The Gold Kloof Read online

  *Chapter II.*

  *BAMBOROUGH FARM.*

  At Cape Town Guy was met by his uncle, who had come down country towelcome him. The greeting was an affectionate one on both sides, foruncle and nephew were much attached to one another.

  "My word, Guy," said Mr. Blakeney, as he shook his nephew by the hand,and looked him up and down, "you have grown since I saw you at home twoyears ago. What height are you now?"

  "Five foot ten, uncle," returned Guy, smiling; "and my weight is elevenstone four. I don't want to grow any taller."

  "Well, you're about tall enough," said Mr. Blakeney; "but I expectyou'll put on another inch before you've done, and you're bound to be atwelve stone five man when you're full grown. I'm heartily glad to seeyou, and so will your aunt and cousins be when you reach Bamborough. Asfor Tom, he's dying to have a look at his cousin, of whom he has heardso much. By the way, my boy, I have to congratulate you on saving thatgirl from drowning at Tewkesbury in July last. Mr. Brimley-Fair told meabout it in a letter shortly after, and sent me an account of it in alocal paper. We're all very proud of you; and you are, I can see, likeyour father, a good plucked one. Mr. Brimley-Fair says you are prettysure to get the Humane Society's medal later on, and indeed you deserveit after so gallant a feat."

  "Please, uncle, don't say another word about it," said Guy, reddening atMr. Blakeney's words. "I only did what any other fellow would havedone. I was nearest to the girl, and you must remember I was alreadystripped--or nearly stripped--for rowing."

  "Yes, I remember that, my boy," rejoined his uncle, with a kindly pat onthe shoulder. "But I remember, too, that you had just had a very hardand exhausting struggle in the boat race you won, and were scarcely infit condition to rescue people from drowning. Well, now, we'll get yourluggage off the ship, drive up to the International Hotel, have somelunch, and then look about the town. I have some business in Cape Townwhich will keep me two or three days. During that time we'll have alook round, and you shall see what there is to be seen."

  Mr. Blakeney was as good as his word. He showed Guy the sights of theold Dutch town, one of the most picturesque cities in the world. Theydrove round by the wonderful Victoria Drive, thence home by Wynberg andRondebosch. At Wynberg they had a look at Great Constantia, theGovernment wine farm, a fine old Cape mansion, once the abode of theCloete family. At Rondebosch they paid a visit to Groot Schuur, and Guywas shown the various trophies and curiosities of Mr. Rhodes'swell-known mansion. Another day they went over the Kloof to Kamp's Bay;and on yet another they climbed the four thousand feet of TableMountain, and from that magnificent altitude gazed over one of thegrandest scapes by sea and land to be witnessed in any part of theworld.

  On the fifth day after Guy's arrival they took the up-country train, andafter spending two days and nights on the rail, and passing BeaufortWest, the Orange River, Kimberley, and Vryburg, reached Mafeking.During the journey Guy Hardcastle was never weary of gazing at thestrange and varied scenery that unfolded itself before his eyes. Henoted the wild mountain country through which they climbed beforereaching the plateau of the Great Karroo. He watched the barren andseemingly illimitable vastness of the flat, red Karroo plains; saw wildspringbucks and tame ostriches; and feasted his eyes on the huge chainof mountain, the magnificent Zwartberg, which for scores of leaguesreared its mighty ramparts to the south of the plain country, until lostin the dim distance a hundred miles away to the eastward. He noted,too, the extraordinary clearness of the atmosphere. Hills and mountainsthat were, as his uncle assured him, forty or fifty miles away, appearedin this sparkling and translucent atmosphere little more than a dozen orfifteen miles distant.

  "Yes, Guy," added his uncle, "you'll find this clearness of theatmosphere rather troublesome at first, when you begin rifle-shooting.The game on the plains are much farther off than newcomers can believe;and the consequence is that, until they get used to our conditions oflight and atmosphere, sportsmen fresh to the country invariablyunderestimate their distances, and fire far short of the buck, orwhatever it may be they are aiming at. By the way, have you ever fireda rifle?"

  "Yes," replied the boy quietly, "I have had some practice with theMartini-Henry at butts, and did pretty well for a beginner; and, as youknow, I've used a shot-gun ever since I was twelve years old. I beganwith small birds and rabbits; two years ago I shot partridge withfather--he was home that autumn; and last year I was grouse-shootingwith our cousins, the Forsters, in Northumberland.

  "By the way, uncle," he went on, "I've brought out a sportingMartini-Henry rifle, as you told me. That and the ammunition are packedup in the long case with my saddlery and the rest of my outfit. Here'smy shot-gun," he continued, taking down a gun-case from the rack above,undoing it, and extracting from it a handsome double-barrel. "It's abeauty, isn't it? Father gave it me two years ago on my birthday. It'sa 'Cogswell and Harrison,' and a first-rate shooter."

  Mr. Blakeney was a keen sportsman, and naturally took an interest inevery kind of firearm. He took the gun, which Guy had meanwhile puttogether, examined it carefully, handled it, balanced it, and standingup in the first-class carriage, which they had to themselves, put it upto his shoulder two or three times.

  "Yes, it's a very pretty gun, well built and finished, Guy," heremarked. "You'll have plenty of opportunity of using it at Bamborough.We have lots of feathered game: partridges, pheasants (both of them akind of francolin), koorhaan--that is, bustards--of various kinds, andnumbers of wild guinea-fowl. Then there are plover, "dikkop," and soforth; sand-grouse, wild fowl, when the rains fall and the pans andvleis are full, and various other odds and ends."

  "My word, uncle," said Guy eagerly, "this is splendid news. I'mespecially fond of bird-shooting, and I had no idea you had all thisvariety."

  Meantime, Mr. Blakeney had in his turn been looking for a gun-case,which he extracted, after no little trouble, from under the seat. Hetook out his keys, opened the case, and quickly put together a lightsmall-bore sporting rifle.

  "Here's a little surprise I had in store for you, Guy," he said. "Wehave a deal of time to put in on this journey, and I may as well makethe best of it. This is one of the newest small-bore magazine rifles, asporting Mannlicher, which an old friend of mine, who has tested it,tells me is the best weapon he knows for all kinds of buck up to ahartebeest or koodoo, or even an eland. I sent down to George Rawboneof Cape Town to get it out from England for me. Tom and I each have aLee-Metford .303 sporting rifle. This, I believe, is even better. It'sfrom Holland and Holland in Bond Street, and it ought to be a good one.There you are, my boy," he added, putting it into his nephew's hands. "Ihope you'll like it, and will shoot many a head of game with it. I'vegot plenty of ammunition for you."

  Guy's face had lit up with pleasure as his uncle handed him the weapon.

  "It's awfully good of you, uncle," he said; "I can't thank you enough.It's a lovely rifle," he continued, as he handled the weapon and triedthe mechanism. "If I can't shoot with that, I deserve to be shot myself.I've heard one of our fellows talk of the Mannlicher. His father shootsred deer with it in Scotland, and he says it's a splendid rifle. I'mafraid my Martini-Henry, with its black powder, will have its noserather put out of joint by this beauty."

  "No, I don't think so," replied his uncle. "You will find the Martinistill a very useful rifle, although, compared with the new smokelesspowder weapons, it produces a lot of smoke, makes a big noise, and has anasty kick. Some day, when you go into the hunting veldt, you will findit a very good second rifle in reserve; and it's always well to have aspare arm in case anything goes wrong with your first choice andfavourite. The Martini bullet delivers a heavy, smashing blow; and I'mnot sure whether for lion, leopard, and elephant, and giraffe and theheavier game, I should not still prefer it."

  They presently crossed the Orange River, and passed into GriqualandWest. Kimberley was reached and left behind; in no great while theypassed Fourteen Streams, and entered th
e rolling grass-veldt country ofBritish Bechuanaland. Vryburg, the little capital of this colony, waspresently left behind; and, a hundred miles farther north, theyalighted, after their long journey, at Mafeking. Here they stayed thenight at Dixon's Hotel.

  Mafeking still showed some faint remnants of the excitement which hadovertaken it when, some ten months earlier, Dr. Jameson and his raidershad marched from that neighbourhood on their madcap and ill-starredattempt upon the Transvaal. That evening, after dinner, Guy heardoccasional references to that period, which interested him not a little.He saw, too, for the first time, some Transvaal Boers, who were in thetown selling stock and buying various things that they required. Guywatched these men with a curious and a critical eye. So these were thepeople with whom England for a hundred years had had so much trouble andso many difficulties. As he watched the big burly fellows--slack andloose-limbed and clumsy they seemed to him, with their rough corduroyclothes, loose trousers, short jackets, slouch hats, great beards, andgenerally unkempt appearance--it was hard to realize that these were themen who had defeated British troops at Majuba Hill, Laing's Nek, andother places.

  He listened to their thick guttural language with astonished interest.

  "What a strange lingo," he said to his uncle quietly, after the latterhad been discussing cattle and crops with some of the Transvaalers.

  "Yes," replied Mr. Blakeney, "it's a queer patois till you getaccustomed to it. But you'll have to pick it up, uncouth as it sounds.One can hardly get on in this country without it. All the natives whowork for Europeans speak it; and what with transport-riders and Dutchfarmers all over the place--most of whom can hardly speak a word ofEnglish--one finds it absolutely necessary to acquire Boer Dutch."

  "All right, uncle," said Guy, with his usual keenness, "I'll begin assoon as you like."

  "Very well," rejoined Mr. Blakeney; "Tom and I will be your tutors. Youwill not be long before you pick up a fair colloquial knowledge of thelanguage. After all, many of the words are practically identical withmuch of our Lowland Scotch. _Kist_, the word for chest, for example, isidentical with the Scottish word. _Lang_ stands for long in bothcountries. _Kloof_, a ravine, is the same as the Lowland _cleugh_._Pat_ means path or road, and so on. Their word _spoor_, which meanstracks or footprints, is identical with an old-fashioned provincial wordstill in use in England. Otter hunters, for example, often call it thespur of an otter, when they see the prints of these animals in thesmooth mud or sand of a riverside."

  Mr. Blakeney had had his Cape cart and four horses sent in to meet them,and next morning at dawn they started on the forty-mile drivesouth-westward which was to land them at Bamborough Farm. Taking withthem their gunnery and some ammunition, as well as Mr. Blakeney's andGuy's portmanteaus, they left behind the rest of Guy's kit andimpedimenta, which were to be sent on, with some goods and farmimplements, by ox-wagon. Having driven for some two and a half hours,they outspanned for breakfast. Peetsi, Mr. Blakeney's Bechuana groom,quickly collected some thorn wood and made a fire; they cooked a kettleof coffee, fried some tinned sausages in a tiny saucepan, got out bread,butter, and a tin of marmalade, and made an excellent meal. Never,thought Guy, had he enjoyed a breakfast so much. Meanwhile the horses,on being unharnessed, had indulged in the invariable roll which all Capenags make a point of on being off-saddled or outspanned, and wereknee-haltered. This operation was closely observed by Guy, at hisuncle's suggestion. It is an extremely useful one, which any newcomerto the South African veldt ought to make himself master of.Knee-haltered, the horse can graze comfortably, yet cannot wander faraway. Guy watched Peetsi's operations, and then, after one or two vainattempts, secured two of the horses himself.

  "Well done, Guy!" said his uncle approvingly. "Nothing like picking upthese things as soon as possible. You'll do, I can see. Once a manlearns how to knee-halter a nag, he never forgets it. It's like runningor skating, or riding or dancing--once mastered, never forgotten."

  The horses were given a feed of forage, which consists of the ears andstalks of oats cut up and eaten together--"oat-hay" some people callit--and then grazed for half an hour in the long grass veldt. The sunwas becoming hot, and the travellers now doffed their coats and went, asmost people do up-country, in their shirt sleeves.

  Presently they inspanned again and drove off. Now they were approachinga belt of charming forest country, low, spreading, umbrella-shapedgiraffe-acacia timber, planted by nature not too thickly together.Everywhere among these trees grew the tall, pale, yellow veldt grass,and pleasant vistas and open glades here and there greeted the eye.Amid these trees fluttered occasionally queer, bizarre-lookinghornbills, and brilliant rollers, miscalled "blue-jays" by thecolonists, blazing in lovely plumage of many hues--blues, lilacs,purples, and greens. For an hour they drove through this pleasantcountry, and then emerged upon the dry, rolling grass plains once more.Half an hour later they approached a small shallow valley, through whichran the dry bed of a periodical stream. Along the banks of this drystream grew a fringe of thorn bush, the common doom boom, or thornyacacia. Suddenly Mr. Blakeney pulled up his team.

  "Sh!" he said in a low tone, handing the reins to Guy, and reaching outthe Mannlicher, which now stood against the seat behind him. "Followthe line of bush yonder," he continued, pointing with his right hand."Do you see anything?"

  "Yes," replied Guy; "I see a big bird. What is it?"

  "That's a paauw, my boy," answered his uncle; "our biggest bustard. Youmust have a try for him."

  Taking some cartridges from a bandolier that hung at the side of thecart, Mr. Blakeney filled the magazine clip and pushed it into itsplace. Then he worked a cartridge into the breech.

  "Now, Guy," he went on, "jump down there, creep up behind that bush, andtry for a shot. You know the mechanism. If you miss with the first,have a blaze with your second cartridge. You won't get nearer than ahundred yards. Take your time, and don't hurry your shot."

  Guy slipped down quietly, and, stooping low, crept towards the bush hisuncle had pointed out. The paauw still fed quietly along the spruit: itwas some two hundred and fifty yards from the cart, and the cunningcreature, judging the distance to a nicety, esteemed itself quitesecure. But, meanwhile, the eager lad with the Mannlicher was creepingup, the wind was right, and it seemed that he might attain hisvantage-ground without the alert bird becoming aware of him. Now he iswithin forty yards of the bush, now thirty, now ten. He is there.Cautiously peering through the leafy screen, and dropping on to hisright knee, he takes steady aim and fires.

  The report of the Mannlicher was a light one, and its smoke verytrifling. The big bird staggered to the shot, half lifted its wings,ran fifteen paces, and then dropped to the veldt dead. A shout oftriumph rang out from Mr. Blakeney's lips.

  "Bravo! bravo! my boy," he cried in stentorian tones. "You've done thetrick beautifully."

  Long before the words were out of his uncle's mouth, Guy, scarcely ableto contain his exultation at this his first success, threw his hat intothe air, leaped out of the bush, and ran like a deer up to the deadbustard. He picked it up--it seemed enormously heavy--and held it up intriumph. Then turning he walked swiftly back towards the cart. Hisuncle met him at the bush, clapped him on the back, and said heartily,--

  "Well hit, Guy! A first-rate shot. I can see you don't want muchcoaching in the art of rifle-shooting. It isn't every day we get apaauw."

  He took the great bird from the lad, and, holding it out, tested itsweight. "He's a beauty," he went on; "fat, and in high condition.Can't weigh less than thirty pounds. Handsome bird, isn't he? Look athis crest. That's the biggest and finest bustard in the world--_kori_the Bechuanas call him.

  "Now let us pace the distance," he continued.

  They paced it from the bush to the spot where the bird had been hit.Just one hundred and five yards it was, at a rough computation.

  "A good shot, Guy," repeated his uncle. "And you kept your head anddidn't hurry it. Well, we shall dine excellently. Your aunt andc
ousins will be as pleased as Punch to see that paauw; it's by far thebest eating of any game-bird in Africa."

  They reached the cart again. Peetsi, with beaming face, exclaimed insmooth Bechuana at the kori, and fastened the great bird up at the backof the cart, under the shade of the hood. Then they resumed theirjourney. Half an hour farther on, Mr. Blakeney got down from the cart,shot-gun in hand this time. He had noticed a koorhaan, one of the lesserbustards, go down at a certain spot in the veldt on the left-hand sideof the road. In approaching the place where the bird lay concealed, heexecuted a circling movement. Smaller and smaller became the circle, andthen, suddenly, without a cry of warning, a biggish bird flushed fromthe long grass and flew off. In an instant the sportsman's gun was athis shoulder. Then came the crisp report of a Schultz cartridge, andthe bird instantly fell to the shot. Mr. Blakeney walked forward topick it up. As he did so a second bird, the hen, rose almost from underhis feet. Giving her twenty-five yards law, again the gunner pulled thetrigger, and the second game-bird hit the earth. It was a prettyscene--the wide yellow plain; the gunner standing knee deep in grass;the stricken bird, outlined clear against the hot sky. Giving the reinsto Peetsi once more, Guy sprang out of the cart and ran to meet hisuncle.

  "Well, that was a pretty bit of shooting, uncle!" he cried joyfully."I'm glad I saw it. I shall know what to do when I see a koorhaan godown and squat as that one did."

  "That's a blue-necked koorhaan," answered his uncle; "one of our mostbeautiful bustards. Look at its lovely colouring and plumage--thebright rufous back, marked with black; the bluish tinge on the neck; andthe tints, rufous, ash-colour, white and black, of the head and neck.And how splendidly the black wing feathers and the white underpartscontrast with the rest of the plumage."

  Guy took the two birds, which were each about the size of a blackcock,and walked with his uncle back to the cart. They drove on now, with acouple more outspans to rest the horses, until at length, turning acorner of some bush, Mr. Blakeney suddenly pointed with his whip andsaid, "There's Bamborough!"

  Guy looked, and saw at the top of a gentle slope, which rose above awell-bushed river valley, a long, low, square-built house, having araised veranda, or stoep as it is called in South Africa, running allround it. In a mile they had crossed the dry river-bed, ascended theslope, and driven up to the place. It was just upon two o'clock. Mrs.Blakeney, a pleasant, comely-looking matron, came out of the house, andgreeted her nephew so soon as he descended. She had not seen him sincehe was a small child.

  "Of course, I should not have known you, Guy," she said. "What a giantyou have grown! I shall be very proud of my good-looking nephew."

  Then the cousins had to be introduced--Tom, the eldest boy, afine-looking lad of eighteen, like his father, lean, dark, and wiry; twopretty, fresh-looking girls of fifteen and thirteen, Ella and Marjory;and Arthur, the youngest of the group, a sharp-looking boy of eleven.The greetings over, Mrs. Blakeney took them at once into dinner, whichshe had kept back, trusting to her husband's invariable speed andpunctuality, even on a forty-mile drive.

  In the afternoon they sauntered round the place, and Guy was showneverything there was to be seen. Bamborough was a typical South Africanhomestead of the better sort. It consisted of a large single-storybuilding, thatched by natives with grass, the exterior rough-cast andwhite-washed. There were ten good-sized rooms, which served for all theneeds of the family and left a couple of spare beds for those notinfrequent occasions when visitors or wayfarers turned up. A governess,who resided with the family, looked after the education of the girls andArthur. Tom, who had just finished his schooling at Grahamstown, inCape Colony, was now home for good. His father, who farmed twelvethousand morgen of land, or rather more than twenty-four thousand acres,needed assistance, and was glad to have his son about with him. Tomknew a good deal of the mysteries of stock-farming already, and was, hisfather declared, almost as good a judge of an ox as he was himself. Afirst-rate rider, a good shot, and a keen sportsman, Tom was just thekind of cousin Guy had hoped for. The two, who had many points incommon, quickly understood one another, and struck up a strongfriendship.

  Guy was shown everything--the trellised vine, leading from the frontdoor to the gate; the fruit orchard at the side of the house, in whichgrew peaches, apricots, nectarines, quinces, apples, and pears; theorange trees down by the "lands," where the arable crops, oats andmealies, were grown; the stables and compounds; the cattle and goatkraals; and the ostrich camp, a vast enclosure, where stalked a numberof these great birds. He was shown the deep-bore well and windmillpump, which supplied the station with water; the big dam, which lookedlike a lake, with its fringe of willow and blue gums; and many otherthings pertaining to the headquarters of a large South African cattleranch. Altogether, what with the morning drive, the meeting with hisnew cousins, and the long afternoon of sightseeing, Guy was not sorryfor bed at ten o'clock. His head had not been two minutes on thesnow-white pillow, scented like the rest of the spotless bed linen withsome fragrant veldt herb, before he was sound asleep.