The War of the Axe; Or, Adventures in South Africa

J. Percy-Groves

"The War of the Axe"

"Adventures in South Africa"

Chapter One.

The Surat Castle—Our Hero—A Rough Night in the Atlantic—After the Gale—Land ho!

In the early summer of the year of grace 1844 the Surat Castle, a fine clipper barque of 400 tons burthen, left the London docks on a voyage to the Cape of Good Hope, with a valuable cargo and several passengers, including a small draft of volunteers and recruits for the Saint Helena regiment. The Surat Castle traded regularly between the port of London and Table Bay, and so well-known was she as a fast-sailing, seaworthy vessel, with excellent accommodation, and such was the popularity and reputation of her commander and part-owner, Captain John Ladds, that many Cape gentlemen, who had occasion to make the trip to the old country and back every two or three years, preferred taking their passage in her rather than in the ordinary mail-packets.

Amongst the cabin passengers who were now returning to the Cape in the Surat Castle was a good-looking lad of sixteen—a fine, well-built youngster, with a cleanness of make and shape that bespoke muscular strength and activity combined, and whose sun-burned healthy face and clear well-set eye bore ample evidence that he was in capital condition; in fact, sound in wind as well as limb.

Thomas Flinders, for that was the lad’s name, was the only son of a retired major of the Cape Mounted Riflemen, who had, with the money realised by the sale of his commission, purchased a farm in the neighbourhood of Cape Town, and there settled down with his family, “turning his sword into a ploughshare.” On this farm Master Tom first saw the light of day, and there he lived until within a few weeks of his eleventh birthday, when Major Flinders, finding that his son and heir was becoming somewhat troublesome and self-willed, packed him off to England to be educated at Rugby, under the great and good Doctor Arnold, who was then in the zenith of his fame. Five years of public-school life—three under Doctor Arnold (Arnold died in 1842), and two under his successor—worked wonders with young Flinders, and developed him into a plucky, straightforward English lad, full of fun and exuberant spirits, but without a spark of vice in his composition; a gentleman in the truest and noblest sense of the word, holding in hearty contempt aught that savoured of meanness or “bad form.” Nor had the lad’s physical education been neglected, for he became a very fair hand at most outdoor games and sports; from fives to football, from quoits to hare-and-hounds, and could play rough-and-tumble with any boy of his own weight. And now Tom Flinders, having imbibed the regulation quantum of Latin and Greek and a modicum of mathematics, together with a very proper notion of his position as an ex-school-house boy and a member of the upper-fifth, had left Rugby for good, and was returning to the land of his birth under the nominal charge of Captain Ladds, who was an old friend of the major’s.

The early part of the voyage of the Surat Castle was unmarked by any incident worth recording. Stress of weather detained her in the Downs for some few days, but once clear of the Channel she met with favourable winds and (except in the Bay of Biscay) smooth seas, and so made a quick run to the island of Saint Helena, where she anchored off James Town in order to disembark her military passengers and replenish her fresh-water tanks and sea stock. At Saint Helena Tom had the opportunity of enjoying a run ashore and of visiting the empty tomb of the great Napoleon Buonaparte, whose remains had recently been removed from beneath the weeping-willows in Slane’s Valley (whither, nineteen years before, they had been carried by the grenadiers of the 66th Regiment) to their honoured resting-place within the walls of the Invalides.

But the Surat Castle remained at anchor only a short time, for as soon as the soldiers were clear of the ship, and the fresh provisions and water had been taken on board, Captain Ladds put to sea and shaped his course for Table Bay.

On the sixth evening after the barque left Saint Helena there was every indication of a change for the worse in the weather; away to the north-east the clouds were thick and threatening at sundown, and Captain Ladds, judging that a heavy gale lay behind them, ordered sail to be reduced. The breeze stiffening into a gale, everything was made snug for the night; the top-gallant masts and yards sent down, preventer-braces rove, the hatches battened down, and dead-lights shipped—preparations which bespoke no good tidings to the passengers; many of whom retired to their berths at a much earlier hour than usual. Nor did these preparations prove unnecessary, for gradually the wind increased until it blew with almost hurricane force, and before long the Surat Castle was scudding under bare poles, not a stitch of canvas showing, her storm-sails having been blown from their bolt-ropes or split into ribands.

The storm raged throughout the long hours of the night with undiminished fury, the lightning darting forth from the dark clouds illumined the whole firmament, and the thunder rolled continuously; whilst the sea, running mountains high, threatened every instant to engulf the gallant barque.

Tom Flinders had remained on deck, not caring to go to his cabin. This was the first big storm he had experienced, and he stood watching the gigantic and angry billows with mingled interest and awe.

“You had much better go below and turn in, my boy,” said Captain Ladds kindly, as a huge wave “pooped” the barque, and, sweeping along the deck, drenched Tom to the skin. “We have not had the worst of it yet, I can assure you. You might get washed overboard like poor Jennings was just now.”

“What! the bos’un?” exclaimed Tom, who was clinging to the brass handrail of the companion. “I am sorry to hear that! Do you think there’s much danger, Captain Ladds?” he added. “If so, I’d rather stop on deck—that is if you don’t object. I shouldn’t like to be drowned like a rat in a hole!”

Before the captain could reply to his young friend’s question a tremendous squall, with a shift of the wind, struck the barque, and immediately afterwards another heavy sea broke over her weather quarter, causing her to shiver from stem to stern. The half-doors of the companion burst open, and poor Tom, losing his grasp of the handrail, shot down the ladder head foremost, whilst it was only by a supreme effort that Captain Ladds saved himself from a similar mishap.

“The boy must have broken his neck!” was the captain’s anxious exclamation when he recovered himself. “Below there!” he continued, raising his voice and peering down the hatch. “Steward! Jackson, see to Mr Flind— oh, there you are, Tom! Are you much hurt?”

“Made my nose bleed, that’s all,” Tom replied, picking himself up. “I landed on a heap of blankets and was then pitched against the pantry-door. All the same I sha’n’t come on deck again; I think I had better turn in.”

“I think so too,” was the rejoinder. “A pretty figure you’ll cut to-morrow morning! Good night!”

“Good night, captain!” replied Tom, mopping away at his nose; and off he staggered to his berth.

It blew “great guns” for the next fifty-six hours, and the unfortunate passengers—Tom Flinders included—were reduced to a state of misery pitiable to behold. One and all were frightfully ill, and the steward and his assistant were run off their legs, and could no longer attend to their duties. The cabin now presented a scene of confusion and disorder that contrasted woefully with its usual comfortable appearance; the floor was strewn with the débris of the breakfast and dinner services—shattered plates and dishes, cups and saucers, glasses and decanters, whilst the piano had fetched away from the ring-bolts and lay on its “beam ends” with its front stove in.

At length the weather began to moderate, the heavy storm-laden clouds rolled away, and on the fourth night of the gale the stars shone out bright and clear. The wind continued to slacken, and the sea to go down, until dawn of day, when the sun rose once more in all his wonted splendour, and the sky was blue and cloudless.

At noon Captain Ladds and his chief mate brought out their quadrants and took an observation, when it was found that the storm had driven the barque far out of her course; much further indeed than the captain had thought. However, there was no help for it, the lost ground must be recovered, so all hands set to work to repair damages, and after many hours’ arduous toil through the night the Surat Castle had once more a taut ship-shape appearance, and was running before a favourable breeze which most opportunely sprang up in the morning.

And now by twos and threes the passengers appeared on deck to breathe again the invigorating sea air. Very pale and woebegone did those helpless mortals look, and listless was the manner in which they lolled about, until they were suddenly startled into a semblance of life and action by the unexpected cry:

“Land! land on the port bow!”

Chapter Two.

The Desert Island—A Happy Release.

The land, thus unexpectedly reported in sight, proved to be a small rocky island, which the second mate, after a careful examination through his glass, declared was inhabited.

“My eyes don’t often play me false,” said that officer to Captain Ladds, who had followed him into the fore-top; “and I’m a’most sartin that I can make out people moving about on yonder shore. Please to look for yourself, sir,” he added, handing his glass to the skipper.

“Yes—no—and yet—yes, I’m inclined to think you are right, Weatherhelm,” said Captain Ladds, bringing the mate’s glass to bear on the island. “But my eyesight is not so good as it was ten years ago, and I cannot be positive.”

“Ay, but I am, sir,” retorted the mate, who was a thorough outspoken “salt” of the old school; one who, having “come in through the hawse-holes,” had worked his way to his present position by acquiring a sound practical knowledge of his profession, and attending strictly to his duties. “It’s possible that the crew of some craft—probably a whaler, for we’re pretty well out o’ the track of other vessels—have been cast away there.”

“Quite possible,” the captain assented, “and we will stand in a little closer. It is our duty to make sure whether such is the case; for we have been mercifully preserved through one of the worst gales that I have ever experienced, and should therefore be all the more ready to render assistance to those who have been less fortunate.”

“That’s truth, sir,” rejoined old Weatherhelm, as they descended the fore-rigging, “and ’tis a pity that others don’t see things in the same light as you do. We hear a sight too much of distressed vessels being passed by, by those who could help ’em if they’d only the will.”

So the barque’s course was altered, and she stood towards the island.

When the passengers heard that there was reason to suppose the island was inhabited, their recent sufferings were forgotten in their excitement; and many and marvellous were the speculations amongst them, as to who, and what, the mysterious islanders could be.

One old gentleman declared that they must be savages—probably cannibals—and expressed his decided opinion that the captain had no business to go near them; he was immediately, and most deservedly, snubbed by the ladies, whereupon he retired to his cabin in high dudgeon. Another suggestion was, that some of the passengers and crew of the ocean steamer President (which left New York in March, 1841, and was never seen or heard of afterwards) might have escaped and got ashore on the island; and this notion found great favour with the fair sex, until Captain Ladds, on being appealed to, hinted that they were a few degrees too far to the southward to expect to fall in with any survivors of the long-missing ship—even if such survivors existed, which was not within the bounds of probability.

“No, my friends, there can be very little doubt that the President foundered off the banks of Newfoundland,” said he, with a mournful shake of the head; “and that poor Roberts and his crew and passengers went down in her. If there are people on yonder island, they will most likely prove to be the crew of some Yankee whaler.”

As the Surat Castle approached the island all doubt as to its being inhabited was dispelled, for standing on the summit of a conical rock were three wild-looking individuals frantically waving their arms. The barque was then hove-to, and one of the quarter-boats lowered.

“May I go in her, Captain Ladds?” asked Tom Flinders, all alive at the prospect of an adventure.

“Very well, my boy; only don’t get into mischief,” replied the good-natured skipper. “Remember that I promised your good mother to keep an eye upon you, and unless I can hand you over with a whole skin, I shall not dare show my nose at Rustenburg Farm.”

“No fear of my coming to grief, sir,” laughed Tom, as he went down the side and seated himself in the stern-sheets of the boat. “They taught us to take care of ourselves at Rugby!”

“But not to keep your legs in a gale of wind!” retorted Captain Ladds. “Don’t forget the header you took down the companion-ladder, young man! Are you ready, Mr Weatherhelm?”

“All ready, sir.”

“Then shove off, if you please; and mind that you are cautious in approaching the island.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” responded the officer. And at his command the bowman pushed off, and the sailors, bending to their oars, sent the light boat through the smooth water in a style that would not have discredited a man-o’-war’s crew.

It was now discovered that the land consisted of two low-lying rocky islets, divided by a narrow channel, the entrance to which was barred by a dangerous reef, over which the waves broke with considerable force; the southmost of the islets terminating in a lofty “sugar-loaf” peak. When within a hundred yards of the shore, Mr Weatherhelm ordered his men to rest on their oars, while he looked out for a likely spot to run the boat ashore. Just then a tall, gaunt man appeared from behind the sugar-loaf rock, and hailing the boat, pointed to a narrow strip of beach some yards away to his left.

“You can land there,” he shouted, in a husky voice. “Steer between those rocks right ahead of you—port a little—steady! now give way!”

The next moment the boat’s keel grated on the shingle, and the man ran forward to meet it. He was followed by a lad, apparently about Tom’s own age, and a young girl of eleven or twelve, whose long fair hair hung down her back almost to her waist, its golden colour contrasting strangely with her skin, which was so tanned by exposure to the fierce rays of the tropical sun, that the child was as brown as any gypsy.

The poor creatures looked thin and careworn; their cheeks were hollow, their eyes were unnaturally bright, and wore an anxious expression of mingled hope and doubt—an expression rarely seen except in the faces of those whose hearts have been sickened by hope long deferred. Their only garments consisted of a sack-like tunic made of goat-skin which reached some inches below the knee, but left the arms and neck bare.

With what delight and emotion did the castaways welcome their rescuers!

“Are you alone on this island?” inquired Mr Weatherhelm, wrapping his pea-jacket round the girl’s shoulders.

“We are,” the man answered, tears of joy and thankfulness coursing down his sunken, weather-beaten cheeks. “These are my children, and here have we been for more than twelve weary months. My name is Weston, and I was owner and commander of the Sea-mew, whaler, which was wrecked on this island after the crew deserted her.”

“Just what I thought!” exclaimed the old mate. “But we mustn’t waste time palavering; get your traps together—”

“They are here,” interrupted Mr Weston, holding up a battered tin deed-box. “This is all I care to bring away.”

“Then jump into the boat and let’s be off,” cried Weatherhelm. “Now, Missy! I’ll take care of you.”

The castaways needed no second bidding, and in another half-hour they found themselves safe on board the Surat Castle.

Captain Ladds received the unfortunate strangers with the utmost kindness, expressing his deep commiseration at their sorry condition, and heartily congratulating them on their providential release from their seagirt prison. Mr Weston thanked him in broken tones, but was too overcome with feelings of emotion to say very much, and presently he asked that he and his children might be allowed to retire to rest; so the captain took him down to his own cabin, whilst the lady passengers carried off the little girl, and Tom Flinders marched the boy to his single state-room, and insisted on his taking possession of the only berth.

Chapter Three.

Tom Flinders is reminded of the old saying—“The World is very small.”

The sun was high in the heavens when young Weston awoke next morning, and on turning his face to the light, the first object that his eyes rested upon was Master Tom Flinders, seated on a portmanteau, regarding him with pitiful looks.

“Halloa, old fellow!” exclaimed our hero, colouring red as a turkey-cock, at being thus caught staring; “how do you find yourself this morning? You’ve had a jolly long caulk!”

For a moment young Weston appeared a little confused; but he quickly recollected the joyful events of the previous day, and feeling much refreshed by his protracted sleep, replied that he was all right, and would like to get up and go on deck.

“All serene!” said Tom; “turn out by all means; and while you’re washing, I’ll see what can be done in the way of clothes. There’s some water in the basin, and there’s my sponge and towels. It’s too late for you to have a tub, for the bath-room boy goes off duty at ten, and it’s now close on twelve.”

“Then I must have slept nearly twice the round of the clock!” cried the other in surprise.

“Going on that way,” laughed Tom, diving into his portmanteau and fishing out several garments. “My ‘duds’ are most of them packed away in my trunks,” he went on, “and they, you know, are down in the hold with the rest of the heavy luggage; but I’ll do my best to turn you out respectably. By the way, what’s your name?”

“George—George Maurice Weston.”

“Well, George, here’s a pair of white flannel ‘bags,’ and a ditto shirt—they’re my old cricketing ‘togs;’ but I thought they’d come in useful during the voyage, and so left ’em out. Here’s a jacket, rather the worse for wear, and that stupid fellow, the second steward, capsized a plate of soup over it the other night—see, there are the stains, down the right shoulder and arm! But you won’t mind that?”

“Not a bit,” put in George, taking the unlucky garment. “I’ve learnt not to be over particular.”

“There’s a collar, a cravat, and a pair of socks; and there’s a pair of shoes—nice, easy ones, too. Now, look alive, old chap; slip ’em on, and then we’ll go and get some grub.”

Rattling on in this manner, Tom helped his new friend to dress—or fitted him out “from truck to kelson,” as he expressed it; for Tom had become very nautical in his language since he joined the Surat Castle—and then surveyed him with a critical eye.

“Come, that’s not so bad! you look less like an ancient Briton now,” said he, crowning young Weston with a cricket cap upon which was embroidered the school-house badge. “Feel a bit queer though at first, eh, George Maurice?”

“Rather so,” George answered, wriggling himself. “The shoes and socks are the worst. You see I’ve gone barefoot for such a precious long time. However, I shall no doubt get accustomed to them in a day or two.”

“Of course you will,” assented Tom. “Now come along and I’ll introduce you to the ladies; we have five on board—three married women and two girls. Won’t they make a fuss over you and that little sister of yours!”

When our hero and his friend made their appearance on deck they found Mr Weston (now shaven and shorn, and clad in a suit of true nautical cut, the property of Mr Weatherhelm) standing near the skylight talking to the skipper and Mr Rogerson, the chief mate of the Surat Castle.

“Halloa!” he exclaimed, catching sight of his son’s head-gear. “I ought to know that cap.”

“It is the Rugby school-house cap,” said its owner with conscious pride. “We have only lately worn them; but I’ve heard old school-house men say that they were introduced years ago—long before Arnold’s time—but dropped out after a while.”

“That’s quite right,” rejoined Mr Weston. “I am an old Rugby boy myself, and well remember the school-house badge being introduced. It must be nearly five-and-thirty years ago,” he added with a sigh, “when I was about little Grade’s age.”

“Why!” Tom cried, his interest in the family increasing fourfold, “you must have been at Rugby with my father! Flinders is his name—Major—”

“Not dear old Matthew Flinders surely?” interrupted the other, “who afterwards went into the Cape Rifles?”

“The same,” answered Tom, nodding his head. “Did you know him?”

“Know Mat Flinders! Why, my dear boy, your father was the best and truest friend I ever had! But it is many, many years since we met. You must tell me all about him.”

Tom was delighted at this discovery, and he there and then proceeded to give Weston a full account of his father’s doings, and of their farm near Cape Town; in the midst of which he was interrupted by the steward announcing that “tiffin was on the table.”

“Well,” said the boy as they entered the saloon together, “they say the world is very small, and that one tumbles against friends and connections in all manner of queer places; but I should never have dreamed of meeting an old school-house man, a chum of the pater’s, on a desolate island in the South Atlantic Ocean.”

The Westons soon became favourites with both the officers and cabin passengers of the Surat Castle. Mr Weston himself was a well-bred, well-informed man of pleasing address and manners; in person tall and powerfully built (old Weatherhelm was the only one on board who approached him in height), with a handsome but rather sad countenance, and dark curly hair just slightly grizzled.

George Weston, though he had not had the advantage of a public-school education, was as nice a lad as anyone could wish to meet; well-behaved and intelligent, quiet and studiously inclined. He was in his sixteenth year, had a pleasant bright look about his face, and was slight of figure, but active and sinewy withal.

As for Miss Gracie, when she recovered her spirits and got over her shyness, she became the life and soul of the ship; and must inevitably have been spoiled had she not been blessed with a sweet unspoilable disposition. As Tom had prophesied, the lady passengers made a great deal of Gracie and her brother, for their tender womanly hearts overflowed with compassion when they heard of the misfortunes and sufferings of the family.

It was not until he had been on board nearly a week that Mr Weston gave a full account of the loss of the Sea-mew, and of his previous adventures; but one Saturday, when the cabin party were seated round the dinner-table chatting over their wine and walnuts, Captain Ladds suggested that he should spin them a yarn.

“Willingly,” replied Mr Weston, pushing away his plate; “and as we are all friends here I will also give you a brief sketch of my career before I became skipper of a South Sea whaler. My life has been a chequered one, and not devoid of adventure, so I trust my story will interest you; anyhow, I feel assured that I am secure of your sympathy.”

And without further preamble Weston commenced his yarn, to which we will devote the next chapter.

Chapter Four.

Mr Weston’s Story.

“I have already stated,” began Mr Weston, “that I was educated at Rugby, where I first became acquainted with our young friend’s father. Mat Flinders and I were both school-house boys, and we shared the same study, fagged for the same sixth-form boy, belonged to the same form, and no doubt—if the truth is to be told—were often flogged with the same birch; so we were, as a matter of course, firm allies.

“Shortly before my fourteenth birthday I was offered a midshipman’s rating on board the Thétis, a fine 36-gun frigate which had been taken from the French and purchased into the navy in 1808; and as my father—a retired rear-admiral who had served with distinction under Keppel and Rodney—was determined that I should follow in his footsteps and serve King George afloat, I bade farewell to the old school and all my chums and journeyed down to Chatham, where the frigate was ‘fitting foreign.’

“Those were stirring times in the navy, I can tell you, my friends! and our captain was no niggard of shot and shell; indeed a more dashing officer never trod his majesty’s quarter-deck!

“His invariable rule was to engage every Frenchman under a ‘74’ that he fell in with, and he certainly managed to fall in with a good many; so that during the four years I remained in the Thétis I saw my share of fighting, and was twice wounded—once when engaged in a ‘cutting-out’ affair, and again in action with a 50-gun ship, which I’m proud to say we took.

“Having powerful interest at the Admiralty it was not long before I received my commission, and when barely twenty years of age I was appointed second lieutenant of the Dido, a corvette on the West Indian station.

“My messmates regarded me as one of fortune’s special favourites, but the ‘fickle goddess’ treated me scurvily enough in the end; and if my promotion had been rapid, at any rate I was not destined to enjoy it for any length of time.

“Whilst at Jamaica I stumbled up against my old school-fellow, Mat Flinders, then a lieutenant in the —th Foot. Mat was quartered at Kingston, and as the Dido had been docked to undergo certain repairs we saw a good deal of each other, and renewed our friendship.

“But now it was that Dame Fortuna began to frown upon me, or perhaps it would be more honest to say that I incurred her displeasure by my rash conduct. It so happened that I had the ill-luck to offend my captain, a man of imperious overbearing temper; high words ensued between us, and in a moment of ungovernable passion I knocked him down. Of course my prospects in the navy were for ever blighted; no provocation could be urged as an excuse for such a gross act of insubordination; no interest with the ‘powers that be’ could shield me from the consequences of my rash act.

“A court-martial assembled, and I was tried, found guilty of the charges preferred against me, and sentenced to be dismissed his majesty’s service.

“My fair-weather friends gave me the cold shoulder, for Captain B— was a near relation of the Governor and a man of considerable influence; so everybody took his part, and abused me roundly. No, not everybody! I had one true friend—Matthew Flinders. If I were to tell all that Tom’s father did for me during that miserable time I might keep you round this table until we reach Table Bay. Suffice it to say, that never did poor unfortunate meet with a kinder or stauncher comrade.

“I returned to England under arrest, and the sentence of the court having been approved and confirmed I was broken and turned adrift. My father closed his doors against me, with a curt intimation that he would have nothing more to say to a son who had disgraced himself and his family as I had done; he would listen to no explanation, and returned my letters unopened.

“I had a few pounds in my pocket, and they represented all my means; but I was a good sailor, and had no fear but that I could earn my own living. Through the kind offices of Matthew Flinders, who had given me a letter to a relative of his connected with the mercantile marine, I obtained a berth as second mate on board a merchant brig, and in her I made three voyages to the Cape.

“An offer was then made to me to ship on board a South Sea whaler as second mate, with the understanding that I should be promoted chief mate after my first trip; this offer I closed with. My captain was a gentleman, and a right good fellow, and I made two voyages with him; he then retired. I succeeded him in command of the ship, and shortly afterwards married his youngest daughter.

“Several years passed happily enough, and two children—George and Gracie—blessed our union; but my happiness was short-lived, for when Gracie was nine years of age my wife died of a fever.

“Two years after this sad event I received news of my father’s death, and that I was entitled to a few thousand pounds, which it was not in his power to will away from me, for, implacable to the last, he had left the bulk of his fortune to a distant relative, who had already more money than he knew what to do with.

“I now purchased and fitted out the Sea-mew, a barque of 300 tons; my intention being to take a long whaling cruise in the South Seas, and, if successful, to retire altogether from a seafaring life, and settle down in one of the colonies. Save 500 pounds, which I left in my agent’s hands, I embarked every guinea of my slender fortune in this venture; though fortunately I took the precaution to insure the barque for about half her value.

“Not wishing to be separated from my children for so long a period I determined that they should accompany me. I therefore engaged the carpenter’s wife—who had no youngsters of her own, and was a highly respectable woman—to attend on Gracie; and the surgeon of the Sea-mew, Angus McDougal, an old shipmate of mine and a sound scholar, volunteered to superintend George’s education.

“On the 22nd January, 1842, we sailed from England, and after a tedious and perilous voyage arrived at our fishing ground, and prepared for our campaign against the ‘spermaceti.’

“But we did not meet with the success I had anticipated; three months passed away and still we had a clean hold; the whales seemed to have disappeared from those seas!

“This continued ill-luck sent my hopes of realising a modest competence down to zero, and, moreover, it dispirited the crew, rendering them discontented and sullen.

“At length one morning we observed many polypi, medusae, and squid—”

“And what?” interrupted Tom Flinders, who was listening to Weston’s narrative “auribus erectis.” “What on earth is squid?”

“Squid isn’t on earth at all,” retorted Mr Weston; “it floats on the surface of the water, and is nothing more or less than a sort of jelly-fish upon which the whale feeds. Well, the sight of this raised our hopes, for we knew that we should probably fall in with a whale before long; and sure enough we were soon roused to action by the welcome cry: ‘There she spouts!’

“I was on deck at the moment, and springing up the shrouds to the main-top-mast head, I descried three whales right ahead of us and at no great distance. Two of them appeared to be half grown, or what we South Sea whalers call ‘forty-barrel bulls,’ forty barrels being about the quantity of oil we usually get out of them; the third was a regular old stager, a magnificent fellow of enormous proportions.

“In a very few minutes we had four boats in the water manned and ready to push off; I went as ‘headsman’ of the largest, of which—at his special request—Doctor McDougal pulled the stroke-oar; the second and third mates and the boatswain took charge of the others.

“Now I must tell you that the older and larger whales, besides proving the most valuable prizes, are by far the easiest to kill; whereas the ‘forty-barrel bulls’ are difficult to come up with, and dangerous customers to tackle. So I directed my second mate and the boatswain to go in chase of the old whale, whilst I and the third mate—a very experienced headsman—attacked the young bulls.

“Away we pulled, and in a short time approached within four hundred yards of the young whales, when the one nearest to us ‘peaked his flukes’—that is, went down head foremost; but his companion remained above water and showed no inclination to avoid us.

“‘We’ll make sure of that fellow and leave the other alone for the present,’ I shouted to the third mate. ‘Give way, my lads!’ Then the two boats raced through the smooth water, and we were soon within striking distance of our prey.

“Up to this time the two boat-steerers had been pulling the bow-oars of their respective boats, whilst the headsman steered; but now they laid in their oars, and, seizing their harpoons, stood up ready to strike. My boat was the first in action, and the harpoon flew from the steersman’s grasp and sank deep into the whale’s body, just as he was in the act of ‘sounding;’ down, down he went, and our line uncoiling rapidly from its tub ran out with a loud whirring noise. I now changed places with my boat-steerer, and, armed with several lances, took my stand in the bow, ready to give the whale the coup de grâce the instant he reappeared.

“In less than half an hour the stricken monster rose to the surface about a quarter of a mile distant, and set off at a good ten knots an hour, towing the two boats after him, for the mate had bent his line on to mine. Suddenly he stopped and commenced plunging furiously, lashing the water into a boiling foam, and spurting jets of blood from his blow-holes—a sign of approaching death. (Apertures or nostrils placed on the highest part of a whale’s head, through which he breathes.)

“‘He’s in his flurry! Stern all! stern all!’ was the cry, and quickly we backed our boats out of harm’s way. Soon the whale ceased his struggles and lay like a huge log on the bloodstained water, apparently exhausted; then once more we dashed forward, and as the boats came alongside, the mate and I thrust our lances up to the stocks into his carcass, close to the fin.

“Alas, in our eagerness to make sure of our prize we forgot our usual caution! The leviathan was not yet vanquished, but still had sufficient life left in him to make one final effort to avenge himself on his relentless foes!

“Without a moment’s warning the dying whale reared his enormous head and rushed open-mouthed at the mate’s boat, which, unable to avoid the charge, was capsized and sunk; then the monster gave one last mighty plunge, and with a stroke of his powerful tail sent my boat flying into the air, scattering the crew into the foaming water.

“The mate, his boat-steerer, and one man must have gone down at once, but the others saved themselves by clinging to their oars. My boat’s crew were even more unfortunate, for I alone escaped; the rest were either killed when the whale struck us, or else sank to rise no more. I thus lost, literally at one blow, my poor friend Angus McDougal, and seven of my best hands; also two boats with all their gear.

“The accident had been witnessed by the other boats, and the boatswain at once pulled for the scene of the mishap and picked us up.

“About six weeks after this disaster sickness broke out in the Sea-mew. The carpenter and the carpenter’s wife were the first who succumbed; the cook and one of the oldest boat-steerers were the next victims, and several of the crew sickened, but recovered after laying many days in the ‘sickbay’ almost at death’s door.

“We were now so short-handed, and the survivors of the crew were so discontented and mutinous, that I resolved to abandon the cruise and make for some port where I might be able to pick up fresh hands to help take the ship home, and accordingly I shaped my course for Table Bay. But my cup of misfortune was not yet full.

“A fortnight after doubling Cape Horn a stiff gale got up, and increased in fury until it developed into one of the most fearful storms that it has ever been my lot to cope with.

“The storm continued for a day and a night, and when it abated the poor Sea-mew was left a dismasted wreck at the mercy of the waves. We were all much exhausted, and sorely needed rest, but not a man could be spared from the pumps, for the ship had sprung a leak, which gained upon us slowly but surely. Five more of my crew, including the first mate, had gone to their last account, three having been washed overboard and two killed by the fall of the main-mast.

“By almost incredible exertions we succeeded in keeping the battered ship afloat, and the sea having gone down we were able to discover and stop the leak. We then got a spare try-sail up on the stump of the foremast, and put the barque before the wind.

“Rest was now absolutely necessary, for we had been working unceasingly for the last thirty-six hours. The second mate begged that I would take the first spell, whilst he kept watch; as he appeared the fresher of the two, I consented, and retiring to my cabin was soon fast asleep. When I awoke and returned on deck I found that my cowardly crew had deserted the ship, in the only boat that was seaworthy, leaving me and my poor children to perish.

“But a merciful Providence watched over our safety. After drifting for three or four days the barque ran on a rock, off the island where you discovered us, and as it was quite calm at the time we succeeded in getting ashore without much difficulty. A week later the poor old Sea-mew was broken up by a gale, but after she went to pieces we managed to secure some casks of provisions, and several useful articles. I also saved the ship’s papers, and other private documents of importance. On exploring the island we found that it was not altogether bare of vegetation, and that it was inhabited by a small herd of very lean goats—whose progenitors had probably been left there by the benevolent captain of some passing vessel, for the benefit of any persons who, like ourselves, might be cast ashore; there were also hundreds of sea-birds, and a plentiful supply of good water; so that there was no fear of our perishing of hunger or thirst. Of clothes, we had only those we stood up in, and when they wore out, we replaced them with goatskins.

“I will not weary you with an account of our life on the island; as you may well imagine, the time hung heavily on our hands, though we did all we could to lessen the monotony of our existence, but at times we felt very down-hearted; still we never quite lost hope that, some day or other, a vessel might come within hail, and take us off.

“At length, after thirteen months of solitude and privation, that hope was realised—when a kind Providence sent the Surat Castle to rescue us from our desert home and restored us to the society of our fellow-creatures.”

“Well!” exclaimed Captain Ladds when Weston finished his narrative; “you certainly have had a run of ill-luck! Let us hope that brighter days are in store for you. The tide must turn at last, you know; and you shall not want friends to help you to retrieve your fortunes.”

“No, indeed!” cried Master Tom impulsively. “If the pater don’t stand by you, I’m jolly well mistaken. You must come to Rustenburg until something turns up. But I say, Mr Weston,” he went on; “you’ve had about enough of the sea! I’d try my luck on ‘terra firma’ now, if I were you!”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Tom,” Mr Weston replied; “and I might do worse than settle down in Cape Colony. The anxieties and dangers of my last voyage have rather sickened me, and if there is a suitable berth to be found on shore, I don’t think I shall be tempted to go afloat again.”

Chapter Five.

The end of the Voyage—Table Bay—“Doth not a meeting like this, make amends!”

“The perils and the dangers of the voyage are past,
And the barque has arrived at—at—at Cape Town at last;
The sails are furled, and the anchor’s cast,
And the happiest of the—”

“Passengers is Master Thomas Flinders!” laughed Captain Ladds, interrupting our hero, who was giving utterance to his joyful feelings by trolling forth the above verse with, it must be confessed, more energy than harmony. “Yes, Tom, my son,” he continued, “here we are safe in old Table Bay; and there’s the port-captain’s boat putting off from the quay. You’ll be at Rustenburg in time for ‘tiffin.’ Mr Rogerson, see that the accommodation ladder is ready; Captain Morrison is coming off.”

It was a most glorious morning when the Surat Castle ran into Table Bay, and brought up off the old wooden quay, which half a century ago served as the principal landing-place at Cape Town; for the splendid Alexandra Docks, affording ample accommodation for the three-thousand tonners of the Union Company, and Donald Currie’s Royal Mail Lines, were not yet designed; the South African metropolis being in a chrysalis sort of condition, and not having reached any great degree of commercial prosperity—though it was a favourite resort of invalided Anglo-Indians, who found it a very pleasant place in which to spend a few months’ sick leave, after broiling in the “gorgeous east” for the best part of their lives.

Tears of pleasure dimmed Tom’s eyes at the sight of home (for home is home, whether we live within the sound of “Bow Bells” or at the Antipodes) and the thought of meeting his parents and sisters after a five years’ separation.

How familiar was the scene upon which he gazed.

There was the old Dutch city, situated on a plain rising by a gentle ascent to the base of the far-famed Table Mountain—the heights of which, viewed from the sea, bear some resemblance to the ruined walls of a Titanic fortress. There was the quaint castle with its broad fosse and regular outworks, and Forts Knokke and Craig defending the shore to the east of the city; whilst westward of the principal landing-place—overlooked by the saddle-back hill, terminated at one extremity by the “Lion’s Head,” and at the other by the “Lion’s Rump”—stood the fortifications known as the Rogge, Amsterdam, and Chavonne batteries, all of which commanded the anchorage and entrance to Table Bay, with their “thirty-twos” and formidable 68-pounders.

“The old place looks just the same as it did five years ago,” said Tom to himself as he leaned over the bulwarks, gazing landwards. “No change that I can see.”

In these go-ahead, high-pressure days, if we leave a town for any length of time it is hardly recognisable when we return: villas, “genteel residences,” “emporiums,” and hotels, the handiwork of Mr Jerry the speculative builder, cover the green fields where we were wont to play cricket and football; and even churches, chapels, and public institutions appear to have sprung up with mushroom-like rapidity. But fifty years ago things were very different—both in England and Cape Colony; people thought twice before they meddled with “bricks and mortar,” remembering the good old saw—“Fools build houses for wise men to live in.” Had our young friend left his native land in 1880 and returned in 1885, he would have opened his eyes with astonishment. The good citizens of Cape Town have manifested a wonderful “go-ahead” spirit of late! But Tom’s eyes are no longer scanning the shore, for he is eagerly watching the port-captain’s boat, as, manned by six stalwart Kroomen, it approaches the barque. “Tom,” says Mr Weston, “I haven’t seen my old friend Matthew Flinders for nearly a quarter of a century, but if he is not—halloa! where’s the lad got to?”

Tom had recognised the dear old pater seated beside the port-captain, and as the boat pulled alongside he rushed down the accommodation ladder so as to be the first to welcome him.

First greetings over, and the usual anxious questions answered, Tom thought of the Westons, and informed his father of their presence on board the barque; at the same time he briefly related the circumstances that led to their being there. The lad had set his heart upon having his new friends at Rustenburg, at any rate for the present; and he was not doomed to disappointment. Major Flinders at once hastened to meet his former school-fellow, and right cordially did he welcome him.

“I don’t forget,” said he, “that it was Maurice Weston who risked his life to save mine, when we were youngsters together at Jamaica! But for you, Maurice, I should certainly have become the food for ‘Port Royal Tom.’ Now, remember, no roof but mine shelters you and yours even for a single night!—not a word, my dear old friend, not a word! If you had a score of children, my wife and I would welcome them for their father’s sake. Please, say no more. Tom, my boy, get your traps together as sharp as you can, and then we’ll go ashore.”

Three hours later, Mr Weston, Grace, and George were seated in a four-horse Cape cart, with Tom and the Major, spinning along the Wynberg road at a good fourteen miles an hour, en route for Rustenburg Farm.

Chapter Six.

Tom Flinders’ Home—“A friend in need Is a friend indeed!”—An Expedition proposed.

Five miles from Cape Town, on the Wynberg and Simon’s Town road, lies the picturesque, wood-girt village of Rondebosch. The ground in rear of this village is beautifully timbered, and rises with a more or less gradual ascent, towards a mountain range extending from Table Bay to Muissenburg; an old fort and military station about two-and-a-half leagues from Simon’s Town; and upon one of the rocky spurs of this range, overlooking Rondebosch, there used to stand an ancient Dutch block-house, from the summit of which a splendid view of the surrounding country, and “veldt,” stretching far away to the foot of the Stellenbosch Hills, could be obtained, on a fair, clear day.

Between the “Block-house Hill”—as it was then called—and the village of Rondebosch lay Major Flinders’ property, the “Rustenburg House Farm,” consisting of some 300 morgens (about 600 acres) of carefully cultivated land and vineyards, with a substantial dwelling-house and farm buildings; the whole being screened from the highroad by plantations of well-grown trees. The Major also held 60 morgens of coarse grazing-land, with a cottage and stables, two miles away on the “veldt” to the north-east of Rondebosch.

So you see the Major’s commission-money had been well invested; the more so, because—thanks to good management and untiring industry—the farm had greatly increased in value since he took possession of it.

One warm evening, some few weeks after the Surat Castle anchored in Table Bay, Major and Mrs Flinders, with Tom, his two sisters, and their guests the Westons, were seated on the “stoep” of Rustenburg House; the ladies busily engaged in mending a pair of canvas saddle-bags, whilst the Major, Mr Weston, and the two boys occupied themselves cleaning and oiling a couple of sporting rifles and a double-barrelled “Joe Manton”—which latter weapon Tom had brought out from England.

When Major Flinders heard of the misfortunes that had befallen Mr Weston he offered to assist him in any way that lay in his power—either by using his influence with the Governor to obtain for him some suitable appointment in Cape Colony, or by rendering him pecuniary aid. At the same time the Major pressed his friend to join him in farming at Rondebosch, rather than seek government employment, or continue his seafaring life.

Mrs Flinders warmly seconded her husband’s proposition, pointing out that Rustenburg House was quite big enough to accommodate the two families, and declaring—with most unmistakable sincerity—how much it would please her to have Gracie Weston as a companion for her own girls, Ella and Maud.

“They can be educated together, Mr Weston,” said the good lady, “and that, you know, will be a mutual advantage.”

After a little consideration Weston thankfully accepted this offer, and decided to settle down at the Cape, and join his fortunes to those of his quondam school-fellow. The Sea-mew was insured for 1500 pounds (about one-third her value) and Mr Weston had 500 pounds in his London banker’s hands; and the Major introduced him to a lawyer, who consented to advance him 250 pounds on his policy, and promised to take the necessary steps to secure the whole sum for which the ill-fated barque had been insured. So Mr Weston did not come into the “firm” quite empty-handed.

“By the way, my dear Mat,” said Mr Weston as he proceeded to take the lock of one of the rifles to pieces, “we have been so engaged with lawyer Rutherhorn that we have forgotten all about that trip up country you were talking of the week before last. Suppose you tell us about it.”

“Oh, I had not forgotten it,” rejoined the Major; “indeed Kate and I were going over the ‘pros and cons’ this morning, and we came to the conclusion that—”

“What?” cried Tom eagerly, laying down the barrel he was cleaning.

“That Rugby hadn’t cured our son and heir of his impatience and impetuosity,” laughed Mrs Flinders, rising from her seat. “Come along, girls, we will leave the gentlemen to talk over this important project by themselves. There are your saddle-bags, Tom; but if your father takes you with him, you must have a new pair; these have seen their best days.”

“Now, Maurice,” said Major Flinders as soon as the ladies had disappeared into the house, “I will give you an idea of my plans, and see what you think of them. To begin with, I must tell you that an old brother officer of mine, Donald Jamieson, has gone in for breeding horses at his farm up country, 180 miles north-east of Mossel Bay. He has been exceptionally lucky, for it so happens that the district in which he has settled is wonderfully free from the fatal ‘horse-sickness;’ and that pest of the country the ‘tsetse’ is almost unknown there.”

“What is the ‘tsetse,’ Major Flinders?” inquired George Weston, who was a lad with a thirst for knowledge of any description.

“A most intolerable nuisance, George,” replied the Major; “in the shape of a small, brownish-yellow fly, which attacks horses and cattle, too often causing their death; for the bite of this insect produces blood-poisoning, and that generally proves fatal. Oddly enough human beings rarely suffer any ill effects from the bite.”

“Jot that down, Geordie,” laughed Tom.

“I think I will,” quietly observed his friend, suiting the action to the word.

“Quite right, my boy,” said Major Flinders, with an approving nod; “pick up information whenever you can; you never can tell when it may not prove useful. But to proceed! Just now horses are very dear in these parts, and high prices are being offered in Cape Town even for unbroken colts and fillies. I heard some time ago from Jamieson that he had several young horses to dispose of, so I thought we might combine business and pleasure.”

“Good!” assented his friend.

“Jamieson mentioned in his letter,” continued the Major, “that he wanted two good Cape-carts and four sets of double-harness from Muter in Berge Street, besides a host of other things which are not to be had for love or money in his parts; and I propose, therefore, to purchase all he requires in Cape Town, go round by sea to Mossel Bay, and from thence ‘trek’ up country to Ralfontein, where he lives. If Jamieson has any suitable horses we can take them off his hands and bring them down to Cape Town; when the price we shall get for them will cover all our expenses, and leave a good profit into the bargain. As for sport, we shall have our fill of it; altogether the trip, at this season of the year, should prove most enjoyable. Now, what say you?”

“Capital! excellent, my dear Mat!” exclaimed Mr Weston. “When do you propose to start, and who are to form the party?”

“Well,” the Major answered, “I saw Muter yesterday, and he has three carts all but finished. By putting on extra hands—which he is quite willing to do—two can be got ready for shipment in a week from this, and the sets of harness will be ready at the same time. Now, old Van Ryn’s schooner, the Knysna, makes two trips to Mossel Bay every month, and I see that she is advertised to sail on Saturday week; so we might take our passage in her, and that will give us ample time to prepare for the journey.”

“Very good,” assented Mr Weston. “And who are to go?”

“Why, there will be you and I, the two boys, and Patrick Keown, and Black William; six all told—a number sufficient to bring down a score of horses, and to hold our own should any roving bands of Caffres or Bosjesmans venture to attack us, which is not very probable.”

“How do you propose to travel back, father?” asked Tom, who was highly excited at the prospect of the trip.

“Ride, my boy; ride the whole distance from Ralfontein, and let the led-horses carry our baggage. I shall take a dozen pack-saddles with us, for Jamieson is certain to have at least twenty horses to dispose of.”

And after some further discussion, in which Mrs Flinders was invited to take part, the Major’s proposals were carried “nem con.”

Chapter Seven.

The Start from Mossel Bay—On “Trek”—Outspanned—Round the Camp Fire.

“The carts are all corrict, sorr, and ready for the line of march,” reported Mr Patrick Keown, whilom a troop sergeant-major in the “Cape Mounted Riflemen,” but now his former captain’s major-domo, master-of-the-horse, and general factotum. “And, sorr,” he went on, bringing his dexter hand down from the salute, and assuming a less poker-like attitude and a more confidential manner, “the mules we’ve hired from the postmaster here, seem loikely to suit us—that’s to say, fairly well. They’re good animals, sorr, barrin’ the off-leader of the second team, and he’s a terrible kicker, and did his best to break Black William’s leg just now. And thin, sorr, there is another that’s a bit contrary in harness—but shure now, that’s no matther; we’ll soon break the baste in! I’ll lay me quarter’s pinsion that they’ll have larned betther manners before we outspan this evening.”

“No doubt of it, Patrick,” rejoined Major Flinders, who was standing on the stoep of the hotel, with his long bamboo whip in hand, listening to the ex-sergeant’s report. “No doubt of it,” said he as soon as he could edge in a word; “we shall manage them all right! But it’s quite time we were on the road, for we ought to cover forty miles before sundown. Now then, Maurice! Come along, my boys; hurry up!”

The Major and his party had landed the previous morning at Mossel Bay, with all their goods and chattels; and now in front of a long one-storied building, dignified by the name of “Moorhead’s Royal Star and Garter Hotel,” two well-built white canvas tilted Cape-carts, fresh from the hands of Mr Muter of Berge Street, were drawn up, each being horsed by a team of six mules hired from the postmaster of the district.

One cart was packed with a variety of useful articles—from a saddle to a screw-driver—ordered by Captain Jamieson from the Cape Town storekeepers; whilst in the other cart the Major and his companions were to travel.

Under each cart was slung a strong “witte els” (a soft, tough wood) box, containing axes, hammers, saws, and other tools, a supply of nails and screws, straps and buckles, a small coil of “half-inch,” and some stout cord and twine; so that in the event of a break-down, repairs might be executed on the spot Major Flinders and his faithful henchman Patrick Keown had travelled too much in South Africa to think of starting on a long journey without being prepared for emergencies.

As the crow flies, the distance from Mossel Bay to Ralfontein was rather more than one hundred and eighty miles, but by road it was nearer two hundred and fifty. The journey there was to be got over as rapidly as possible without unduly pressing the teams, and there were to be no unnecessary stoppages by the way. The return journey would be a much more leisurely affair, for it was the Major’s intention to ride from Ralfontein to Rondebosch, a distance of at least three hundred and fifty miles (instead of returning to Mossel Bay, and from thence by sea to Cape Town), and to take his own time on the road, so as to bring home his equine purchases in good condition.

For the first two or three days after leaving Mossel Bay our travellers had an easy time and were not called upon to rough it in the smallest degree. The road they followed—one of the best in the colony—led through a beautiful fertile district, studded with prosperous-looking farm-houses around which vineyards and orange groves flourished in wonderful luxuriance. At these farms they were lodged and entertained with a hospitality worthy of the patriarchal ages, so that, as yet, there was no “camping out.”

Soon, however, the country presented a wilder, but no less beautiful aspect, the road became a mere track, and our friends found themselves journeying across tracts of rough, uncultivated land, through wooded valleys and steep rocky defiles, aglow with the brilliant crimson and amber blossoms of the aloe; here for miles they did not meet a human creature, or see a house of any description, and the silence of these vast solitudes grew almost oppressive.

On the evening of the fourth day they arrived at a romantic spot five-and-twenty miles from any civilised habitation—the nearest being a German mission station at Ryk’s Drift—and here the Major decided to outspan, beneath the shade of a fine tope of trees, near to a “donga,” or dry watercourse. It was a most suitable halting-place! A tiny “spruit,” or streamlet, trickled amidst the reeds and boulders that lay all along the “donga,” and crossing the track close by the “bivouac,” formed a shallow, but clear pool, at the foot of a grassy eminence, which was topped by a thicket of silver trees, aloes, and flowering shrubs.

On every side the various tribes of the vegetable kingdom throve luxuriously, perfuming the air; whilst in the distance the foliage and coppice presented a thousand lively and variegated tints most pleasing to the eye.

The mules having been knee-haltered and turned out to graze, under charge of the Hottentot, Black William, the Major and his companions set to work to light a fire and put the camp-kettle on to boil, and before long they were discussing some excellent broiled venison and ship’s biscuit, washed down by copious draughts of black coffee.

“This is what I call uncommonly jolly!” exclaimed Tom as they sat round the camp fire after supper; “ever so much better than putting up at a farm-house.”

“But how will you like taking your turn of ‘sentry-go’ to-night, Master Tom?” asked Patrick Keown.

“Ah, to be sure!” put in the Major. “Two hours at a stretch, you know, Tom; and we shall expect you to be on the ‘qui-vive;’ no sleeping on your post, young man!”

“No fear of that, father,” retorted the boy with a good-humoured laugh. “But I say, do you really think there’s any likelihood of our being attacked?”

“Well, it is within the bounds of possibility that some wild beast might take a fancy to one of the mules, or a roving Bushman or Hottentot to our rifles,” was his father’s reply; “so it will be best to keep a night-watch.”

“I suppose there are no lions in these parts?” inquired George Weston.

“I should think not, George,” answered Major Flinders. “There is no doubt that they, and many other savage beasts, have retreated before the progress of European colonisation, and are now very rarely to be seen, except further north and east. Still they are not extinct, even in this district.”

“Plenty lion in Bosjesman’s country,” observed Black William; “an’ dey terrible savage dere too! Eat up poor black mans, like de silver jackal eat missis’ chickens; but dey seldom touch de white mans. Tink de black moch nicer.”

“Find them more gamey, I presume,” was Mr Weston’s sotto voce remark.

“I have heard several curious instances of the unwillingness of lions to attack a white man, especially if he shows a bold front,” said the Major, refilling his pipe; “and I will relate one that I can vouch for. During the expedition against the Fitcani tribe in ’28, I had attached to my troop as volunteers two Cape Dutchmen—Hendrik and Gert Eoos. You’ll recollect them, Patrick?”

“Shure I do, sorr,” replied the ex-rifleman. “Hendrik Eoos saved me loife at Schepers Drift, but I nearly broke me heart thrying to kape him clane! He and his brother were the bravest and dhirtiest men I iver came across!”

“Well,” continued the Major after one or two draws at his long Dutch pipe, “the brothers Roos were renowned as mighty hunters, and it was said that they had killed upwards of thirty lions in their time, to say nothing of other big game. But you know that ‘the pitcher that goes too often to the well runs a good chance of getting smashed,’ and Master Hendrik Roos on one occasion went very near proving the truth of the old proverb. He was hunting alone in the wilds when suddenly he found himself face to face with an enormous lion, who, so far from retiring before the white man, seemed determined to dispute with him the right of way. Hendrik dismounted, threw his reins over his arm, and, waiting until the lion was within twenty paces and couched and in the act of springing, took careful aim at his forehead, but the moment he pressed the trigger his horse started, the reins broke, and, worse than all, his bullet missed its mark!

“The lion bounded forward, and at a few paces’ distance confronted the intrepid hunter, who now stood defenceless—his ‘roer’ (smooth-bore gun for big game) empty, his horse fled; but he showed no sign of fear.

“Man and beast stared hard at each other for some little time, and at length the latter slowly retired backwards, whereupon Hendrik began to reload his gun. At this movement the lion growled and came forward again. The hunter stood stock-still, motionless as a statue, and again the lion retired. Once more Hendrik attempted to ram home his bullet, and once more his formidable adversary advanced, growling ominously. Hendrik fixed his eyes upon him, and the lion seemed confused—halted for a moment, and stood lashing his flanks with his tail, growling all the while; then of a sudden, unable to face any longer the stern gaze of the man, the savage beast turned about and fairly took to his heels; and so Hendrik Roos was saved.”

“Well, he was a plucky chap!” exclaimed Tom. “I wouldn’t have stood in his shoes for something!”

“You see that this Dutch hunter possessed an intimate knowledge of the nature of the animal he was pitted against; and knowledge is power,” observed Mr Weston. “But, talking of wild animals, I remember that it was not very far from Mossel Bay that I fell in, for the first and last time in my life, with a wild elephant. It was in ’16, just before I ‘shipped the swab,’ and I was then acting third ‘luff’ of the Phaeton. We had been on the Cape station a few months, and our skipper had been ordered round to the Knysna to make a report as to the feasibility of forming a government ship-building establishment on the banks of the river.

“Whilst there I went out duck-shooting with the purser, who had the reputation of being a thorough sportsman and an excellent shot. We went some miles up country, and I soon found that my shipmate, though a capital shooter, was a precious bad hitter; and got through a large amount of ammunition in a very short time with no appreciable results.

“Well, after blazing away half the day without bagging a single bird, we came to a large pool of water surrounded with very high grass (some of it quite ten feet in height) and abounding with wild ducks and geese.

“‘Now’s our chance, Wraggles!’ I exclaimed, bringing my fowling-piece to the shoulder. ‘Let fly into the middle of them!’

“Bang! bang! went our guns, and at least one duck fell a victim to our unerring aim.

“But ere we could secure the butchered birds the welkin rang with an awful roar, and the whole pool was in a state of commotion. The next moment an enormous elephant rushed from out the grass, trumpeting loudly and striking the grass with his trunk.

“Neither the purser nor I had ever seen a wild elephant before, and we had no wish for a nearer inspection; so, leaving our slaughtered ducks to their fate, we took to our heels and never stopped until we reached a place of safety.”

“Well, you certainly did not show a bold front on that occasion,” laughed the Major.

“No, indeed,” rejoined his friend. “But I can assure you that few men could have presented a broader back than did the gallant purser; and it has always been a mystery to me how a man of his rotundity got over the ground at such a wonderful pace. He beat me by a good fifty yards. Now who is going to take first watch?”

“Black William is first on the roster, sorr, and I shall relave him,” answered Patrick Keown; and the Hottentot having been duly posted, the others lay down before the camp fire and were soon wrapped in sleep—sleep—

“The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast!”

Chapter Eight.

Tom gives the Alarm—Rifle versus Assegai—Triumph of the White Man!—“Kicking Jan” outkicks himself—A Catastrophe—Arrival at Ralfontein.

The night passed away quietly and day dawned with all the splendour of a South African morning. By five o’clock the little camp was astir, and our friends, having first enjoyed a refreshing dip in the clear pool at the foot of the hill, hastened to prepare breakfast; whilst Patrick Keown and his sable ally busied themselves making ready for the day’s journey.

“Well, Tom, how did you get on between one and three am?” was Mr Weston’s first question when they sat down to break their fast with the remains of last night’s supper. “Found it rather lonely, didn’t you?”

“I should just think I did,” was the candid reply; “horribly lonely! And I was obliged to keep trotting backwards and forwards like a hyaena in a cage to prevent myself nodding; not that I should have minded that, if I’d only had someone to talk to.”

“Well, you look fresh as a four-year-old this morning,” Major Flinders said. “I’m certain that a trip of this sort is a capital thing for getting young fellows into condition.”

“No doubt of it,” assented his friend; “so long as it is not attended with too much fatigue or hardship.”

As soon as Tom had finished his breakfast he expressed his intention of taking a look round before they inspanned.

“Don’t go far, my boy; keep within hail,” said his father. “We shall make a start directly Keown has the carts ready.”

“All right, father,” replied the boy, taking up his rifle. “I’ll just stroll up the donga and see if I can get a crack at something or other. There’s no fresh meat in the larder, you know.” And off he trudged—

“Unknowing what he sought,
And whistling as he went for want of thought.”

Tom had not gone many yards when his attention was attracted by a rustling amongst the reeds, and looking round, his quick eyes espied several dark forms stealing down the watercourse towards the bivouac. He at once scented danger, but had the presence of mind not to show that he was alarmed; and turning coolly about he returned to his friends and informed them of what he had seen. Hardly had he given the alarm when thirty or forty dusky figures rushed down the donga and advanced with threatening gestures—brandishing their weapons and uttering loud cries of defiance.

“Inspan, Patrick!” shouted Major Flinders to his servant as he seized his rifle. “We can keep these black rascals off until you are ready.”

In order that Keown and his assistant should have time to collect the few articles which had been unloaded from the carts (the Major was not the man to abandon any of his impedimenta) and inspan, it was necessary to meet the enemy in the open and take up a position between them and the carts. This of course somewhat exposed the little party; but Major Flinders was pretty well sure that his assailants belonged to a roving tribe—half Bosjesmans, half Korannas—more renowned for thievish propensities than for valour or warlike qualities; and he felt satisfied that if he and his friends received them boldly they would beat a hasty retreat. These dusky warriors were indeed but sorry specimens of their race; they were short, narrow-chested, and hippy, whilst their faces were of a very low type, with thick projecting lips, small depressed noses, and roguish shifting eyes. Their weapons consisted of rough, ill-made assegais, iron-wood clubs, or knobkerries, and small oval, hide-covered shields. However, seeing how small a force they had to contend with, and animated by the hope of plunder, the dingy troop advanced with more confidence and élan than might have been expected.

“Give them one barrel first,” said Major Flinders, bringing his rifle to the “present.” “Take a steady aim, and low. Now—fire!” The four rifles rang out nearly together, and three of the enemy rolled over and over, but their fall did not stop the rush of the others; on they came, bent on the destruction of the little band of white men.

“Fire again!” shouted the Major as he discharged his second barrel.

This time every bullet found its billet, and four Caffres bit the dust; whereupon their comrades pulled up, sent a few assegais whistling harmlessly through the air, and then went to the right-about and bolted. In the excitement of this, their first fight, Tom and George would have followed up the flying enemy had not the Major restrained them, saying:

“I have no wish to kill those poor benighted creatures save in self-defence. Go and help Patrick to inspan, and let us be off as quickly as possible.”

“They’re not gone yet!” exclaimed Mr Weston, seeing several woolly heads pop up amongst the shrubs and bushes to the left of the donga.

“No, indeed! And unless I’m greatly mistaken they intend to renew their attack,” rejoined his friend. “They’ve more pluck and determination than I thought for! Get the carts and mules under cover of the trees!”

Patrick Keown at once dragged the carts into the centre of the tope, whilst the boys and Black William drove in the mules and tethered them between the carts, forming a sort of laager, into which the Major and Mr Weston retired. They all took up their rifles and opened fire upon the advancing enemy, who showed no lack of courage, and sent their assegais hurtling amongst the trees in a style that would have done credit to Zulu warriors.

But they did not attempt to come to close quarters, their sole object being to carry off their dead and wounded, not to renew their attack on the white men, whose terrible rifles had already done to death so many of their company. Had they been able to explain their intentions they might have done this without let or hindrance; as it was, they lost three more of their number.

At last Black William divined what they were about, and begged his master to cease firing for a minute or two. The savages then rushed forward, caught up their unfortunate comrades, and bolted back in double-quick time.

“The beggars are off now, and no mistake!” cried Tom. “Let us see what damage they have done us.”

“First and foremost there are two mules killed,” responded his father; “Sandboy and Admiral—the best animals in either team.”

“And Kicking Jan’s got an ugly wound in his flank,” put in Keown. “Bad cess to the contrary baste; he’s sure to git into mischief if there’s mischief about!”

“I got hurt too,” said Black William with a grin, showing a tear in his sleeve, which was covered with blood. “And dere’s young Mas’r George been hit by dem niggers!”

An assegai had indeed grazed George Weston’s shoulder, but happily no serious injury had been done to any of the party—nothing, in fact, that cold water and a strip of lint would not cure.

The dead mules were now stripped of their harness; Kicking Jan’s wound was dressed—an operation that the “contrary baste,” true to his nature, resented to the best of his power; and the travellers resumed their journey. No sooner were they well on the move, and at a respectable distance from their late encampment, than the discomfited savages once more appeared on the scene, and fell tooth and nail on the carcasses of the slain mules.

“Bedad!” exclaimed the ex-sergeant when he saw the blacks cutting and hacking away with their short assegais, “they’ll be having a foine gorge now! Sorra a bit of flesh will they lave on the bones of poor Sandboy and Admiral.”

“They have paid dearly for their feast,” observed Mr Weston, who was seated beside him. “Are all the Caffres such gluttons?”

“Indade they are, sorr,” was the reply. “Just sit the best of them down before a dead animal of any sort, from an elephant to a dossie, and they’d go on eatin’ till they were fit to bust.”

Deprived of the two best mules in the teams, and having a third partially disabled, the travellers did not get so quickly over the ground as they had hitherto done, and it was some time after dusk before they arrived at Ryk’s Drift. Here they were entertained by the German missionary, and on the following morning they started on the final stage but one of their journey.

Soon after leaving Ryk’s Drift the travellers came in sight of a range of mountains, whose varied outline struck out into bold, precipitous spurs, or shot up into craggy peaks, the summits of which shone in the African sunshine almost like snow.

“On the far side of yonder hills lies Ralfontein,” said the Major, “and crossing them will prove the toughest job of the whole journey.”

“That I can believe,” rejoined his friend. “My admiration is now changed to consternation! How ever will our mules contrive to drag the carts up such precipices?”

“As I said before, it will prove a very tough job,” Major Flinders answered; “but ‘where there’s a will there’s a way.’”

“I shall believe that when I see the way,” laughed Mr Weston. “At present I must confess that I am sceptical, for in all my varied experience I have never come across a quadruped that could fly! However, it is not for me to give my opinion; I am but a fish out of water!”

Towards noon the travellers commenced the ascent, and right toilsome it proved.

The way—for road, or even track, it certainly could not be called—was rugged in the extreme, and full of rocks and gullies, with here and there a narrow chasm over which the carts were dragged with the greatest risk and difficulty.

Every one dismounted and lent a helping hand; the Major and his servants managing the teams, with much cracking of whips, and loud shouts of warning or encouragement; whilst Mr Weston and the boys, literally “put their shoulders to the wheel.”

“Oh, for the turnpike roads of old England!” sang, or rather gasped, Mr Weston, when for about the twentieth time they halted to allow the distressed mules to recover themselves a little. “This is desperate work! eh, boys?”

“Slightly warm,” said Tom, mopping his perspiring face. “It takes the superfluous flesh off one’s ribs.”

“Shure, Misther Weston, we’re nearly at the top,” said Patrick Keown encouragingly, “and thin you know, sorr, we’ll go down the other side noice and aisy.”

“A little too ‘aisy,’ perchance,” muttered Weston. “Facilis descensus!”

At length the highest point of the ascent was reached; but this proved the most hazardous part, as the track swept round a precipitous ledge jutting out from a spur of the mountain, so narrow that it hardly allowed six inches grace to the wheels. Along this dangerous path the carts were taken at a snail’s pace; the one containing Captain Jamieson’s goods and chattels leading the way; whilst the other (which, save for a few articles used when outspanning, was empty) followed at an interval of twenty paces; the mules going very gingerly, for, surefooted though they were, it was no easy matter for them to keep on their legs.

At this critical moment a large bird swept down from its nest in the overhanging cliff, and with a piercing cry flew close over the tilt of the hinder cart. Now, as ill-luck would have it, “Kicking Jan” was one of the four mules attached to this cart, and no sooner did that contrary and troublesome animal hear the bird’s shrill call than he stopped dead; then down went his head and up went his heels. This unseemly behaviour set the other mules plunging and kicking, and before Black William, who had charge of the team, could quiet them, the cart was upset, and fell half over the ledge; the wheel-mules coming down on their sides at the same time.

Another plunge—a violent struggle—a wild snort of terror! and over the precipice rolled the cart, carrying the wheelers with it.

The moment “Kicking Jan” and the other leader felt the traces jerked and then tighten, they ceased kicking, and strained every nerve to retain their footing. But their efforts were in vain! The weight the poor brutes had to sustain was too much for them; they were dragged over the side of the ledge, and down went the cart and its team: down—down—down; crashing through trees and bushes and striking against rocks in their headlong descent; down they fell to the very bottom of the precipice!

Horrified at this terrible catastrophe, the Major and Mr Weston ran back and found Black William lying in the middle of the narrow path; a broken “reim” clenched in his hand.

“Are you much hurt?” inquired Major Flinders, picking him up.

“Not mine vault, baas,” blubbered the Hottentot with a frightened stare; “not mine vault.”

“No, no, William,” said his master; “we know that. You did all you could. Are you hurt?”

“I got kick in mine stomach; and all mine vind go,” was the reply.

“And our profits have gone with it, I’m afraid,” said Mr Weston dolefully. “’Pon my word, I’m a regular Jonah, and bring misfortune on all my friends!”

“Don’t talk like that, Maurice,” said the Major sharply. “Let us thank Heaven it is no worse—that no life has been lost.”

“And it might have been the other cart, you know,” put in Tom, who had joined them. “That would have been a smash!”

“Well, Mat, I am thankful it is no worse—on your account!” Mr Weston said. “Let us reckon up the damage.”

Major Flinders smiled, and replied:—“There’s the cart, forty pounds; four mules, at, let me say, twelve pounds a head—that’s as much as they were worth!—forty-eight pounds; harness and sundries another fifteen. I think a hundred will cover everything; so we sha’n’t lose all our profits, Maurice. And now, en avant!”

The travellers accomplished the descent of the mountain without further mishap, and found shelter that night at a solitary farm situated in the plain below.

Here they remained for a couple of days, for the mules were regularly knocked up, and required a long rest before they were in a condition to travel the last stage—a distance of forty miles.

Early on the morning of the second day they once more inspanned, and the team being freshened considerably by their twenty-four hours “play,” they got over the ground in capital style, and reached Ralfontein an hour before sundown.