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

The Scotch immigrants at last found themselves in the wild mountain-regions of the interior, after a weary but deeply interesting march of nearly two hundred miles.

They had now arrived at the mouth of the Baboons or Baviaans river, one of the affluents of the Great Fish River, and had already seen many of the wild inhabitants of its rugged glen.

Their particular location was a beautiful well-watered region among the mountains which had been forfeited by some of the frontier boers at the time of their insurrection against the English Government some years before. They had now crossed the Great Fish River, and, though still within the old boundary of the colony, were upon its utmost eastern verge. The country beyond, as we are told by Pringle, in his graphic account of the expedition, (see Note 1) “for a distance of seventy miles, to the new frontier at the Chumi and Keisi rivers, had been, the preceding year, forcibly depeopled of its native inhabitants, the Kafirs and Ghonaquas, and now lay waste and void, ‘a howling wilderness,’ occupied only by wild beasts, and haunted occasionally by wandering banditti of the Bushman race (Bosjesmen), who were represented as being even more wild and savage than the beasts of prey with whom they shared the dominion of the desert.”

Just before their arrival at this point, the old waggons, with the drivers who had accompanied them from Algoa Bay, were exchanged for fresh teams and men, and here Ruyter, Jemalee, and Booby left them, to proceed over a spur of one of the mountain ranges to Jan Smit’s farm on the karroo. But Hans Marais, having taken a fancy to some of the Scotch men, determined to proceed with them until he had seen them fairly established in their new homes. Of course Charlie Considine accompanied Hans.

In a wild spot among the mountains they were hospitably received at the solitary abode of a field-cornet named Opperman, who said that he had orders to assist them with an escort of armed boers over the remaining portion of their journey, and to place them in safety on their allotted ground. This remaining portion, he told them, was up the Baviaans River glen, and, although little more than twenty-five miles, would prove to be harder than any part of the journey they had yet encountered.

Remembering some of the breakneck gorges of the Zuurberg, Jerry Goldboy said that he didn’t believe it possible for any route to be worse than that over which they had already passed, to which Sandy Black replied with a “humph!” and an opinion that “the field-cornet o’ the distric’ was likely to know what he was speakin’ aboot.” But Jerry never had been, and of course never could be, convinced by reason. “Nothing,” he candidly admitted, “but hard facts had the least weight with him.”

“’Ee’ve got hard fac’s noo, Jerry,” said Sandy, about noon of the following day, as he threw down the axe with which he had been hewing the jungle, and pulled off his hat, from the crown of which he took a red cotton handkerchief wherewith to wipe his thickly-beaded brow.

Jerry could not deny the truth of this, for he also had been engaged since early morning with a South African axe nearly as large as himself, in assisting to out a passage up the glen.

Not only was there no road up this mountain gorge, but in some parts it was scarcely possible to make one, so rugged was the ground, so dense the jungle. But the preliminary difficulties were as nothing compared to those which met them further up; yet it was observable that the Dutch waggoners faced them with the quiet resolution of men accustomed to the overcoming of obstacles.

“You’d go up a precipice, Hans, I do believe, if there was no way round it,” said Considine, as he gazed in admiring wonder at his tall friend driving his oxen up an acclivity that threatened destruction to waggon, beasts, and men.

“At ony rate he’d try,” remarked Sandy Black, with one of his grave smiles.

Hans was too busy to heed these remarks, if he heard them, for the oxen, being restive, claimed his undivided attention, and the wielding of the twenty-foot whip taxed both his arms, muscular though they were.

When the long line of emigrants had slowly defiled through the poort, or narrow gorge, of the mountains from which Baviaans River issues into the more open valley where it joins the Great Fish River, they came suddenly upon a very singular scene, and a still more singular man. In the middle of the poort they found a small farm, where tremendous precipices of naked rock towered all round, so as to leave barely sufficient space on the bank of the river for the houses and cattle-folds, with a well-stocked garden and orchard. There was also a small plot of corn-land on the margin of the stream.

“’Tis a little paradise!” exclaimed Kenneth McTavish, as he and Considine joined a knot of men on a knoll, whence they had a good view of the little farm.

“It’s an unco’ rocky paradise,” observed Sandy Black, “an’ the angelic appendages o’ wings wadna be unsuitable to its inhabitants, for it seems easier to flee oot o’t ower the precipices than to scramble intil’t ower the rocks an’ rooten trees. I wonder wha it belangs to.”

Hans Marais, who came up at the moment, explained that it belonged to a Dutch boer named Prinsolo, who had been a leader some years before in a rebellion, but had been pardoned and allowed to retain his lands. “You’ve sometimes said you thought me a big fellow, Considine,” remarked Hans, “and I can’t gainsay you, but you shall see a much bigger fellow if Prinsolo is at home, for he’s a giant even among Cape Dutchmen. We call him Groot Willem (Big William), for he is burly and broad as well as tall—perhaps he is taking his noon nap,” added Hans, moving forward. “He seldom lets even a single waggon come so near without—ah! I thought so.”

As he spoke a peculiarly deep bass yawn was heard inside the principal house of the farm to which the party now drew near. Next moment a heavy thump sounded, as if on the floor, and immediately after there issued from the open door a veritable giant in his shirt-sleeves. Groot Willem was rough, shaggy, and rugged, as a giant ought to be. He was also sluggish in his motions, good-humoured, and beaming, as many of the Dutch giants are. Appropriately enough, on beholding the settlers, he uttered a deep bass halloo, which was echoed solemnly by the mighty cliffs at his back. It was neither a shout of alarm nor surprise, for he had long been aware that this visit was pending, but a hasty summons to his household to turn out and witness the stirring and unwonted sight.

It might have been supposed that a giant, whose kindred had been deprived of their lands by the British Government, and some of whom had been executed for high treason, would have regarded the British immigrants with no favourable eye, but Groot Willem appeared to have a large heart in his huge body, for he received the advance-guard of the party with genuine hospitality. Perhaps he was of an unusually forgiving spirit; or it may be that his innate sense of justice led him to recognise the demerit of himself and his kindred; or perchance he was touched by the leniency extended to himself; but, whatever the cause, he shook the newcomers heartily by the hand, said he regarded them as next door-neighbours, started the echoes of the precipices—which he styled Krantzes—and horrified the nearest baboons with shouts of bass laughter at every word from himself or others which bore the remotest semblance to a joke, and insisted on as many of the strangers as could be got into his house, drinking to their better acquaintance in home-made brandy. The same deadly beverage was liberally distributed to the men outside, and Groot Willem wound up his hospitalities by loading the party with vegetables, pomegranates, lemons, and other fruits from his garden as he sent them on their way rejoicing. Soon afterwards he followed them, to aid in forcing a passage up the valley.

In return,