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СКАЧАТЬ belonging to the waggons of Hans and Jan Smit. These carried on an uproarious discussion of some sort, appealing frequently to our friend Ruyter the Hottentot, who appeared to be regarded by them as an umpire or an oracle. The Hottentot race is a very inferior one, both mentally and physically, but there are among them individuals who rise much above the ordinary level. Ruyter was one of these. He had indeed the sallow visage, high cheek-bones, and dots of curly wool scattered thinly over his head, peculiar to his race, but his countenance was unusually intelligent, his frame well made and very powerful, and his expression good. He entered heartily into the fun of attempting to teach the Hottentot klick to some of the younger men among the emigrants, who were attracted to his fire by the shouts of laughter in which the swarthy slaves and others indulged. Abdul Jemalee, the Malay slave, was there; also Booby the Bushman—the former grave and silent, almost sad; the latter conducting himself like a monkey—to which animal he seemed closely related—and evoking shouts of laughter from a few youths, for whose special benefit he kept in the background and mimicked every one else.

      “What a noisy set they are over there!” observed Edwin Brook, who had for some time been quietly contemplating the energetic George Dally, as he performed the duties of cook and waiter to his party.

      “They are, sir,” replied Dally, “like niggers in general, fond of showing their white teeth.”

      “Come, Gertie, your mother can spare you now; let’s go over and listen to them.”

      Gertie complied with alacrity, and took her father’s arm.

      “Oh!” she exclaimed, with a little scream, as a thorn full five inches long gave her a wicked probe on the left shoulder.

      Hans Marais sprang up and gallantly raised the branch which had touched her.

      “It is only Kafirs who can run against mimosa thorns with impunity,” said the handsome young Dutchman.

      Gertie laughed, remarked that mimosa thorns, like South African gentlemen, were unusually long and sharp, and passed on.

      Hans sat down on the ground, filled his large pipe, and gazed dreamily into the fire, with something of the sensation of a hunter when he makes a bad shot.

      “Now then, Goliath,” said the ever busy George Dally; “move your long legs out o’ that. Don’t you see the pot’s about to bile over?”

      Hans quietly obeyed.

      “If I chanced to be alongside o’ that Tottie over there just now,” continued George, “I’d be inclined to stop his noise with a rap on his spotted pate.”

      “You’d have to make it a heavy rap, then, to produce any effect,” said Hans, taking a long draw at his pipe, “for he belongs to a hard-headed race.”

      The truth of the young farmer’s words was verified just then in a way that was alarming as well as unexpected.

      One of the heavy waggons, which had been delayed behind the others by some trifling accident, came lumbering up just as Hans spoke. There was a softish sandy spot in advance of it, into which one of the front wheels plunged. The tilt caught on part of the waggon to which Ruyter belonged. To prevent damage the active Hottentot sprang forward. In doing so he tripped and fell. At the same instant a tremendous crack of the whip and a shout produced a wrench at the waggon, the hind wheel of which went over Ruyter’s head and crushed it into the ground!

      A roar of consternation followed, and several eager hands carefully dug out the poor man’s head. To the surprise of all, the five-ton waggon had not flattened it! The sand was so soft that it had not been squeezed at all—at least to any damaging extent,—a round stone having opportunely taken much of the pressure on itself, so that the Hottentot soon revived, and, beyond a headache, was little the worse of the accident. He returned to his place at the fire, but did not resume his part in the discussions, which were continued as noisily as before.

      In strong contrast with the other groups were those of the Dutch-African boers who had brought the waggons to the Bay. Most of them were men of colossal stature. They sat apart, smoking their huge pipes in silent complacency and comfort, amused a little at the scenes going on around them, but apparently disinclined to trouble themselves about anything in particular.

      Supper produced a lull in the general hum of conversation, but when pipes were lit the storm revived and continued far into the night. At last symptoms of weariness appeared, and people began to make arrangements for going to rest.

      These arrangements were as varied as the characters of the emigrants.

      Charlie Considine and Hans Marais, now become inseparable comrades, cleared and levelled the ground under a mimosa-bush, and, spreading their kaross thereon, lay down to sleep. George Dally, being an adaptable man, looked at the old campaigners for a few minutes, and then imitated their example. Little Jerry Goldboy, being naturally a nervous creature, and having his imagination filled with snakes, scorpions, tarantulas, etcetera, would fain have slept in one of the waggons above the baggage—as did many of the women and children—if he had not been laughed out of his desire by Dally, and induced to spread his couch manfully on the bare ground.

      It must not be supposed, however, that Jerry, although timid, was cowardly. On the contrary, he was bold as a lion. He could not control his sensitively-strung nervous system, but instead of running away, like the coward, he was prone to rush furiously at whatever startled him, and grapple with it.

      Some families pitched their tents, others, deeming curtains a needless luxury in such magnificent weather, contented themselves with the shelter of the bushes.

      Meanwhile the Hottentot attendants replenished the fires, while the boers unslung their huge guns and placed them so as to be handy; for, although elephants and lions were not nearly so numerous as they once had been in that particular locality, there was still sufficient possibility of their presence, as well as of other nocturnal wanderers in the African wilds, to render such precaution necessary. The whole scene was most romantic, especially in the eyes of those who thus bivouacked for the first time in the wilderness. To them the great waggons; the gigantic Cape-oxen—which appeared to have been created expressly to match the waggons as well as to carry their own ponderous horns; the wild-looking Hottentots and Bushmen; the big phlegmatic Dutchmen; the bristling thorns of the mimosas, cropping out of comparative darkness; the varied groups of emigrants; the weird forms of the clumps of cactus, aloes, euphorbias, and other strange plants, lit up by the fitful glare of the camp-fires, and canopied by the star-spangled depths of a southern sky—all seemed to them the unbelievable creations of a wild vision.

      Poor Jerry Goldboy, however, had sufficient faith in the reality of the vision to increase his nervous condition considerably, and he resolved to lie down with his “arms handy.” These arms consisted of a flint-lock blunderbuss, an heirloom in his father’s family, and a bowie-knife, which had been presented to him by an American cousin on his leaving England. Twice during that day’s march had the blunderbuss exploded owing to its owner’s inexperience in fire-arms. Fortunately no harm had been done, the muzzle on each occasion having been pointed to the sky, but the ire of the Dutch driver in front of Jerry had been aroused, and he was forbidden to reload the piece. Now, however, observing the preparations above referred to, he felt it to be his duty to prepare for the worst, and quietly loaded his bell-mouthed weapon with a heavy charge of buckshot.

      “What’s that you’re after, boy?” asked George Dally, who was making some final arrangements at the fire, before lying down for the night.

      “Oh, nothing,” replied Jerry, with a start, for he had thought himself unobserved, “only seein’ to my gun before turnin’ in.”

      “That’s right,” said George. СКАЧАТЬ