Читать книгу The War of the Axe; Or, Adventures in South Africa - J. Percy Groves - Страница 10

“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.