The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories by English Authors: Africa, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Stories by English Authors: Africa Author: Various Release Date: March 25, 2006 [EBook #1980] Last Updated: September 21, 2016 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS: AFRICA *** Produced by Dagny; John Bickers, Christopher Hapka and David Widger
The darksome cave they enter, where they find
That cursed man, low sitting on the ground,
Musing full sadly in his sullen mind.
The Faerie Queene.
When Corporal Francis Dollond and Trooper James Franks, of the Natal
Mounted Police, overstayed their ten days’ leave of absence from the camp
on the Upper Tugela, in the early part of 1883, everybody was much
surprised; they being two of the best conducted and most methodical men in
the force. But the weeks and then the months went by without anything
whatever being heard of them, so they were officially recorded as
deserters. Nevertheless none of their comrades really believed that these
men had deserted; each one felt there was something mysterious about the
circumstances of their disappearance. They had applied for leave for the
alleged purpose of visiting Pietermaritzburg. They started on foot,
stating their intention of walking to Estcourt, hiring horses from natives
there, and proceeding on horseback. They had evidently never reached
Estcourt, as nothing could be heard of them at that village. They were
both young men—colonists by birth. Dollond had an especially
youthful appearance. Franks was older. He had joined the force later in
life. He and Dollond, who had only very recently before his disappearance
been promoted, were chums.
Some months later in the same year, when Troopers George Langley and Hiram
Whitson also applied for ten days’ leave of absence,—likewise to
proceed to Pietermaritzburg,—the leave was granted; but the officer
in charge of the detachment laughingly remarked that he hoped they were
not going to follow Dollond and Franks.
Now, neither Langley nor Whitson had the remotest idea of visiting
Pietermaritzburg. It is necessary, of course, for the reader to know where
they did intend going to, and how the intention arose; but before doing
this we must deal with some antecedent circumstances.
Langley was most certainly the most boyish-looking man in the force. He
had a perfectly smooth face, ruddy complexion, and fair hair. He was of
middle height, and was rather inclined to stoutness. He was so fond of
talking that his comrades nicknamed him “Magpie.” A colonist by birth, he
could speak the Kaffir language like a native.
Whitson was a sallow-faced, spare-built man of short stature, with
dark-brown beard and hair, and piercing black eyes. His age was about
forty. He had a wiry and terrier-like appearance. A “down-East” Yankee, he
had spent some years in Mexico, and then drifted to South Africa during
the war period, which, it will be remembered, lasted from 1877 to 1882. He
had served in the Zulu war as a non-commissioned officer in one of the
irregular cavalry corps, with some credit. The fact of his being a man of
extremely few words was enough to account for the friendship which existed
between him and the garrulous Langley. Whitson was known to be a dead shot
with the revolver.
This is how they came to apply for leave: One day Langley was strolling
about just outside the lines, looking for somebody to talk to, when he
noticed an apparently very old native man sitting on an ant-heap and
regarding him somewhat intently. This old native had been several times
seen in the vicinity of the camp, but he never seemed to speak to any one,
and he looked so harmless that the police did not even trouble to ask him
for the written pass which all natives are obliged by law to carry when
they move about the country. The old man saluted Langley and asked in his
own language for a pipeful of tobacco. Langley always carried some loose
leaves broken up in his pocket, so he at once pulled some of these out and
half filled the claw-like hand outstretched to receive them. The old
native was voluble in his thanks. There was a large ant-heap close to the
one on which he had been sitting, and on which he reseated himself while
filling his pipe. Against this Langley leaned and took a good look at his
companion. The man had a most extraordinary face. His lower jaw and
cheek-bones were largely developed, but Langley hardly noticed this, so
struck was he with the strange formation of the upper jaw. That portion of
the superior maxillary bone which lies between the sockets of the
eye-teeth protruded, with the sockets, to a remarkable degree, and instead
of being curved appeared to be quite straight. The incisor teeth were very
large and white, but it was the development of the eye-teeth that was most
startling. These, besides being very massive, were produced below the
level of the incisors to a depth of nearly a quarter of an inch. They
distinctly suggested to Langley the tusks of a baboon.
As is not very unusual with natives, the man was perfectly bald. His back
was bent, and his limbs were somewhat shrunken, but he did not appear in
the least degree decrepit. His eyelids were very red, and his eyes, though
dim, had a deep and intent look. Ugly as was the man—or perhaps by
virtue of his ugliness—he exercised a strange fascination over
Langley.
The old man, whose name turned out to be Ghamba, proved himself a talker
after Langley’s own heart. They discussed all sorts of things. Ghamba
startled his hearer by his breadth of experience and his shrewdness. He
said he was a “Hlubi” Kaffir from Qumbu, in the territory of Griqualand
East, but that he had for some time past been living in Basutoland, which
is situated just behind the frowning wall of the Drakensberg, to the
southwest of where they were speaking, and not twenty miles distant.
They talked until it was time for Langley to return to camp. He was so
pleased at the entertainment afforded by Ghamba that all the tobacco he
had with him found its way into the claw-like hand of that strange-looking
man of many experiences and quaint ideas. So Langley asked him to come to
the ant-heap again on the following day, and have another talk at the same
hour. This Ghamba, with a wide and prolonged exposure of his teeth,
readily agreed to do.
Langley was extremely voluble to Whitson that night over his new
acquaintance. Whitson listened with his usual impassiveness, and then
asked Langley how it was that “an old loafing nigger,” as he expressed it,
had impressed him so remarkably. Langley replied that he did not quite
know, but he thought the effect was largely due to the man’s teeth. But
all the same he was “a very entertaining old buffer.”
Next afternoon Langley was so impatient to resume conversation with his
new friend that he repaired to the ant-heap quite half an hour before the
appointed time. He had not, however, long to wait, as Ghamba soon
appeared, emerging from a donga a couple of hundred yards away.
Langley was more impressed than ever. Ghamba told him all about the
Basutos, among whom he had lived; about the old days in Natal, before even
the Dutch occupation, when Tshaka’s impis wiped whole tribes out of
existence; of the recent wars in Zululand and the Cape Colony, and as to
the probability of future disturbances. Charmed as was Langley by the old
man’s conversation, he felt that on this occasion there was a little too
much of it; that Ghamba was not nearly so good a listener as he had been
on the previous day; so when the latter at length put a question to him,
thus affording an opportunity for the exercise of his own pentup
loquacity, Langley felt elated, more especially as several inquiries were
grouped together in the one asking. Ghamba asked whether anything had been
heard of Umhlonhlo; whether the capture of that fugitive rebel was
considered likely, and whether it was true that a reward of five hundred
pounds had been offered by the government for his capture, dead or alive.
Umhlonhlo, it will be remembered, was the Pondomise chief who rebelled in
1880, treacherously murdered Mr. Hope, the magistrate of Qumbu, and his
two companions, and who has since been an outlaw with a price on his head.
Langley replied to the effect that it was quite true such a reward had
been offered as to Umhlonhlo’s whereabouts, but that the government
believed him to be in Pondoland; that he was sure to be captured
eventually; that he, Langley, only wished he knew where Umhlonhlo was, so
as to have the chance of making five hundred pounds with which to buy a
certain nice little farm he knew of; and that should he ever succeed in
obtaining the reward, and consequently in taking his discharge and
purchasing the farm, he would be jolly glad if old Ghamba would come and
live with him. This is only some of what he said; when Langley’s tongue
got into motion, he seemed to have some difficulty in stopping it.
However, he paused at last, and then Ghamba, looking very intently at him,
said:
“Look here, can you keep a secret?”
Here was a mystery.
“Rather!” said Langley.
“Will you swear by the name of God that you will not reveal what I have to
tell you?”
Langley swore.
Ghamba drew near until his teeth were within a few inches of Langley’s
cheek, and said in a whisper:
“I know where Umhlonhlo is.”
Langley started, and said in an awed voice:
“Where is he?”
“Wait a bit,” said Ghamba; “perhaps I will tell you, and perhaps I won’t.
I like you; you have given me tobacco, and you are not too proud to come
and talk to a poor old man. Now, you say you would like to make five
hundred pounds and buy a farm?”
“Rather!”
“And that you would let me go and live on the farm with you and end my
days in peace?”
“I would, gladly.”
“Well then, if I take you to where Umhlonhlo is, and you will kill him and
get the money, will you give me twenty-five pounds, and let me keep a few
goats, and grow a few mealies on your land?”
“I should think I would. But how could one man take or kill Umhlonhlo?
They say he is well armed and that he has a lot of followers with him.”
“Umhlonhlo,” said Ghamba, glancing anxiously round as if he feared the
very ant-heaps were listening, “is hiding in a cave in the mountain, not
three days’ walk from here. He has not got a single man with him, because
he fears being given up. He is really in hiding from his own followers
now. My sister is one of his wives, and that is how I know all about it. I
passed the cave where he lives four nights ago, and saw him sitting by the
fire. He has only a few women with him.”
“And how do you think I should take him?”
“Take him? you should kill him. I will guide you to the cave by night, and
then you can shoot him as he sits by the fire.”
Langley, although no coward, was not particularly brave. He did not much
relish the idea of alone tackling the redoubtable Umhlonhlo, a savage of
muscle, who was reported to be always armed to the teeth. Moreover, he had
no gun, and was but an indifferent shot with a revolver. So he thought
over the matter for a few moments and then said:
“Look here, Ghamba; I do not care to tackle this job alone, but if I can
take another man with me, I am on.”
“Then you will only get half of the five hundred pounds, and will not be
able to buy the farm. You need not be afraid; you can shoot him without
his seeing you.”
“No,” said Langley, after a pause; “I will not go alone, but if you will
let me take another man with me it can be managed. It will make no
difference to you; you will get your twenty-five pounds.”
“And how about my going to live on the farm with you?”
“Well, I could not buy the farm for two hundred and fifty pounds. Come, we
will give you fifty pounds instead of twenty-five.”
Ghamba thought for a while and then said:
“Very well, I consent. But there need be only one other man, and you will
write down on a piece of paper that you will give me fifty pounds. When
can we start?”
“I must speak to the other man, and then we will apply for leave. We had
better start soon, or else Umhlonhlo may have gone to some other place of
hiding.”
“Yes, we must lose no time.”
“All right! Meet me here to-morrow and I will bring my friend. We will
then settle all about it.”
“You must not mention this matter to any one else, and you must make your
friend promise to keep the secret.”
“Oh, that’s all right!” said Langley. “Meet me here to-morrow, just after
dinner.”
Langley went back to camp, Ghamba looking after his retreating figure with
a smile that revealed his teeth in a very striking manner. Langley was
intensely excited, and exacted (quite unnecessarily) the most solemn
promises from Whitson not to divulge the great secret which he confided to
him. Whitson agreed at once to join in the enterprise, which was one after
his own heart.
Next day the three met at the big ant-heap, and Whitson was very much
impressed by Ghamba’s teeth. He told Langley afterward that they reminded
him of a picture of the devil which he had seen in a copy of “Pilgrim’s
Progress.” The old man’s story appeared, however, consistent enough, in
spite of his peculiar dentition.
So, after a short conversation, Langley and Whitson returned to camp,
having made an appointment to meet Ghamba again on the following morning
at sunrise, so as to finally arrange as to time of starting, etc. They
went at once to the officer in charge of the detachment and applied for
ten days’ leave of absence for the purpose of proceeding to
Pietermaritzburg, which was at once granted.
Next morning they met Ghamba again, and agreed to start on their
expedition that evening. He explained that they must do all their
traveling by night, and lie by during the day; because it would never do
for him, Ghamba, to run the risk of being recognised by persons whom they
might meet. For the sake of his Hlubi relations who were living among the
Pondomise at Qumbu, it was absolutely necessary that he should not appear
in the transaction at all. Were it ever to be even suspected that he had
betrayed the chief, not alone would he be certainly killed, but all his
relations would be shunned by the other natives. He was an old man, so for
him, personally, nothing mattered very much, but a man is bound to
consider the interests of his family. Travelling only by night, and lying
still and hidden during the day, were therefore absolutely necessary
stipulations, and Langley and Whitson agreed to them as intelligible and
reasonable. All being settled, the latter started for the camp, Ghamba
baring his teeth excessively as they walked away.
At dusk on the evening of the same day, Langley and Whitson met Ghamba
once more at the large ant-heap, and the three at once proceeded on their
course. The only arms taken were revolvers of the government regulation
pattern (breech-loading central fire). They carried provisions calculated
to last eight days, but took no blankets on account of having to travel at
night. When Ghamba volunteered to relieve them of a considerable share of
their respective loads, Langley and Whitson were filled with grateful
surprise.
The plan was as follows: Whitson was to shoot Umhlonhlo, and then remain
in the cave while Langley returned to the camp to report what had been
done, and cause persons who could identify the body to be sent for. They
seem to have had no scruples as to the deed they meant to do; certainly
Umhlonhlo deserved no more mercy than a beast of prey. Nor does it seem to
have struck them that possibly they might shoot the wrong man. But there
was an air of conviction about the manner in which Ghamba showed his teeth
when asked whether he was positive as to the identity of the man in the
cave, that would have dissipated the doubts of most men. Besides this, he
drew out the written undertaking which they had delivered to him, and
said, with a profoundly businesslike look:
“Do I not want the money? Should I take all this trouble if I did not know
what I were doing?”
They walked all night, only resting once or twice for a few minutes. It
was found that Ghamba, in spite of his age, was an extremely good walker;
and when they halted at daylight, Langley was so done up that he could not
have held out for another half-hour. Whitson, the wiry, had not yet felt
the least fatigue.
This march had taken them to the very foot of the Drakensberg range, and
they rested in a valley between two of its main spurs. Here they remained
all day, comfortably located in a sheltered nook where there was plenty of
dry grass. Their resting-place was encircled by immense rocks. Although
the surrounding country was desolate to a degree, and neither a human
being nor an animal was to be seen, Ghamba would not hear of their
lighting a fire nor leaving the spot where they rested. The weather was
clear, and neither too warm nor too cold. They slept at intervals during
the day, and at evening felt quite recovered from their fatigue.
At nightfall they again started, their course leading steeply up the gorge
in which they had rested. Although the pathway became more and more
indistinct, Ghamba appeared never to be at a loss. Langley several times
shuddered, when they passed by the very edge of some immense precipice, or
clambered along some steep mountain-side, where a false step would have
meant destruction. He began to show signs of fatigue soon after midnight,
so at Ghamba’s suggestion a considerable portion of his load was
transferred to the shoulders of Whitson, who seemed to be as tireless as
Ghamba himself.
At daybreak they halted in the depths of another tremendous gorge with
precipitous sides. The scenery in this particular area of the Drakensberg
range, the neighbourhood of the Mont aux Sources, is indescribably grand
and impressive, and is quite unlike anything else in South Africa.
Enormous and fantastically shaped mountains are here huddled together
indiscriminately, and between them wind and double deep gloomy gorges,
along the bottoms of which mighty boulders are thickly strewn. On dizzy
ledge and steep slope dense thickets of wild bamboo grow, and a few
stunted trees fill some of the less deep clefts, wherever the sunshine can
penetrate. Splendid as is the scenery, its gloom, its stillness, its naked
crags and peaks, its dark depths that seem to cleave to the very vitals of
the earth, become so oppressive that, after a few days spent among them,
the traveller is filled with repulsion and almost horror. Few living
things have their home there. You might meet an occasional “klipspringer”
(an antelope, in habits and appearance somewhat like the chamois), a
wandering troop of baboons, and now and then a herd of eland in the more
grassy areas. There are said to be a few Bushmen still haunting the caves,
but they are seldom or never seen.
In the afternoon the sun shone into the gorge in which the travellers were
resting, and for a few hours the heat was very oppressive. Whitson
examined his revolver, removing the cartridges and replacing them by
others. He then lay down to sleep, asking Langley to remain awake and keep
a lookout. He had a vague feeling of uneasiness which he could not
overcome. Langley promised to keep awake, but he was too tired to do so.
He sat with his back against a rock, and, after some futile efforts to
keep his eyes open, fell fast asleep. By-and-by Ghamba woke him gently,
and, pointing to Whitson, whose revolver lay in the leather case close to
his hand, whispered:
“Did he not tell you to keep awake?”
Langley was grateful for this evidence of consideration, but he could not
quite make out how Ghamba had been able to understand what Whitson had
said. However, when the latter awoke, Langley said nothing to him about
having disobeyed instructions.
Ghamba said that about two hours’ walk would now bring them to Umhlonhlo’s
cave, so they started off briskly at dusk. Their course now led for some
distance along a mountain ledge covered with wild bamboo, through which
the pathway wound. Then they crossed a steep saddle between two enormous
peaks, after which they plunged into another deep and winding gorge. This
they followed until they reached a part where it was so narrow that the
sides seemed almost to touch over their heads. Beyond the cliffs fell
apart, and then apparently curved toward each other again, thus forming an
immense amphitheatre. At the entrance to this Ghamba stopped, and said in
a whisper that they were now close to the cave.
They now held a consultation, in terms of which it was decided that Ghamba
should go forward and reconnoitre. So Whitson and Langley sat down close
together and waited, conversing in low tones.
Whitson felt very uneasy, but Langley tried to argue him out of his fears.
The more Whitson saw of Ghamba, the more he disliked and distrusted him
and his teeth. The instinct which detects danger in the absence of any
apparent evidence of its existence is a faculty developed in some men by
an adventurous life. This faculty Whitson possessed in a high degree.
“Did you keep awake all the time I slept this afternoon?” he asked.
Langley feared Whitson and felt inclined to lie, but something impelled
him, almost against his will, to speak the truth now.
“No,” he replied; “I slept for a few minutes.”
Whitson drew his revolver and opened the breech.
“By God!” he said, “the cartridges are gone!”
Langley took his weapon out of the leather case and opened it. He found
the cartridges were there right enough.
“Have you any spare cartridges?” asked Whitson.
Whitson had already loaded his revolver with the five cartridges which he
had removed in the afternoon, but he again took these out and replaced
them in his waistcoat pocket, and then he reloaded with some which Langley
passed over to him with a trembling hand.
“Look here,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “we are in a trap of some kind.
When that old scoundrel comes back, do not let him know that we have found
out anything. We will walk on with him for a short distance, at all
events, and then be guided by circumstances. Stand by when you see me
collar him, and slip a sack over his head.”
“Can we not go back now?” said Langley.
“Certainly not; we would never find our way at night. I guess we must see
this circus out. If you have to shoot, aim low.”
In a few minutes Ghamba returned.
“Come on,” he said. “He is sitting at the fire in front of the cave. I
have just seen him.”
“Where is the cave?” asked Whitson. “Is it far from here?”
“We will reach it very soon; you can see the light of the fire from a few
paces ahead.”
They walked on for about fifty yards, and there, sure enough, over a rocky
slope to their left, and at the foot of a crag about three hundred yards
away, could be seen the bright and fitful glow from a fire which was
hidden from their view by a low ridge of piled-up rocks.
Whitson stood still and questioned Ghamba:
“Now tell me,” he asked, through Langley as interpreter, “how we are to
approach.”
“The pathway leads up on the left side,” replied Ghamba. “We will walk
close up to the crag, where there is a narrow passage between it and that
big black rock which you see against the light. You two can lead, and I
will be close behind. I have just seen him. He is sitting at the fire,
eating, and only the women are with him.”
The last words were hardly out of the speaker’s mouth before Whitson had
seized him by the throat with a vice-like grasp.
“Seize his hands and hold them,” he hissed to Langley.
Ghamba struggled desperately, but could not release himself. Whitson
compressed his throat until he became unconscious, and then gagged him
with a pocket-handkerchief. Ghamba’s hands were then tied tightly behind
his back with another pocket-handkerchief, and his feet were firmly
secured with a belt. An empty sack (from which they had removed their
provisions) was then drawn over his head and shoulders, and secured round
the waist.
“Come on now, quickly,” whispered Whitson, and he and Langley started off
in the direction of the fire, after first taking off their boots.
They did not approach by the course which Ghamba had indicated, but made
their way quietly up the slope, straight against the face of the crag.
They reached the heap of rocks, and crept in among them by means of
another narrow passage, close to the inner end of which the fire was; and
this is what they saw through the twigs of a scrubby bush which
effectually concealed them:
A large cave opened into the side of the mountain, and just before the
mouth was an open space about twenty yards in diameter, surrounded on all
sides, except that of the mountain itself, by a wall of loosely piled
rocks, through which passages led out in different directions. Just in
front of the cave burned a bright fire, around which crouched four most
hideous and filthy-looking old hags, and against which were propped
several large earthenware pots of native make, full of water. Standing
behind rocks, one at each side of the inner entrance to the passage, which
was evidently that communicating with the pathway indicated by Ghamba as
the one they were to approach by, were two powerful-looking men, stark
naked, and as black as ebony, their skins shining in the light of the
fire. Each man held a coiled thong in his hands, after the manner of a
sailor about to heave a line. While they were looking, a woman, somewhat
younger in appearance than any of those who sat by the fire, came out of
the cave carrying a strong club about three feet long. She crouched down
close to the man standing on the left-side of the passage, who, as well as
his companion, stood as still as a marble statue, and in an expectant
attitude.
Whitson and Langley, with their revolvers drawn, suddenly stepped out of
their concealment, and walked toward the fire. This evidently disconcerted
the men with the thongs, who apparently did not expect their intended prey
to approach by any course except the passage near which they were
standing; but after a slight pause of hesitancy the thongs were whirling
in the air, and descending, lasso-fashion, upon the shoulders of the
intruders. The noose caught Langley over his arms, which were instantly
drawn close against his body as the thong tightened, so he was thus
rendered completely powerless; but Whitson sprang, quick as lightning, to
one side, and escaped. Three shots from his revolver rang out in as many
seconds, and the two men and the woman—who was in the act of lifting
her club to brain Langley—lay rolling on the ground, each with a
bullet through the head.
The four old hags at the fire began to mow and scream, and got up and
hobbled into the cave. Whitson drew his knife and cut the thong with which
Langley was vainly struggling, and then the two men, pale as death, looked
silently at each other with staring eyes.
Whitson replaced his revolver, and then made a sort of torch out of dry
reeds, a pile of which lay close at hand. He then, leaving Langley to
guard the cave, carefully examined all the passages and spaces between the
rocks, but he could find no trace of any one. The two men thereupon
entered the cave, Whitson holding the torch high over his head. They found
that it ran straight in for about fifteen paces, and then curved sharply
to the left.
It was about four paces in width, and about eight feet high, the roof
being roughly arched. The walls and roof were covered with thick black
greasy soot; and an indescribably horrible stench, which increased the
farther they advanced, made them almost vomit. They found that where the
cave curved to the left it ended in a circular chamber about eight paces
in diameter, and at one side of this crouched the four old hags, huddled
together, and mowing and chattering horribly.
Across a cleft about two feet wide, in the right-hand wall of the cave, a
stick was fixed transversely, and hanging to this were some lumps of
half-dried and smoked flesh. Whitson went up close and examined these
carefully. He drew back with a shudder, and his face changed from pale to
ashen gray.
He and Langley then went outside and stood for a while in the fresh air.
They could endure, just then, no more of the fetid atmosphere inside.
After a short time they gathered up some dry twigs and reeds, and set
several little heaps alight at different spots inside. This had the effect
of making the atmosphere more bearable in the course of a few minutes.
They then made a larger fire in the middle of the cave, and proceeded to
examine it more closely.
They found several old iron picks, such as are used by natives in
cultivating their fields, some very filthy skins, a number of earthenware
pots, a few knives, and an axe; but nothing more.
The floor of the cave was of clay, and at one spot it appeared to have
been recently disturbed. Here Langley began to dig with a pick, which,
just below the surface, struck against some hard substance. This, when
uncovered, proved to be a bone. He threw it to one side and dug deeper,
uncovering more bones—some old, and others comparatively fresh, but
emitting a horrible smell. He stooped and picked one up, but dropped it
immediately, as if it burned him. It was the lower jawbone of a human
being.
“Great God!” he gasped. “What is the meaning of this?”
“It means,” said Whitson, “that we are in a nest of bloody cannibals!”
Langley dropped like a stone, in a dead faint; so Whitson dragged him
outside, and, leaving him to recover in the open air, returned to the
cave. He then seized the pick and began digging, unearthing some new
horror at every stroke. A glittering object caught his eye; he picked this
up and found it to be the steel buckle of a woman’s belt. He glanced
toward the cleft in the rock where the lumps of flesh were hanging, and
caught his breath short. Going outside he made another torch, which he
lit; and then he returned and carefully examined the loosened surface.
Another glittering object caught his eye. This, when examined, proved to
be an old silver watch, the appearance of which seemed familiar. He forced
open the case, and saw, roughly scratched on the inside, the letter D. He
now recognised it; he remembered having once fixed a glass in this very
watch for Dollond, about a month before the latter’s disappearance.
Continuing his search Whitson found the iron heel-plate of a boot, and a
small bunch of keys.
Whitson drew his revolver, and picking up the torch went into the terminal
chamber. Four shots, fired in quick succession, reverberated immediately
afterward through the cavern.
Whitson then went outside to Langley, whom he found sitting down near the
fire, looking if possible, more ghastly than before. The presence of
Whitson seemed, however, to act on him as a kind of tonic, and he soon
pulled himself together sufficiently to assist in piling a quantity of
fuel upon the already sinking fire, which soon blazed brightly, lighting
up the mouth of the cavern and the space in front of it. One of the bodies
of the men who had been shot was lying on its side, with the face toward
the fire. Whitson examined the mouth, pushing back the upper lip with a
piece of stick. He found that the shape of the mouth and the development
of the teeth were the same as Ghamba’s. The other bodies were lying on
their faces, so he did not trouble to examine them.
Whitson then told Langley to follow him, and the two walked down the
foot-path toward where they had left Ghamba. Him they found lying
motionless in the position in which he had been left about an hour
previously. They removed the sack and the gag and untied his feet, first
taking the precaution to fasten the belt by one end to his bound hands,
Whitson holding the other. They then signed to him to proceed toward the
cave, and this he silently did, without making any resistance. He looked
calmly at the three dead bodies, but said not a word. Langley held him,
while Whitson again tied his feet together with the belt, and then they
placed him with his back against a rock, facing the fire, which was still
blazing brightly. His lips were drawn back in a ghastly, mirthless, grin,
and the tusks were revealed from point to insertion.
Langley questioned Ghamba, but he would not speak. After several attempts
to force him to answer had been vainly made, Whitson said:
“Now tell him that if he speaks and tells the whole truth he will only be
shot, but if he does not speak he will be burned alive.”
This was interpreted, but the threat had no apparent effect. So Whitson
seized Ghamba and dragged him to the fire, where he flung him down on the
very edge of the glowing embers.
“Now,” said Whitson, holding him down with his foot, so that he got
severely scorched, “for the last time, will you speak?”
“Take me away from the fire, and I will speak,” said Ghamba, in English.
So they lifted him, and set him again with his back to the rock.
“Now,” said Whitson, “go ahead, and no nonsense!”
“If I tell the whole truth,” said Ghamba, still speaking English, and with
a fair accent, “will you swear not to burn me, but to shoot me, so that I
shall die at once?”
“I will,” said Whitson.
“You too must swear,” said Ghamba, looking at Langley.
“Yes, I swear.”
“Very well,” said Ghamba, “I will tell you everything, but you must both
remember what you have sworn to.”
“Yes, all right,” said Whitson. Ghamba then looked at Langley, who
repeated the words.
“I will tell you,” said Ghamba, “all I can remember, and you can ask
questions, which I shall answer truly. You have heard of Umdava, who used
to eat men in Natal long ago, after the wars of Tshaka—well, he was
my uncle. After Umdava had been killed and his people scattered, my
father, with a few followers, came to live among these mountains. But we
found that after having eaten human flesh we could enjoy no other food, so
we caught people and ate them. These two men lying dead are my sons, and
that woman is my daughter. My four wives were here to-night. They are very
old women. Have you not seen them?” he asked, looking at Whitson.
“They are in there; I shot them,” said Whitson, pointing to the cave.
“I had other children,” continued Ghamba, quite unmoved, “but we ate them
when food was scarce.”
“Have you always lived, all these years, on human flesh?” asked Whitson.
“No, not always; but whenever we could obtain it we did so. There is other
food in these mountains—honey, ants’ eggs, roots, and fruit; besides
game, which is, however, not very easy to catch. But we have often all had
to go away and work when times have been bad. Besides, I have a herd of
cattle at a Basuto kraal, and I have been in the habit of taking some of
these now and then, and exchanging them for corn, which the women then
went to fetch. But we have always tried to get people to eat, because we
could enjoy no other kind of food. Sometimes we got them easily; and when
we were very fortunate we used to dry part of the meat by hanging it up
and lighting a fire underneath, with green wood, so as to make plenty of
smoke.”
“Have you killed many white people?” asked Whitson.
“Yes, a good number; but not, of course, as many as black. Lately we have
always tried to catch whites, because when you have eaten white flesh for
some time, the flesh of a native no longer satisfies you.”
“Why not?”
“The flavour is not so strong.”
“Did you induce the other two policemen to come up by means of the story
about Umhlonhlo?”
“Yes, they came up just as you did, and my sons caught them with the
thongs. Umhlonhlo has brought us plenty of food.”
“Were you able to take the cartridges out of their revolvers as you did
out of mine?”
“No, I had no opportunity; but it was not necessary, because my sons were
so expert at throwing the thongs that they could always catch people over
the arms, and thus render them unable to shoot.”
“How did they manage to become so expert?”
“By continued practice. I used to walk up the path over and over again,
and let them throw the thong over me. Then the woman was always there with
the club, so that, if one of the thongs missed, she was ready to strike.
I, also, was usually ready to help, in case of necessity.”
“Why did you think it necessary to take the cartridges out of my
revolver?”
“Because I feared you from the first, and were it not that he”—baring
his teeth and glancing at Langley, who shuddered—“looked so nice,
and that we wanted fresh meat so badly, I would not have risked bringing
you. But it would have been all right if I had only let your revolver
alone.”
“You say Umhlonhlo has brought you plenty of food; did you ever get any
one besides ourselves and the other two policemen to come up here by
telling them that story?”
“Yes, two others—one a man who was searching for gold on the Free
State side of the mountains, and the other a trader whom I met at Maseru.
But these each came alone.”
“I see the buckle of a woman’s belt in there. Whom did that belong to? You
surely never got a white woman up here?”
“Yes, we did,” said Ghamba, with a horrible half-smile which bared the
gums high above the sockets of his tusks. “She was a young girl who had
strayed from a waggon passing over the mountain by the Ladysmith road,
only a day’s walk from here. I pretended to show her the shortest way to
her waggon, and thus brought her as far as she could walk in this
direction. I then killed her, and came up here and fetched my sons. We
carried her up in the night. She was very young and plump, and I have
never eaten anything that I enjoyed so much.” (Whitson turned cold with
horror. He remembered the girl’s mysterious disappearance, and the
fruitless searches undertaken in consequence.) “His flesh”—glancing
again at Langley—“looks something like hers did, and I am sure it
would taste just as nice. There was still a little of her left when I went
away last week. If you will go in there and look where the rock is split
on the right-hand side, you will—” But he did not finish the
sentence, for a bullet from Whitson’s revolver crushed through his brain,
and he tumbled forward on his face into the fire.
It was only after tremendous difficulty that Whitson and Langley succeeded
in escaping from the mountains. However, on the evening of the third day
after their adventure in the cave, they came in sight of the police camp.
Whitson sat down on a stone, and motioned his companion to do the same.
“See here, sonny,” he said, “I want to have a short talk with you. I am a
bit cross with you as the cause of my having been sucked in by that d—d
murdering old walrus. You ought to know the inhabitants of this country
better than a simple stranger like me, and so I took your lead. Now,
another thing: you nearly bust us both by your blasted foolishness in
going to sleep that day; but let that pass, because perhaps it would have
been worse if we had not been put on our guard; not but that it would take
a d—d smart cannibal to eat Hiram Whitson. But this is what I am
coming to: you, my boy, are a darned sight too fond of hearing your own
tongue clack. Now, take a warning from me, and don’t let a word of what
has happened since we left camp for Pietermaritzburg pass your lips. I did
all the shooting, and I’m not a bit ashamed of it; but, by the eternal
God, if you open your lips to a soul, I’ll shoot you like a dog or a
cannibal! Remember that, sonny, and say it quietly over to yourself the
first time you feel that you want to blab. Now, shake hands.”
This was probably the longest speech that Whitson had ever made.
About two years after the events narrated, Whitson took his discharge and
returned to America. He left behind him a sealed packet addressed to his
commanding officer, and which was not to be delivered for twelve months
after his departure.
Owing, however, to a strange combination of fortuitous circumstances, this
packet never reached its proper destination; its wrapper, bearing the
address, having been scorched off in a fire which took place in the house
where it was left.
NOTE
Many people have heard or read of the cannibals of Natal, who turned large
tracts of country into a shambles in the early part of this century, after
Tshaka’s impis had swept off all the cattle, and then kept the miserable
people continually on the move so that they were unable to cultivate. One
Umdava originated the practice of eating human flesh. Gathering together
the fragments of four scattered tribes, he trained them to hunt human
beings as others hunted game. This gang was a greater scourge to the
country surrounding the present site of Pietermaritzburg than even
Tshaka’s murdering hordes. It was broken up in or about the year 1824,
when the Europeans first came to the country, and the remnants of many
scattered tribes returned and settled under their protection.
All this is history with which most people in South Africa are familiar,
but many do not know that some of the cannibals fled to Basutoland, where,
among almost inaccessible mountains, they carried on their horrible
practices for many years.
It is a well-known fact that when men once surrender themselves to any
unnatural and brutal vice, the gratification of the abnormal instinct thus
acquired becomes the most imperative need of their nature. The Falkland
Islands case, as bearing specially upon the foregoing narrative, may be
mentioned. Some convicts escaped from the Falkland Island convict station,
and succeeded in reaching the coast of Patagonia. They then endeavored to
make their way to Montevideo, but having to keep along the shore so as to
avoid the natives, who would have killed them had they ventured inland,
were easily intercepted by the government cutter, which was always
despatched in cases of the kind to head off fugitives upon their only
possible course. Of the party only one man was found alive. In their
dreadful need the men had cast lots as to who should be killed and eaten
by the others, and this went on until only the one man remained. His
sufferings had been so horrible that he was let off any further
punishment, and simply brought back to the island to complete the term of
his sentence. Some months after, this man induced another to escape with
him in a boat, and, when the boat was overtaken, it was found that he had
killed his companion for the purpose of eating the latter’s flesh. This
was apparent from the fact that the supply of food which the fugitives had
taken with them was not exhausted.
GENTS IS REKESTED TO SHOOT
CLEAR OF THE BARR-KEP.
BROKIN GLAS MAY BE PADE FOR
AT COST PRISE.
and had been written for the German by a gentleman who had had some
experience in Forty Rod Gulch, Nevada. The action elicited a contemptuous
laugh from one or two of the new hands, but the oldsters began shifting
sundry articles which depended from their belts into positions from which
they might be handled at the shortest notice; and the black cat, more wise
than any of them, having drunk his fill, stalked solemnly out into the
security of the darkness.
The sun went down,—went out with a click, some one declared,—and,
as no twilight interposed between daylight and darkness in the country
which Big Stone Hole ornamented, Herr Gustav lit his two paraffin-lamps.
Neither boasted more than a one-inch wick, and, as their glasses were
extremely smoky, the illumination was not brilliant; but it sufficed to
show the flushed, angry faces of a couple of men standing in the centre of
the room, with all the others clustered round, watching eagerly. One was
the Scholar. The other was a burly giant, whose missing left little finger
caused him to be nicknamed the Cripple. About what they had originally
fallen out was not clear to any one, to themselves least of all. As the
case stood when the second lamp was lit, Scholar had called Cripple a
something-or-other liar, and Cripple, who was not inventive, had retorted
by stigmatising Scholar as another. Further recriminations followed, and
their pistols were drawn; but as the audience had a strong objection to
indiscriminate shooting, by which it was not likely to benefit, the
belligerents were seized. No one was unsportsmanlike enough to wish to
stop the fight, and Jockey Bill, giving voice to the general wish of the
meeting, proposed that the gents be fixed up agin’ a couple o’ posts
outside, where they might let daylight into each other without
lead-poisoning casual spectators.
The motion was acted on, and after rectifying a slight omission on the
Cripple’s part—he had forgotten to put caps on the nipples of his
revolver—the pair of them were seated upon upturned barrels some ten
yards apart, each with a lamp at his feet, and told to begin when they saw
fit to do so. The swarthy, bearded diggers grouped themselves on either
side, and the cat, emerging from his retreat, scrambled on to the shoulder
of one of them, fully as curious as the rest to “see the shootin’.” It was
a weird sight,—dust, scorched grass, empty tins, rude hovels, piles
of debris, African moonlight,—yet, except, perhaps, in the eyes of
the newest comers, there was nothing strange in it. The others were too wrapped
up in what was going to take place to see anything quaint in their
every-day surroundings. There was no theatre in the camp. The little
impromptu drama riveted all attention.
But before the duel commenced, a galloping horse, which had approached
over the grassy veldt unnoticed during the excitement, drew up with a
crash between the two combatants, and its rider, raising his hand to
command attention, cried:
“Boys, there’s a white woman comin’!”
“A white woman!” was chorused in various tones of disbelief. “What, here?
White woman comin’ here, Dan?”
And then some one inquired if she was a Boer.
“Boer—no,” replied Dan; “English—English as I am; leastways
Englisher, bein’ Amurrican-born myself. Overtook her et Hottentot Drift.
Thort I’d spur on an’ tell yer. We’d do wi’ a clean-up, some on us.”
Dan spoke indistinctly, as a bullet had lately disarranged some of his
teeth; but his words had a wonderful effect.
Each man began instinctively to tidy himself. The would-be duellists,
forgetting their quarrel, stuck the revolvers in their belts and followed
the general example. The Cripple hied him to the store, and after breaking
down the door abstracted the only blacking-brush in the camp,—putting
down a sovereign on the counter in exchange for it,—and set to
polishing his high boots as if a fortune depended on their brightness. The
Scholar bought Herr Gustav’s white shirt for a fiver, threatening to
murder its owner if he did not render it up. And Partridge, a good man
from Norfolk, with a regrettable weakness for shooting other people’s
game, induced a friend to denude him of his flowing locks by means of a
clasp-knife and a hunk of wood, as no scissors were procurable.
The wardrobes of Big Stone Hole were stocked more with a view to strict
utility than variety or ornamentation, and the slender resources of the
store utterly gave out under the sudden strain that was put upon them. In
every direction grimy, unkempt men might be seen attempting to beautify
themselves. Here was one enduring agonies from a razor that would scarcely
whittle a stick; here another recalling the feel of a cake of soap; there
a great fellow pulling faces as he struggled to get the teeth of a comb
into his shock of hair; there another brushing the clay from his moleskin
trousers with a tuft of stiff grass.
It seemed to these men ages since they had last seen a woman in the flesh,—Kaffir
women don’t count; they are not women, merely Kaffirs,—and, with the
natural instinct of males of every species, they set about pluming their
feathers.
These operations, though speedy as might be, were necessarily prolonged,
for most of the men required several buckets of water over the head before
they felt fit for such unaccustomed exercises, and they were scarcely
finished before the creaking of wheels and the cries of the voorlooper as
he urged his oxen announced that the wagon was within earshot. Up it came,
the great tilt gleaming white in the moonlight, and every eye was fixed
expectantly on the dark chasm within. The driver, puffed up with his own
importance, cracked his long whip and deigned not to notice the men whom
he usually greeted with a friendly hail, and the Hottentot boy ahead,
imitating his master, vouchsafed no explanation. With more deathly
slowness than usual did the lumbering vehicle crawl along until the tired
cattle pulled up before the door of the American Bar. Then there was a
rush and a bit of a scuffle for the honour of handing the woman out. The
Cripple was the fortunate man, and, after assisting her to the ground,
waved his tattered hat toward the gleaming open doorway. But he did not
speak. Words were beyond him. Indeed, the diggers, who were none of them
particularly remarkable for taciturnity as a general thing, seemed, with
one exception, to be stricken dumb. But the Scholar proved himself equal
to the occasion, and with courtly phrase bade the new-comer welcome to the
camp. He had always been a popular man among women in his palmier days,
though openly holding rather a poor opinion of them; and as the one before
him now was neat of speech and comely of form, he was not at all averse to
enjoying her society and conversation.
“I should be much obliged if you would direct me to a hotel,” she said,
after taking a look around the cheap gaudiness of the saloon.
“I’m sorry to say that we have no hotel here as yet, Miss—er—?”
“Musgrave. Miss Mary Musgrave”—with a little bow. “But I heard that
a German had started a hotel here.”
“No; there is nothing but this. That”—pointing to Herr Gustave, who
was regarding the newcomer with an evil eye—“that is the German.”
Miss Musgrave appeared distressed.
“Then where can I go?” she asked. “Are there any lodgings to be had?”
“The lady may have my place,” chorused three eager voices, and every man
in the room repeated the offer.
She thanked them with a pretty smile and one comprehensive bow, and looked
up at the Scholar for help.
“I would offer you my hut if it were not such a wretched one. But, as it
is, I should advise you to take this man’s”—and he pointed to Tommy
Dartmoor.
“Why, mine’s twenty carats better than hisn!” exclaimed the Cripple.
“And mine better ‘n either,” growled Dan.
“Mine’s the best of the lot.”
“No, it isn’t; mine is,” yelled others, till there was a general roar,
which caused Miss Musgrave to look frightened and shrink nearer to the
Scholar, and that gentleman to raise his hand for silence.
“Look here,” said he, “we’ll pick out the twelve best, and their owners
can cut with one another from a pack of cards.”
After some discussion twelve were settled upon, but the number was
immediately raised to thirteen to prevent Jockey Bill disgracing the camp
by shooting before a lady. A pack of cards was placed on the bar, and each
man chose one, holding his selection face downward till all were ready.
Then the Scholar said, “Turn,” and there were exhibited five aces, two
kings, a queen, three knaves, and two smaller cards. This was awkward, to
say the least of it, and, while sarcastic laughter rippled among the
spectators, there was an instinctive movement of right hands toward the
back of the belt on the part of each of the thirteen.
But the Scholar’s voice, full of remonstrance, said, “Boys, you’re being
looked at,” and there was a regretful sigh or two, but no bloodshed.
Miss Musgrave gazed inquiringly from one to another, and the Scholar,
laying his hand on her arm, whispered something in her ear. She smiled,
whispered back, and was answered, and then, stripping off a pair of
well-fitting fawn gloves, she took the cards in a pretty little white
hand, and dealt out one to each of the competitors with charming
clumsiness.
“Ain’t touched a keard afore, bless her,” whispered Euchre Buck, giving
his neighbor Dan a nudge in the ribs to call attention to this wonderful
piece of girlish innocence. “Square a deal es George Washington mought ha’
made.” Then, as the greasy pasteboards were turned up, and his neighbour
was handed the ace of clubs, he raised his voice and yelled out, “Bully
for you, Dan! Cut away an’ clar yer cabin out.”
Away scampered Dan out into the darkness, with the rest of the crew at his
heels. Their home comforts were very small, poor fellows; but each gave of
his best, though the gifts were often incongruous enough. In half an hour
the cabin was fitted out with a small cracked looking-glass, two combs, an
old hair-brush,—still wet from the wash,—a pail, a frying-pan,
three kettles, two three-legged stools, and so many blankets that some
were requisitioned to carpet the floor. The whole crowd accompanied Miss
Musgrave to her door and gave her a cheer by way of good-night. She bowed
to them, smiling her thanks, and looking, as they thought, entrancingly
lovely as she stood there, with the pale moonbeams falling full on her.
Then she turned to go in, but as Euchre Buck stepped forward with an
admonishing cough, she waited and looked round at him.
“Miss,” said he, holding out a big revolver in his hard fist, “you take
this yer gun, an’ ef any one whistles, or otherwise disturbs you, let a
hole into him straight away, an’ we’ll see him buried decent.”
But Miss Musgrave courteously, and with profuse thanks, refused the offer,
and, saying that she had perfect confidence in all who were around her,
gave Euchre Buck a bewitching smile, went inside, and closed the door
after he.
Then the diggers returned to Gustav Werstein’s American Bar and discussed
the new arrival.
“I known Noomarket an’ Hascot an’ Hepson, an’ all the places where swells
goes in England,” said Jockey Bill, enthusiastically; “but never one come
there as pretty as she, stop my license if ther’ did.”
“Grand eyes, hain’t she?” said Tommy Dartmoor. “Regular fust-water ‘uns.
Here’s to ‘em!”
“And-a-hoof! See it peep below her gownd. S’ welp me ef it wer’ es big as
my ‘bacca-box!”
“An’ ‘er close, gentlemen! Made to measure, every thread on ‘em, I allow.”
“She’s a lady, boys,” exclaimed he who had offered to see after a funeral,
“a reg’lar slap-up, high-toned, blow-yer-eyes-don’t-touch-me lady; an’ as
she sees fit to do the civil to this fellar”—striking himself on the
chest—“he’s just going to drop his professional name, an’ arsk yer
to call him Mister Samuel K. Gregson, Esquire. Play on that.”
Next morning the inhabitants of Big Stone Hole were startled by reading
this announcement outside the cabin which Dan had resigned to Miss
Musgrave:
SINGING AND MUSIC TAUGHT.
LITERARY WORK DONE.
It was printed on a card, which was affixed to the door by means of a
drawing-pin, and from within came the sound of a contralto voice singing
to a guitar accompaniment. One by one the male residents of Big Stone Hole
drew near to that iron-roofed hut and stopped to listen; but after
commenting on the innovation in gleeful whispers—for guitar had
never twanged in that part of Africa before—they moved on to their
work. No consideration could cause them to neglect that. They might
fritter away the dull, rough gems when they had found them, but the lust
of handling diamonds once was the strongest passion they knew. And so the
day’s toil was not curtailed; but at the conclusion Miss Musgrave had an
application for instruction in music from every man in the camp, with one
exception. This one defaulter was Euchre Buck. He owned to having no ear
for music—thereby exhibiting more honesty than many of the others—and
confessed to knowing only two tunes, one of which was “Hail Columbia,” and
the other—wasn’t; and so he said he wanted some “literary work
done.” He proposed to Miss Musgrave that she should write a history of his
life at half a guinea a page, thereby—cute Yankee that he was—thinking
to appropriate the whole of her time.
But embarrassed by all these calls upon her, and obviously unable to
satisfy each of them, Miss Musgrave turned for help to the Scholar, whom
she appeared to regard as her special adviser; and he, promising a
solution of the difficulty in half an hour, drew off the whole crowd to
the American Bar, where the question was thrashed out in all its points.
It was clearly evident that Miss Musgrave could not surrender to each
individual the whole of her evening, even if any one had been willing to
let his neighbor monopolise it, which no one was; and therefore it was
necessary to formulate some scheme by which her talents might be
distributed over a larger area. But what the scheme should be was not
settled all in a minute. One man wanted to hear her sing, another to hear
her talk, another was willing to give five pounds an hour for the
privilege of talking to her. After a lengthened discussion, which was
excited throughout, and at times verged on the warlike, it was decided to
effect a compromise—subject, of course, to Miss Musgrave’s
inclinations; and a deputation was sent to learn her views on the subject.
There was no assembly-room in the place, excepting Werstein’s saloon,—which,
of course, was not available for such a purpose,—and so it was
proposed to her, with much humility, that she should take up her position
in the evenings on a chair outside her hut, and there discourse such vocal
and instrumental music as she saw fit, interlarding the same with friendly
conversation. What was she to talk about? Anything—absolutely
anything. They didn’t mind what it was, so long as they heard her voice.
Five shillings, the committee had decided, was to be paid by every man who
came within earshot. And any one who wanted a free list was requested to
argue the matter out with Euchre Buck.
This call upon her powers seemed to take Miss Musgrave aback.
“I have never sung in public,” she pleaded, rather nervously. “Indeed, my
voice is not good enough for it; really it isn’t. Only I thought I could
teach a little perhaps, and that is why I came here. You see, mother, is
an invalid, and we were so very poor that—”
“Miss,” broke in Jockey Bill, “call it ten bob a ‘ead, an’ just ‘um to
us.”
“Oh no, Mr. William, it was not the money that I thought about; indeed,
five shillings would be far too much. But if you think that I should be
able to amuse you at all, I would do my very best—believe me, I
would.”
“Miss,” growled Dan, with a clumsy endeavour to chase away her diffidence,
“all we asks is fer you to sit near us fer a spell. Ef you sings or plays,
we’d be proud; ef you just looks an’ talks, we’d be pleased.”
So in the end Miss Musgrave yielded to the wishes of the community, and
the nightly conclave in the American Bar became so much a thing of the
past that Gustav Werstein was heard to threaten another emigration. The
songs were to the diggers new, and yet not new. There was nothing of the
music-hall type about them; they were nearly all old-fashioned ditties.
She sang to them of “Barbara Allen” and “Sally in our Alley”; she gave
them “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” and called for a chorus; she sang “The
Message,” “The Arrow and the Song”; and she brought back memories of other
days when Africa was to them a mere geographical expression—of days
when that something had not happened which had sent them away from home.
Sunday came, the fifth day after her arrival, and it differed from the
usual Sabbath of Big Stone Hole. Sunday had been observed before by the
biggest drinking bout of the week, and a summary settlement of the
previous six days’ disputes. Now, to the huge surprise of the Kaffirs, and
to the still greater surprise of themselves, these diamond-diggers sang
hymns at intervals during the day, and refrained from indulging in the
orthodox carouse till after Miss Musgrave had retired for the night. It
was a wonderful change.
During the next week a fall of earth took place in Tommy Dartmoor’s claim.
Two Kaffirs were killed; and when the proprietor himself was extricated
from the debris of blue clay which held him down, he was found to have a
broken arm, besides other serious injuries.
“Don’t let on to her,” he managed to gasp out to his rescuers, wishing to
spare Miss Musgrave’s nerves a shock.
But she saw the men bearing him to his hut, joined them, and insisted on
being installed as sole nurse forthwith.
Twenty other men would willingly have broken an arm for such a reward; and
the recklessness displayed during the next few days was something awful.
But she saw that too,—little escaped those big blue eyes,—and,
ascribing it to drink, gave a pretty strong lecture on the bibulous habits
of Big Stone Hole, at her next concert.
There was an earnest meeting in the American Bar that night, at which the
following motion was put and carried unanimously: “On and after this date,
any drunken man is liable to be shot at sight, unless his friends can
prove that he has dug over three carats of diamonds during the day.” And
then, like other reformers, they went on to more sweeping measures: “Only
knife-fighting to take place in the camp. All disputes with pistols,
unless of a very pressing nature, to be settled out of earshot of Dan’s
house.” There were even some hints of appointing a closing-time for the
saloon—“it would make the place so much more like home.” But the
promoter eventually withdrew his suggestion, as it was justly felt that
such a motion would interfere with the liberty of the subject too much.
But a storm of cheers burst forth when it was proposed to transfer the
diamond-safe from Werstein’s keeping to a corner of the new goddess’s
shrine.
Even Satan, the cat, joined in the general adoration, and, more favoured
than the rest, enjoyed at times a chaste salute from Miss Musgrave’s
ripe-red lips.
Never, in so short a space of time, had a community been more changed for
the better than was that of Big Stone Hole. Never had woman’s humanising
influence made itself more clearly felt. The azure cloud of blasphemy that
hung over the workings and the rest of the camp was replaced again by the
normal dust. Each man tried to beautify the inside of his shanty to the
best of his means and ideas, for there was no knowing when the only “she”
would take it into her pretty, capricious head to pay a call. In this
latter line the Scholar had a decided pull. Education had taught him
taste; necessity, handiness; and by aid of the two he transformed his rude
dwelling into something approaching the rooms in which he used to dawdle
away the happy hours, time ago. It was partly drawing-room, partly
curiosity-shop. Cups, saucers, and spoons appeared as if by magicians’
call, and one blazing afternoon the news flashed round the diamond-pits
that Miss Musgrave was “taking afternoon tea with the Scholar.” But when
the Scholar saw the dismay his simple act had spread around him, he
dissipated it with a kindly laugh and a few reassuring words.
“Don’t mind me, boys. I was only doing the civil in a purely platonic
manner. Miss Musgrave is nothing to me, nor am I anything to her. Heaven
forbid! I’m too hard a bargain for any girl. If any one of you marries her
I’ll act as his best man if he asks me to, and wish him every felicity
without a thought of regret.”
“Bully for the Scholar!” yelled the delighted crowd; and Miss Musgrave’s
smiles were more sought after than ever.
So things went on day after day, week after week, till Miss Musgrave
became little short of an autocratic empress. But still she showed no
signs of taking unto herself a consort; she kept all men at a cousinly
distance, and those who felt intimate enough to address her as “Miss Mary”
accounted themselves uncommonly fortunate. Thus the little machine of
state worked perfectly harmoniously, and Big Stone Hole was as steady and
prosperous a settlement as need be.
Had these diggers refreshed their minds by looking back for historical
parallels, they might have been prepared in some degree for Miss
Musgrave’s exit from among them, but as none of them indulged in such
retrospections the manner of it took the camp somewhat by surprise.
It was first discovered in this wise. Work was over for the day. The
Kaffirs had been searched and had returned to their kraal. Pipes were
being lit after the evening meal, and a picturesque assembly was grouping
itself in an expectant semicircle on the sun-baked turf in front of Miss
Musgrave’s dwelling. She was usually outside to welcome the first comers,
and her absence naturally formed the staple topic of conversation. Digger
after digger arrived, threw himself down, and joined in the general
wonderment as to why Miss Mary wasn’t there, and at last some one hazarded
a suggestion that she “must be asleep.” There was a general epidemic of
noisy coughing for a full minute, and then silence for another, but no
sound from within the hut.
“Perhaps she’s ill,” was the next surmise.
After the etiquette to be followed had been strictly discussed, and a
rigid course of procedure set down, the Scholar got up and knocked at the
door. He received no answer, and so knocked again—knocked several
times, in fact, and then rattled the handle vigorously, but without
result.
“Better open it,” said a voice.
And he did so; and after looking inside, announced:
“She’s not there.”
At this moment Dan came up.
“My ole mar’ ‘s gone,” he said; “an’ she ain’t stampeded, neither, but was
stole. Tote-rope’s been untied, an’ saddle an’ bridle took as well.”
There was uncomfortable silence, which the Scholar broke by a low,
long-drawn whistle.
“Boys,” said he, “let’s look inside the safe.”
The three men who held the keys brought them up, the bolts were shot, and
the massive door swung back. There was every man’s little sack with his
name on it; but somehow or other the sacks looked limper than of yore.
Each one was eagerly clutched and examined, and many a groan and not a few
curses went up on the still night air as it was found that every sack save
Dan’s had been relieved of the more valuable part of its contents.
So much heart-breaking labour under the burning sun thrown away for
nothing; the dreary work to commence afresh, almost from the beginning!
Had the thief been any ordinary one, the denunciation would have been
unbounded; but no one lifted his tongue very loudly against Mary Musgrave.
Yet mounted men were despatched on the three trails to bring back the
booty if possible, and the rest moved dejectedly toward their old club.
The greasy Jew did not attempt to conceal his exultation. He served his
customers with his wicked old face glowing with smiles, and when a
moment’s breathing-time came he observed:
“We all ‘az hour lettle surbrizes in dis wairld, an’ I most confaiss I am
asdonished myself to lairn that Mess Mosgrave is a thief—” But here
a crashing among the glassware announced that Tommy Dartmoor had begun
shooting with his left hand, and Herr Gustave sputtered out from behind
the fingers he held before his face, “Ach Gott! I say nozzing more!”
End of Project Gutenberg’s Stories by English Authors: Africa, by Various
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