Part 9 (2/2)
The disguise was taken before a thought could be given to the possible consequences of such a step. Spurred by the heroic att.i.tude and fine courage displayed by his wife, Mr. Celliers lost not a moment in availing himself of the long-looked-for opportunity.
The thrilling adventures and hairbreadth escapes he went through in that memorable flight for duty and freedom will no doubt be found accurately recorded in his book on the war, which I know to be ”in the making” at the present moment. Suffice it to say that he reached the farm of a friend near Silkatsnek in safety, where, he had been informed, he would find Boer commandos in the neighbourhood.
Disappointment awaited him, however. The commando had withdrawn to the north, followed closely by thousands of British troops whose proximity to the farm made it dangerous, not only for him, but for the people who harboured him, to remain there longer than one night. A farm-hand, a trusted native servant, was asked to undertake the task of escorting Mr. Celliers to the Boer lines. After some hesitation he consented.
The risk was great, but the promise of 20 reward when the war was over acted like a charm, and the two set forth before break of day on their perilous adventure.
Here and there the tiny light of an outpost on the open field warned them to make a wide _detour_. The crackling of the short burnt stubbles of gra.s.s under their feet caused them to hold their breath and listen with loudly beating hearts for the dreaded ”Halt! Who goes there?”
When the light of day began to break over earth and sky, the Kaffir, in evident anxiety, warned the _Baas_ to hide in a large dense tree while he, the Kaffir, went on ahead to reconnoitre. He departed--not to return again, base coward that he was, and the unfortunate man in the tree waited for hours until it dawned on him that he had been deserted at the most critical moment. He stepped from his hiding-place, quickly deciding to walk nonchalantly forward, the open veld leaving no possible means of pursuing his way under cover.
He pa.s.ses many isolated homesteads, some ruined and deserted, others inhabited by aged people, delicate women, and little children only.
One and all they shrink from him when he relates his story. They do not trust him--he may be in the employment of the British, a trap set for the unwary; their homes are closed to him. He pursues his way wearily. What is that approaching him in the distance? With straining eyes he is able to distinguish a group of hors.e.m.e.n coming towards him, and with lightning-like rapidity he turns from his course and jumps into the washed-out bed of a small rivulet flowing by. A group of startled Kaffir children gaze at him in astonishment. The riders come in clear view--not hors.e.m.e.n, but a number of Kaffir women with earthenware pots on their heads. These they fill with water, and mounting their horses depart the way they came.
With renewed hope and thankfulness at his heart our traveller resumes his course in the lengthening shadows of the short winter afternoon.
At last he reaches a German mission station.
No refuge for him here! For the inhabitants are ”neutral,” but he is informed that a few days before 20,000 British troops had pa.s.sed that way in a northward direction, in hot pursuit of the Boer commandos fleeing to the Waterberg district. The benevolent old missionary directs him to a small farm in the neighbourhood where a Boer woman lives alone with her little children. Perhaps she can give him some idea of the safest route for him to take. But no, the woman turns from him in extreme agitation, refuses to answer his questions, and is so evidently distressed at his appearance that he turns away and withdraws to the veld to think. What now? What now?
He is sitting on the outskirts of the great bush-veld, that endless stretch of forest-growth, dense and dark as far as the eye can reach.
Shall he enter that, unarmed, without provisions or water and totally ignorant of the direction to take? He shudders. The blackness of the night is creeping over the scene, and over his soul desolation and despair.
”I must return to the mission station,” he decides at last. ”Surely they will give me refuge for the night!”
Slowly he drags his weary limbs across the veld, hesitatingly he presents himself, falteringly he proffers his request. A moment's hesitation and the family circle opens to receive him, its members crowd round him with words of comfort and small deeds of love. They are not doing _right_, but they will do _well_. Nothing is left undone to restore and refresh the exhausted fugitive, who soon finds himself in a perfect haven of domestic happiness and luxury.
As the evening wears on, the small harmonium is opened, and while the younger members of the family are singing sweet part-songs together, our hero turns over the leaves of a small book he has found lying on the table, a book of German quotations. His eyes are attracted by the following lines by Dessler:
Lenkst du durch Wusten meine Reise, Ich folg, und lehne mich auf Dich Du gibst mir aus der Wolken Speise Und Trankest aus dem Felsen mich, Ich traue Deinen Wunderwegen, Sie enden sich in Lieb und Segen, Genug, wenn ich Dich bei mir hab.
They are like balm to his troubled soul, and he commits them to memory for future use. G.o.d knows the future looks desperate enough to him, for he feels that he cannot remain in this haven of rest.
Consideration for the safety of his kind friends forbids this. He soon departs, having heard that, for the present at least, the western direction is open to him, and, in taking this, his tribulations begin afresh.
Unused to exercise as he has been during the long months of his confinement, this traveller, in pursuing his course with so much patience and steadfast determination, now finds himself hardly able to walk. The tender feet are swollen and bleeding to such an extent that he finds it impossible to remove his heavy boots. Halting, stumbling, he continues on his way.
By good fortune he meets with another Kaffir guide, who leads him to a small Kaffir hut and revives him with a draught of Kaffir beer. A few moments' rest, and they are on the way again.
The day was far spent when they reached a Kaffir kraal, and here Mr.
Celliers sank down in agony of mind and body, too great for words.
More Kaffir beer was respectfully tendered to him and he drank it gratefully, meanwhile watching with dull interest the Kaffir babies, jet black and stark naked, except for a small fringe of blue beads about the loins, as they crept around him, like so many playful kittens.
He was not long allowed to rest, the good guide urging him to make a final effort, and encouraging him with the a.s.surance that he would find a farm not far distant, the home of Mr. Piet Roos, of Krokodil Poort.
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