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

Oh, they were happy times, these first days of the infant colony, when every man felt himself to be a real Robinson Crusoe,—with the trifling difference of being cast on heights of the mainland, instead of an islet of the sea, and with the pleasant addition of kindred company!

So rich and lovely was their domain that some of the facetious spirits, in looking about for sites for future dwellings, affected a rollicking indifference to situations that would have been prized by any nobleman in making choice of a spot for a shooting-box.

“Come now, McTavish,” said Considine, on one of their exploring expeditions, “you are too particular. Yonder is a spot that seems to have been made on purpose for you—a green meadow for the cattle and sheep, when you get ’em; stones scattered here and there, of a shape that will suit admirably for building purposes without quarrying or dressing; a clump of mimosa-trees to shelter your cottage from winds that may blow down the valley, and a gentle green slope to break those that blow up; a superb acacia standing by itself on a ready-made lawn where your front door will be, under which you may have a rustic seat and table to retire to at eventide with Mrs McTavish and lovely young Jessie, to smoke your pipe and sip your tea.”

“Or toddy,” suggested Sandy Black.

“Or toddy,” assented Considine.

“Besides all this, you have the river making a graceful bend in front of your future drawing-room windows, and a vista of the valley away to the left, with a rocky eminence on the right, whence baboons can descend to rob your future orchard at night, and sit chuckling at you in safety during the day, with a grand background of wooded gorges,—or corries, as you Scotch have it, or kloofs, according to the boers—and a noble range of snow-clad mountains to complete the picture!”

“Not a bad description for so young a man,” said McTavish, surveying the spot with a critical eye; “quite in our poetical leader’s style. You should go over it again in his hearing, and ask him to throw it into verse.”

“No; I cannot afford to give away the valuable produce of my brain. I will keep and sell it some day in England. But our leader has already forestalled me, I fear. He read to me something last night which he has just composed, and which bears some resemblance to it. Listen:—

“‘Now we raise the eye to range

O’er prospect wild, grotesque, and strange;

Sterile mountains, rough and steep,

That bound abrupt the valley deep,

Heaving to the clear blue sky

Their ribs of granite bare and dry.

And ridges, by the torrents worn,

Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn,

Which fringes Nature’s savage dress,

Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.

But where the Vale winds deep

below,

The landscape hath a warmer glow

There the spekboom spreads its bowers

Of light green leaves and lilac flowers;

And the aloe rears her crimson crest,

Like stately queen for gala drest

And the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakes

Its coral tufts above the brakes,

Brilliant as the glancing plumes

Of sugar-birds among its blooms,

With the deep-green verdure blending

In the stream of light descending.’

“Something or other follows, I forget what, and then:—

“‘With shattered rocks besprinkled o’er,

Behind ascends the mountain hoar,

Where the grin satyr-faced baboon

Sits gibbering to the rising moon,

Or chides with hoarse or angry cry

Th’intruder as he wanders by.’

“There—I can’t remember the rest of it,” said Considine, “and I’m not even sure that what I’ve quoted is correct, but you see Mr Pringle’s mind has jumped before mine,—and higher.”

“Man, it’s no’ that bad,” observed Black, with emphasis. “Depend on’t—though I mak’ nae pretence to the gift o’ prophecy—he’ll come oot as a bard yet—the bard o’ Glen Lynden maybe, or Sooth Afriky.—Hech, sirs!” added Sandy, pointing with a look of surprise to a tree, many of the pendent branches of which had peculiar round-shaped birds’-nests attached to them, “what’s goin’ on there, think ’ee?”

The tree to which the Scot directed attention overhung the stream, and down one of its branches a snake was seen twining itself with caution. It evidently meant to rob one of the nests, for the little owner, with some of its companions, was shrieking and fluttering round the would-be robber. This kind of bird has been gifted with special wisdom to guard its home from snakes. It forms the entrance to its pendent nest at the bottom instead of the top, and hangs the nest itself at the extreme point of the finest twigs, so that the snake is compelled to wriggle downwards perpendicularly, and at last has to extend part of its body past the nest, in order to be able to turn its head upwards into the hole. Great, unquestionably, is a snake’s capacity to hold on by its tail, but this holding on as it were to next-to-nothing is usually too much for it. While the explorers were watching, the snake turned its head upwards for the final dive into the nest, but its coils slipped, and it fell into the water amid triumphant shrieks from the little birds. Nothing daunted, however, the snake swam ashore and made another attempt—with the same result. Again it made the trial; a third time it failed, and then, in evident disgust, went off to attack some easier prey.

While Considine and his companions were thus out in search of good localities on which to plant future homesteads, the greater part of the settlers were engaged, at a spot which they had named Clifton, in erecting temporary huts of the wattle-and-dab order. Mr Pringle himself, with a bold fellow named Rennie, remained to guard the camp, as they had reason to fear a surprise from Bushmen marauders, known at that time to be roaming the neighbourhood. More than once the sentinels were tempted to fire into a band of baboons, whom they not unnaturally mistook for Bushmen!

Other parties were sent out to cut wood and reeds, which they had to carry into camp, sometimes two or three miles, on their shoulders, while some were despatched into the kloofs to hunt, provisions having by that time grown scarce. Not being a sportsman himself, and not feeling sure of the power of his men, who were at that time unaccustomed to the gun, Mr Pringle wisely sent two of the party to the nearest station—about forty miles distant—to inquire about a supply of provisions and a few horses, which were expected from the Government-farm of Somerset.

The first hunting party sent out was not a select one, the people generally being too eager about examining and determining their immediate locations to care about sport. It consisted of young Rivers and Jerry Goldboy. The former was appointed, or rather allowed, to go, more because of his sporting enthusiasm than because of any evidence he had yet given of his powers, and the latter merely because he desired to go. For the same reason he was permitted to arm himself with his blunderbuss. Rivers carried a heavy double-barrelled fowling-piece. He was a stout active impulsive young fellow, with the look of a capable Nimrod.

“You’d have been better with a fowling-piece, or even a Dutch roer,” said Rivers, casting a doubtful look at the blunderbuss as they entered the jungle and began to ascend one of the nearest subsidiary glens or kloofs.

“Well now, sir,” said Jerry respectfully, “I don’t agree with you. A man who goes a-shootin’ with a fowlin’-piece or a Dutch gun must ’ave some sort o’ capacity for shootin’—mustn’t ’e, sir?”

“Well, I suppose he must.”

“W’ereas,” continued Jerry, “a man who goes