Jock of the Bushveld Read online

  But there was something stronger than the things he knew, around, without, beyond – the thing that strove within him: that grew and grew, and beat and fought for freedom: that bade him go and walk alone and tell his secret on the mountain slopes to one who would not laugh – a little red retriever; that made him climb and feel his strength, and find an outlet for what drove within. And thus the end was sure; for of all the voices none so strong as this! And only those others reached him that would chime with it; the gentle ones which said: ‘We too believe’, and one, a stronger, saying: ‘Fifty years ago I did it. I would do it now again!’

  So the Boy set out to seek his fortune, and did not find it; for there was none in the place where he sought. Those who warned him were – in the little – right; yet was he – in the greater – right too! It was not given to him as yet to know that fortune is not in time or place or things; but, good or bad, in the man’s own self for him alone to find and prove.

  Time and place and things had failed him; still was effort right; and, when the first was clear beyond all question, it was instinct and not knowledge bade him still go on, saying: ‘Not back to the cage. Anything but that!’

  When many days had passed, it was again a friend who met him, saying: ‘Common sense is not cowardice. You have made a mistake: repair it while you may. I have seen and know: there is nothing there. Come back with me, and all will be made easy.’ And answer, in reason, there was none; for the little truth was all too plain, and the greater not yet seen. But that which had swelled to bursting and had fought within for freedom called out: ‘Failure is the worst of all!’ And the blind and struggling instinct rose against all knowledge and all reason. ‘Not back to the cage! Not that!’

  And the heart that had once been young spoke up for Auld Lang Syne: the old eyes softened and dropped: ‘God speed you, Boy – Goodbye!’ And as the mail-coach rumbled off the Boy put up his head – to try again.

  The days passed, and still there was no work to do. For, those who were there already – hardened men and strong, pioneers who had roughed it – were themselves in straitened case, and it was no place for boys.

  So the Boy moved on again, and with him a man in equal plight, but, being a man, a guide and comfort to the Boy, and one to lead him on the way. Hungry, they walked all day; yet when the sun went down and light began to fail the place where work and food and sleep should be was still far off. The mountain tracks were rough and all unknown; the rivers many, cold and swift: the country wild; none lived, few ever passed, that way. When night closed in the Boy walked on in front, and the man lagged wearily, grumbling at their luck. In the valley at the mountain foot they came at midnight upon water, black and still, between them and the cabin’s light beyond; and there the man lay down. Then the Boy, turning in his anger, bade him come on; and, dragging him out upon the further bank, had found – unknowing – some little of the fortune he had come to seek. Still morning brought no change; still was there no work to do. So the man gave up, and sagging back, was lost. And the Boy went on alone.

  Rough and straight-spoken, but kindly men and true, were those he came among. What they could they did: what they had they gave. They made him free of board and bed; and, kinder still, now and then made work for him to do, knowing his spirit was as theirs and that his heart cried out: ‘Not charity, but work! Give me work!’ But that they could not do, for there was no work they could not do themselves.

  Thus the days and weeks went by. Willing, but unused to fend for himself – unfit by training for the wild rough life, heart and energy all to waste, the little he did know of no value there – the struggle with the ebbing tide went on; it was the wearing hopeless fight against that which one cannot grapple, and cannot even see. There was no work to be done. A few days here and there; a little passing job; a helping hand disguised; and then the quest again. They were all friendly – but, with the kindly habit of the place: it told the tale of hopelessness too well. They did not even ask his name; it made no difference.

  Then came a day when there was nowhere else to try. Among the lounging diggers at their weekend deals he stood apart – too shy, too proud to tell the truth; too conscious of it to trust his voice; too hungry to smile as if he did not care! And then a man in muddy moleskins, with grave face, brown beard and soft blue eyes, came over to him, saying straight: ‘Boy, you come along o’ me!’ And he went.

  It was work – hard work. But the joy of it! Shovelling in the icy water, in mud and gravel, and among the boulders, from early dawn to dark. What matter? It was work. It was not for hire, but just to help one who had helped him; to ‘earn his grub’ and feel he was a man, doing the work of his friend’s partner, ‘who was away’.

  For three full weeks the Boy worked on; grateful for the toil; grateful for the knowledge gained; most grateful that he could by work repay a kindness. And then the truth came out! The kindly fiction fell away as they sat and rested on the day of rest. ‘The claim could not stand two white men’s grub’ had fallen from the man, accounting for his partner’s absence.

  It was the simple and unstudied truth and calm unconsciousness of where it struck that gave the thrust its force; and in the clear still air of the Sunday morning the Boy turned hot and cold and dizzy to think of his folly, and of the kindness he had so long imposed upon. It was a little spell before his lips would smile, and eyes and voice were firm enough to lie. Then he said gently: if he could be spared – he had not liked to ask before, but now the floods were over and the river turned perhaps it could be managed – he would like to go, as there were letters waiting, and he expected news.

  Up the winding pathway over rocky ledge and grassy slope, climbing for an hour to the pass, the toil and effort kept the hot thoughts under. At the top the Boy sat down to rest. The green rock-crested mountains stood like resting giants all around: the rivers, silvered by the sun, threaded their ways between: the air was clear, and cool, and still. The world was very beautiful from there.

  Far, far below – a brownish speck beside the silver streak – stood the cabin he had left. And, without warning, all came back to him. What he had mastered rose beyond control. The little child that lies hidden in us all reached out – as in the dark – for a hand to hold; and there was none. His arms went up to hide the mocking glory of the day and, face buried in the grass, he sobbed: ‘Not worth my food!’

  Science tells us that Nature will recoup herself by ways as well defined as those that rule mechanics. The blood flows upward – and the brain’s awhirl; the ebb-tide sets – and there is rest. Whatever impulse sways the guiding hand, we know that often when we need it most there comes relief; gently, unbidden, unobserved.

  The Boy slept, and there was peace awhile. Then came faint echoes of the waking thoughts – odd words shot out, of hope and resolution; murmured names of those at home. Once his hand went out and gently touched the turf, reaching for the friend and comrade of the past – one who knew his every mood, had heard his wildest dreams described, had seen him, hot-eyed, breathless, struggling to escape the cage; one to whom the boyish soul was often bared in foolish confidence; one who could see and hear and feel, yet never tell – a little red retriever left at home; and the Boy stirred and sighed, for answer to the soft brown eyes.

  No! It is not good for man to be alone.

  A wisp of drifting cloud came by, a breath of cooler air, and the fickle spirit of the mountain changed the day as with a wand. The Boy woke up shivering, dazed, bewildered: the mountain of his dreams had vanished; and his dog was not there! The cold driving mist had blotted out the world. Stronger and stronger grew the wind, driving the damp cold through and through; for on the bleak plateau of the mountain nothing broke its force.

  Pale and shaken, and a little stiff, he looked about; then slowly faced the storm. It had not struck him to turn back.

  The gusts blew stronger and through the mist came rain, in single stinging drops – portents of the greater storm. Slowly, as he bent to breast it, the chilled blood warmed
, and when the first thunderclap split overhead, and lost itself in endless roars and rumblings in the kloofs and hills around, there came a warmth about his heart and a light into his eye – mute thanksgiving that here was something he could battle with and be a man again.

  On top of the world the storms work all their fury. Only there come mist and wind and rain, thunder and lightning and hail together – the pitiless terrible hail: there, where the hare hiding in the grass may know it is the highest thing in all God’s world, and nearest to the storm – the one clear mark to draw the lightning – and, knowing, scurries to the sheltered slopes.

  But the Boy pressed on – the little path a racing stream to guide him. Then in the one group of ghostly, mist-blurred rocks he stopped to drink; and as he bent – for all the blackness of the storm – his face leaped out at him reflected for one instant in the shallow pool; the blue-white flame of lightning, blinding his aching eyes, hissed down; the sickening smell of brimstone spread about; and crashing thunder close above his head left him dazed and breathless.

  Heedless of the rain, blinking the blackness from his eyes, he sat still for head to clear and limbs to feel their life again; and, as he waited, slowly there came upon a colder stiller air that other roar, so far, so dull, so uniform; so weird and terrifying – the voice of the coming hail.

  Huddled beneath the shelving rock he watched the storm sweep by with awful battering din that swamped and silenced every other sound – the tearing, smashing hail that seemed to strip the mountain to its very bone.

  Oh! the wanton fury of the hail; the wild, destructive charge of hordes of savage cavalry; the stamping, smashing sweep along the narrow strip where all the fury concentrates; the long black trail of death and desolation! The birds and beasts, the things that creep and fly, all know the portents, and all flee before it, or aside. But in the darkness – in the night or mist – the slow, the weak, the helpless and the mothers with their young – for them is little hope.

  The dense packed column swept along, ruthless, raging, and unheeding, overwhelming all… A sudden failing of its strength, a little straggling tail, and then – the silence!

  The sun came out; the wind died down; light veils of mist came slowly by – bits of floating gossamer – and melted in the clear, pure air.

  The Boy stepped out once more. Miles away the black column of the falling hail sped its appointed course. Under his feet, where all had been so green and beautiful, was battered turf, for the time transformed into a mass of dazzling brilliants, where jagged ice-stones caught the sunlight on their countless facets and threw it back in one fierce flashing glare, blinding in its brilliance.

  On the glittering surface many things stood out.

  In the narrow pathway near the spring, a snake lay on its back, crushed and broken; beyond it a tortoise, not yet dead, but bruised and battered through its shell; then a partridge – poor unprotected thing – the wet feathers lying all around, stripped as though a hawk had stricken it, and close behind it all the little brood; and further afield lay something reddish-brown – a buck – the large eyes glazed, an ooze of blood upon its lips and nose. He stooped to touch it, but drew back: the dainty little thing was pulp.

  All striving for the sheltering rocks; all caught and stricken by the ruthless storm; and he, going on to face it, while others fled before – he, blindly fighting on – was spared. Was it luck? Or was there something subtle, more? He held to this, that more than chance had swayed the guiding hand of fate – that fortune holds some gifts in store for those who try; and faith resurgent moved him to a mute Te Deum, of which no more reached the conscious brain than: ‘It is good to be alive! But… better so than in the cage.’

  Once more, a little of the fortune that he had come to seek.

  At sunset, passing down the long rough gorge, he came upon one battling with the flood to save his all – the white man struggling with the frightened beasts; the kaffir swept from off his feet; the mad bewildered oxen yielding to the stream and heading downwards towards the falls – and in their utmost need the Boy swam in and helped!

  And there the long slow ebb was stayed: the Boy was worth his food.

  But how recall the life when those who made it set so little store by all that passed, and took its ventures for their daily lot; when those who knew it had no gift or thought to fix the colours of the fading past: the fire of youth; the hopes; the toil; the bright illusions gone! And now, the Story of a Dog to conjure up a face, a name, a voice or the grip of a friendly hand! And the half-dreamed sound of the tramping feet is all that is left of the live procession long since passed: the young recruits; the laggards and the faint; the few who saw it through; the older men – grave-eyed, thoughtful, unafraid – who judged the future by the battered past, and who knew none more nor less than man – unconscious equals of the best and least; the grey-hued years; the thinning ranks; the summons answered, as they had lived – alone. The tale untold; and, of all who knew it, none left to picture now the life, none left to play a grateful comrade’s part, and place their record on a country’s scroll – the kindly, constant, nameless Pioneers!

  Into the Bushveld

  ‘Distant hills are always green’ and the best gold further on. That is a law of nature – human nature – which is quite superior to facts; and thus the world moves on.

  So from the Lydenburg Goldfields prospectors ‘humping their swags’ or driving their small pack-donkeys spread afield, and transport-riders with their long spans and rumbling waggons followed, cutting a wider track where traders with winding strings of carriers had already ventured on. But the hunters had gone first. There were great hunters whose names are known; and others as great who missed the accident of fame; and after them hunters who traded, and traders who hunted. And so too with prospectors, diggers, transport-riders and all.

  Between the goldfields and the nearest port lay the Bushveld and game enough for all to live on. Thus all were hunters of a sort, but the great hunters – the hunters of big game – were apart; we were the smaller fry, there to admire and to imitate.

  Trophies, carried back with pride or by force of habit, lay scattered about, neglected and forgotten, round the outspans, the tents of lone prospectors, the cabins of the diggers and the grass wayside shanties of the traders. How many a ‘record’ head must have gone then, when none had thought of time or means to save them! Horns and skins lay in jumbled heaps in the yards or sheds of the big trading stores. The splendid horns of the kudu and sable, and a score of others only less beautiful, could be seen nailed up in crude adornment of the roughest walls; nailed up, and then unnoticed and forgotten! And yet not quite, for, although to the older hands they were of no further interest, to the newcomer they spoke of something yet to see, and something to be done; and the sight set him dreaming of the time when he too would go a-hunting and bring his trophies home.

  Perched on the edge of the Berg, we overlooked the wonder-world of the Bushveld, where the big game roamed in thousands and the ‘wildest tales were true’. Living on the fringe of a hunter’s paradise, most of us were drawn in to it from time to time, for shorter or longer spells, as opportunity and our circumstances allowed; and little by little one got to know the names, appearances and habits of the many kinds of game below. Long talks in the quiet nights up there under waggons, in grass shelters in the woods, or in the wattle and daub shanties of the diggers, where men passed to and fro and swapped lies, as the polite phrase went, were our ‘nights’ entertainments’, when younger hands might learn much that was useful and true, and more that was neither.

  It was a school of grown-up schoolboys; no doubt a hard one, but it had its playground side, and it was the habit of the school to ‘drop on to’ any breach of the unwritten laws, to ‘rub in’ with remorseless good humour the mistakes that were made, and to play upon credulity with a shamelessness and nerve quite paralysing to the judgment of the inexperienced. Yet, with it all, there was a kindliness and quick instinct of ‘fair do’s’ which tempere
d the wind and, in the main, gave no one more than was good for him.

  There the new boy had to run the gauntlet and, if without a watchful instinct or a friendly hint, there was nothing to warn him of it. When Faulkner – dragged to the piano – protested that he remembered nothing but a mere ‘morceau’, he was not conscious of transgression, but a delighted audience caught up the word, and thenceforth he was known only as ‘Ankore’ – Harry the Sailor having explained that ‘more so’ was a recognised variant.

  ‘Johnny-come-lately’s got to learn’ was held to be adequate reason for letting many a beginner buy his experience, while those who had been through it all watched him stumble into the well-known pitfalls. It would no doubt have been a much more comfortable arrangement all round had there been a polite ignoring of each other’s blunders and absurdities. But that is not the way of schools where the spirit of fun plays its useful part; and, after all, the lesson well ‘rubbed in’ is well remembered.

  The new assayer, primed by us with tales of sable antelope around Macmac Camp, shot old Jim Hill’s only goat and had to leave the carcass with a note of explanation – Jim being out when he called. What he heard from us when he returned, all prickly with remorse and shame, was a liberal education; but what he remembers best is Jim’s note addressed that evening to our camp: ‘Boys! Jim Hill requests your company to dinner tomorrow, Sunday!’

  ‘Mutton!’

  As the summer spent itself, and whispers spread around of new strikes further on, a spirit of restlessness – a touch of trek fever – came upon us, and each cast about which way to try his luck. Our camp was the summer headquarters of two transport riders and, when many months of hard work, timber-cutting on the Berg, contracting for the Companies, pole-slipping in the bush, and other things, gave us at last a ‘rise’, it seemed the natural thing to put it all into waggons and oxen and go transport riding too.