The Fire Trumpet Part 48

"Water, water," moans the sick man, throwing his arms wildly out of bed.

"_Aow! Manzi_!" murmur the two Matabili, not understanding, but with ready wit guessing the burden of his cry, and simultaneously making a move towards the earthen bowl containing the desired fluid.

But the young native was before them, and, motioning one of them to raise him, he held the bowl to his master's lips.

"Ah-h-h," exclaimed the dying man, falling back with a relieved sigh, and lying with closed eyes. Then he started again. "Where is it?" he cried, his fingers clutching spasmodically at something in his breast, which he drew out and held tightly clasped in his hand. "Lilian-- Lilian--It died with me. Your writing--the only thing I have left of you--Lilian--!" He paused a moment, breathless.

Then he sprang up raving. "Sam! Sam! Where are you, you d.a.m.ned rascal? Sam; do you hear? Go and tell her--find Lilian," and then as if the beloved name calmed and soothed him, he sank back with a quiet smile.

"What does he say?" asked the two Matabili of each other. "Liliane-- Liliane. Aow! That must be the name of the white man's G.o.d." And they repeated the name over and over to themselves, so as to remember exactly what the stranger had said, when they should report the matter to their king.

He had come there, this stranger, but a few days previously, he and his native attendant. He had come alone, travelling through their land, as he said, on his way far, far into the interior beyond, and had stayed with them, living as they lived, talking with them a little, but usually grave, taciturn, and sad. He would wander about all day in the mountains with his double gun, bringing back game at night, buck or birds, which he shared freely with them, and now he had become ill; no doubt caught the malaria while lying out all night down by the river, trying to get a shot at the lion, whose spoor had been seen by a boy who was wandering on its banks, and who had fled terrified at the sight of the great round pads in the sand. And Mgcekweni, the petty chief of the neighbourhood, was in sore perplexity about this stranger lying at the point of death within their gates; and over and above the fear that his royal master, with all the unreasoning caprice of a despot, would hold him and his responsible, he had a genuine liking for the white man--the grave, quiet traveller, whom he had at once set down as a big "_Inkoa_"

among his own people.

Crash!

The thunder pealed without; a vivid blaze of lightning lit up the interior of the hut, leaving it more gloomy than before in its semi-darkness; the rain poured in torrents, lashing up the hard earth outside, and there, in the weird light, stood the tall, erect forms of the Matabili chief and his brother, conversing in subdued whispers, and with a world of concern clouding their dark, expressive faces. Kneeling beside his master, intently watching every change of his countenance, crouched the native boy, Sam. Again the thunder crashed and roared, and the scathing blaze darted through the pouring rainfall which hurled itself to the earth with a deafening rush; and amid the fierce warring of the elements let loose the wanderer lay dying. Yes, dying. Alone in a barbarous hut, racked with fever; tossing on a rude couch, almost on the bare earth; far from friendly or loving glance or touch; not even a countryman within hundreds of miles; alone in that gloomy apartment, the c.o.c.kroaches chasing each other along the wattles of the thatch overhead, and tall, savage warriors watching his failing moments in wondering, half-superst.i.tious concern. Thus he lay.

Suddenly he raised himself and sat upright.

"Lilian! Lilian!" he cried, in a voice so loud and clear that it startled his savage auditors. "Ah, I _will_ see you," he went on, his eyes dilating and fixed on the opposite wall as if to pierce through it and all s.p.a.ce.

"I _will_ see you--and I can. I see you here, now, here beside me. Are you going with me? Keep those sweet eyes upon mine, as they are now, darling--ever--ever--ever."

His voice sank, and with a glad smile he fell back and lay perfectly still, and without the faintest movement.

"He is dead!" exclaimed the savages, holding their breath.

Precisely at that moment Lilian Strange was uttering her pa.s.sionate, despairing invocation, as she gazed through her open cas.e.m.e.nt far into the clear, starry night.

The day broke upon Seringa Vale, and the rain gusts howled along the wind-swept wastes--violent, biting, and chill. But by noon there was not a cloud in the heavens, and Lilian had her wish, for the mountains were thickly covered with snow to their very base. And as she gazed upon the distant peaks starting forth from the blue sky, spotless and dazzling in their whiteness, it seemed to her that they might be a meet embodiment of her own frozen despair--ever the same--icebound sight and day--through calm and through storm.

And the sun shone down upon the land in his undimmed glory, plenty and prosperity reigned everywhere; not a whisper of war or disturbance was in the air, indeed, all such had died away as completely as if it had never been. And the hearts of the dwellers on the frontier were glad within them--for the red tide, once threatening, had been stayed, and upon their borders rested, in all its fulness, the blessing of Peace.

Part II.

Once where Amatola mountains rise up purple to the snow, Where the forests hide the fountains, And green pastures sleep below-- Sweeter far than song of battle, On the breezes of the morn, Came the lowing of our cattle And the rustling of our corn.

Where our flocks and herds were feeding Now the white man's homestead stands; And while yet his sword lies bleeding, Lo, his plough is in new lands.

_Lament of Tyala_--Anon.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER ONE.

"IS IT PEACE OR WAR? BETTER WAR."

George Payne rode slowly away from the village of Komgha.

The air was warm and balmy, for the time of the southern winter was past, and on this September day not even the lightest of feathery clouds flecked the sky above the sunny plains of British Kaffraria. Now and again on the brow of one of the rolling eminences, which, smooth gra.s.sy, and round, alternated with mimosa-dotted vales, the rider might feel a puff of fresh air from the bine Indian Ocean thirty miles away, and which he was leaving further and further behind him with every tread of his steed. On his left front rose the round tops of the Kabousie hills, while beyond them a ridge of wooded heights slept in the golden haze of the early afternoon.

But he had little thought to spare for beauties of scenery, had this man, as he mechanically urged on his steed--a compact, well-stepping roadster--now at a long easy canter, now subsiding into a fast walk; for all his reflections were at that moment concentrated on the leading question of the day, a question which for weeks past had been in the mind of every dweller on that restless line of frontier, a question which to them was fraught with weighty apprehension--Peace or War?

And this topic, which was in everybody's month, had it any foundation to rest upon, or was it merely a recurrence of one of those periodical scares which, with more or less reason, had of late years seriously disturbed the border districts? Ministers and legislators might, from their places in the a.s.sembly, deny all grounds for it; merchants and snug citizens of the western capital might deride it; the pseudo-philanthropic party, likewise at safe distance, might decry it as a libel upon and a plot against the native population, to despoil them of their lands, and what not. Yet Cape Town was many hundred miles from the unprotected border, and it is so very easy at a safe distance to ridicule the apprehensions of those to whom the fulfilment of their fears would mean ruin and death. For ignore it as some would, the fact remained that a cloud, at first no bigger than a man's hand, but already of sufficiently alarming proportions, was gathering beyond the Kei, to roll on and on till it should overwhelm all within reach--unless stopped in time, that is. And such check the country's rulers apparently deemed it their special mission not to facilitate.

This, then, was the topic whereon George Payne's thoughts were fixed as he rode over those gra.s.sy Kaffrarian plains in the direction of his home; and some additional rumours which he had heard that morning, had gone far towards seriously disquieting him.

He was a broad-shouldered, strongly-built man, about five feet ten in his shoes, though a slight stoop made him look shorter. He had a quiet, sensible face, and was sparing and deliberate of speech; this on first acquaintance might lead one to p.r.o.nounce him "slow," were it not for an occasional satiric burst, accompanied by a twinkle in the keen grey eyes, which alone would suffice to show that he was very far from being a fool. And, though quiet and reserved on first acquaintance, he had a sunny geniality of manner which was very taking--in fact, was as good-natured a fellow as ever lived. He was thirty-six years of age, and of colonial birth; and though he had made a couple of visits to the mother country he seldom spoke of it. When he did, his audience, who had settled in its own mind that he had never been out of the colony, would be mightily taken aback by his shrewd insight into men and things.

Around lay the broad, rolling country; here and there in the distance might be seen the white walls of a homestead or two, glistening in the sun; or a clump of Kafir huts, smoky, squalid-looking, and tumble-down, lay about, whence a tribe of yelling mongrels rushed clamouring down to the path to mouth at the equestrian and snap at his horse's heels, while their owners stood, with kerries grasped in their dark, sinewy hands, scowling at the pa.s.ser-by, and making no attempt to call off their detestable property. But the horseman cared little or nothing for this.

If the four-footed pests came too near, he slashed them unmercifully with his long raw-hide whip, sending them howling back to their savage masters. At length he drew rein before a thatched, white-washed dwelling, a typical specimen of the rougher cla.s.s of frontier farmhouse.

A man came out--a tall man, clad in a grey flannel shirt and corduroy trousers; a slouch hat was stuck on one side of his head, a mighty red heard descended over his chest, and in his mouth was a short wooden pipe.

"Well, Marshall," cried Payne, dismounting. "How's the world been using you of late?"

"So so," replied the other, shaking hands. "Where are you from?"

"Komgha."

"Any news?"

"N-no. Nothing but 'gas,' in fact. One gets so sick of all the yarns that have been flying about that really one doesn't know what to believe. I've got into the way of believing nothing."

"Ah. Well, now, I think there's something in them. And I'll tell you what it is, Payne. If I were a married man like you I'd send my family away to King [King Williamstown. The chief town of British Kaffraria, commonly thus abbreviated] or somewhere, for depend upon it we shall have hot work here before long. They're not safe out there at your place, I tell you."

Payne laughed lightly. "Why, Marshall," he said, "if you're not becoming as great an old scare-monger as the rest! Oh, by the way, there was some news. It's said that the new Governor's coming up to the frontier."

"Worse and worse--if it's true. He wouldn't be coming if there wasn't good cause for it, I can tell you. What sort of a feller is he?"

"First-rate, from all accounts."

"H'm. Did you hear anything else?"

"Two troops of police been ordered across the Kei."

"Fat lot of good they'll do," growled Marshall. "A lot o' greenhorns.

Why, some of them can't stick on their horses, and hardly know the b.u.t.t from the muzzle of their carbines. The police are not what they used to be, since they've taken to getting out these raw chaps from England.

Time was when the force was made up of good colonial men, who could ride and shoot, and follow spoor as easily as a waggon-road, and now--pooh!"

And the speaker knocked the ashes out of his pipe with a contemptuous jerk.

"That's all very well," said Payne. "They may not be good for much at spoor, and there are a few greenhorns among them, as you say. But there are some fine fellows, too--fellows with any amount of fight in them-- and, after all, that's what we want now. You'll see, they'll do good service yet, if they get a fair chance."

The other shook his head. "Dunno. But--have a drop of grog?"

"No, thanks; I must be moving on."

"Won't you, really? Do."

"No, thanks. But I say, Marshall, when are you coming over our way? We haven't seen you for about ten years. Come on Sunday."