The Settler and the Savage by Robert Michael Ballantyne (the first e reader txt) 📖

confession of ignorance, and passed on with the remark, "haristocrats."

Jerry was so far right. The marquees referred to belonged to the higher class of settlers, who had resolved to forsake their native land and introduce refinement into the South African wilds. The position chosen by them on which to pitch their tents, and the neatness of everything around, evinced their taste, while one or two handsome carriages standing close by betokened wealth. Some of the occupants, elegantly dressed, were seated in camp-chairs, with books in their hands, while others were rambling among the shrubbery on the little eminences and looking down on the bustling beach and bay. The tents of these, however, formed an insignificant proportion of the canvas town in which Sandy Black and his friend soon found themselves involved.

"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, as one might throw off a garment, and rise eagerly and sadly to question Orpin about the dying man, he felt, as mankind is often forced to feel, that a first, and especially a hasty, judgment is often incorrect.

Stephen Orpin was a mechanic and a Wesleyan, in virtue of which latter connection, and a Christian spirit, he had been made a local preacher. He was on his way to offer his services as a watcher by the bedside of the dying man.

This man and his opponent were not the only emigrants who finished their course thus abruptly. Dr Cotton, the "Head" of the "Nottingham party," Dr Caldecott and some others, merely came, as it were like Moses, in sight of the promised land, and then ended their earthly career. Yet some of these left a valuable contribution, in their children, to the future colony.

While Black and his friend Jerry were observing Orpin, as he conversed with the brothers Skyd, the tall burly Englishman from whose shoulders the former had been hurled into the sea, chanced to pass, and quietly grasped the Scot by the arm.

"Here you are at last! Why, man, I've been lookin' for you ever since that unlucky accident, to offer you a change of clothes and a feed in my tent--or I should say _our_ tent, for I belong to a `party,' like every one else here. Come along."

"Thank 'ee kindly," answered Sandy, "but what between haverin' wi' thae Englishers an' drinkin' their whusky, my freen' Jerry an' me's dry aneugh already."

The Englishman, however, would not listen to any excuse. He was one of those hearty men, with superabundant animal spirits--to say nothing of physique--who are not easily persuaded to let others follow their own inclinations, and who are so good-natured that it is difficult to feel offended with their kindly roughness. He introduced himself by the name of George Dally, and insisted on Black accompanying him to his tent. Sandy being a sociable, although a quiet man, offered little resistance, and Jerry, being a worshipper of Sandy, followed with gay nonchalance.


CHAPTER FOUR.


FURTHER PARTICULARS OF "SETTLERS' TOWN," AND A START MADE FOR THE PROMISED LAND.

Threading his way among the streets of "Settlers' Town," and pushing vigorously through the crowds of excited beings who peopled it, George Dally led his new acquaintances to a tent in the outskirts of the camp-- a suburban tent, as it were.

Entering it, and ushering in his companions, he introduced them as the gentlemen who had been capsized into the sea on landing, at which operation he had had the honour to assist.

There were four individuals in the tent. A huge German labourer named Scholtz, and his wife. Mrs Scholtz was a substantial woman of forty. She was also a nurse, and, in soul, body, and spirit, was totally absorbed in a baby boy, whose wild career had begun four months before in a furious gale in the Bay of Biscay. As that infant "lay, on that day, in the Bay of Biscay O!" the elemental strife outside appeared to have found a lodgment in his soul, for he burst upon the astonished passengers with a squall which lasted longer than the gale, and was ultimately pronounced the worst that had visited the ship since she left England. Born in a storm, the infant was baptised in a stiff breeze by a Wesleyan minister, on and after which occasion he was understood to be Jabez Brook; but one of the sailors happening to call him Junkie on the second day of