approaching this abomination of stench and overpowering heat.Here our heroes had spent their first night of Boer prison life, listening, or rather trying to shut their ears, to the groans, curses, and obscenities of their fellow-captives. Packed closely together, they were forced to stand still and upright, with the perspiration pouring from them, and swallow the poison that entered their lungs instead of air.Many—indeed, most—of these prisoners had broken heads and other wounds, and these, clotted and untended, added to the disgusting horrors.When morning came, and they were hustled into the Pretoria train, they felt almost half dead. Faint and breathless, they gasped as they were dragged into the court, and listened to the charges with dull apathy. There was little enough fight in them now.By the time they reached Pretoria, however, their young constitutions, aided by the fresh veldt air, had restored both their appetites and their courage. In spite of their jailors’ grunts of disapproval, they were laughing and jesting more from bravado than through good spirits.“We must show them we are game, no matter what happens to us,” said Ned; and his chums’ loyalty backed him up.In the same train, but in a different compartment, Stephanus Groblaar and the wounded and battered Zarps travelled to give their evidence. The boys caught a glimpse of Stephanus as he got out, and could not help enjoying the sight. The baton had smashed the bridge of his nose and spoilt what little beauty he possessed. He was marked for life, so that they would recognise him under any disguise almost. They caught his one eye glaring luridly on Ned, for the other was bandaged up, and they grinned broadly as they were pushed past.They were marched along to the tronk, getting hasty glimpses of the Dopper Kirk, where Oom Paul sometimes preaches; the frowning forts and warlike batteries which he has erected at so much expense to his insolvent government, as a sign of the friendly disposition of the Volksraad towards the Uitlander, and the open gallows and stocks, which also were tokens of the social advancement of the constitution. That church obstructing the traffic was typical of the people’s wisdom and foresight, as their town lying in the swamp was. They doted on mud and pestilential swamps, as they piously believed in obstruction, dirt, bad drainage, and public executions.The Pretoria tronk—at least, the part into which our heroes were locked—was a shade more endurable than had been their lodging of the night before. Morality, if not sanitary arrangements, was slightly more observed.Their cell, which was the same size as the last, was not quite so crowded, and they had white companions only, and of their own sex. Between them and the Kaffirs was a sheet of corrugated iron.Small holes were bored in the sheet-iron walls; these were, however, close to the roof, and did not give them much fresh air. During the day the heat was intense, as the thin iron became almost red-hot under the sun glare. At night it was in proportion cold.There had been thirty-five prisoners in this cell two days before, but eighteen of these had been removed; thus they had only seventeen companions waiting their sentences. Fortunately, also, the majority of these prisoners were respectable citizens, whose crimes were as yet to be invented. Like our heroes, they had been seized upon without any pretext, without being aware yet of the charges. They would learn all that at the time appointed by their tyrants.Small straw mattresses were given to them to sleep on at nights; these were placed side by side along the walls, leaving a narrow gangway between. These mattresses had served hundreds of prisoners before them; they were dirty in the extreme, worn by holes, and infested by other inhabitants beside themselves, that not only did not sleep when darkness fell, but did their best to murder sleep. A Salvation Army night-shelter might be as lively, but it could not be worse than were those unhallowed beds. They were placed upon the ground, and each morning were taken out and aired in the exercise-yard. Otherwise the cells were devoid of furniture. There were neither seats nor tables.All that afternoon the prisoners sat looking on the ground, as far away from the heated walls as they could get. As they had come in time for dinner, they got a basin of thin soup with some hard meat and black bread. This they devoured eagerly. At four o’clock they had a supper of mealie with salt and water. Then their beds were brought in, and they prepared to enjoy themselves. They were able to breathe; that was the sole comfort of that shivering night. Being dog-tired with their previous night’s vigil, in spite of the tormentors that bit and stung them incessantly, our heroes soon fell asleep and forgot their miseries.In the morning at seven o’clock they got another dose of mealie-porridge and salt with water. Then they were allowed to go and wash themselves in the muddy streams that ran through the yard. All the prisoners were turned out to the yard at the same time. Kaffirs, Malays, and whites, thieves, murderers, and political prisoners, they were all mixed up like their mattresses, and permitted to wash their clothes and themselves in the same muddy stream together.On this day they were allowed to stay in the yard until five o’clock, and as it was about one hundred and fifty feet, they were able to take good exercise and have fresh air. They were not long before they began to play leap-frog and some other games, including a wrestling match between Ned and Fred, which was watched with keen interest by the other prisoners.At about half-past two they were pleasantly surprised by a visit from Philip Martin, who brought with him a Pretoria solicitor.Both listened to the story of their arrest, and the lawyer took notes, after which Philip said—“I think we shall manage to square the Zarps, so that they will let you off mildly. The man with the broken jaw we must give a golden plaster to; but your most bitter witness will be Stephanus Groblaar. He will have his knife into you, and swear anything against you. His father is a personal friend and tool of the president.”That night they did not sleep so well; on the whole, it was the most uncomfortable time they had ever experienced. They were glad when daylight came and the doors opened to let them out.They were first in the yard, and took advantage to be the first in the stream before it was stirred up. After their bath they once more felt ready to laugh at their discomforts and woes.They had hardly supped their porridge, when a couple of German policemen came and marched them off solemnly.Outside the tronk half a dozen more stiff and wooden-looking bodyguards were drawn up, armed to the teeth with rifles, swords, and revolvers. They closed in upon our heroes without a word, merely pointing to the front as their way to march. Ned, Fred, and Clarence drew themselves up with dignity, seeing that no attempt was made to handcuff them, and dusting their clothes with their handkerchiefs, stepped out proudly in the middle of their formidable escort. Handcuffs sadly spoil the effect of dignity. They make a prisoner look too pathetic.“I wonder where these Noah’s Ark Johnnies are taking us to?” said Ned.“To the court to be tried, I expect,” answered Fred.“No,” said Clarence. “There is some other game going on with us. Don’t you see these are not the ordinary Boer bobbies? They are the president’s own bodyguards.”“By Jove! so they are. Perhaps old Kruger is going to interview us. I hope so, for I’d like to see the grand old humbug.”“Hush! These fellows are sure to understand English. All Germans do who leave their own country.”If they did understand what Ned had so rashly said, they showed no sign. All emotion seemed to have been drilled out of their big faces, as all free action had been drilled out of their tall figures.Solemnly they marched to the word of command with heads jerked up and immovable eyes. Right, left, right, left, they planted their feet as one man, without making a single wrinkle in their coats. They were for all the world exactly like exaggerated German metal soldiers set working by mechanism, and newly painted.Down through the centre of Church Street they marched, the automatic movements of the guards so infecting our heroes that they unconsciously fell into the same step after a few paces. Then only one distinct tramp could be heard, as each left or right foot crushed upon the ground. The people on the side paths watched them going along curiously.Past the grand Government buildings, with that disputed statue to Liberty on its centre tower, they strode. The enlightened burghers greatly object to this statue, as they don’t believe in a woman representing freedom, and think it must either mean Her Britannic Majesty or the Virgin Mary, both highly objectionable personages in a dopper’s eye.On they marched, until they reached the western end of the street, where a verandahed house stood with tall trees in front of it, and on each side of the gate a helmeted police-soldier. Then they knew where they were coming to, and felt a tremor pass over them. They were approaching the kraal of the savage and crafty tyrant chief of the Transvaal, Kruger.
Although our heroes had been brought up amidst the comforts and refinements of better-class English life, they were not fastidious.
Their recent overland experience among the burgher farmers had taken a good deal of the fine edge off their susceptibilities as to eating, drinking, and lodgment. It had also opened their eyes considerably as to the inconsistency of humanity. Those bare, dirty, and barn-like homesteads which satisfied the Boers generation after generation, and compared to which many of the huts of the Kaffirs were fragrant—the cow-dung and blood-blended plaster and flooring—were, to say the least, peculiar in their aroma to the nostrils of strangers. Added to this, the strong flavour of the Boer tobacco, with which those dens reeked, rendered the atmosphere more powerful than pleasant to any except a Boer family. To them, however, it smelt home-like and grateful.
Outside, the approaches to a Boer farm were kept in a state of absolute and traditional disregard to all sanitary laws. The refuse and decay teemed with disease and abomination. No wanderer required a candle in the window to light them to these abodes of the dopper. Their olfactory organs would have been quick enough, even while suffering under the most virulent cold, for at least half a league distant. Wherever the Boer settled, that part of the veldt became a pigsty.
Our heroes had experienced all this, and become case-hardened against unholy perfumes and disgusting sights. Their digestive organs had also become used to the tough biltong, vile coffee, and unvaried nightly stews. Thus they were able to stand a good deal of dirt and discomfort without noticing details.
They had also gained a considerable insight of the Boers’ other peculiarities. Their utter lack of humour and sullen stolidity; their merciless barbarity to their servants and cattle, joined to their stern and one-sided religious fervour. The Bible, the cowhide, and the rifle were always kept handy for constant use by those pious dopper farmers. The word of God for themselves and families. The cowhide for their cattle and servants, and the rifle where the cowhide failed to convince.
They had seen these farmers flog the Kaffirs within an inch of their lives for the slightest offence, or perhaps because the master was in a bad temper, and the Kaffir chanced to be in his road. They had seen them bring out their guns, if the braced-up and lacerated natives looked nasty, and deliberately shoot them dead, then go indoors immediately after, read their Bibles, sing their psalms, and thank the Lord of hosts for giving them grace. Their infernal cruelties never touched their consciences in the slightest degree, and they had no fear of the laws of the land condemning them. Each Boer made his own laws, and these were merciless. There was no justice for the native; he was a beast to be down-trodden and enslaved. His land and his life were theirs, the chosen people of the Lord, to abuse or murder as they pleased.
Yet they never neglected family worship. Nor would they permit the stranger to go from them without reading a chapter, and delivering themselves of an unctuous prayer. Sylvan life amongst the pious doppers was very unlovely and revolting.
Having already experienced so much, the young men hardly noticed the filthy and disgraceful conditions of the Johannesburg tronk, or jail. That they were crammed into a small cell of ten by twenty feet, along with twenty-five other prisoners, was nasty; yet they endured this fate with as much philosophy as they could.
Twenty-eight prisoners, waiting their trial, were immured in this suffocating, dark, and noisome den, which could be compared with nothing else than the hold of a slaver, or the black hole of Calcutta. A third of these were Kaffir women, and the majority of the rest, the vilest and most foul-mouthed scum in Johannesburg.
There was no separation of the sexes; they were all crushed together, regardless of their ages or offences. The atmosphere was horrible, for there was no other ventilation than what the opening of the door gave.
It was opened occasionally by the warders as they thought fit, to give the captives a little air and prevent suffocation.
The floors were cemented, and the roof of corrugated iron; but as water is a luxury in Johannesburg, and the Boers are averse to washing and also are regardless of dirt, weeks if not months had passed since last the accumulations had been shovelled out. The mind of an Englishman at home could not conjure up any idea approaching this abomination of stench and overpowering heat.
Here our heroes had spent their first night of Boer prison life, listening, or rather trying to shut their ears, to the groans, curses, and obscenities of their fellow-captives. Packed closely together, they were forced to stand still and upright, with the perspiration pouring from them, and swallow the poison that entered their lungs instead of air.
Many—indeed, most—of these prisoners had broken heads and other wounds, and these, clotted and untended, added to the disgusting horrors.
When morning came, and they were hustled into the Pretoria train, they felt almost half dead. Faint and breathless, they gasped as they were dragged into the court, and listened to the charges with dull apathy. There was little enough fight in them now.
By the time they reached Pretoria, however, their young constitutions, aided by the fresh veldt air, had restored both their appetites and their courage. In spite of their jailors’ grunts of disapproval, they were laughing and jesting more from bravado than through good spirits.
“We must show them we are game, no matter what happens to us,” said Ned; and his chums’ loyalty backed him up.
In the same train, but in a different compartment, Stephanus Groblaar and the wounded and battered Zarps travelled to give their evidence. The boys caught a glimpse of Stephanus as he got out, and could not help enjoying the sight. The baton had smashed the bridge of his nose and spoilt what little beauty he possessed. He was marked for life, so that they would recognise him under any disguise almost. They caught his one eye glaring luridly on Ned, for the other was bandaged up, and they grinned broadly as they were pushed past.
They were marched along to the tronk, getting hasty glimpses of the Dopper Kirk, where Oom Paul sometimes preaches; the frowning forts and warlike batteries which he has erected at so much expense to his insolvent government, as a sign of the friendly disposition of the Volksraad towards the Uitlander, and the open gallows and stocks, which also were tokens of the social advancement of the constitution. That church obstructing the traffic was typical of the people’s wisdom and foresight, as their town lying in the swamp was. They doted on mud and pestilential swamps, as they piously believed in obstruction, dirt, bad drainage, and public executions.
The Pretoria tronk—at least, the part into which our heroes were locked—was a shade more endurable than had been their lodging of the night before. Morality, if not sanitary arrangements, was slightly more observed.
Their cell, which was the same size as the last, was not quite so crowded, and they had white companions only, and of their own sex. Between them and the Kaffirs was a sheet of corrugated iron.
Small holes were bored in the sheet-iron walls; these were, however, close to the roof, and did not give them much fresh air. During the day the heat was intense, as the thin iron became almost red-hot under the sun glare. At night it was in proportion cold.
There had been thirty-five prisoners in this cell two days before, but eighteen of these had been removed; thus they had only seventeen companions waiting their sentences. Fortunately, also, the majority of these prisoners were respectable citizens, whose crimes were as yet to be invented. Like our heroes, they had been seized upon without any pretext, without being aware yet of the charges. They would learn all that at the time appointed by their tyrants.
Small straw mattresses were given to them to sleep on at nights; these were placed side by side along the walls, leaving a narrow gangway between. These mattresses had served hundreds of prisoners before them; they were dirty in the extreme, worn by holes, and infested by other inhabitants beside themselves, that not only did not sleep when darkness fell, but did their best to murder sleep. A Salvation Army night-shelter might be as lively, but it could not be worse than were those unhallowed beds. They were placed upon the ground, and each morning were taken out and aired in the exercise-yard. Otherwise the cells were devoid of furniture. There were neither seats nor tables.
All that afternoon the prisoners sat looking on the ground, as far away from the heated walls as they could get. As they had come in time for dinner, they got a basin of thin soup with some hard meat and black bread. This they devoured eagerly. At four o’clock they had a supper of mealie with salt and water. Then their beds were brought in, and they prepared to enjoy themselves. They were able to breathe; that was the sole comfort of that shivering night. Being dog-tired with their previous night’s vigil, in spite of the tormentors that bit and stung them incessantly, our heroes soon fell asleep and forgot their miseries.
In the morning at seven o’clock they got another dose of mealie-porridge and salt with water. Then they were allowed to go and wash themselves in the muddy streams that ran through the yard. All the prisoners were turned out to the yard at the same time. Kaffirs, Malays, and whites, thieves, murderers, and political prisoners, they were all mixed up like their mattresses, and permitted to wash their clothes and themselves in the same muddy stream together.
On this day they were allowed to stay in the yard until five o’clock, and as it was about one hundred and fifty feet, they were able to take good exercise and have fresh air. They were not long before they began to play leap-frog and some other games, including a wrestling match between Ned and Fred, which was watched with keen interest by the other prisoners.
At about half-past two they were pleasantly surprised by a visit from Philip Martin, who brought with him a Pretoria solicitor.
Both listened to the story of their arrest, and the lawyer took notes, after which Philip said—
“I think we shall manage to square the Zarps, so that they will let you off mildly. The man with the broken jaw we must give a golden plaster to; but your most bitter witness will be Stephanus Groblaar. He will have his knife into you, and swear anything against you. His father is a personal friend and tool of the president.”
That night they did not sleep so well; on the whole, it was the most uncomfortable time they had ever experienced. They were glad when daylight came and the doors opened to let them out.
They were first in the yard, and took advantage to be the first in the stream before it was stirred up. After their bath they once more felt ready to laugh at their discomforts and woes.
They had hardly supped their porridge, when a couple of German policemen came and marched them off solemnly.
Outside the tronk half a dozen more stiff and wooden-looking bodyguards were drawn up, armed to the teeth with rifles, swords, and revolvers. They closed in upon our heroes without a word, merely pointing to the front as their way to march. Ned, Fred, and Clarence drew themselves up with dignity, seeing that no attempt was made to handcuff them, and dusting their clothes with their handkerchiefs, stepped out proudly in the middle of their formidable escort. Handcuffs sadly spoil the effect of dignity. They make a prisoner look too pathetic.
“I wonder where these Noah’s Ark Johnnies are taking us to?” said Ned.
“To the court to be tried, I expect,” answered Fred.
“No,” said Clarence. “There is some other game going on with us. Don’t you see these are not the ordinary Boer bobbies? They are the president’s own bodyguards.”
“By Jove! so they are. Perhaps old Kruger is going to interview us. I hope so, for I’d like to see the grand old humbug.”
“Hush! These fellows are sure to understand English. All Germans do who leave their own country.”
If they did understand what Ned had so rashly said, they showed no sign. All emotion seemed to have been drilled out of their big faces, as all free action had been drilled out of their tall figures.
Solemnly they marched to the word of command with heads jerked up and immovable eyes. Right, left, right, left, they planted their feet as one man, without making a single wrinkle in their coats. They were for all the world exactly like exaggerated German metal soldiers set working by mechanism, and newly painted.
Down through the centre of Church Street they marched, the automatic movements of the guards so infecting our heroes that they unconsciously fell into the same step after a few paces. Then only one distinct tramp could be heard, as each left or right foot crushed upon the ground. The people on the side paths watched them going along curiously.
Past the grand Government buildings, with that disputed statue to Liberty on its centre tower, they strode. The enlightened burghers greatly object to this statue, as they don’t believe in a woman representing freedom, and think it must either mean Her Britannic Majesty or the Virgin Mary, both highly objectionable personages in a dopper’s eye.
On they marched, until they reached the western end of the street, where a verandahed house stood with tall trees in front of it, and on each side of the gate a helmeted police-soldier. Then they knew where they were coming to, and felt a tremor pass over them. They were approaching the kraal of the savage and crafty tyrant chief of the Transvaal, Kruger.
Chapter Fourteen.An Interview with Uncle Paul.It was a respectable and fair-sized house of the ordinary colonial fashion, with a broad covered verandah in front, and fine shady trees inside the rails—a comfortable and homely place, with nothing special about it to denote the character or position of its owner, except those two heavily armed sentinels at the gate.Yet our heroes shivered slightly at the thought of the coming interview, and wished they could have put it off.They were not frightened physically of this avowed and relentless enemy of their countrymen. Whatever he might sentence them to, they were prepared to meet and endure bravely.It was his craft that they dreaded, lest he should by some devilish artifice lure them into a trap, and so get something out of them which would hurt their friends. They were frightened of themselves, not of this wily and ferocious Boer of Boers.They were going to be sounded by the man who had been able to deceive and outwit the smartest British diplomatists, and instinctively they felt how powerless they would be in his hands.That they were taken before him, prior to their examination by the landdrost, was a sign that he suspected them of being in the possession of some secret, which he would do his best to worm out of them. His scowls and threats they could defy, but his preternatural cunning they trembled to think about.“Courage, boys, and caution,” whispered Ned, as they paused for a moment outside the gate. “Let me conduct the palaver as much as possible with this ponderous Machiavelli.”“Right you are, Ned,” answered his chum in awestruck tones. “I wish we were safe back in the tronk, though.”“So do I.”Kruger, the man who could spoof Great Britain, and drive his own people like a flock of sheep, appeared, before they saw him in their imagination, to be almost as colossal a character as their ideal hero, Cecil Rhodes. Throughout Africa these two giants stood facing each other, while the rest of the world watched and waited the result of their deadly duel. Kruger, the champion of everything that was despicable, oppressive, and false; Rhodes, the champion of chivalry, humanity, and progress.Kruger had won his past triumphs by treachery and unscrupulous steadfastness. He stood like a rock, defying reform. Rhodes also was another rock, guarding the lands outside this camp of treason. Kruger had been able to humbug the Imperial Government, and get what he wanted from them easily; but he could not humbug this sleepless and powerful watcher.Kruger had his agents and spies everywhere; so also had Rhodes. He was fighting this Boer with his own weapons.Kruger was rich, but he liked to hoard his capital, and get as much as he could for nothing or by promises. Cecil Rhodes spent his wealth lavishly.Kruger was working for his own hand, and with the malignant purpose of weakening his enemy and causing discord amongst the nations. Rhodes had devoted his life and his wealth for his country’s welfare, and for the security of Africa. The one was a tyrant of the worst order; the other was inspired by the purest and most disinterested patriotism. The one was distrusted and disliked generally all round, even by a large section of his subjects; the other was universally respected and loved for his courage, brain-power, and unimpeachable honesty.Our heroes had seen for a few moments the first champion of civilisation; they were now about to look upon his antagonist, the impious father of lies.There was an air of stillness and depression about the place, which these two immovable policemen accentuated. The shady verandah looked dark almost in contrast with the blazing brightness outside. As the boys looked under the branches, the idea occurred to them that they were about to enter the web of a gigantic human spider. They could get in easy enough, but how would they come out?They were not, however, kept long waiting at the gate. Their guards stopped suddenly, grounded their rifles; then, while the two gatekeepers saluted, they were pushed forward and entered the shadows. In another moment they were ushered, without ceremony, into the presence of the master.It was a large reception-room in which Kruger sat, with a wide stretch between the door and the table at his side.On the table were placed a huge silver tobacco-box, a large clasp Bible, and what the young men noted more particularly, the small “three ace” watch-guard tokens which had been taken from them with their other effects. There were also a few papers placed handy for, the president to reach.He sat in a big, crimson-covered armchair, with a spittoon at his feet, and his pipe in his mouth. Behind him, on the wall, they saw through the tobacco mist a large and harshly painted oil portrait of himself. The room was smelling like a tap-room, while clouds of rank tobacco reek floated densely overhead.Yet that portrait riveted their eyes, and forced them to look at it before even the original could command their attention—it was such an exaggerated and hideous reproduction of all his worst points. It was also so crudely and vilely painted that it seemed like a gross caricature. Indeed, it was hardly human, but rather as if it had been an imaginative attempt on the part of a house-painter, to depict a gorilla-like, semi-humanised monster.A large red face, with swollen heavy features; narrow, bestial forehead; small, crafty, and sullen eyes, with a baboon-like fringe of white-grey hair running from the large flapping ears to below the heavy chin. The lips were shapeless, yet relentless in their downward curve.A strange guttural and gurgling sound growled out, and drew their wondering looks from the portrait to the man himself. President Kruger was speaking; at least, they supposed that loud and deep mouthful of explosive gutturals and gurglings was his mode of expressing himself. It must have been an order, for as they glanced round, they noticed the guards quitting the apartment, and found themselves alone with the monster and his secretary or interpreter.He was looking at them from under his sullen, pent brows, with ice-cold, piggish eyes that made them shiver again in spite of their efforts to appear brave. He was so horribly ugly, so revoltingly animal-like, and so utterly unsympathetic, that they instinctively recoiled before him. He grinned ogreishly as he observed this step backward, and taking his pipe in his huge, hairless, flabby hand, he puffed out a volume of smoke and expectorated loudly into the spittoon. Then he resumed his pipe, and leaned back in his chair, still watching them intently. He had awed them, and he was evidently delighted with the effect which he had produced, for he chuckled hoarsely as he sent out another huge volume of smoke from his wide mouth.That grim chuckle, with the undertaker-like costume and vulgar deportment of the animal, undid the first effect of his savage glare. The boys looked again, and saw only an unmannerly, brutal, and hog-like old man, with the ugliest face they had ever seen; with elephantine proportions and shapeless great feet, filling out a gimcrack crimson chair, while his fat, coarse hands gripped the sides. His portrait had not flattered him, yet it was distinctly like him, with all its artistic faults. The narrowness and dense ignorance were all there in both picture and sitter, so also the intolerance, obstinacy, and brutality painfully pronounced with his greed, cunning, and plebeian meanness. He was the same sort of Boer as those that they had seen on the farms ill-treating their servants and cattle, the same superstitious and rude dopper who read his Bible and doggedly shut out charity from his heart. All the rudeness, filthy habits, and moroseness of his race were here in unbending and irredeemable force, carved and cemented by age and habit into the hardness of cast iron.They were no longer appalled by his ugliness; instead, they were looking at him with undisguised loathing and contempt. Was this the man who had hoodwinked men of intellect—this low-bred, stupid, and surly beast, whose only qualities were vindictive hatred and ignorant, stupid conceit and arrogance? Surely he could deceive no one who stood face to face with him, for that countenance was an open index of all the mean vices which make men abhorred and despised? He looked and acted as if his proper place was amongst hod-carriers, not politicians.They had hit upon the keynote of his dangerous power in their misplaced contempt. It was this appearance of stupidity that threw keen men off their guard when dealing with him—this and his hypocritical cant. He looked no more intellectual than an ignorant local preacher, and as he was constantly preaching, they forgot to look under his words. Behind all these state platitudes, and copy-book texts, he plotted with the cunning and ferocity of a relentless savage.After watching them for full five minutes with half-shut eyes, while he puffed like a steam-engine at his pipe, he made a motion with one blunt forefinger towards the table. His attendant at once rose and handed him the tobacco-box.This was not what he wanted; still, while it was there, he filled his pipe and lit it afresh. Then he beckoned again. This time the secretary handed him one of the ace trinkets. He took it in the palm of his paw, and regarded it with suspicious eyes; then the lips widened and the cheeks bulged out, while another mouthful of harsh sounds were belched forth. The secretary explained this jumble of gutturals to our heroes.“Why do you wear this badge? What does it signify?”Ned explained that it was the badge of a club in Johannesburg, of which he and his companions were members.The president broke out as soon as he had spoken, and the secretary went on with his questions.“We know that well enough; but how came you strangers to be members of this club?”Ned answered because they wished it. There was no law against Englishmen joining it at once on their arrival.“Take care, younker, and remember where you are. Answer questions, but don’t make remarks. How many members are there?”“I don’t know.”“What is the object of this club? Take care how you answer. We know already that its object is against the State.”“Then it is more than I do,” answered Ned, boldly.“What is done there?”“Magazine and newspaper reading and letter-writing. Some of the members smoke, some play dominoes, but not often.”“And this design—what does it mean?”“The ace of hearts, the ace of spades, and the ace of diamonds.”“Yes?”“That’s all.”“Why not the ace of clubs as well?”“Ah! I don’t think the citizens of Johannesburg have got that ace,” answered Ned, innocently.A chuckle came from the armchair. Then President Kruger for the first time spoke in very fair English—the tongue he understood perfectly but hated so viciously. As he spoke he smiled a fat wrinkly smile that gave his face a simple and grotesque expression of good humour. His voice was thick and rumbling.“You are a slim carl for your age, younker. How old are you?”“Eighteen,” replied Ned.“And you, my young brakjes?”Not knowing that “brakje” was a term of contempt, they answered freely enough. Again Kruger chuckled, while he shook his ponderous head and pointed his clumsy finger at them.“Far too young to be mixed up in conspiracy and treason. Young gentlemen like you ought to stay in your own country, and not come here breaking the laws and making riots.”“We have done nothing, your Excellency,” said Ned.“Do you call it nothing to knock down four honest burghers, smash the nose of one and the jawbone of another? Do you call it nothing to threaten my police with a revolver, and use the insolent language you have done?”He had risen to his feet by this time, pulled himself out of the chair ponderously and by degrees. As he stood now towering above them like a hippopotamus, he impressed them with his physical strength. His eyes were beginning to lighten up dangerously.“I have you in the hollow of my hand, you miserable brakjes, as I hold every dog in my country. What you have so foolishly spoken entitles you to hard labour for some years. The assault you committed on the authorities is punishable by death. Do you think I can allow my men to be injured in this way by boys—eh?”“We were only defending ourselves. They struck at us first and without the slightest cause.”“It is a verodomde lie. You belong to a nation of liars and vipers, allermachtij!” shouted Kruger, savagely, an ominous gurgle coming from his throat, while his right arm began to swing as if about to strike them, and his eyes became buried under the flesh of his upper lids.Ned bit his lips and remained silently facing this ogre, with flashing looks.“Ugh!” gurgled the president, controlling his rising temper as suddenly as it had been raised. “I can do all this to you, and no one dare stop me, not even your queen,” he added childishly. “I am master here, and what I will is fate. I can send you to my worst prison, where you will rot all your miserable days. But I can also be kind and merciful to those who deserve my clemency. Now, if you will be good younkers and tell me all that you know, I shall pardon you, and never send you for trial at all—nay, more, I’ll give you each a nice billet, where you can serve the Republic and make your fortune. Now, are you going to be good younkers and give me all your confidence freely, as if I was your father, or your tender-hearted uncle—Oom Paul, you know,” he chuckled unctuously—“or must I send you to rot in the tronk?”“We are English, your Excellency, and sons of the Empire, not Dutch spies and traitors,” answered Ned, for his companions, proudly and without a pause.“Then go and—rot!” roared Kruger, bringing his big fist down on the table with a bang that made tobacco-box and Bible jump. “Send these ruffians to the landdrost, and let the law take its course.”The last our heroes saw, for that time, of the humane president of the Republic, was him puffing furiously at his pipe, with his ugly face distorted and his eyes out of sight.“I guess he doesn’t like to be contradicted,” said Ned, as the police once more marched them off.
It was a respectable and fair-sized house of the ordinary colonial fashion, with a broad covered verandah in front, and fine shady trees inside the rails—a comfortable and homely place, with nothing special about it to denote the character or position of its owner, except those two heavily armed sentinels at the gate.
Yet our heroes shivered slightly at the thought of the coming interview, and wished they could have put it off.
They were not frightened physically of this avowed and relentless enemy of their countrymen. Whatever he might sentence them to, they were prepared to meet and endure bravely.
It was his craft that they dreaded, lest he should by some devilish artifice lure them into a trap, and so get something out of them which would hurt their friends. They were frightened of themselves, not of this wily and ferocious Boer of Boers.
They were going to be sounded by the man who had been able to deceive and outwit the smartest British diplomatists, and instinctively they felt how powerless they would be in his hands.
That they were taken before him, prior to their examination by the landdrost, was a sign that he suspected them of being in the possession of some secret, which he would do his best to worm out of them. His scowls and threats they could defy, but his preternatural cunning they trembled to think about.
“Courage, boys, and caution,” whispered Ned, as they paused for a moment outside the gate. “Let me conduct the palaver as much as possible with this ponderous Machiavelli.”
“Right you are, Ned,” answered his chum in awestruck tones. “I wish we were safe back in the tronk, though.”
“So do I.”
Kruger, the man who could spoof Great Britain, and drive his own people like a flock of sheep, appeared, before they saw him in their imagination, to be almost as colossal a character as their ideal hero, Cecil Rhodes. Throughout Africa these two giants stood facing each other, while the rest of the world watched and waited the result of their deadly duel. Kruger, the champion of everything that was despicable, oppressive, and false; Rhodes, the champion of chivalry, humanity, and progress.
Kruger had won his past triumphs by treachery and unscrupulous steadfastness. He stood like a rock, defying reform. Rhodes also was another rock, guarding the lands outside this camp of treason. Kruger had been able to humbug the Imperial Government, and get what he wanted from them easily; but he could not humbug this sleepless and powerful watcher.
Kruger had his agents and spies everywhere; so also had Rhodes. He was fighting this Boer with his own weapons.
Kruger was rich, but he liked to hoard his capital, and get as much as he could for nothing or by promises. Cecil Rhodes spent his wealth lavishly.
Kruger was working for his own hand, and with the malignant purpose of weakening his enemy and causing discord amongst the nations. Rhodes had devoted his life and his wealth for his country’s welfare, and for the security of Africa. The one was a tyrant of the worst order; the other was inspired by the purest and most disinterested patriotism. The one was distrusted and disliked generally all round, even by a large section of his subjects; the other was universally respected and loved for his courage, brain-power, and unimpeachable honesty.
Our heroes had seen for a few moments the first champion of civilisation; they were now about to look upon his antagonist, the impious father of lies.
There was an air of stillness and depression about the place, which these two immovable policemen accentuated. The shady verandah looked dark almost in contrast with the blazing brightness outside. As the boys looked under the branches, the idea occurred to them that they were about to enter the web of a gigantic human spider. They could get in easy enough, but how would they come out?
They were not, however, kept long waiting at the gate. Their guards stopped suddenly, grounded their rifles; then, while the two gatekeepers saluted, they were pushed forward and entered the shadows. In another moment they were ushered, without ceremony, into the presence of the master.
It was a large reception-room in which Kruger sat, with a wide stretch between the door and the table at his side.
On the table were placed a huge silver tobacco-box, a large clasp Bible, and what the young men noted more particularly, the small “three ace” watch-guard tokens which had been taken from them with their other effects. There were also a few papers placed handy for, the president to reach.
He sat in a big, crimson-covered armchair, with a spittoon at his feet, and his pipe in his mouth. Behind him, on the wall, they saw through the tobacco mist a large and harshly painted oil portrait of himself. The room was smelling like a tap-room, while clouds of rank tobacco reek floated densely overhead.
Yet that portrait riveted their eyes, and forced them to look at it before even the original could command their attention—it was such an exaggerated and hideous reproduction of all his worst points. It was also so crudely and vilely painted that it seemed like a gross caricature. Indeed, it was hardly human, but rather as if it had been an imaginative attempt on the part of a house-painter, to depict a gorilla-like, semi-humanised monster.
A large red face, with swollen heavy features; narrow, bestial forehead; small, crafty, and sullen eyes, with a baboon-like fringe of white-grey hair running from the large flapping ears to below the heavy chin. The lips were shapeless, yet relentless in their downward curve.
A strange guttural and gurgling sound growled out, and drew their wondering looks from the portrait to the man himself. President Kruger was speaking; at least, they supposed that loud and deep mouthful of explosive gutturals and gurglings was his mode of expressing himself. It must have been an order, for as they glanced round, they noticed the guards quitting the apartment, and found themselves alone with the monster and his secretary or interpreter.
He was looking at them from under his sullen, pent brows, with ice-cold, piggish eyes that made them shiver again in spite of their efforts to appear brave. He was so horribly ugly, so revoltingly animal-like, and so utterly unsympathetic, that they instinctively recoiled before him. He grinned ogreishly as he observed this step backward, and taking his pipe in his huge, hairless, flabby hand, he puffed out a volume of smoke and expectorated loudly into the spittoon. Then he resumed his pipe, and leaned back in his chair, still watching them intently. He had awed them, and he was evidently delighted with the effect which he had produced, for he chuckled hoarsely as he sent out another huge volume of smoke from his wide mouth.
That grim chuckle, with the undertaker-like costume and vulgar deportment of the animal, undid the first effect of his savage glare. The boys looked again, and saw only an unmannerly, brutal, and hog-like old man, with the ugliest face they had ever seen; with elephantine proportions and shapeless great feet, filling out a gimcrack crimson chair, while his fat, coarse hands gripped the sides. His portrait had not flattered him, yet it was distinctly like him, with all its artistic faults. The narrowness and dense ignorance were all there in both picture and sitter, so also the intolerance, obstinacy, and brutality painfully pronounced with his greed, cunning, and plebeian meanness. He was the same sort of Boer as those that they had seen on the farms ill-treating their servants and cattle, the same superstitious and rude dopper who read his Bible and doggedly shut out charity from his heart. All the rudeness, filthy habits, and moroseness of his race were here in unbending and irredeemable force, carved and cemented by age and habit into the hardness of cast iron.
They were no longer appalled by his ugliness; instead, they were looking at him with undisguised loathing and contempt. Was this the man who had hoodwinked men of intellect—this low-bred, stupid, and surly beast, whose only qualities were vindictive hatred and ignorant, stupid conceit and arrogance? Surely he could deceive no one who stood face to face with him, for that countenance was an open index of all the mean vices which make men abhorred and despised? He looked and acted as if his proper place was amongst hod-carriers, not politicians.
They had hit upon the keynote of his dangerous power in their misplaced contempt. It was this appearance of stupidity that threw keen men off their guard when dealing with him—this and his hypocritical cant. He looked no more intellectual than an ignorant local preacher, and as he was constantly preaching, they forgot to look under his words. Behind all these state platitudes, and copy-book texts, he plotted with the cunning and ferocity of a relentless savage.
After watching them for full five minutes with half-shut eyes, while he puffed like a steam-engine at his pipe, he made a motion with one blunt forefinger towards the table. His attendant at once rose and handed him the tobacco-box.
This was not what he wanted; still, while it was there, he filled his pipe and lit it afresh. Then he beckoned again. This time the secretary handed him one of the ace trinkets. He took it in the palm of his paw, and regarded it with suspicious eyes; then the lips widened and the cheeks bulged out, while another mouthful of harsh sounds were belched forth. The secretary explained this jumble of gutturals to our heroes.
“Why do you wear this badge? What does it signify?”
Ned explained that it was the badge of a club in Johannesburg, of which he and his companions were members.
The president broke out as soon as he had spoken, and the secretary went on with his questions.
“We know that well enough; but how came you strangers to be members of this club?”
Ned answered because they wished it. There was no law against Englishmen joining it at once on their arrival.
“Take care, younker, and remember where you are. Answer questions, but don’t make remarks. How many members are there?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is the object of this club? Take care how you answer. We know already that its object is against the State.”
“Then it is more than I do,” answered Ned, boldly.
“What is done there?”
“Magazine and newspaper reading and letter-writing. Some of the members smoke, some play dominoes, but not often.”
“And this design—what does it mean?”
“The ace of hearts, the ace of spades, and the ace of diamonds.”
“Yes?”
“That’s all.”
“Why not the ace of clubs as well?”
“Ah! I don’t think the citizens of Johannesburg have got that ace,” answered Ned, innocently.
A chuckle came from the armchair. Then President Kruger for the first time spoke in very fair English—the tongue he understood perfectly but hated so viciously. As he spoke he smiled a fat wrinkly smile that gave his face a simple and grotesque expression of good humour. His voice was thick and rumbling.
“You are a slim carl for your age, younker. How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” replied Ned.
“And you, my young brakjes?”
Not knowing that “brakje” was a term of contempt, they answered freely enough. Again Kruger chuckled, while he shook his ponderous head and pointed his clumsy finger at them.
“Far too young to be mixed up in conspiracy and treason. Young gentlemen like you ought to stay in your own country, and not come here breaking the laws and making riots.”
“We have done nothing, your Excellency,” said Ned.
“Do you call it nothing to knock down four honest burghers, smash the nose of one and the jawbone of another? Do you call it nothing to threaten my police with a revolver, and use the insolent language you have done?”
He had risen to his feet by this time, pulled himself out of the chair ponderously and by degrees. As he stood now towering above them like a hippopotamus, he impressed them with his physical strength. His eyes were beginning to lighten up dangerously.
“I have you in the hollow of my hand, you miserable brakjes, as I hold every dog in my country. What you have so foolishly spoken entitles you to hard labour for some years. The assault you committed on the authorities is punishable by death. Do you think I can allow my men to be injured in this way by boys—eh?”
“We were only defending ourselves. They struck at us first and without the slightest cause.”
“It is a verodomde lie. You belong to a nation of liars and vipers, allermachtij!” shouted Kruger, savagely, an ominous gurgle coming from his throat, while his right arm began to swing as if about to strike them, and his eyes became buried under the flesh of his upper lids.
Ned bit his lips and remained silently facing this ogre, with flashing looks.
“Ugh!” gurgled the president, controlling his rising temper as suddenly as it had been raised. “I can do all this to you, and no one dare stop me, not even your queen,” he added childishly. “I am master here, and what I will is fate. I can send you to my worst prison, where you will rot all your miserable days. But I can also be kind and merciful to those who deserve my clemency. Now, if you will be good younkers and tell me all that you know, I shall pardon you, and never send you for trial at all—nay, more, I’ll give you each a nice billet, where you can serve the Republic and make your fortune. Now, are you going to be good younkers and give me all your confidence freely, as if I was your father, or your tender-hearted uncle—Oom Paul, you know,” he chuckled unctuously—“or must I send you to rot in the tronk?”
“We are English, your Excellency, and sons of the Empire, not Dutch spies and traitors,” answered Ned, for his companions, proudly and without a pause.
“Then go and—rot!” roared Kruger, bringing his big fist down on the table with a bang that made tobacco-box and Bible jump. “Send these ruffians to the landdrost, and let the law take its course.”
The last our heroes saw, for that time, of the humane president of the Republic, was him puffing furiously at his pipe, with his ugly face distorted and his eyes out of sight.
“I guess he doesn’t like to be contradicted,” said Ned, as the police once more marched them off.
Chapter Fifteen.At Nylstroom.Tender-hearted and magnanimous Uncle Paul had not come best out of this interview, neither had he exhibited much of his vaunted diplomacy and character-reading. Indeed, he had shown himself to be what he was exactly—a densely stupid and tyrannical Boer, who thought to cow three lads with his threats, and make them his tools by a little clumsy and transparent cajolery. This was the only method he had, however, of dealing with people, and what his parasites termed his greatness.His agents and whitewashes have called him a man of deep religious feeling, honesty of purpose, singleness of life, thoroughness of character, free from all vices and defects, of great magnanimity, mercy, clemency, and justice, and possessed of the simplicity of a child.Yes; he had the simplicity of a very much spoilt, greedy, and vicious child. Our heroes had penetrated this side of his nature. They were now about to taste of his clemency and justice. They had thwarted his intentions concerning them, and, being a Boer, he could not pardon that from either man or child. No Boer was ever known to forgive or forget any rebuff. They never reason; they can only brood upon their side of the question and plan revenge.Kruger showed his thoroughness in the way he pursued them with his witnesses and private orders to the landdrost. He did this with the thoroughness of a red-skin. Their advocate was snubbed, and ordered to sit down the moment he rose to defend them. No witnesses were called on their side, while people they had never seen came and swore to actions and words they had never thought about or said. Then the verdict was given without a pause, and their sentence delivered with vicious denunciation from the judge. As they listened to him they were almost persuaded that they were very dangerous criminals, and deserved the gallows, instead of hard labour and long imprisonment.Boer justices, now that Kotze was removed and they had only one will to consult, did their work with sweeping and drastic force. They punished not only the criminal, but his friends as well, when they could be got at.Their sentences were—Seven years each, with hard labour.2000 pounds fine each, or another five years.A hundred lashes, to be spread over the first two years in the following order: twenty-five lashes after the first three months’ imprisonment, and twenty-five each six months after.Our heroes laughed at the fines, but they clenched their teeth and vowed that they would be free or dead before the lashes were inflicted upon them.“If we get free and live, boys,” whispered Ned, fiercely, “I hope that fiend Kruger may not die before I can kill him.”Mr Raybold and Philip Martin got a few words with them before they were led away.“Don’t you pay that fine, father,” said Clarence.“Not until you are at liberty, then I don’t mind what it costs me,” replied his father, brokenly.“Don’t be afraid, father; the Transvaal hasn’t got a tronk that will keep us in for three months, now that we know our fate.”Philip stooped and whispered in the ear of Ned.“We shall move heaven and earth to get you sent to one jail. After that, day and night we will work to help your escape. Keep up your pluck, and take advantage of all chances. We’ll have you shadowed with friends and able horses.”Ned smiled, and pressed the hand of his friend as he answered—“I will not spend all my time sleeping, you bet.”It was a desperate life our heroes led after this day, and might have broken even their spirits, only for the hope they had of accomplishing their escape.After passing a week at Pretoria, they were sent up the country to Nylstroom, where some heavy road-making was being done. This they did not object to, as it was so far on the way to Rhodesia. They were glad also to find that they were not separated.Here they were treated with all the ignominy and harshness that the stupid and merciless Boers could invent to make their captives sick of existence. They were put into a cell where only natives were confined, and not allowed any bedding whatever. If they could find space enough to lie down, that was all the comfort they were permitted to have.This, of course, was intended to degrade them as far as possible, and doubtless would have been a terrible punishment to a Boer.But our heroes, being more liberally brought up, did not find the company of those Kaffirs half the infliction that some of their late white companions had been. The captive savages were cleaner and more wholesome, both outwardly and inwardly.They were men most of them, whose only crime had been that of conquered enemies. Tall, powerful warriors they had been once upon a time, with spirits still untamed, and hearts filled with undying hatred toward their harsh oppressors.As soon as these prisoners discovered that Ned, Fred, and Clarence were English, and filled with the same hatred as they had, they received them into their ranks, and treated them with all the kindness and consideration which they were able to show.Several of them formed a blood bond with our heroes, which made them allies and friends for life.One clear benefit in this companionship was that these Kaffirs thus pledged would be faithful to them. Indeed, amongst the whole gang, there was not likely to be a traitor or a spy. These poor wretches had nothing to gain by treachery, for their condition would not be a whit improved. They all knew the Boers from bitter experience, and abhorred them as much as they respected their English conquerors.By daybreak they were marched out to their work under the escort of an armed and mounted force of warders. The food served out to them was mealie-porridge with salt, and not too much of that. From the hour our heroes entered Nylstroom, they were constantly in a famishing condition.Yet they had to labour as navvies all day long under the broiling rays until sundown, with hardly any intermission except the short time allowed for their midday meal. The overseers rode about abusing them in German and Low Dutch, and plying their cowhide whips over the backs of those who fainted or shirked their work. It was worse than slavery, as these Boers did not care whether the prisoners lived or died. If they resented the savage stroke by so much as a look, they were tied up and flogged almost to death. If they showed fight, they were at once shot down and flung to one side like carrion.Our heroes could not have endured the whip even with their hopes of liberty buoying them up, therefore they laboured with a will, and gave the brutes no chance of chastising them. Sometimes the whip cracked over their heads, but fortunately for their future, it did not descend on their backs.The reason for this was that their friends outside had managed to get at these venal wretches, and paid them a weekly sum to spare the young men that last outrage.They were all the more closely watched for this very reason so that they might not escape. During the day this would have been impossible, as before they could have run a dozen steps, they would have been shot down.They had passed a fortnight of this wretched existence, when, one day, as Ned looked up, he saw a party of horsemen riding past. Amongst them was Philip Martin, who, catching his eye, pointed quickly north, and then patted his horse.Ned knew what that meant. They were to run northward when their chance came, where friends and horses would be in readiness.His heart bounded as he read the signals and saw his friend gallop past him. Then he bent and plied his pickaxe with renewed energy.In spite of their semi-starvation, the hard labour did not hurt our heroes. Already they had got over the utter exhaustion that made them so helpless when they reached their cells. They had lost flesh woefully, but their muscles were becoming tough and hard as steel, and their skins tanned and sun-proof. They did not fear but that they would be able to run once they got the chance.Their cell was a small one, with corrugated iron on two sides and mud-cemented walls on the other two. Each night they were carefully searched before being locked in, so that it was impossible for them to smuggle in any tool.Still, now that Ned had seen help so close at hand, he did not despair. What he could not get in himself might be sent to him from the outside.That night he told his chums what he had seen, and their spirits rose wonderfully at the news.“They will be on the outlook, I am sure, therefore we must let them know whereabouts we are located.” After some consultation the idea struck them to hang out a bit of rag from one of the narrow air-holes. If they did this that night, it was almost sure to be noticed and understood by those on the watch outside.There were fifteen Kaffirs in this cell besides themselves who would have to be trusted. The lads had seen enough of them to risk taking the lot into their confidence.“Cocoeni,” he whispered to a strong young fellow, who had vowed friendship with him, “would you like to escape?”“You bet, baas,” replied the Kaffir, who understood and could speak a little English.“And the others, will they help us?”“Yes, baas; you may trust us all. We shall all help you if you show us how.”“I have friends outside who, when they know where we are, will give us some instrument to break out of this.”“Good. And what can we do to let them know?”Ned had torn a piece from his shirt while he was speaking; he now said—“Give me a back up, Cocoeni. I’ll push out this bit of rag. When the moon rises they will see it.”“So will the Boers,” said Cocoeni.“Oh, we must risk that. If they do wander round that side, they may not think anything about it. Besides, they are too lazy to do much knocking about at night.”Cocoeni willingly placed his face against the wall, and bent his back while Ned climbed up on to his broad shoulders. It was pitch dark inside, but they could see the stars through the slits near the roof.After the rag had been pushed half through so that one end hung outside and the other inside, they agreed to watch and watch turn about. At the first appearance of day they would take in the signal.Clarence took the first watch of three hours, while the rest lay down to sleep. By this time every Kaffir had been told by Cocoeni, and they were prepared to obey orders.Nothing disturbed Clarence. The Boers never troubled themselves to visit their prisoners during the night, and doubtless not many bothered themselves to keep awake.He saw, however, by the rays of silver that the moon had risen and was shining on the outer wall. It was a full moon, so that the rag must be observed if any one was on the watch.Fred took the next watch, nor had he anything to report when Ned relieved him. The moon by this time had moved round to the other side.Ned waited patiently for about two hours in the darkness, when, just as he was beginning to think there would be no answer that night, Cocoeni touched him, and whispered softly in his ear—“Baas, some one outside creeping gently.”The keen ears of the savage had heard what Ned could not.A few moments afterwards something heavy dropped upon his head, and fell with a muffled thud on the clay floor. He stooped to lift it, and to his delight felt the head of a small pickaxe wrapped in flannel. As he was unrolling it, another article came through the slit, and this he found to be the handle.His friends had understood his signal, and this was their reply. He hugged handle and head in his arms with an ecstasy of delight. Now, at last, freedom was within sight.It was too late, however, to do anything this morning. In another hour dawn would be upon them. They must defer operations for another night, and hide the treasure.He explained what he had received to Cocoeni, who woke his friends to tell them, while Ned did the same with Fred and Clarence. A deep grunt of joy spoke the Kaffirs’ feelings, while our heroes fairly danced with pleasure.To dig a small hole in the corner was the work of the next half-hour, after which they placed the articles side by side and covered them with the clay, which they pressed down, and moistening the top from their water-jug, they smoothed it as carefully over as they could in the dark.One of the Kaffirs lay down on the damp clay and dried it with his body, while the others crawled about and picked up every portion of loose clay, which they swallowed as they found them.Before the first streak of dawn crept in the floor was as clear of débris as it had been before, and the part over the pickaxe completely caked and dry.Then Ned looked up to see and remove the rag. It was gone. The one who had brought the gift had removed the signal.
Tender-hearted and magnanimous Uncle Paul had not come best out of this interview, neither had he exhibited much of his vaunted diplomacy and character-reading. Indeed, he had shown himself to be what he was exactly—a densely stupid and tyrannical Boer, who thought to cow three lads with his threats, and make them his tools by a little clumsy and transparent cajolery. This was the only method he had, however, of dealing with people, and what his parasites termed his greatness.
His agents and whitewashes have called him a man of deep religious feeling, honesty of purpose, singleness of life, thoroughness of character, free from all vices and defects, of great magnanimity, mercy, clemency, and justice, and possessed of the simplicity of a child.
Yes; he had the simplicity of a very much spoilt, greedy, and vicious child. Our heroes had penetrated this side of his nature. They were now about to taste of his clemency and justice. They had thwarted his intentions concerning them, and, being a Boer, he could not pardon that from either man or child. No Boer was ever known to forgive or forget any rebuff. They never reason; they can only brood upon their side of the question and plan revenge.
Kruger showed his thoroughness in the way he pursued them with his witnesses and private orders to the landdrost. He did this with the thoroughness of a red-skin. Their advocate was snubbed, and ordered to sit down the moment he rose to defend them. No witnesses were called on their side, while people they had never seen came and swore to actions and words they had never thought about or said. Then the verdict was given without a pause, and their sentence delivered with vicious denunciation from the judge. As they listened to him they were almost persuaded that they were very dangerous criminals, and deserved the gallows, instead of hard labour and long imprisonment.
Boer justices, now that Kotze was removed and they had only one will to consult, did their work with sweeping and drastic force. They punished not only the criminal, but his friends as well, when they could be got at.
Their sentences were—
Seven years each, with hard labour.
2000 pounds fine each, or another five years.
A hundred lashes, to be spread over the first two years in the following order: twenty-five lashes after the first three months’ imprisonment, and twenty-five each six months after.
Our heroes laughed at the fines, but they clenched their teeth and vowed that they would be free or dead before the lashes were inflicted upon them.
“If we get free and live, boys,” whispered Ned, fiercely, “I hope that fiend Kruger may not die before I can kill him.”
Mr Raybold and Philip Martin got a few words with them before they were led away.
“Don’t you pay that fine, father,” said Clarence.
“Not until you are at liberty, then I don’t mind what it costs me,” replied his father, brokenly.
“Don’t be afraid, father; the Transvaal hasn’t got a tronk that will keep us in for three months, now that we know our fate.”
Philip stooped and whispered in the ear of Ned.
“We shall move heaven and earth to get you sent to one jail. After that, day and night we will work to help your escape. Keep up your pluck, and take advantage of all chances. We’ll have you shadowed with friends and able horses.”
Ned smiled, and pressed the hand of his friend as he answered—
“I will not spend all my time sleeping, you bet.”
It was a desperate life our heroes led after this day, and might have broken even their spirits, only for the hope they had of accomplishing their escape.
After passing a week at Pretoria, they were sent up the country to Nylstroom, where some heavy road-making was being done. This they did not object to, as it was so far on the way to Rhodesia. They were glad also to find that they were not separated.
Here they were treated with all the ignominy and harshness that the stupid and merciless Boers could invent to make their captives sick of existence. They were put into a cell where only natives were confined, and not allowed any bedding whatever. If they could find space enough to lie down, that was all the comfort they were permitted to have.
This, of course, was intended to degrade them as far as possible, and doubtless would have been a terrible punishment to a Boer.
But our heroes, being more liberally brought up, did not find the company of those Kaffirs half the infliction that some of their late white companions had been. The captive savages were cleaner and more wholesome, both outwardly and inwardly.
They were men most of them, whose only crime had been that of conquered enemies. Tall, powerful warriors they had been once upon a time, with spirits still untamed, and hearts filled with undying hatred toward their harsh oppressors.
As soon as these prisoners discovered that Ned, Fred, and Clarence were English, and filled with the same hatred as they had, they received them into their ranks, and treated them with all the kindness and consideration which they were able to show.
Several of them formed a blood bond with our heroes, which made them allies and friends for life.
One clear benefit in this companionship was that these Kaffirs thus pledged would be faithful to them. Indeed, amongst the whole gang, there was not likely to be a traitor or a spy. These poor wretches had nothing to gain by treachery, for their condition would not be a whit improved. They all knew the Boers from bitter experience, and abhorred them as much as they respected their English conquerors.
By daybreak they were marched out to their work under the escort of an armed and mounted force of warders. The food served out to them was mealie-porridge with salt, and not too much of that. From the hour our heroes entered Nylstroom, they were constantly in a famishing condition.
Yet they had to labour as navvies all day long under the broiling rays until sundown, with hardly any intermission except the short time allowed for their midday meal. The overseers rode about abusing them in German and Low Dutch, and plying their cowhide whips over the backs of those who fainted or shirked their work. It was worse than slavery, as these Boers did not care whether the prisoners lived or died. If they resented the savage stroke by so much as a look, they were tied up and flogged almost to death. If they showed fight, they were at once shot down and flung to one side like carrion.
Our heroes could not have endured the whip even with their hopes of liberty buoying them up, therefore they laboured with a will, and gave the brutes no chance of chastising them. Sometimes the whip cracked over their heads, but fortunately for their future, it did not descend on their backs.
The reason for this was that their friends outside had managed to get at these venal wretches, and paid them a weekly sum to spare the young men that last outrage.
They were all the more closely watched for this very reason so that they might not escape. During the day this would have been impossible, as before they could have run a dozen steps, they would have been shot down.
They had passed a fortnight of this wretched existence, when, one day, as Ned looked up, he saw a party of horsemen riding past. Amongst them was Philip Martin, who, catching his eye, pointed quickly north, and then patted his horse.
Ned knew what that meant. They were to run northward when their chance came, where friends and horses would be in readiness.
His heart bounded as he read the signals and saw his friend gallop past him. Then he bent and plied his pickaxe with renewed energy.
In spite of their semi-starvation, the hard labour did not hurt our heroes. Already they had got over the utter exhaustion that made them so helpless when they reached their cells. They had lost flesh woefully, but their muscles were becoming tough and hard as steel, and their skins tanned and sun-proof. They did not fear but that they would be able to run once they got the chance.
Their cell was a small one, with corrugated iron on two sides and mud-cemented walls on the other two. Each night they were carefully searched before being locked in, so that it was impossible for them to smuggle in any tool.
Still, now that Ned had seen help so close at hand, he did not despair. What he could not get in himself might be sent to him from the outside.
That night he told his chums what he had seen, and their spirits rose wonderfully at the news.
“They will be on the outlook, I am sure, therefore we must let them know whereabouts we are located.” After some consultation the idea struck them to hang out a bit of rag from one of the narrow air-holes. If they did this that night, it was almost sure to be noticed and understood by those on the watch outside.
There were fifteen Kaffirs in this cell besides themselves who would have to be trusted. The lads had seen enough of them to risk taking the lot into their confidence.
“Cocoeni,” he whispered to a strong young fellow, who had vowed friendship with him, “would you like to escape?”
“You bet, baas,” replied the Kaffir, who understood and could speak a little English.
“And the others, will they help us?”
“Yes, baas; you may trust us all. We shall all help you if you show us how.”
“I have friends outside who, when they know where we are, will give us some instrument to break out of this.”
“Good. And what can we do to let them know?”
Ned had torn a piece from his shirt while he was speaking; he now said—
“Give me a back up, Cocoeni. I’ll push out this bit of rag. When the moon rises they will see it.”
“So will the Boers,” said Cocoeni.
“Oh, we must risk that. If they do wander round that side, they may not think anything about it. Besides, they are too lazy to do much knocking about at night.”
Cocoeni willingly placed his face against the wall, and bent his back while Ned climbed up on to his broad shoulders. It was pitch dark inside, but they could see the stars through the slits near the roof.
After the rag had been pushed half through so that one end hung outside and the other inside, they agreed to watch and watch turn about. At the first appearance of day they would take in the signal.
Clarence took the first watch of three hours, while the rest lay down to sleep. By this time every Kaffir had been told by Cocoeni, and they were prepared to obey orders.
Nothing disturbed Clarence. The Boers never troubled themselves to visit their prisoners during the night, and doubtless not many bothered themselves to keep awake.
He saw, however, by the rays of silver that the moon had risen and was shining on the outer wall. It was a full moon, so that the rag must be observed if any one was on the watch.
Fred took the next watch, nor had he anything to report when Ned relieved him. The moon by this time had moved round to the other side.
Ned waited patiently for about two hours in the darkness, when, just as he was beginning to think there would be no answer that night, Cocoeni touched him, and whispered softly in his ear—
“Baas, some one outside creeping gently.”
The keen ears of the savage had heard what Ned could not.
A few moments afterwards something heavy dropped upon his head, and fell with a muffled thud on the clay floor. He stooped to lift it, and to his delight felt the head of a small pickaxe wrapped in flannel. As he was unrolling it, another article came through the slit, and this he found to be the handle.
His friends had understood his signal, and this was their reply. He hugged handle and head in his arms with an ecstasy of delight. Now, at last, freedom was within sight.
It was too late, however, to do anything this morning. In another hour dawn would be upon them. They must defer operations for another night, and hide the treasure.
He explained what he had received to Cocoeni, who woke his friends to tell them, while Ned did the same with Fred and Clarence. A deep grunt of joy spoke the Kaffirs’ feelings, while our heroes fairly danced with pleasure.
To dig a small hole in the corner was the work of the next half-hour, after which they placed the articles side by side and covered them with the clay, which they pressed down, and moistening the top from their water-jug, they smoothed it as carefully over as they could in the dark.
One of the Kaffirs lay down on the damp clay and dried it with his body, while the others crawled about and picked up every portion of loose clay, which they swallowed as they found them.
Before the first streak of dawn crept in the floor was as clear of débris as it had been before, and the part over the pickaxe completely caked and dry.
Then Ned looked up to see and remove the rag. It was gone. The one who had brought the gift had removed the signal.
Chapter Sixteen.Breaking the Tronk.He is not a gregarious animal the Boer. Except for expeditions of murder or rapine, when expediency forces him to congregate, he prefers to wallow in his own sty.He does not enjoy night-work, either. The night to him is thronged with “spooks” and other nameless horrors which he does not care to face. He can murder a Kaffir in the most atrocious fashion, and think nothing about it as long as the sun shines, but he dreads that Kaffir’s “spook” after the sun sets. Even the uncertain light of the moon doesn’t seem to comfort him greatly.He has no humour in its sprightly and harmless sense. He can appreciate rough horse-play and clumsy practical jokes, particularly if there be a strong leaven of cruelty about them, and he is the joker. As a nation, the Boers have not wit enough to be sarcastic, although they can be bitter enough at times, and harsh always. But they are possessed, in its most childish, morbid, and undeveloped state, of imagination. During the day they are hard-headed, callous-hearted, keen-eyed men, ever on the outlook to best their neighbours and grab what advantage they can. Generations of previous warfare have made them quick and sure with their aim, perfect horsemen, and the finest skulkers in the world. By day they are impervious and vulture-eyed, and, according to their own uncivilised mode of conducting warfare, dogged and resolute, if not brave. We cannot call a man brave who slinks behind kopjes and circumvents his enemy only by treachery; yet, when driven into a hard corner, they will turn and fight with the viciousness of desperate rats.But at night they are a most timorous and superstitious set of shrinkers. Every strange sound makes their flesh creep and their hair bristle. The kloofs, and veldt, and karri are packed with evil spirits, whose weird revels they no more dare disturb, than would a jackal a lion while he is feeding. Their God is the Lord of vengeance, their religion a hotchpotch of rank superstition.Our heroes did not fear greatly that the cell would be disturbed while they were out of it. The prisoners were deputed to do the cleaning once a week, and Saturday was the day ordained for this duty. On Sundays they were allowed to rest, as according to the Transvaal laws, no trekking, or work of any kind, was permitted on that day.It was Thursday now, therefore they were almost positive that after they were driven out, the door would be locked until their return at sunset.How wearily the hours dragged on during that day which they fondly trusted was to be their last in this slavery!It was dry weather, fortunately being the middle of the winter season, as Nylstroom in the summer was one of the most malarial districts. Yet the sun blazed fiercely down upon the exposed and shelterless place where they worked, and tried them all severely.The mounted warders even became slothful with their whips as the morning advanced, and found smoking more to their minds than browbeating their charges.Ned and his two chums toiled on even harder than they had ever done before. They were thrilling with suppressed excitement, and felt glad of the work that made the hours pass. They scarcely lifted their heads or rested until the call came for the midday meal.Mealie-porridge for breakfast, dinner, and supper becomes monotonous; yet they were thankful enough even for this fare when it was served out to them. A mad longing for beef had been on them for some days past. The thought of it blended with their desire for liberty, so that they could think of little else.“Oh for a grilled steak!” groaned Clarence and Fred, as they bolted their unsavoury mixture.“We’ll have it, if all goes well, for breakfast,” whispered Ned, to keep up their courage.It was a lovely dream, and they hugged it, and kept their tongues moist all the afternoon with the sweet anticipation.It was astonishing to watch their companions the Kaffirs during that day of suspense. They wore their customary sullen and apathetic expressions, as if hope had no abiding-place in their bosoms. Not even by so much as a flash in their lurid eyes could any one have guessed that they were thinking of liberty. The only sign our heroes could note was their extra patience and endurance. When the cowhide ripped across their bare shoulders, they did not even give a quiver. It might have been a fly landing on the back of an elephant, for all they seemed to feel.As afternoon drew on, Ned and his chums began to husband their strength. They dug the pickaxe and spades more lightly into the baked clay, and played themselves at working as much as possible.At last the sun dropped to the horizon, and they were driven back to the tronk. As they approached, our heroes looked at the walls and building with keen speculation. The front was the portion occupied by the warders. A couple of men were supposed to watch the back from opposite corners, but, as Ned shrewdly surmised, they did not keep a very strict sentry, otherwise his friends could not have got over the wall as they had done the night before.For the few moments that twilight remained in the cell, they examined the ground and gave their Kaffir friends directions. The poor fellows listened attentively to their chosen leader, Cocoeni, and showed that they were ready.Then darkness came, and they began without delay. To prevent the sounds being heard, Ned and his chums began to sing; the others also made as much gabble as they could. In the other cells, which were divided by the iron sheeting, they could hear the prisoners quite distinctly. It was to prevent them hearing the pickaxe at work that they were making the row, but as for the Boers, they had no fear of them troubling to stop a wrangle or a ditty as long as it was not patriotic. Ned took care of this by starting and keeping up a few of Sankey’s hymns which he knew. While they were singing they likewise prayed fervently for their deliverance.Cocoeni took the pickaxe, as he was the strongest man there. With a few deft strokes he had broken the hardened surface of the floor; then, while he dug, the others scooped the earth out of the hole with their hands. He went down by the side of the wall until he had cleared the foundations; after this he began to tunnel.It took them till long after midnight before they got to the outside of the wall; then they began to dig upwards. They worked very carefully at this portion, and carried the débris into the cell by relays.At last they had reached the surface, and as some of the earth fell in upon them, they were able to see the stars. To their joy this side of the wall was buried in darkness, for the moon was on the other side.Ned looked out carefully as soon as the passage was wide enough.Halfway across the yard the shadow fell, leaving a patch of whiteness for some fifteen feet between that and the outer wall, which was about ten feet in height.At each angle a sentry-box stood clearly revealed. As far as Ned could see, they were unoccupied. The sentinels had evidently left their post, and the passage was clear.One by one they crept out, Cocoeni bringing the pickaxe with him.As they stood by the wall, Cocoeni whispered softly to Ned—“Wait, Baas. I creep round and see if no one about.”He crept off without a sound, while they watched and listened. In a moment more he was back.“All safe that way, Baas. Now for the other side.”They saw his dark figure glide along the whitewashed wall till he reached the end, then he disappeared round the corner.He was longer gone this time, and when he returned, he was carrying a heavy load. As he reached them, he laid his burden gently down and stretched himself up.“One Boer done for, Baas. Just caught him in time and brought him along,” he whispered. “You put on him clothes and take him gun, and it will be safe.”“Is he dead?” asked Ned, horror-struck.“Yes, Baas. Me make no mistake with pickaxe. Other fellow court him gal on the other side. Quick put on him coat and hat, and go over to the box. You see other fellow from there. If he still wait, hold up hand.”Ned, repugnant as the task was, felt the wisdom of acting upon the suggestion of Cocoeni. Swiftly he drew off the coat and hat from the dead Boer and put them on; then, bracing on his bandolier and revolver-belt, he took up the rifle and boldly crossed the line of light to the sentry-box.There were no windows to this end of the building, while from where he stood he could see the front gate, outside of which stood the figure of a stout-built woman pressing against the rails, while inside was the other sentry, with his face to her and his back to his duty. They were having their upsitting, or rather upstanding, in the moonlight, and seemingly totally oblivious to any one or anything else.It was gruesome to think of that bleeding corpse within the shadow, and those ponderous lovers looking at each other with speechless and moonstruck admiration. Ned shuddered to think of it, and now he was wearing the blood-soaked hat at the same time.However, there was no time to moralise. That Boer lover was likely to stand there until daybreak without budging, but some one else might come.He put up his hand, and at the signal the seventeen figures left their shelter and glided across like spectres. Ned could watch them and the pair at the gate. He was also able to make out that ghastly figure which they had left behind.Cocoeni bent his back and put his head against the wall, while one by one they clambered over him and dropped out of sight.“Now, Baas, your turn,” said the Kaffir, softly.Ned laid down his rifle and walked over to Cocoeni.“How are you going to get up?” he asked.“Easy. You go first, I come after.”In a moment Ned was on the wall.“Come on, Cocoeni.”“Wait a bit, Baas.”Cocoeni ran over to the sentry-box and snatched up the rifle, then he returned.“Catch, Baas, and get down other side. I be with you presently.”Ned saw him run back a few yards and then take a flying leap. Next instant the Kaffir was beside him on the ground, and they were free.So far all had gone well. Their danger now lay in the open country, which spread as clear under the moonlight as if it had been day. As they got away from the tronk wall they could easily be seen and potted by any of the authorities who might be posted about.However, this had to be risked, and the only course they could pursue at present was beside the main track.They therefore set off as fast as they could run, keeping to the grass, and making for the kopjes, which were some distance away. Ned had a notion that they would not have far to go before they met their friends, if their escape had not been already observed.Cocoeni kept alongside of our heroes, and carried both the rifle and pickaxe, which he had taken a fancy for since the gory deed it had been the instrument of. The rest scattered and kept on abreast over the valley.They ran past a couple of small houses, rousing the dogs, who started a chorus of loud yelps, but without disturbing the inmates, apparently.They were clear of the township now, and with the open country before them, yet by no means out of rifle-range, when a most unlucky accident happened. Cocoeni, by some carelessness or want of knowledge, suddenly let off the loaded rifle with a bang loud enough to wake the dead.Fortunately he had the rifle on his shoulder and pointing skyward, so that no one was hurt, but the effect meant disaster. It would rouse every Boer who heard it, and raise the tronk-keepers.“You have done it this time, Cocoeni!” cried Ned. “Now it must be neck or nothing. Forward, boys, with all the wind you can put on.”There was no time to look behind and see what result that shot had produced. One and all spun over the ground like racers.“Ping! ping! ping!” came the bullets after them. The burghers had got out of their beds, and were driving away at them from the windows of the two houses. One poor Kaffir flung up his hands and fell on his face. The death of the sentry had already been avenged.Up the hillside they rushed; they were amongst the stones now, therefore better able to dodge the bullets.For one instant Ned glanced back, and what he saw quickened his paces. From the tronk gates a body of horsemen were riding out, and spreading out upon the road.“We’re done for!” he gasped. “They’ll be up to us in five minutes.”At this instant his ears caught a clattering of hoofs in front of him, and, looking forward, he saw half a dozen horsemen galloping along the road, with three empty saddled horses amongst them.“Hurrah! we are saved!” he cried joyously.“Not yet, my son; but jump up without delay, and we’ll do our best,” answered one of the riders, as they reined up beside the escaped prisoners.“Halloa! you’ve got a tribe with you, I see,” said the leader, as Ned and his chums sprang into the empty saddles.“Yes; what about them?”“They must run for it and take their chance; we have no more horses here.”“Never mind us, Baas. We know where to hide. You get along. The Boers will follow you.”“Good-bye, brothers,” shouted Ned.“Good-bye, Baas! I’ll see you again by-and-by, never fear,” cried Cocoeni in his full, deep tones.Next instant the troop were riding at full speed, while the Kaffirs had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed them.
He is not a gregarious animal the Boer. Except for expeditions of murder or rapine, when expediency forces him to congregate, he prefers to wallow in his own sty.
He does not enjoy night-work, either. The night to him is thronged with “spooks” and other nameless horrors which he does not care to face. He can murder a Kaffir in the most atrocious fashion, and think nothing about it as long as the sun shines, but he dreads that Kaffir’s “spook” after the sun sets. Even the uncertain light of the moon doesn’t seem to comfort him greatly.
He has no humour in its sprightly and harmless sense. He can appreciate rough horse-play and clumsy practical jokes, particularly if there be a strong leaven of cruelty about them, and he is the joker. As a nation, the Boers have not wit enough to be sarcastic, although they can be bitter enough at times, and harsh always. But they are possessed, in its most childish, morbid, and undeveloped state, of imagination. During the day they are hard-headed, callous-hearted, keen-eyed men, ever on the outlook to best their neighbours and grab what advantage they can. Generations of previous warfare have made them quick and sure with their aim, perfect horsemen, and the finest skulkers in the world. By day they are impervious and vulture-eyed, and, according to their own uncivilised mode of conducting warfare, dogged and resolute, if not brave. We cannot call a man brave who slinks behind kopjes and circumvents his enemy only by treachery; yet, when driven into a hard corner, they will turn and fight with the viciousness of desperate rats.
But at night they are a most timorous and superstitious set of shrinkers. Every strange sound makes their flesh creep and their hair bristle. The kloofs, and veldt, and karri are packed with evil spirits, whose weird revels they no more dare disturb, than would a jackal a lion while he is feeding. Their God is the Lord of vengeance, their religion a hotchpotch of rank superstition.
Our heroes did not fear greatly that the cell would be disturbed while they were out of it. The prisoners were deputed to do the cleaning once a week, and Saturday was the day ordained for this duty. On Sundays they were allowed to rest, as according to the Transvaal laws, no trekking, or work of any kind, was permitted on that day.
It was Thursday now, therefore they were almost positive that after they were driven out, the door would be locked until their return at sunset.
How wearily the hours dragged on during that day which they fondly trusted was to be their last in this slavery!
It was dry weather, fortunately being the middle of the winter season, as Nylstroom in the summer was one of the most malarial districts. Yet the sun blazed fiercely down upon the exposed and shelterless place where they worked, and tried them all severely.
The mounted warders even became slothful with their whips as the morning advanced, and found smoking more to their minds than browbeating their charges.
Ned and his two chums toiled on even harder than they had ever done before. They were thrilling with suppressed excitement, and felt glad of the work that made the hours pass. They scarcely lifted their heads or rested until the call came for the midday meal.
Mealie-porridge for breakfast, dinner, and supper becomes monotonous; yet they were thankful enough even for this fare when it was served out to them. A mad longing for beef had been on them for some days past. The thought of it blended with their desire for liberty, so that they could think of little else.
“Oh for a grilled steak!” groaned Clarence and Fred, as they bolted their unsavoury mixture.
“We’ll have it, if all goes well, for breakfast,” whispered Ned, to keep up their courage.
It was a lovely dream, and they hugged it, and kept their tongues moist all the afternoon with the sweet anticipation.
It was astonishing to watch their companions the Kaffirs during that day of suspense. They wore their customary sullen and apathetic expressions, as if hope had no abiding-place in their bosoms. Not even by so much as a flash in their lurid eyes could any one have guessed that they were thinking of liberty. The only sign our heroes could note was their extra patience and endurance. When the cowhide ripped across their bare shoulders, they did not even give a quiver. It might have been a fly landing on the back of an elephant, for all they seemed to feel.
As afternoon drew on, Ned and his chums began to husband their strength. They dug the pickaxe and spades more lightly into the baked clay, and played themselves at working as much as possible.
At last the sun dropped to the horizon, and they were driven back to the tronk. As they approached, our heroes looked at the walls and building with keen speculation. The front was the portion occupied by the warders. A couple of men were supposed to watch the back from opposite corners, but, as Ned shrewdly surmised, they did not keep a very strict sentry, otherwise his friends could not have got over the wall as they had done the night before.
For the few moments that twilight remained in the cell, they examined the ground and gave their Kaffir friends directions. The poor fellows listened attentively to their chosen leader, Cocoeni, and showed that they were ready.
Then darkness came, and they began without delay. To prevent the sounds being heard, Ned and his chums began to sing; the others also made as much gabble as they could. In the other cells, which were divided by the iron sheeting, they could hear the prisoners quite distinctly. It was to prevent them hearing the pickaxe at work that they were making the row, but as for the Boers, they had no fear of them troubling to stop a wrangle or a ditty as long as it was not patriotic. Ned took care of this by starting and keeping up a few of Sankey’s hymns which he knew. While they were singing they likewise prayed fervently for their deliverance.
Cocoeni took the pickaxe, as he was the strongest man there. With a few deft strokes he had broken the hardened surface of the floor; then, while he dug, the others scooped the earth out of the hole with their hands. He went down by the side of the wall until he had cleared the foundations; after this he began to tunnel.
It took them till long after midnight before they got to the outside of the wall; then they began to dig upwards. They worked very carefully at this portion, and carried the débris into the cell by relays.
At last they had reached the surface, and as some of the earth fell in upon them, they were able to see the stars. To their joy this side of the wall was buried in darkness, for the moon was on the other side.
Ned looked out carefully as soon as the passage was wide enough.
Halfway across the yard the shadow fell, leaving a patch of whiteness for some fifteen feet between that and the outer wall, which was about ten feet in height.
At each angle a sentry-box stood clearly revealed. As far as Ned could see, they were unoccupied. The sentinels had evidently left their post, and the passage was clear.
One by one they crept out, Cocoeni bringing the pickaxe with him.
As they stood by the wall, Cocoeni whispered softly to Ned—
“Wait, Baas. I creep round and see if no one about.”
He crept off without a sound, while they watched and listened. In a moment more he was back.
“All safe that way, Baas. Now for the other side.”
They saw his dark figure glide along the whitewashed wall till he reached the end, then he disappeared round the corner.
He was longer gone this time, and when he returned, he was carrying a heavy load. As he reached them, he laid his burden gently down and stretched himself up.
“One Boer done for, Baas. Just caught him in time and brought him along,” he whispered. “You put on him clothes and take him gun, and it will be safe.”
“Is he dead?” asked Ned, horror-struck.
“Yes, Baas. Me make no mistake with pickaxe. Other fellow court him gal on the other side. Quick put on him coat and hat, and go over to the box. You see other fellow from there. If he still wait, hold up hand.”
Ned, repugnant as the task was, felt the wisdom of acting upon the suggestion of Cocoeni. Swiftly he drew off the coat and hat from the dead Boer and put them on; then, bracing on his bandolier and revolver-belt, he took up the rifle and boldly crossed the line of light to the sentry-box.
There were no windows to this end of the building, while from where he stood he could see the front gate, outside of which stood the figure of a stout-built woman pressing against the rails, while inside was the other sentry, with his face to her and his back to his duty. They were having their upsitting, or rather upstanding, in the moonlight, and seemingly totally oblivious to any one or anything else.
It was gruesome to think of that bleeding corpse within the shadow, and those ponderous lovers looking at each other with speechless and moonstruck admiration. Ned shuddered to think of it, and now he was wearing the blood-soaked hat at the same time.
However, there was no time to moralise. That Boer lover was likely to stand there until daybreak without budging, but some one else might come.
He put up his hand, and at the signal the seventeen figures left their shelter and glided across like spectres. Ned could watch them and the pair at the gate. He was also able to make out that ghastly figure which they had left behind.
Cocoeni bent his back and put his head against the wall, while one by one they clambered over him and dropped out of sight.
“Now, Baas, your turn,” said the Kaffir, softly.
Ned laid down his rifle and walked over to Cocoeni.
“How are you going to get up?” he asked.
“Easy. You go first, I come after.”
In a moment Ned was on the wall.
“Come on, Cocoeni.”
“Wait a bit, Baas.”
Cocoeni ran over to the sentry-box and snatched up the rifle, then he returned.
“Catch, Baas, and get down other side. I be with you presently.”
Ned saw him run back a few yards and then take a flying leap. Next instant the Kaffir was beside him on the ground, and they were free.
So far all had gone well. Their danger now lay in the open country, which spread as clear under the moonlight as if it had been day. As they got away from the tronk wall they could easily be seen and potted by any of the authorities who might be posted about.
However, this had to be risked, and the only course they could pursue at present was beside the main track.
They therefore set off as fast as they could run, keeping to the grass, and making for the kopjes, which were some distance away. Ned had a notion that they would not have far to go before they met their friends, if their escape had not been already observed.
Cocoeni kept alongside of our heroes, and carried both the rifle and pickaxe, which he had taken a fancy for since the gory deed it had been the instrument of. The rest scattered and kept on abreast over the valley.
They ran past a couple of small houses, rousing the dogs, who started a chorus of loud yelps, but without disturbing the inmates, apparently.
They were clear of the township now, and with the open country before them, yet by no means out of rifle-range, when a most unlucky accident happened. Cocoeni, by some carelessness or want of knowledge, suddenly let off the loaded rifle with a bang loud enough to wake the dead.
Fortunately he had the rifle on his shoulder and pointing skyward, so that no one was hurt, but the effect meant disaster. It would rouse every Boer who heard it, and raise the tronk-keepers.
“You have done it this time, Cocoeni!” cried Ned. “Now it must be neck or nothing. Forward, boys, with all the wind you can put on.”
There was no time to look behind and see what result that shot had produced. One and all spun over the ground like racers.
“Ping! ping! ping!” came the bullets after them. The burghers had got out of their beds, and were driving away at them from the windows of the two houses. One poor Kaffir flung up his hands and fell on his face. The death of the sentry had already been avenged.
Up the hillside they rushed; they were amongst the stones now, therefore better able to dodge the bullets.
For one instant Ned glanced back, and what he saw quickened his paces. From the tronk gates a body of horsemen were riding out, and spreading out upon the road.
“We’re done for!” he gasped. “They’ll be up to us in five minutes.”
At this instant his ears caught a clattering of hoofs in front of him, and, looking forward, he saw half a dozen horsemen galloping along the road, with three empty saddled horses amongst them.
“Hurrah! we are saved!” he cried joyously.
“Not yet, my son; but jump up without delay, and we’ll do our best,” answered one of the riders, as they reined up beside the escaped prisoners.
“Halloa! you’ve got a tribe with you, I see,” said the leader, as Ned and his chums sprang into the empty saddles.
“Yes; what about them?”
“They must run for it and take their chance; we have no more horses here.”
“Never mind us, Baas. We know where to hide. You get along. The Boers will follow you.”
“Good-bye, brothers,” shouted Ned.
“Good-bye, Baas! I’ll see you again by-and-by, never fear,” cried Cocoeni in his full, deep tones.
Next instant the troop were riding at full speed, while the Kaffirs had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed them.