Читать книгу The Empire Makers - Hume Nesbit - Страница 15

There were many incidents on this overland journey, both humorous and adventurous, which might have formed subjects for future talk.

But the after events dwarfed these minor adventures so completely that they were hardly ever mentioned.

Small game was plentiful on some of the open parts, and afforded them good enough sport after a tame fashion. Here the Dutchmen displayed their wonderful skill as marksmen, and won unqualified admiration and respect. When they saw the unfailing and deadly precision of that shooting, and how little lead was wasted, the lads no longer felt any surprise at the surrender of Dr. Jameson at Krugersdorp. Surrounded as he had been by such sharpshooters, he had not a chance of holding out, almost shelterless as he was. The Dutchmen were all mightily proud of the achievements of their friends in the Transvaal, and not at all delicate in their boasting. They were never tired of hearing and speaking about “Bronkhurst Spruit,” “Laing’s Nek,” and “Majuba Hill,” as well as this latest defeat at Krugersdorp. As for Johannesburg and its craven citizens, long before the lads saw this golden city of the veldt, its degradation had been forced deep into their hearts by this contemptuous banter.

Stephanus Groblaar altered his manner in a most marked degree as they progressed up the country. On the voyage out and at Cape Town he had seemed one of the most advanced and liberal-minded of young Boers. He even appeared to take the part of the Uitlanders then, and thus had won their respect and confidence.

But now he became the loudest and most insulting of the despisers and denouncers of everything British. He lost the small amount of humour that he seemed to have possessed, and which his franker cousins still retained, and grew savage instead of bantering in his expressions.

He was returning home to Pretoria, after two years of social intercourse with Englishmen, as full of race hatred as any of his untravelled countrymen.

Clarence Raybold saw this new phase with silent surprise, and listened to his exasperating observations with tightly closed mouth and lowering eyes.

At last one night matters were brought to a crisis. They had crossed the Vaal river, and were outspanning on the open veldt.

Eight of their heavy-laden teams were all that remained with them. The contents of the other twelve drays had been disposed of on the way up, and the teams sent down the country again with chance loads. The eldest of Santa’s brothers alone remained with the young men and Stephanus to look after the Transvaal business. He was a stolid, good-natured fellow, who did his utmost to keep peace in the camp, and turn his cousin’s ill-timed remarks into jokes.

But Stephanus seemed bent on a quarrel that night, although with whom it was not easy to say.

Clarence seemed to feel the insults the most keenly. Ned Romer, however, sat quietly, and watched the young Boer while he listened and waited. For the first time a strong desire to measure his strength with this Dutchman came upon him—the kind of desire that young Zulus have when they want to wash their virgin spears.

A full moon shone over their heads and lighted up the level landscape with pale but vivid distinctness.

“Well,” at last observed Clarence, with a lisping drawl; he always spoke slow and lazy-like when primed up for fighting—“well, not being in Johannesburg during the time you speak about, Stephanus Groblaar, I cannot contradict you as to the colour of their flag; yet if I had been, I think I’d have done my best, young as I am, to show that there was an equal mixture of red and blue as well as white about it.”

“Hold on till you get to Pretoria. There we make Uitlanders walk with Kaffirs in the middle of the street.”

“Is this the rule in Pretoria?” asked Ned, gently.

“Yes, for the like of you; and we’ll make them do the same in Johannesburg before we have done with them,” cried Stephanus, turning on Ned with an ugly scowl.

“Nonsense. I always like the side path, and I shall use that wherever I am,” answered Ned, laughing.

“Will you? Why, curs like you could not use this veldt as you like unless with our permission, far less the sides of our streets.”

“Ah, indeed, Mr. Groblaar,” said Ned, rising to his feet slowly. “Is there any particular portion of this place that you as a free burgher might prohibit tonight?”

“Yes; I defy you to pass me now.”

They were all standing now with the exception of the cousin Groblaar, who lay on his back snoring.

“Wait a moment, Ned,” said Clarence, softly. “I think Stephanus only meant to stop me from walking past him.”

“No,” growled the Boer; “I did not mean you. I don’t want to interfere with you, nor with Fred either, for you are both colonial born and bred. It is this cur of a John Bull that I’d teach to keep his place.”

“Good,” answered Ned. “Then this cur of a John Bull accepts your gentlemanly challenge, and will show you that he knows his place, and that place is, whatever spot of the earth he finds it expedient for the advance of civilisation to tread upon.”

He walked steadily up to the Boer with his arms held limply down; then, before the other could put up his fists, Ned suddenly gripped him and sent him sprawling some feet away, while he stood where Stephanus had been.

“This is Imperial ground, you Dutch Boer, upon which the Lion of Britain permits your people to play for the present.”

It was a grand speech, which Ned felt proud to give voice to, and which his chums cheered. Another clear voice behind them cried, “Bravo, young cub!” but none looked round to hear who spoke. Stephanus did not give them time for that.

With a hoarse roar he picked himself up, and made the rush like a wounded buffalo. He was a powerful young man come to his full strength, whereas Ned Romer was only ripening.

But he was heavily built, and slow in his movements in spite of his rage. He had not had the training nor discipline which Ned could boast of; and lastly, he had been drinking “Cape smoke” that day, which rendered him stupid and careless. Possibly also the overweening conceit and insolence of his race made him contemptuous of this slender lad.

Ned, on the other hand, was in splendid condition, as lithe and agile as a young panther, and as quick in the glance as he was active and cool. The past three months of horse exercise and open-air life had made his muscles like steel.

As Stephanus rushed upon him with swollen features and blood-charged eyes, Ned waited quietly; then, with a sudden spring aside, he shot out one fist, and landed the Dutchman a thumper on the bridge of his nose, which caused him to see a perfect flare of fireworks, while it made him stagger in his tracks.

For an instant he paused, and put up both hands to his bruised organ; then as he turned once more and removed his hands, a dark stream burst from his nostrils, and deluged his chin and shirt-front.

“First blood, and well drawn,” cried the clear voice again. “Go it, my hearty; you have shown him the red, let him have the blue next stroke.”

Fred and Clarence glanced round, to see a tall, broad-chested stranger in a light suit and soft felt hat standing behind them, with his horse beside him and its bridle over his arm.

As he spoke Ned got in his second blow, and as the stranger had advised, smote his adversary higher up and right between the eyes. It was a loud-sounding smash, which completely blinded Stephanus, and made it apparent to all the onlookers that he had received his blue badge.

“These will be pretty peepers tomorrow morning,” said the stranger; then, making a hasty step forward, he raised his heavy riding-whip, as he exclaimed, “Ha! you would show the white next, you treacherous dog, would you? Drop that knife instantly.”

As he spoke he brought the stock of his whip smartly upon the wrist of Stephanus, causing him to utter a loud yell, while his glittering sheath-knife dropped gleaming to the ground. Holding his damaged wrist with one hand, the Transvaaler staggered blindly back, and abandoned the field to the calm and victorious Ned.

“He has had enough of your fists, young man, for the present, I expect, only be on your guard with him for the future. Boers don’t forget blows, neither do they care much about fighting in the open. He will try a bead on you next from behind a kopje.”

He was an immense figure of a man who had come out of the veldt so unexpectedly, considerably over six feet in height and broad in proportion. His skin was ruddy, with bold features, light, keen eyes, and he wore a small, fair moustache. As the boys looked at him, they each thought they had seen him somewhere before, but where they could not at the time remember. There was about him an air of kingly authority which fascinated them.

“Have you any coffee left?” he asked gently.

Clarence went instantly to the half-empty billy at the fire, and brought a pannikin filled. The stranger took it with a nod, and slowly sipped the contents, looking at them scrutinisingly as he drank.

Cousin Groblaar still lay sleeping heavily within the shadow of one of the waggons. Stephanus had moved away to some considerable distance to brood over his defeat and bathe his eyes and nose at a water-hole. The Kaffirs were also sound asleep on their side of the fire, therefore they had this contested part of the veldt to themselves.

“You managed that onslaught in very good style, my lad, and have made for yourself a pretty dangerous enemy, or I am much mistaken in my reading of faces.”

“An avowed enemy is better than a secret one, sir, and I have good reasons to suspect Stephanus Groblaar of being one before this night,” replied Ned.

“Ah, Groblaar is his name! Any friend of Groblaar, the vine-grower, of Stellenbosch?”

“His nephew, sir. Yonder lies his son asleep.”

“Let him sleep,” said the stranger, hastily. “Then the young man you punished must be the son of Burgher Groblaar, of Pretoria?”

“I believe so, sir. At least, his home is in that city,” answered Ned.

“Hum! thanks for this information. Then take my advice, part company with this Stephanus Groblaar as soon as possible, and also—don’t air those Imperial ideas too freely when you are going to Johannesburg. They are not fashionable there at present.”

“I will never hear my nation insulted without resenting it, sir,” replied Ned, boldly.

“Better swallow insult than run the risk of imprisonment.”

“No, sir; I cannot endorse that sentiment.”

“It is the sentiment generally held by the Transvaal Uitlanders.”

“I do not care. It shall never be mine.”

“Nor mine!” “Nor mine!” cried Fred and Clarence in chorus.

“Good lads,” said the stranger, in feeling tones, holding out his large hand to our heroes, who grasped it by turns. “I like you for your pluck and freshness. Tell me your names, so that I may remember them if I can serve you at any time.”

The lads at once produced their cards and presented them. The stranger smiled humorously as he took the paste-boards.

“Ah, you are fresh from England, I see. All the better. You will see some sad and humbling sights in Johannesburg. But keep up your pluck, and don’t forget that you are sons of a mighty nation of free men.”

“Depend upon it we shall never do that, so long as the great Cecil Rhodes stays in Africa, at any rate.” The stranger started, and a dusky tint seemed to overspread his face. Then he smiled and looked at the cards.

“Edward Romer! I knew a Paul Romer, of Devonshire.”

“That was my father, sir.”

“Indeed! Then I must do something for you. Clarence Raybold. Ah, I know your father, if he lives at Johannesburg.”

“He does, sir,” answered Clarence.

The stranger looked at Fred with the others intently and silently for a few moments, then he drew nearer to Ned.

“You can save me a journey tonight, young Romer, for I think I can depend upon you as well as upon your companions.”

“I trust you can, sir,” replied Ned, modestly.

“On your discretion as well as your loyalty and courage?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Then I shall trust you.”

He glanced round, and seeing the veldt clear and Stephanus still by the water-hole, he pulled a leaf from his pocket-book, and wrote something hastily upon it. This small note he folded up and addressed, then he gave it to Ned.

“Put that inside your boot, and keep it there until you reach Johannesburg. When you arrive there, look at the address, and deliver it to the person it is for. You will find him easily. Meantime, be secret about it, and show it to no one except the person it is for. Much depends on its safe delivery—more on it not being taken from you or lost on the way. If you carry it safely, you will have rendered your country and the man you appear to admire a great, a very great, service.”

He sprang on his horse as he spoke, and, taking his hat off, waved it to them as he rode swiftly away.

“Remember that you are trusted by Cecil Rhodes. So long. We shall meet again.”

He was off at a gallop, while our heroes looked after horse and man with open mouths.

“What a slice of luck, Ned! Who could have expected it?” whispered Fred and Clarence, as soon as they recovered from their astonishment.

Ned did not reply. Kneeling down he took off his boot, and secreted the precious bit of paper inside; then he rose up with a bright and proud light gleaming in his eyes.

“It is, indeed, a piece of luck which we must all try to live up to,” he said at length, in a solemn voice. “My first skirmish with a Boer has resulted in an easy victory, and it has been witnessed by the greatest hero who lives. Let us hail it as a good omen.”