The Fire Trumpet Part 28

BAULKED.

"Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall," is a good and safe maxim in other senses than the theological, for it goes to the very root of human nature.

Here was a man in the zenith of his strength, at an age when the fire of youth would be tempered and steeled by rare physical powers of endurance; a man to whose lot had befallen stirring and eventful experiences beyond the lot of most men, and in befalling had hardened; a man of cool judgment and keen, clear, reasoning powers far beyond his years; a man to whom the other s.e.x would accord a full share of attention, and who hitherto has been utterly unsusceptible to any such excusable weakness, has. .h.i.therto never known a quickened pulse in response to soft glance or welcoming smile. And this man has now surrendered at sight--absolutely, and without the smallest reservation.

And it had all come about in a single day.

Just so. It is your apparent icicle that annihilates itself with the most startling rapidity when suddenly touched by the scorching beam of the unlooked-for sun. It is the unsusceptible one who goes down forehead to the earth, not pausing to spread rug or carpet in the way, when the self-const.i.tuted idol appears. And oh, how frequently too, not the feet only, but the head, the hands, and the heart of the image prove to be of the veriest clay!

To-morrow!

Who among us ever gives a thought to this commonplace word? Not, I mean, when we are pa.s.sing through some momentous crisis of our lives, some care, some expectation for good or for ill, which may either make us, or crush us well-nigh out of existence. Not then, but when our lives are flowing on, smooth and undisturbed, then it is that we practically ignore the possibility of to-morrow bringing with it anything eventful, or being, in short, other than a mere twenty-four hours' repet.i.tion of to-day.

To-morrow!

We go to bed lightly with the word on our lips, our arrangements for it are all mapped out, all ordered for the next twenty-four hours, ay, and beyond them, as though there existed not in the sublime philosophy of the Wise King that most portentous of all warnings: "Boast not thyself of the morrow, for thou canst not tell what a day may bring forth."

For an exemplification of both warnings behold it perfected in him who rides abroad this morning. A single day, and his life has been cut into two halves. Nor is it even a day that has wrought this change, nor yet an hour, nor a minute. A moment, a brief flash of time, just so long as that presence took to appear before him, and he was conquered. One look, and he fell prostrate, to rise again a slave. And this man, till the day before yesterday, had not a care in the world.

He rides slowly on. On the high ground which will directly shut the homestead out of sight, he turns for a moment to gaze upon the quiet old place sleeping embowered in trees; to gaze upon it with a lingering and reverential gaze, as pilgrim taking a last look at some deeply venerated shrine. Then he urges his horse along a narrow track which leads down into the wildest part of the farm. Dark bush covers the valley on either hand, broken only by a beetling _krantz_, frowning down as it were upon great jagged rocks which, hurled at some remote period from its face, lie embedded beneath. Yonder, in a sequestered glade, a couple of spans of fine trek-oxen are grazing, the sun glistening on their sleek hides; a bushbuck ewe stalks timidly across an open clearing, and the alarmed note of a pheasant sounds close to the horseman; but he who rides abroad thus early is neither on business bent nor on the pleasures of the chase. He is only thinking--ruminating.

Mechanically his hand grasps the reins, as his steed, which he makes no attempt to guide, steps briskly out, skilfully avoiding the sweeping boughs which here and there overhang the path. Monkeys grin and gibber at him among the branches, and a large secretary bird floats away from its nest of sticks hard by. In the dewy webs which quiver from the sprays of the bushes, and sparkle in the sun like strings of gems, he reads but one name, one name written as it were, in delicate gossamer characters, and the breaths of morning in this fresh cool retreat are fraught with a faint but thrilling harmony--the music of low, tuneful notes which are something more than a recollection, so clearly present are they in the fancy of the thinker.

Then he ponders over the three months which have slipped by in such calm, easy fashion since he cast in his lot here, and found among these kindly and genial friends a home in its best and truest sense. It seems to him a marvellous thing that he could have enjoyed, so much contentment until this new star suddenly blazed forth in the firmament of his life. He was not susceptible, never had been. How much had not he and Ethel Brathwaite been thrown together, for instance! Ethel with her sunny spirits and laughing, wayward moods, and her capacity for working havoc among his own s.e.x. They had been thrown daily, hourly, together, from sheer force of circ.u.mstances, yet never a pulse of his had been stirred in the faintest degree by any spell of hers.

"Too soon."

He is again seated in imagination by the moonlit pool while that shade of unhappy recollection steals across his companion's beautiful face.

Again the longing is upon him to clear up the mystery and learn his own fate. In but a couple of days! Ridiculous! And half aloud he utters his thoughts:

"Too soon!"

Zip!--

A metallic ring on the stones behind him. Something lies gleaming on the sun-baked slope of the hill. It is an a.s.segai.

From the weapon, which has missed his body by about six inches, his glance darts searchingly in the direction whence it came. All his coolness has returned, and now his sole idea in life is the discovery of his hidden a.s.sailant. Yet he is unarmed; it is highly probable that there are more spears where the first came from; the spot is a lonely one, and for all present purposes as far removed from human aid as the centre of the Great Sahara.

"Ah, I thought as much. I see you, Mopela, you skulking vagabond. Come down here, you dog, and I'll brain you."

For a head had appeared from behind a low rock some eighteen or twenty yards from the speaker, and after watching him for a moment, half the body of its owner followed. A strip of thick bush lay between him and Claverton, who he guessed was unarmed, as no weapon was levelled at him.

"Whaow!" mocked the savage, as he poised another a.s.segai. "Whaow!

Lenzimbi [Note 1]. Yesterday I; to-day, you. What do you say? Can your fists reach me here? You are as good as dead, and then Mopela will hang you to a tree by the hind leg, and in an hour the aasvogels will be tearing away at your carcase;" and springing upon the rock he again levelled his formidable spear.

Claverton never moved in his saddle, but sat confronting his deadly foe as calmly as though he were asking the road; and there, above, stood the athletic form of the huge barbarian, who, entirely naked, and smeared from head to foot with red ochre, which glistened in the sun, looked a very demon of the forest. He knew that the other's words were true, and that the chances were a hundred to one that in five minutes he would be a dead man. He was quite unarmed, and his adversary still had two a.s.segais. Yet he replied quite unconcernedly:

"You're a fool, Mopela. You can't hurt _me_, and, moreover, let me tell you this--you're a d.a.m.ned bad shot."

His coolness rather disconcerted the other, who laughed mockingly.

"Can't I? Mopela's a.s.segais are too sharp for Lenzimbi's 'charm,' and his G.o.d is asleep; _He_ can't help him. Look, I have two more a.s.segais, one for Lenzimbi, and one for his G.o.d. His G.o.d is asleep, I say."

"Is he? Look there!" exclaimed Claverton in a sharp, warning tone, pointing behind the other. The superst.i.tious Kafir turned his head, for the moment completely thrown off his guard; quick as thought Claverton slipped from the saddle, and, wrenching off one of the stirrups, dashed into the bush and made straight for his enemy. He was just in time, for the other, having recovered himself, launched an a.s.segai with such unerring effect as to graze the seat of the saddle; the horse, startled by the unwonted proceedings, threw up his head, snorted and backed, and finally trotted off by the way he had come. The Kafir, secure in his point of vantage, awaited the onset, grasping his remaining a.s.segai.

Claverton knew better than to hesitate, and, rushing at his adversary, dealt him a violent blow on the leg with the stirrup-iron. Maddened by the pain, Mopela sprang upon him with a wild beast's roar, but Claverton was ready. Dropping the stirrup he clutched the other's wrists, and they struggled like fiends. The athletic savage, twice the Englishman's match for sheer muscular strength, strove with might and main to free the hand which held his a.s.segai; but the other, knowing full well that his very life depended on his not doing so, held firm--firm as iron.

Their breath came in quick, short gasps, and every muscle was distended and rigid. Then the savage, with a hyaena-like howl, opened his great teeth and made a mighty snap at his antagonist's face, but Claverton lowered his head and the other's teeth met in his slouch hat; then, taking advantage of Mopela being off his guard, he drove his right knee with all the force he could muster into the Kafir's stomach. The game was now his own. His gigantic foe staggered back ten or a dozen yards, then fell gasping for breath, and dropping his weapon as he rolled and writhed among the bush below. With a fierce shout, Claverton seized the spear and rushed upon his enemy, but it was too late. Mopela had had as much as he could stomach in more ways than one, and hastened to make himself scarce; moreover, the trampling of approaching hoofs was heard and a horseman appeared, leading Claverton's defaulting steed.

"Hullo! What the very deuce is the row? Is that you, Claverton?"

"It is. Five minutes ago the chances in favour of the same being fact were infinitesimal."

"Well, you _are_ a cool hand," began the new arrival, when a shout far above them in the bush interrupted him and drew both their attention.

They looked up and beheld Mopela.

"Gough, have you got a revolver?" asked Claverton in quick, eager tones.

"He's a long way off, but I think I can pink him. No? Haven't you?

I'd give 50 pounds for a single shot at the beast." Then, raising his voice: "Aha, Mopela, you dog; whose G.o.d is asleep now, eh? Come down here again," he went on, jeeringly; "come down and have another thrashing; I'll give you one--I alone. The other _Baas_ will see fair play. You won't? You're not such a fool as I thought, then. Only, look here, the next time I come across you, wherever it may be, I'll kill you--kill you, by G.o.d. So keep out of my way."

The savage shook his hand towards the speaker with a menacing gesture.

"Whaow!" he called out. "The next time we meet Lenzimbi will sing to a different tune. When the land is red with the blood of the _abelungu_ [whites], and their sheep and cattle are in our kraals, Lenzimbi shall yet hang by the heels, and Mopela will, with his own hand, put out his eyes with a red-hot firestick before he is roasted--Haow! Then the warriors of the Amaxosa will have great sport in hunting out the last of the whites from their hiding-places, and all the white men will be dead; but there will be plenty of white women--ha! ha! ha!--plenty of white women," went on the savage, in his great mocking tones. "And the dark lily of Seringa Vale," (jerking his thumb in the direction of that locality), "when Lenzimbi's body and spirit is burnt up in the slow fire, she and Mopela will--Ha!" He disappeared suddenly, for with a furious oath Claverton plunged into the bush in pursuit; but he might as well have searched for the proverbial needle as for the crafty savage, who simply dodged him in the thick covert, laughing in his sleeve the while. In less than half an hour he returned to his wondering companion.

"Where are you bound for, Gough?"

"Thorman's--I'm thinking of buying that horse of his."

"All right. I'll go part of the way with you and get back round by the _vij-kraal_ [Note 2]. But let's pick up these carving-knives first."

He gathered up the three a.s.segais, all well-made weapons with keen blades and long, tapering handles; then, as they mounted and rode off, he told his companion what had happened.

John Gough was a young man of about twenty-three, who had migrated to the colony about a year before in search of employment. This he had found in the capacity of tutor to Naylor's children--four healthy young romps, as disinclined for their books as frontier children usually are.

He was of a quiet and retiring disposition, but a good fellow. For some reason or another he rather disliked Claverton, but was too good-natured to show it; and now, as they rode along in silence--for Claverton had relapsed into a fit of taciturnity--he began to think he had done him an injustice.

"Well, I think I shall turn here," said that worthy, when they had gone a little way further. "Gough, I'm going to ask you to do me a favour."

"What is it?" inquired the other, somewhat surprised.

"To oblige me by not mentioning this little shindy to any one--will you?"

"Yes, certainly, if you wish it," answered Gough, rather reluctantly.

He was disappointed as well as surprised; topics of conversation were scarce, and such a jolly row as Claverton had just had would be nuts; even as it was, he had been thinking how he would entertain the Thormans with an account of it, and now it was to be kept dark. Well, Claverton was a queer fellow, but it was his own business. So he gave the required undertaking.

"Thanks; I knew you would. I don't fancy that scoundrel will come near me again. Good-bye." They shook hands, and went their respective ways.

A few hundred yards further, and a blue smoke reek above the bush betokened a dwelling. In an open s.p.a.ce stood two huts, dome-shaped, and constructed of thatch, and hard by, a thorn enclosure at that moment full of sheep. This was one of the out-stations, where one of the flocks was wont to be kept. A mangy and spindle-shanked cur rushed yapping forth, roused by the tread of the horse's hoofs. A mighty crack of the rider's whip, however, caused it to beat a precipitate retreat, and also had the effect of bringing a head to the small, beehivelike entrance of one of the huts. The head was promptly followed by its owner, who stood up and saluted Claverton.

"Well, Umgiswe, it's some time since any of us have been down here to count, so I'll do so now. Turn them out."

"Ewa 'nkos," (yes, chief), replied the Kafir, curiously eyeing the a.s.segais which the other carried; and opening the kraal he threw off his red blanket and began driving out the sheep, while Claverton stood at the gate and counted.

"Eighty-one--eighty-three--eighty-seven--ninety--ninety-two-- ninety-three--six hundred and ninety-three. Why, how's this, Umgiswe?