The Settler and the Savage by R. M. Ballantyne (great books to read txt) 📕

A solitary horseman—a youth in early manhood—riding at a snail’s pace over the great plains, or karroo, of South Africa. His chin on his breast; his hands in the pockets of an old shooting-coat; his legs in ragged trousers, and his feet in worn-out boots. Regardless of stirrups, the last are dangling. The reins hang on the neck of his steed, whose head may be said to dangle from its shoulders, so nearly does its nose approach the ground. A felt hat covers the youth’s curly black head, and a double-barrelled gun is slung across his broad shoulders.

We present this picture to the reader as a subject of contemplation.

It was in the first quarter of the present century that the youth referred to—Charlie Considine by name—rode thus meditatively over that South African karroo. His depression was evidently not due to lack of spirit, for, when he suddenly awoke from his reverie, drew himself up and shook back his hair, his dark eyes opened with something like a flash. They lost some of their fire, however, as he gazed round on the hot plain which undulated like the great ocean to the horizon, where a line of blue indicated mountains.

The truth is that Charlie Considine was lost—utterly lost on the karroo! That his horse was in the same lost condition became apparent from its stopping without orders and looking round languidly with a sigh.

“Come, Rob Roy,” said the youth, gathering up the reins and patting the steed’s neck, “this will never do. You and I must not give in to our first misfortune. No doubt the want of water for two days is hard to bear, but we are strong and young both of us. Come, let’s try at least for a sheltering bush to sleep under, before the sun goes down.”

Animated by the cheering voice, if not by the words, of its rider, the horse responded to the exhortation by breaking into a shuffling canter.

After a short time the youth came in sight of what appeared to be a herd of cattle in the far distance. In eager expectation he galloped towards them and found that his conjectures were correct. They were cattle in charge of one of that lowest of the human race, a Bushman. The diminutive, black-skinned, and monkey-faced creature was nearly naked. He carried a sheepskin kaross, or blanket, on his left shoulder, and a knobbed stick, or “kerrie,” in his right hand.

“Can you speak English?” asked Considine as he rode up.

The Bushman looked vacant and made no reply.

“Where is your master’s house?” asked the youth.

A stare was the only answer.

“Can’t you speak, you dried-up essence of stupidity!” exclaimed Charlie with impatience.

At this the Bushman uttered something with so many klicks, klucks, and gurgles in it that his interrogator at once relinquished the use of the tongue, and took to signs, but with no better success, his efforts having only the effect of causing the mouth of the Bushman to expand from ear to ear. Uttering a few more klicks and gurgles, he pointed in the direction of the setting sun. As Considine could elicit no fuller information he bade him a contemptuous farewell and rode away in the direction indicated.

He had not gone far when a dark speck became visible on the horizon directly in front.

“Ho! Rob,” he exclaimed, “that looks like something—a bush, is it? If so, we may find water there, who knows—eh? No, it can’t be a bush, for it moves,” he added in a tone of disappointment. “Why, I do believe it’s an ostrich! Well, if we can’t find anything to drink, I’ll try to get something to eat.”

Urging his jaded steed into a gallop, the youth soon drew near enough to discover that the object was neither bush nor ostrich, but a horseman.

The times of which we write were unsettled. Considine, although “lost,” was sufficiently aware of his whereabouts to understand that he was near the north-eastern frontier of Cape Colony. He deemed it prudent, therefore, to unsling his gun. On drawing nearer he became convinced from the appearance of the stranger that he could not be a Kafir. When close enough to perceive that he was a white man, mounted and armed much like himself, he re-slung his gun, waved his cap in token of friendship, and galloped forward with the confidence of youth.

The stranger proved to be a young man of about his own age—a little over twenty—but much taller and more massive in frame. He was, indeed, a young giant, and bestrode a horse suitable to his weight. He was clad in the rough woollen and leathern garments worn by the frontier farmers, or boers, of that period, and carried one of those long heavy flint-lock guns, or “roers,” which the Dutch-African colonist then deemed the most effective weapon in the universe.

“Well met!” exclaimed Considine heartily, as he rode up.

“Humph! that depends on whether we meet as friends or foes,” replied the stranger, with a smile on his cheerful countenance that accorded ill with the caution of his words.

“Well met, I say again, whether we be friends or foes,” returned Considine still more heartily, “for if we be friends we shall fraternise; if we be foes we shall fight, and I would rather fight you for love, hate, or fun, than die of starvation in the karroo.”

“What is your name, and where do you come from?” demanded the stranger.

“One question at a time, if you please,” answered the youth. “My name is Charles Considine. What is yours?”

“Hans Marais.”

“Well, Mr Marais, I come from England, which is my native home. In the coming I managed to get wrecked in Table Bay, landed at Capetown, joined a frontier farmer, and came up here—a long and roughish journey, as probably you know, and as my garments testify. On the way I lost my comrades, and in trying to find them lost myself. For two days nothing in the shape of meat or drink has passed my lips, and my poor horse has fared little better in the way of drink, though the karroo-bush has furnished him with food enough to keep his bones together. So now, you have my biography in brief, and if you be a man possessed of any powers of sympathy, you will know what to do.”

The young Dutchman held out his huge hand, which Considine grasped and shook warmly.

“Come,” he said, while a slight smile played on his bronzed countenance; “I have nothing here to give you, but if you will come with me to yon koppie you shall have both meat and drink.”

The koppie to which he referred was a scarce discernible knoll on the horizon.

Hans Marais seemed to be a man of few words, for he turned and galloped away, without for some time uttering another syllable to his companion. As for Considine, the thought of once more feasting on any sort of meat and drink was so fascinating, in his then ravenous condition, that he cared for nought else, and followed his guide in silence.

Soon the herbage on the plain became more luxuriant, and in half an hour the two horsemen found themselves riding among scattered groups of mimosa bushes, the thorns of which were from three to five inches long, while their sweet fragrance scented the whole atmosphere.

On reaching the ridge of one of the undulations of the plain, Hans Marais drew rein and gazed intently towards the distant horizon. At the same time Considine’s horse pricked up its ears, pawed the ground, and exhibited unwonted signs of a desire to advance.

“Hallo, Rob!” exclaimed its master, “what’s wrong with you?”

“Your horse has been gifted by his Maker with a power,” said Hans, “which has been denied to man. He scents water. But before he shall taste it he must help me to procure fresh meat. Do you see the boks on that koppie?”

“Do you mean those white specks like ostrich eggs on the hillock to the right of the big bush?”

“The same. These are springboks. Ride away down by that hollow till you get somewhat in their rear, and then drive them in the direction of that clump of bushes on our left, just under the sun.”

Without waiting for a reply Hans rode off at a gallop, and Considine proceeded to obey orders.

A few minutes sufficed to bring him close to the springboks, which beautiful antelopes no sooner observed him than, after one brief gaze of surprise, they bounded away in the direction of the bushes indicated by Hans,—conscious apparently of their superior fleetness, for they seemed in no great haste, but leaped about as if half in play, one and another taking an occasional spring of six feet or more into the air. As they passed the bushes towards which Considine drove them, a white puff was seen to burst from them, and the huge roer of Hans Marais sent forth its bellowing report. It seemed as if the entire flock of boks had received an electric shock, so high did they spring into the air. Then they dashed off at full speed, leaving one of their number dead upon the plain.

When Considine came up he found that Hans had already disembowelled the springbok, and was in the act of fastening the carcase on his horse behind the saddle. Remounting immediately, the hunter galloped towards a mound, on the top of which the bushes formed a dense brake. Skirting this till he reached the other side, he pulled up, exclaiming—

“There, you’ll find good water in the hollow; go drink, while I prepare supper on the koppie.”

Considine went off at once. Indeed, he could not have done otherwise, for his impatient horse took the bit in its mouth and galloped towards a small pool of water, which was so yellow with mud that it resembled thin pea-soup.

Thirsty though he was, the youth could not help smiling at his new friend’s idea of “good” water, but he was not in a condition to be fastidious. Jumping out of the saddle, he lay down on his breast, dipped his lips into the muddy liquid, and drank with as much enjoyment as if the beverage had been nectar—or Bass. Rob Roy also stood, in a state of perfect bliss, in the middle of the pool, sucking the water in with unwearied vigour. It seemed as if man and horse had laid a wager as to who should drink most. At last, the point of utmost capacity in both was reached, and they retired with a sigh of contentment, Rob Roy to browse on the plain, and his master to betake himself to the encampment on the knoll, where Hans Marais quickly supplied him with glorious steaks of springbok venison.

“Isn’t it an enjoyable thing to eat when one is hungry, eh?” said Considine, after half an hour’s silent devotion to the duty in hand.—“Why, where got you that?”

He referred to an ostrich egg which his companion had taken from a saddle-bag, and in one end of which he was busy boring a hole.

“Found it in the sand just before I found you,” said Hans. “Did you ever eat one?”

“No, never.”

“Well then, you shall do so now, and I’ll show you how the niggers here make an omelet.”

He planted the huge egg in the hot ashes as he spoke, and kept stirring its contents with a piece of stick until sufficiently cooked.

“Not bad,—eh?”

“Glorious!” exclaimed Considine, smacking his lips.

Both youths continued to smack their lips over the egg until it was finished, after which Charlie pronounced it not only a glorious but a satisfying morsel. This was doubtless true, for an ostrich egg is considered equal to twenty-four hen’s eggs.

Returning to the springbok steaks, the half-starved youth continued his repast, while Hans Marais, having finished, extended his huge frame beside the camp-fire, leaned upon his saddle, and smoked his