Part 35 (1/2)

The little procession moved slowly and silently across the gra.s.sy plain.

The people at Annerley watched it till the glittering bayonets of the escort were lost in the haze; and when ”the master” was fairly out of sight, Markland, the old settler, put the house in order, and a.s.sumed the command.

Daveney had planned his line of march intending to avoid Sir John Manvers's camp; but, on the third day's journey, the sound of harmonious voices swelling in chorus struck on the surprised ears of the party. A deep glen lay just below; the cavalcade halted; they could see nothing, for the cliffs overhung the gorge. The sounds drew near--'twas an old Scotch air, very martial and stirring, especially in that deep solitude.

In front was an opening, an outlet from the glen. Mr Daveney and Marion rode forward, and looked down.

Soldiers singing on a march! Reader, did you ever hear it? Ah, it is worth a world of fine, well-taught, scientific melodies! You should have seen them in this mountain-pa.s.s. They were Highlanders, not kilted, but they wore the ”tartan trews.”

Beating time with steady tread to the n.o.ble chorus, they pa.s.sed below the cliff from which Daveney and his daughter Marion watched them.

Truly this had a singular effect in that ravine, so like a Scottish glen, with mountains looming far and near, and--oh! rare in Southern Africa--a waterfall tumbling and foaming over h.o.a.ry rocks.

Softly it rose and fell upon the air, again burst forth in full harmony as the glen widened, and died away in the shade where the pathway narrowed between tall hills.

All was still once more, save the murmur of the waterfall. The Daveneys took their station for the night. The escort formed its cordon round the little bivouac, and May directed the lighting of the fires and preparations for the usual sunset meal.

Midnight--Daveney held that watch himself.

”Who goes there?”

”Friends,” answered a voice--it was Ormsby's. He was in command of a company of soldiers. Sir John Manvers was extending his force. The Daveneys found themselves unexpectedly within the lines of the British troops.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE BATTLE.

I have said that the salute of the hors.e.m.e.n who advanced to meet Vander Roey's band was answered by a corresponding movement from the latter.

Each party moved along its path in stern silence. They met at the foot of the lull, and then palm met palm, as though sealing a sullen but determined compact.

Vander Roey's countenance proclaimed evil tidings. No one liked to ask him questions; besides, the very advance of the pilgrims over the hills was a signal that hope was lost. Lodewyk was the spokesman, while Vander Roey and his wife rode forward with Vanbloem, a son of the settler introduced in the early chapters of this work. He was young, active, brave, and clever. Each of these two men had much to tell the other.

Lodewyk strode on declaiming--Vander Roey told again how he had been turned from Sir John Manvers's door with scorn.

The colonists had sympathised with him at the insult, but what could they do? All hope of redress of grievances was over, and no better time could be chosen for _trekking_. The troops were marching towards Kafirland. Sir John was as bewildered as a bird in a mist. Here were men--pointing to Lyle and Brennard--who could tell them that the eyes of England, and France, and Holland were upon them. Lyle was a patriot, had suffered in the cause of patriotism; he had been cast upon the sh.o.r.es of Africa for a great purpose. They already knew the services that Brennard had rendered them; well, Lyle had been an able colleague-- his plans had proved his ability; through his means arms and ammunition had been safely conveyed through various branches of the colony; every Boer was armed, every honest man was roused to a just sense of his forlorn and degraded position; but the time had come--if they were permitted to go in peace, well and good; if not--

”Ah! if not,” said Lodewyk's brother, ”we will dress ourselves in thunder, and mark a boundary-line for ourselves with blood.”

They reached the bivouac: it was more wretched than the last. The plains were saturated with water from the heavy rains which had prevailed on the eastern flats. There were but few tents or wagon-tilts, and these were ragged and damp, serving as poor coverings to the sickly, s.h.i.+vering wretches beneath.

Lyle's first salutation from a sallow man, who sat making a coffin for his wife and baby, was, ”Welcome to the place of graves.” He pa.s.sed on; some squalid children in rags were stirring up a pool of stagnant water to find frogs; an agueish woman with parched lips remonstrated with them for troubling the waters; she wished to slake her thirst. Two women were grinding corn between stones, others looked greedily on. There was neither milk nor bread. Some wretched sheep, lately brought in by a foraging party, awaited their doom--they had been earned at great cost; three men lay dying of their wounds; in truth, it was a sorry sight.

Poor Gray was more disheartened than ever. The Boers had begun to look upon him with a suspicious eye; it was evident he was not a volunteer.

He felt that he was despised, and his heart died within him. He sat down upon an old pack-saddle; he looked so weary, so dejected, that young Vanbloem's wife took pity on him. She was an Englishwoman. She spoke kindly to him in his own language. The deserter could have wept, but for very shame.

”Come hither,” said she, ”you poor young Englishman; has your country done you any wrong, that you should turn rebel? You look miserable enough in mind and body, but I can give you something for your heart to rest upon,--see here.”

She raised a canva.s.s screen, and showed him Amayeka fast asleep.

Amayeka had found a kind heart, and trusted it.