Aletta Part 29

This was a terrible facer, but Colvin was forced to accept the situation with what grace he could. At first he tried expostulation, urging every reason he could think of for being suffered to pursue his way. In vain.

Even the magic name of The Patriot seemed to fail in its power here.

The burghers got their concealed horses from behind the rocks and they started.

It was quite dark when they reached the camp, which had been pitched around Gideon Roux' farmstead. How well Colvin remembered the last time he had visited this place--the discovery of the concealed arms, the squalid household and his doubtful reception, Hans Vermaak's warning and its ample justification. Now, as he saw the place again, under circ.u.mstances suspiciously like being made a prisoner of, a great despondency came upon him. He had beguiled the journey chatting with his escort, or captors, or whatever they were, and learned that for the past day or two fighting had been going on with the British forces out beyond Schalkburg, and that a few prisoners had been taken, most of whom would be forwarded to Bloemfontein. There was one, however, who was exceedingly obstreperous. If he was not careful he would very likely be shot.

They were challenged by vedettes as they reached the outskirts of the camp, but allowed to pa.s.s through. In the darkness Colvin could make out a few waggons and several tents pitched without any particular regard to order. In one or two of these some men were singing Dutch hymns in a slow, droning tone--but, early as it was, most of the burghers had turned in for the night. Once, as he pa.s.sed the farmhouse, he thought to detect an English voice, proceeding from the stable, cursing and swearing, its owner the while kicking vigorously against the door, and supposed this must be the obstreperous prisoner they had been telling him about. He was shown to a tent, which he found he had to share with three other men, who were already asleep.

The Commandant? Oh, he could not be disturbed that night. He was asleep. So there was nothing for it but to put the best face on things.

And yet it was not with pleasant foreshadowings that Colvin Kershaw at last closed his tired yet sleepless eyes in the burgher camp, realising that he was something very like a prisoner.

CHAPTER NINE.

COMMANDANT SCHOEMAN'S CAMP.

"Who on earth is making all that row?" was Colvin's first remark on awakening from sleep the following morning to the well-worn strains of "Ta-ra-Boomdeay" bellowed in stentorian tones, yet somewhat m.u.f.fled as though by distance and obstruction.

"It must be the Englishman--one of the prisoners," yawned another occupant of the tent, sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily. "He is very violent and noisy, so they have shut him up in Gideon Roux' stable away from the others."

"Is he mad?"

"No. Only violent. Wants to fight everybody with his fists."

"_Nouwja_. I would cure that 'madness' with a _sjambok_ if I were the Commandant," growled another, sitting up and listening. "He gives all the trouble he can."

The hour was that of sunrise, and although midsummer, the air at that alt.i.tude was raw and chilly when Colvin turned out, shivering, to look after his horse, which had been picketed among the steeds of the burghers. As he did so the sun, mounting above the surrounding heights into the fresh clear air, seemed to shed around a new hope, to light up a new exhilaration in his mind. His own atmosphere would clear, even as the dewy mists of night had done before the great flaming luminary. He would now seek out the Commandant, explain matters, and resume his way.

And having so decided, he was straightway confronted by a couple of burghers summoning him to the presence of that official without delay.

Commandant Schoeman was an elderly man with a hard, wooden-faced expression. He wore a straight lank beard, a chimney-pot hat, once white, and weather-beaten moleskin clothes, which looked as if they had not been off him for a month, which indeed was very near the truth. He was a Boer of the most unprogressive type, and as entirely dissimilar to one of the stamp of Stepha.n.u.s De la Rey as could possibly be imagined.

He was lacking in the good qualities of Andries Botma, who, however fiery and perfervid as a patriotic orator, was a kindly and courteous gentleman beneath. This man was brusque and uncouth, and cordially hated everything English, both in season and out of season.

He was seated in his tent as Colvin came up. The flaps were folded back so that those surrounding him who could not find room inside could still a.s.sist at what was going on in the way of official business. These consisted almost entirely of Boers holding subordinate commands under him. They wore their bandoliers, and their rifles lay on the ground beside them.

"_Daag_, Mynheer Commandant," said Colvin, mindful of the way in which a greater than this had received a less formal mode of address.

"_Daag_," replied Schoeman curtly, tendering a cold lifeless paw, and just touching the other's outstretched hand.

The same ceremony was gone through with the others. Two old acquaintances Colvin recognised--Swaart Jan Grobbelaar and old Sarel Van der Vyver. These responded to his greeting characteristically--the first showing his tusks with a sort of oily, half-satirical grin, the other infusing a heartiness into his reply, and then drawing back as though half-frightened. There was a third present, however, whom he recognised--recognised, moreover, with some astonishment--Morkel, the Civil Commissioner's clerk.

"Hallo, Morkel!" he exclaimed in English. "I never expected to see you.

Why, what on earth are _you_ doing here?"

"I am acting as secretary for the Commandant," answered Morkel, making believe to be wondrously busy with some papers on the rough wooden table in front of him. His momentary embarra.s.sment was not lost upon Colvin, nor a look he fancied he detected, warning him not to ask questions.

"I do not know why we need talk English here," said the Commandant curtly. "Sit."

Colvin obeyed, and subsided on to the floor of the tent by Swaart Jan, who made room for him, at the same time offering his tobacco bag, for they were all smoking. The great man and his "secretary" were the only ones who occupied seats, and these consisted of inverted packing-cases.

The rest squatted primitively on mother earth.

Then turning to Colvin, the Commandant began to put him through a pretty close cross-examination, causing Morkel to take down the answers, partly with a view to impressing the others with his magisterial dignity, partly from a genuine motive, for he was an illiterate man, and had all the suspiciousness which characterises such. He questioned Colvin with regard to all as to which he had been an eye-witness when with Cronje's force, and with regard to a great deal as to which he had not, the others listening with vivid interest.

And here Colvin began to feel himself in somewhat of a quandary, remembering the parting injunctions and warnings of Andries Botma. The latter had especially cautioned him against revealing matters even to the burghers on this side of the Orange River, and now the warning rose clear in his mind. Who could say that there might not be spies among those here present, or, at any rate, but lukewarm adherents of the Republican cause? And the result of such misgiving was that his answers were somewhat constrained, and to the distrustful ears of the Boer Commandant more than suspicious.

"Be careful, Englishman," said the latter bluntly. "You are telling us the truth, are you? You had better tell the truth--oh, much better."

The rudeness of the other's words and manner angered Colvin, but he yielded to the expediency of restraining too great a manifestation of resentment.

"Look, Mynheer Commandant," he said. "I have been courteously received by His Honour the President, I can call Andries Botma my friend and Piet Plessis'"--and he named half a dozen other prominent Transvaal officers--"but it has remained to me to return here to be called a liar by a man of whom I never heard before."

"All Englishmen are liars," interpolated a grim old burgher on the opposite side of the tent, spitting on the ground. Schoeman, however, received the reply with a wooden-faced silence. But Colvin did not miss a look of dismay and warning darted at him by Morkel, and at the same time, with anything but satisfaction, he realised that he had probably made a deadly enemy of the Commandant.

"Well then," he continued, "the whole square truth of the matter is that Andries Botma particularly urged upon me not to talk of what I had seen with Cronje's force, not even on this side of the river. Does that satisfy all here?" And he looked around the circle.

"_Ja_, _ja_," a.s.sented most of them, Swaart Jan adding:

"It is true, Commandant Colvin is a true man. I know him. He is a friend of 'The Patriot'. Besides, he is one of us now. He is going to marry Stepha.n.u.s De la Rey's daughter."

"Quite right, Oom Jan," said Colvin, with alacrity. Then, judging that this was exactly the moment for preferring his request, he represented to the Commandant that it was while on his way to Ratels Hoek that he had been detained and brought here. Might he not now proceed thither?

This request was backed up by most of the a.s.sembled Boers. Schoeman, beginning to think it would save trouble, was inclined to yield, when a contretemps occurred, one of those freaks of fate which have an impish and arbitrary way of skipping forward just at the right moment to divert and ruin the course of human affairs when such course is beginning to run smoothly. A considerable hubbub had arisen outside; curses and threats in Dutch and English, with the sound of scuffling, and, over and above all, a voice lifted in song, bellowing stentoriously, if somewhat jerkily:

"Ta-ra-ra-ra Boomdeay!

Oom Paul op een vark gerij, Af hij val en rier gekrij, Toen klim op en weg gerij."

The concluding words were hurled, so to say, right into the tent, for a group of burghers had appeared, and in their midst was the singer. The latter was receiving somewhat rough usage--though, truth to tell, he was bringing it upon himself. His arms were tightly pinioned to his sides with a long coil of reim, and he was being hustled forward with varying degrees of roughness. But the more they hustled and cursed him the more defiantly he shouted his idiotic and, under the circ.u.mstances, insulting doggerel. Colvin, with dismay and consternation, had recognised the stuff and had recognised the singer, and, even before the latter had been dragged into sight, knew that it could be no other than Frank Wenlock. So this was the obstreperous prisoner? Well, Frank Wenlock could be pretty obstreperous, as he knew by experience.

"Still, man, still!" growled one of his escort, shaking him violently.

Here again was an old acquaintance, in the shape of Herma.n.u.s Delport.

But the big Dutchman's face was considerably damaged, one eye being totally closed. Frank had been using his fists to some purpose. Now he let off a volley of perfectly unprintable expletives.

"You'd dare lay a finger on me but for this _reim_, wouldn't you?" he yelled. "I'd plug up your other eye for two pins, and every man's blanked eyes in this camp." And more to the same effect.

"Still, man, do you hear?" repeated Herma.n.u.s, administering another shake. "The Commandant is speaking to you. Do you hear?"

"Is he? Well, then, I don't care a little d.a.m.n for Mr bally Commandant or the whole lot of infernal rebels and traitors in that tent. Aha, Swaart Jan! you may well look sick, you old liar; there's a nice rope waiting for you. Old Sarel, too? What a hanging of rebels and traitors there'll be by-and-by! And Morkel? _Ja_, you will dangle, too." Then becoming alive to the presence of Colvin, he burst into a very roar of derisive hatred. "Good-day, Mister Kershaw--or should I say Commandant Kershaw?--the biggest blanked traitor of the lot. You'll be blown from a gun, I should think."

These ravings, uttered half in English, half in Dutch, were not without effect upon most of those within the tent. They had about concluded that the violence and insolence of this prisoner had reached limits.

"Let him taste the _sjambok_" growled the old burgher who had expressed the opinion antagonistic to British veracity. But Commandant Schoeman gave no sign of perturbation. Save for a stern and ominous look in his cold, snaky eye, he might not have heard.

"Frank--Frank! Do be quiet, man," said Colvin earnestly. "Don't make a silly a.s.s of yourself. You are doing yourself no good."

"Not, eh? I'd do you some good though if I could get at you; I'd give you the jolliest hammering you ever had. Look at Mani Delport's mug there. That's nothing to what yours would be, you infernal traitor."

"It might not be so easy, Frank. But do be reasonable. How can you expect decent treatment if you will persist in behaving like a lunatic?"

"Would you be reasonable if you had seen your home sacked and gutted by a lot of rebels and traitors, and your mother turned out homeless, Mister Dutchman Kruger Kershaw?" snarled Frank. "No fear though. Your place wasn't interfered with. You're one of them, you know."