Part 3 (2/2)
”_I_ dare!” said Considine sternly; ”many a time the word has been on my lips before, and now that it has pa.s.sed them it may go. I came not here, however, to bully, or be bullied, but to pay my debt to you.”
He drew out a leathern purse as he spoke, and the Dutchman, whose spirit was quelled both by the manner and the matter of his visitor's remark, led the way to his domicile.
The house resembled that of Conrad Marais in form, but in nothing else.
Everything in and around it was dirty and more or less dilapidated.
There was no dam, no garden,--nothing, in short, but the miserable dwelling and a few surrounding huts, with the cattle kraal.
Having paid his debt, Considine did not vouchsafe another word, but returned at once to the waggons. On the way he overtook Ruyter.
”My poor fellow,” he said, ”have you no means of redress? Can you not complain to some one--some magistrate?”
”Complain!” exclaimed the Hottentot fiercely, ”what de use of complain?
No one care. n.o.body listen--boh! no use complain.”
The man had learnt a smattering of English. He was a short but very powerful fellow, and with a more intellectual head and countenance than is common to his race.
”Where are you going just now, Ruyter?” asked Considine, feeling that it was best to change the subject just then.
”Go for inspan de waggin. Ordered down to Algoa Bay for bring up de white men.”
”Then we shall probably meet on the road,” said Considine, ”for I am going to the same place.” As he spoke, they came to a point where the road forked. The Hottentot, with a sulky ”Good-day,” took that path which led towards Jan Smit's cattle kraal, while Considine followed the other and rejoined his waggons. The two friends mounted their horses, the drivers set the ox-teams in motion, and the huge waggons lumbered slowly over the karroo towards the rising sun.
CHAPTER THREE.
DESCRIBES THE SOMEWHAT CURIOUS BEGINNING OF SETTLER-LIFE IN SOUTH AFRICA.
Leaping over time and s.p.a.ce with that hilarious mental bound which is so easy and enjoyable to writers and readers, let us fold our wings at early morn in the month of May, and drop down on the heights in the vicinity of Algoa Bay.
The general aspect of the bay is sandy and sterile. On its blue waters many large vessels lie at anchor. Some of them are trim, with furled sails and squared yards, as if they had been there for a considerable time. Others have sails and spars loose and awry, as if they had just arrived. From these latter many an emigrant eye is turned wistfully on the sh.o.r.e. The rising ground on which we stand is crowned by a little fortress, or fortified barrack, styled Fort Frederick, around which are the marquees of the officers of the 72nd regiment. Below, on the range of sandhills which fringe the beach, are pitched a mult.i.tude of canvas tents, and among these upwards of a thousand men, women, and children are in busy motion. There are only one or two small wooden houses visible, and three thatched cottages. Down at the water's edge, and deep in the surf, crowds of soldiers, civilians, and half-naked natives are busy hauling on the ropes attached to the large surfboats, which are covered to overflowing with human beings. Those in the boats, as well as those in the surf and on the beach, are in a state of high excitement, and more or less demonstrative, while the seamen from a neighbouring sloop of war, who manage the boats, shout to the people at the ropes. The replies of these are drowned, ever and anon, by the roar of falling ”rollers.” These rollers, or great waves, calm though the morning be, come in with giant force from the mighty sea. They are the mere termination of the ocean-swell.
Reader, the scene before you marks an epoch of vast importance in South African history. It is the ”landing of the British Settlers” in the year 1820. The spot is that on which now stands the flouris.h.i.+ng commercial town of Port Elizabeth, styled, not inappropriately, by its inhabitants, the ”Liverpool of South Africa.”
Standing near the stern of one of the surf-boats, his strong right hand grasping the gunwale, and his grave eyes fixed on the sh.o.r.e, one of the exiles from Scotland lifted his voice that day and said--
”Hech, sirs! it's but a puir, ill-faur'd, outlandish sort o' country. I wad fain hope the hieland hills of our location inland are mair pleasant-lookin' than this.”
”Keep up your spirits, Sandy Black,” observed a st.u.r.dy Highlander who stood at his side; ”those who know the country best say that our location is a splendid one--equal to Scotland itself, if not superior.”
”It may be so, Mr McTavish,” replied Sandy, in a doubtful tone of voice, ”it _may_ be so.”
”Hallo!” suddenly and loudly exclaimed a dapper little man, whose voice betokened him English.
”What is't, Jerry?” demanded Sandy Black, turning his eyes seaward, in which direction Jerry was gazing.
The question needed no reply, for Sandy, and indeed all the various people in the barge who stood high enough on its sides or lading to be able to look over the gunwale, observed a mighty wave coming up behind them like a green wall.
<script>