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

a-shootin’ with a blunderbuss don’t require no such qualification—that’s w’ere it is, sir.”

“D’you mean to say that you can’t shoot?” asked Rivers, with a look of surprise.

“No more, sir,” replied Jerry with emphasis, “than the weathercock of a Dutch Reformed Church. Of course I know ’ow to load—powder first, ball or shot arterwards; it’s usually gravel with me, that bein’, so to speak, ’andy and cheap. An’ I knows w’ich end o’ the piece to putt to my shoulder, likewise ’ow to pull the trigger, but of more than that I’m hinnocent as the babe unborn. Ah! you may laugh, sir, but after all I’m a pretty sure shot. Indeed I seldom miss, because I putt in such a ’eavy charge, and the ’buss scatters so fearfully that it’s all but impossible to miss—unless you fairly turn your back on the game and fires in the opposite direction.”

“You’re a pleasant hunting companion!” said Rivers. “Do you know the importance of always keeping the muzzle of your gun away from the unfortunate fellow you chance to be shooting with?”

“Ho, yes, sir. The dangerous natur’ of my weapon is so great that I’ve adopted the plan of always walking, as you see, with what the milingtary call ‘shouldered arms,’ which endangers nothin’ but the sky—includin’ the planetory system—except w’en I ’appens to fall, w’en, of course, it’s every man lookout for hisself. But there’s one consolation for you, sir,—my blunderbuss don’t go off easy. It takes two pulls of the trigger, mostly, to bring fire out o’ the flint, and as I often forget to prime—there’s a third safeguard in that, so to speak.”

Further converse was interrupted by the sudden bursting of a duiker, or large antelope, from a thicket close beside them. Both sportsmen levelled their pieces, but, the jungle there being dense, the animal vanished before either could fire. With the eager haste of tyros, however, they ran stumbling after it until they came to an open stretch of ground which led them to the edge of a small plain. Here they simultaneously discovered that no duiker was to be seen, though they observed a troop of quaggas far out of range, and a hartebeest in the distance. The former, observing them, kicked up their heels, and dashed away into the mountains. The latter, a handsome creature, the size of an average pony and fleet as a stag, bounded into the jungle.

“No use going after these,” said Rivers, with a wistful gaze.

“No, sir,—none w’atever.”

“Better keep to the jungle and be ready next time,” said the young sportsman. “We mustn’t talk, Jerry.”

“No, sir; mum’s the word. But ’ow if we should meet with a lion?”

“Shoot it of course. But there is no such luck in store for us.”

After this the hunters proceeded with greater caution. As they kept in the thick bush, they frequently startled animals, which they heard leaping up and bursting through the underwood, but seldom got a glimpse, and never a shot.

“Tantalising, ain’t it, sir?”

“Hush!”

They issued on another open space at this point, and, seeing a thick bed of sedges near the margin of a stream, proceeded towards it, separating from each other a few yards in order to cover the ground.

There was a sudden and violent shaking in the sedges on their approach, as if some large animal had been aroused from sleep, but the tall reeds prevented its being seen.

“Look out, Jerry, and keep more on the other side—there—Hallo!”

As he spoke, a creature called by the Dutch colonists a reit-vark, or reed-swine, whose quick starts and sharp stoppages betrayed its indecision, at length made up its mind and rushed out of the reeds in wild alarm close to Rivers, who, although ready, was incapable of restraining himself, and fired in haste. The ball nevertheless slightly grazed the animal’s side.

With a shriek of intense agony, such as only a brute of the porcine tribe can utter, the reit-vark swerved aside and ran straight, though unintentionally, at Jerry Goldboy.

Self-control not being Jerry’s forte, he uttered a great cry, presented the blunderbuss with both hands, shut his eyes, and fired. The butt of his piece came back on his chest and floored him, and the half-pound of gravel charge went into the forehead of the reit-vark, which dropped with a final groan, whose clear import was—“no earthly use in struggling after that!” Recovering himself, Jerry was jubilant over his success. Rivers was almost envious.

They proceeded, but killed nothing more afterwards, though they saw much. Among other things, they saw a footprint in the sand which filled them with interest and awe.

It was that of a lion! During the journey up from the coast they had seen much game, large and small, of every kind, except the Cape “tiger” and the lion. They had indeed, once or twice, heard the peculiar growl or gurr of the former, but until this day none of the party had seen even the footprint of the king of beasts. Of course the interest and excitement was proportional. Of course, also, when the subject was discussed round the camp-fires that night, there was a good deal of “chaffing” among the younger men about the probability of a mistake as to the nature of the footprints by such unaccustomed sportsmen; but Rivers was so confident in his statements, and Jerry was so contemptuous in his manner of demanding whether there was any difference between the paw of a cat and a lion, except in size, and whether he was not perfectly familiar with a cat’s paw, that no room for scepticism remained.

It had been a threatening day. Muttered thunder had been heard at intervals, and occasional showers,—the first that had assailed them since their arrival in the glen. The night became tempestuous, cold, and very dark, so that soon all were glad to seek the shelter of the tents or of the half-finished wattle-and-dab huts, except the sentinels. Of these, two were appointed for every watch. Masters and servants shared this disagreeable duty equally. Particularly disagreeable it was that night, for the rain came down in such torrents that it was difficult to keep the fires alight despite a good supply of firewood.

About midnight the sleeping camp was aroused by the roar of a lion close to the tents. It was so loud and so tremendous that some of the sleepy-heads thought for a moment a thunderstorm had burst upon them. Every one was up in a second—the men with guns, pistols, swords, and knives. There was no mistaking the expression of the roar—the voice of fury as well as of power.

“Whereaboots is the brute?” cried Sandy Black, who, roused to unwonted excitement by the royal voice, issued from his tent in a red nightcap and drawers, with a gun in one hand and a carving-knife in the other.

“Here!” “There!” “In this direction!” “No, it isn’t!” “I say it is!” and similar exclamations, burst from every one. The uncertainty was probably occasioned partly by the mode the animal has of sometimes putting his mouth close to the ground when he roars, so that the voice rolls along like a billow; partly also by the echo from a mountain-rock which rose abruptly on the opposite bank of the river. Finding it impossible to decide the question of direction, the party fired volleys and threw firebrands in all directions, and this they did with such vigour that his kingship retired without uttering another sound.

It was a grand, a royal, almost a humorous mode of breaking a spell—the spell of unbelief in lions,—which some of the party had been under up to that moment. They remained under it no longer!

As if to confirm and fix the impression thus made, this lion,—or another,—gave some of the party a daylight interview. George Rennie, McTavish, Considine, Black, and others, had gone up the river to cut reeds in the bed of the stream. While they were busily engaged with their sickles, up rose a majestic lion in their very midst!

“Preserve us a’!” exclaimed Black, who was nearest to him.

Jerry Goldboy turned to seize his blunderbuss. The lion leaped upon the bank of the river, turned round and gazed upon the men.

“Let go!” exclaimed Jerry in a hoarse whisper, endeavouring to shake off the vice-like grip that Black had laid on his arm.

“Keep quiet, man,” growled Black sternly.

The rest of the party were wise enough not to interfere with the lion. They were at that time inexperienced. To have wounded him would have brought disaster, perhaps death, on some of them. George Rennie (who afterwards became a celebrated lion-hunter) was emphatic in advising caution. After gazing in quiet surprise on the intruders for a minute or so, he turned and retired; first slowly, and then, after getting some distance off, at a good round trot.

This was the first sight they had of the royal beast. Afterwards, during the winter and spring, they had frequent visits from lions, but did not suffer actual damage from them. They also, in course of time, dared to “beard the lion in his den,”—but of that more anon.

The labour of the settlers at this time—before oxen and horses were procured—was very severe. Of course this had the effect of weeding the little company of some of its chaff in the shape of lazy and discontented men. One said that he “had not been engaged to work by day, and watch by night, as well as living in constant fear of being scalped by savages or devoured by wild beasts.” The observation being true and unanswerable, he was “graciously permitted to retire from the service,” and returned to Algoa Bay. But on the whole there was little murmuring, and no rebellion. By degrees difficulties were smoothed down. A squatter on one of the forfeited farms, about eight miles off, who with his family lived solely on flesh and milk, was engaged to lend a hand with his waggon and oxen to “flit” the families to their various locations. He also sold the settlers a few sheep. In time, more sheep and oxen were purchased from the Dutch farmers on the Tarka, a river on the other side of the mountains. Hottentots came from Somerset with flour. Thatched huts replaced the tents. A few horses were obtained. Gardens were cleared and enclosed. Trenches for irrigation were cut. Trees were rooted out, and ploughs were set to work. Ten armed Hottentots were sent by the magistrates of the district to which they belonged, to guard and relieve them of night-watches, and with these came the news that ten of their friend Opperman’s cattle, and seven belonging to their neighbour the squatter, had been carried off by Bushmen.

At this point Sandy Black aroused the admiration of the ten Hottentots by setting to work one morning in September—the beginning of spring in South Africa—with a Scotch plough, which was guided entirely by himself and drawn by only two oxen. His dark-skinned admirers had never seen any other plough than the enormous unwieldy implement then in use among the Dutch, which had only one handle, no coulter, was usually drawn by ten or twelve oxen, and managed by three or four men and boys.

By degrees those of the party who were good linguists began to pick up Dutch. Mr Pringle, especially, soon became familiar enough with it to be able to hold a Dutch service on Sundays, in addition to the English, for the benefit of the Hottentot guards. He also added a slight knowledge of medicine to his other qualifications, and was thus enabled to minister to the wants of body and soul, at a time when the people had no regular physician or professional minister of the Gospel.

The arrival of horses gave the settlers opportunities of making more extended and more thorough explorations of their own domain, and the daily routine of life was varied and enlivened by an occasional visit from the Tarka boers, whom they found good-natured and hospitable—also very shrewd at a bargain!

Thus they took root and began to