The Settler and the Savage. Robert Michael Ballantyne

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      “Settlers’ Camp,” as it was called, consisted of several hundred tents, pitched in parallel rows or streets, and was occupied by the middle and lower class of settlers—a motley crew, truly. There were jolly farmers and pale-visaged tradesmen from various parts of England, watermen from the Thames, fishermen from the seaports, artisans from town and country, agricultural labourers from everywhere, and ne’er-do-weels from nowhere in particular. England, Scotland, Ireland, were represented—in some cases misrepresented,—and, as character was varied, the expression of it produced infinite variety. Although the British Government had professedly favoured a select four thousand out of the luckless ninety thousand who had offered themselves for emigration, it is to be feared that either the selection had not been carefully made, or drunkenness and riotous conduct had been surprisingly developed on the voyage out. Charity, however, requires us to hope that much of the excitement displayed was due to the prospect of being speedily planted in rural felicity in the wilds of Africa. Conversation, at all events, ran largely on this theme, as our wanderers could easily distinguish—for people talked loudly, and all tent-doors were wide open.

      After wandering for some time, Sandy Black paused, and looking down at his little friend with what may be called a grave smile, gave it as his opinion that they had got lost “in Settlers’-toon.”

      “I do believe we ’ave,” assented Jerry. “What’s to be done?”

      “Gang to the best hotel,” suggested Sandy.

      “But where is the best ’otel?”

      “H’m! ’ee may ask that.”

      A burst of noisy laughter just behind them caused the lost ones to turn abruptly, when they observed four tall young men of gentlemanly aspect sitting in a small military tent, and much amused apparently at their moist condition.

      “Why, where did you two fellows come from?” asked one of the youths, issuing from the tent.

      “From England and Scotland,” replied Jerry Goldboy promptly.

      “From the sea, I should say,” returned the youth, “to judge from your wet garments.”

      “Ay, we’ve been drookit,” said Sandy Black.

      “Bring ’em in, Jack,” shouted one of the other youths in the tent.

      “Come inside,” said he who was styled Jack, “and have a glass of whisky. There’s nothing like whisky to dry a wet skin, is there, Scotty?”

      To this familiar appeal Sandy replied, “m–h’m,” which word, we may add for the information of foreigners, is the Scotch for “Yes.”

      “Sit down there on the blankets,” said the hospitable Jack, “we haven’t got our arm-chairs or tables made yet. Allow me to introduce my two brothers, James and Robert Skyd; my own name is the less common one of John. This young man of six feet two, with no money and less brain, is not a brother—only a chum—named Frank Dobson. Come, fill up and drink, else you’ll catch a cold, or a South African fever, if there is such a thing. Whom shall I pledge?”

      “My name is Jerry Goldboy,” said the Englishman; “your health, gentlemen.”

      “’Am Sandy Black,” said the Scot; “here’s t’ee.”

      “Well, Mr Black and Mr Coldboy”—Goldboy, interposed Jerry—“I speak for my brothers and friend when I wish you all success in the new land.”

      “Do talk less, Jack,” said Robert Skyd, the youngest brother, “and give our friends a chance of speaking—Have you come ashore lately!”

      “Just arrived,” answered Jerry.

      “I thought so. You belong to the Scotch party that goes to Baviaans River, I suppose?” asked Frank Dobson.

      This question led at length to a full and free account of the circumstances and destination of each party, with which however we will not trouble the reader in detail.

      “D’ee ken onything aboot Baviaans River?” inquired Sandy Black, after a variety of subjects had been discussed.

      “Nothing whatever,” answered John Skyd, “save that it is between one and two hundred miles—more or less—inland among the mountains, and that its name, which is Dutch, means the River of Baboons, its fastnesses being filled with these gentry.”

      “Ay, I’ve heard as much mysel’,” returned Sandy, “an’ they say the craters are gey fierce. Are there ony o’ the big puggies in the Albany district?”

      “No, none. Albany is too level for them. It lies along the sea-coast, and is said to be a splendid country, though uncomfortably near the Kafirs.”

      “The Kawfirs. Ay. H’m!” said Sandy, leaving his hearers to form their own judgment as to the meaning of his words.

      “An’ what may your tred be, sir?” he added, looking at John Skyd.

      The three brothers laughed, and John replied—

      “Trade? we have no trade. Our profession is that of clerks—knights of the quill; at least such was our profession in the old country. In this new land, my brother Bob’s profession is fun, Jim’s is jollity, and mine is a compound of both, called joviality. As to our chum Dobson, his profession may be styled remonstrance, for he is perpetually checking our levity, as he calls it; always keeping us in order and snubbing us, nevertheless we couldn’t do without him. In fact, we may be likened to a social clock, of which Jim is the mainspring, Bob the weight, I the striking part of the works, and Dobson the pendulum. But we are not particular, we are ready for anything.”

      “Ay, an’ fit for nothin’,” observed Sandy, with a peculiar smile and shrug, meant to indicate that his jest was more than half earnest.

      The three brothers laughed again at this, and their friend Dobson smiled. Dobson’s smile was peculiar. The corners of his mouth turned down instead of up, thereby giving his grave countenance an unusually arch expression.

      “Why, what do you mean, you cynical Scot!” demanded John Skyd. “Our shoulders are broad enough, are they not? nearly as broad as your own.”

      “Oo’ ay, yer shoothers are weel aneugh, but I wadna gie much for yer heeds or haunds.”

      Reply to this was interrupted by the appearance, in the opening of the tent, of a man whose solemn but kindly face checked the flow of flippant conversation.

      “You look serious, Orpin; has anything gone wrong?” asked Frank Dobson.

      “Our friend is dying,” replied the man, sadly. “He will soon meet his opponent in the land where all is light and where all disputes shall be ended in agreement.”

      Orpin referred to two of the settlers whose careers in South Africa were destined to be cut short on the threshold. The two men had been earnestly religious, but, like all the rest of Adam’s fallen race, were troubled with the effects of original sin. They had disputed hotly, and had ultimately quarrelled, on religious subjects on the voyage out. One of them died before he landed; the other was the man of whom Orpin now spoke. The sudden change in the demeanour of the brothers Skyd surprised as well as gratified Sandy Black. That sedate, and literally as well as figuratively, long-headed Scot, had felt a growing distaste to the flippant young Englishers, as he styled them, but when he saw them throw off their light character, СКАЧАТЬ