Tales of South Africa
TextChapter Six.
Piet Van Staden’s Wife
It was the year 1877. For months past the wagons of the Trek-Boers had been standing idly outspanned on the banks of the Crocodile River, (The Limpopo River is known universally in South Africa as the Crocodile) waiting for the word to move north-westward and plunge into the unknown and dreadful deserts that lay between the trekkers and the far-off land they sought. Scattered among the great trees and bushes that margined the noble river, the white wagon-tents of these strange people might be discerned dotting the landscape for the space of a mile and a half and more. Here were gathered the wildest, toughest, and most daring spirits of the Transvaal. Elephant-hunters, who longed for new and virgin lands in which to procure that ivory for which they had risked their lives so often; broken farmers, upon whom the vicissitudes of the African pastoralists’ existence had fallen heavily; and sour Doppers, whose grim religious views reminded one of the savage tenets of the Israelites of old, and who now looked eagerly across the desert for a new land of Canaan.
With these men, living in wagons and tents, were their wives and children, and such furniture and worldly gear as they could carry with them. Around them, scattered over the veldt for miles, grazed the oxen, horses, sheep, and goats that should accompany the trek. Pigs and poultry littered the encampment, and were to be seen near every wagon. All the people – elephant-hunters, malcontents, broken men, and Doppers – were animated by one and the same sentiment. They were sick of the Transvaal. There had been too much fighting – and badly managed fighting – with Sekukuni and other Kaffirs; too many commandos; taxes, those hateful creations of civilisation, were increasing, and were actually being enforced; President Burgers had been too go-ahead, too hoogmoedag (high and mighty); the seasons had been bad; and the English – those hateful English – were slowly finding their way to the north. And so the great Promised Land trek – a trek talked of for years past – was at last gathered together.
Some of these Boers, the Doppers, and they who had lived farthest from the rude semi-civilisation of that day, were possessed with the wildest beliefs. They imagined that Egypt lay just across the Zambesi River, not so very far to the north; they were convinced that they were setting forth to a land somewhere in the dim north-west, beyond Lake N’gami, where ranged snow-clad mountains beneath which sheltered a veldt rich in water, in cattle, and in corn and pasture lands, where the great game wandered just as plentifully as they had wandered in the Transvaal and Free State forty years before, when their fathers had crossed the Orange River and possessed the soil. Seventy wagons and more now stood beside the Crocodile, whose owners, heartily weary of the delays that had taken place, now anxiously awaited the return of two deputies sent to Khama, Chief of Bamangwato, through whose country they first had to pass.
One afternoon about this time a great wagon lumbered in to swell the already unwieldy proportions of the trek, and outspanned under a big tree. Word went slowly round the camp that Piet Van Staden, from Zoutpansberg, with his wife and child, had come in. Piet’s arrival in itself would have created no great stir, for Piet was a very average type of Transvaal Boer – big, not ill-looking, heavy and inert, and with very little to say for himself – but Piet’s wife was no ordinary person. She was a woman of striking beauty, far surpassing the dull ruck of South African Dutch vrouws, and possessed, moreover, of so much originality and determination of character as to have scandalised more than once her sober-minded countrywomen.
The men of Zoutpansberg swore by her. Had she not taken a rifle and ridden out time after time with her husband into the low veldt towards Delagoa Bay, and shot with her own hand giraffe and buffalo – ay, and even the mighty elephant itself? Rumour had it that on more than one occasion Hendrika Van Staden had hardened her husband’s heart at close quarters with a troop of half-mad elephants; and it was certain that she herself had, as they said, a “heart of steel,” and feared neither lion nor elephant nor fierce Kaffir.
Hendrika was a busy, active woman; and the oxen were no sooner outspanned than she got out her poultry from the bed of the wagon, extricated a table and some wagon-chairs, set one of the native boys to light the fire and prepare for the evening meal, and then, taking her six-year-old son, little Barend, set out to call upon one or two neighbours and inspect the camp. Barend, who inherited his mother’s good looks, her yellow hair, and deep blue eyes and clear complexion, was a fine, sturdy little fellow, and, clad in his short coat and loose trousers of soft mouse-coloured moleskin, a flannel shirt, and wide felt hat, looked a typical little Dutchman, a small counterpart, even to the clothes he wore, of his sturdy father. The two set off together, Barend flicking his little hide whip as he walked, and chattering to his mother with keen excitement as the various camps and outspans came into view. While his mother was engaged in conversation with some friends from her own district, the little fellow suddenly caught sight of his father walking to the next group of wagons, and toddled hastily after him.
In half an hour Hendrika had finished her gossip and extracted as much news as could be gleaned. She had not yet been down to the water; and, as the sun was declining and she wished to set eyes on the long-sought Crocodile before dark, she turned to the left hand, and, following a cattle-path, quickly found herself on the margin of the great river. Just at this point there was a bend or hook, and the stream, now at its low winter level, ran deep and swiftly only near the farther bank, leaving a broad spit of sand exposed upon the hither shore. A little higher to the left the stream again broadened into a great reach of shining water, now painted with a warm and ruddy hue by the glow of sunset. To the right, down the course of the river, a beautiful island, laden with trees and a wealth of bush and greenery, and fringed with tall yellow reeds, met the eye. Everywhere great forest trees abounded. Yellow-billed hornbills flew hither and thither among the acacias; gem-like bee-eaters flashed among the reeds; gaudy parrots, clad in blue and green and yellow, darted with shrill whistle overhead; and pearl-drab plantain-eaters uttered their loud, human-like cries at the advent of the solitary figure. Francolins down for their evening drink were calling to one another in scores, and doves cooed softly among the branches. It was a beautiful picture; but Hendrika cared little for the aesthetic aspect, the glamour of the hour, the glowing mantle of sunset. Her heart warmed, it is true, at the sight of the noble river, flowing with strength and volume even at this season of winter, and amid a parched country. But hers was the true, practical Dutch mind: she appreciated the scene only for the assurance it gave her of illimitable watering power for flocks and herds. Two hundred yards beyond, a troop of oxen came down to drink. A Dutchman was with them, and Hendrika bent her steps that way to learn whose the cattle were. The man’s back was turned, and it was not till she was within thirty yards that he heard her approach and faced her. There was a start of recognition and hesitation on either side, and then the man, a tall, good-looking Boer, furnished with a big straw-coloured beard and moustache, and dressed with rather more care than the average Transvaal farmer, came forward, and the pair shook hands in the impassive Dutch fashion. The Boer first spoke.
“And so, Vrouw Van Staden, you have come to join the trek. I scarcely looked to see you and your husband here. I had thought you were well settled on your farm in Zoutpansberg.”
“No; we are tired of that country. Our farm was good enough, and the winter veldt in the low country near at hand; but there is too much fever, and the Kaffirs are very troublesome; and as the President for years has been fighting Sekukuni, we have no strength ourselves for commandos in our own country. Cattle-stealing is worse than it has been for years. And so we thought we would join the trek and try a new country, where the game is more plentiful, and one is not to be pinched up on a farm of three thousand morgen.” (A morgen is rather more than two acres. The usual Boer farm averages three thousand morgen, more than six thousand acres.)
The woman spoke stiffly, and her face had assumed a touch of pride as she answered. But she went on: “I think it is rather I who should ask why Schalk Oosthuysen, with all his wealth, has left Marico, the garden of the Transvaal, as men call it.”
The man had gazed long and fixedly as Hendrika spoke. His eyes seemed to have softened, and a very visible pleasure was in them. And, indeed, Hendrika Van Staden was worth looking at. Clad though she was in a plain gown of rough brown material, bought at some up-country store and fashioned by herself, the admirable curves of her straight, well-rounded figure could not be concealed. Few Boer women can boast a figure. Here was a waist whose trim outlines would have done no disgrace to a well-set-up English girl. Matron though she was, the tall, shapely woman stood like a straight sapling upon the firm yellow sand. The broad chest and shoulders supported erect upon a strong and shapely neck a beautiful head. And the face? Well, most people would have agreed with Schalk Oosthuysen, whose eyes gazed with unconcealable admiration into Hendrika’s. The parting sunlight lent a wonderful charm to the oval face and the fair, clear complexion, so unlike the muddy skin of most Boer women. The soft rosy cheeks – just touched with a suspicion of African tan, – the white forehead, straight nose and proud lips, and the dark blue eyes, all set in a frame of golden yellow hair, every strand of it now glorified by the loving sun-rays, which the great sun-bonnet (kapje) ill-concealed – all went to complete a picture of feminine beauty that few Transvaalers – certainly not Schalk Oosthuysen – could resist.
Hendrika had, like most Dutch girls, married young; and now, mother though she was of a child more than six years old, was in the very pride and summer of her rich beauty.
Oosthuysen, without moving his gaze, spoke again.
“No one should know better than you, Hendrika, why I am leaving Marico and going to tempt fortune in the unknown veldt. How can I rest? Ever since I saw you, ever since the sunny years of our childhood, I have thought of you, dreamed of you. I can never marry now, unless – well, unless you should ever become free again, which is not likely before we are old people. It was you, Hendrika, that broke my happiness and disturbed my lot. Allemaghte! I am sorry almost that you have joined this trek.”
“Schalk, you have no right to speak like that. You know it was not my fault that I could not become your wife. My father had his reasons – good reasons, as I suppose; and I have a good husband, and am contented. Never speak of these things again; they are past and done with. Our ways are different, and it is better that we should see as little of one another as possible.”
She spoke almost with excitement, and her hands, folded, as all good Dutch women fold them, beneath her black apron, to protect them from the strong African sun, had become disengaged, and lent themselves with a slight gesture of impatience to enforce her words.
She turned away, saying as she went, “Good-night, Meneer Oosthuysen,” and took the path to her wagon.
“Good-night, and the Lord bless you, Hendrika,” replied the Boer, as he moved towards his oxen.
Two mornings later the Boer envoys returned from interviewing Khama. They brought word that the chief was willing to allow passage for the whole trek across his country, but that he strongly advised them to proceed in small bands at a time, or the scant waters of the thirst-land between him and the Lake River would fail them. If the whole seventy or eighty wagons attempted to cross in a body, they would find barely sufficient water to supply half a dozen spans of oxen at a time, and disaster must ensue. This was Khama’s advice; he had, as he sent word, no present quarrel with the Boers, and would help them through his country; but he urged them, if they wished to pass safely across the desert, to weigh well his words, and trek in parties of twos and threes.
There was much consultation over this message. Some few hunters, who knew the chief and had made the trek, were strongly for taking his advice; but against these few men there was strong and fierce opposition. All the ignorant, the obstinate, and the self-opinionated – and they formed the majority – held that no Kaffir’s word was to be trusted. Who was this Khama but a natural foe of the Transvaal? No doubt he wished them to travel in families of twos and threes, that he might the better attack their wagons and cut them up piecemeal.
After several days of hot discussion, it was finally decided that all should move together, and that the trek should begin with the following week, by which time the scattered flocks and herds would be collected.
It was a month after the beginning of the trek that Piet Van Staden and his wife and child found themselves in the middle of the thirst-land, between the waters of Kanne and Inkouane – that is to say, in about the worst bit of the Kalahari – in heavy sand, under a broiling sun, and without one single drop of water for their oxen, in a stretch of three days’ and three nights’ continuous travel.
There were wagons in front of them and wagons behind them; they were about the middle of the expedition. At the distance of two days and two nights from Kanne, and a whole day and night from Inkouane, their oxen could go no farther; they had had no drink at the wretched pits of Kanne, where water oozes through the sand at the rate of about half a bucket an hour; three of them lay dead in their yokes already – the rest were foundered and could trek no more. The poor brutes lowed piteously and incessantly; they came frantically round the wagon, smelling at the nearly empty water-barrel, and licking the iron tires of the wheels to give relief to their parched tongues. There was only one thing to be done.
“Hendrika,” said her husband, “I must take two of the boys and go on with the oxen. We shall reach Inkouane (it was now afternoon) early to-morrow morning. I will take a vatje, (A little vat or hand-barrel, holding about two gallons, usually slung by an iron handle under the wagon) fill it, and ride back as fast as possible. You have enough water to last till evening to-morrow. They say there is plenty at Inkouane; I shall be here to-morrow evening again, having watered the horse; and the oxen should be in by next morning. I hate leaving you and the child, but what else can be done?”
“Nothing else can be done better, Piet,” answered his wife energetically. “Get the oxen up and go on at once. Don’t lose a moment; and, mind, be back here not later than sundown to-morrow. Barend is tired and feverish already, and I shall have trouble to make the water last till then. Go at once, and the Heer God be with you.”
Hendrika’s blue eyes were full of hope and courage; she could trust her husband, and he would, no doubt, be back by nightfall of next day.
Taking two of their three native servants with him, and leaving Andries, a little Hottentot, behind with his mistress, with the strictest injunctions to have but one drink between that time and his return, Piet Van Staden kissed his wife and child, thrashed up the foundered oxen, and set forth as fast as he could get them along.
It was a dreary waste of country that Hendrika and her boy were left in – one of the most forbidding parts of the wild, forbidding desert between Khama’s and the Lake River. Hot and sandy and flat it was; a low growth of parched Mopani trees sprang here and there, whose odd butterfly-like leaves, now shrivelled and scorched to a brown sapless condition by months of drought, bore eloquent testimony to the nature of this terrible “thirst-land.”
At evening, when the sun had set, and the air became a trifle cooler, Hendrika prepared a scanty meal. She boiled half a kettleful of very weak coffee, made some slops for Barend, ate some bread and meat herself, drank a bare half kommetje of coffee, parched though she was, gave the Hottentot his rations, and then, bidding Andries to keep up a good fire, she put her little son to bed on the kartel, and, lying by his side, presently hushed him off to sleep. A little after she herself fell asleep also. Towards the small hours Barend was up and wide awake, hot and feverish, and clamouring, poor little soul, for something to quench his thirst with. Hendrika lit a lantern, got out of the wagon, procured the rest of the coffee, which, mixed with a little condensed milk, she had left to cool, and brought the beakerful that remained to her boy. The little fellow, with trembling hands, took the beaker and eagerly emptied it at two draughts. His mother had not the heart to stop him, and he lay down and went to sleep again.
Dawn came round, and the sun sprang up all ruddy, as if but too eager to send his scorching beams upon the shadeless veldt. When Hendrika, after heavy dreamful slumber, cast back the wagon-clap and looked forth, behold, a hundred yards from her was outspanned another wagon, which had evidently arrived during the night and which she quickly discovered belonged to no other than Schalk Oosthuysen. Andries the Hottentot coming up soon after, informed her that Baas Oosthuysen’s oxen had been outspanned and sent on to Inkouane about four that morning, being able to trek no farther, and that the Baas himself, who had lost a quantity of stock already, was asleep in his wagon. It was very vexing, Hendrika thought. Here was the very man of all others she wished to avoid, outspanned close beside her; neither of them could move backward or forward, and a long day, perhaps even more, had to be got through somehow in this unpleasant proximity. About noon, Oosthuysen, having finished his sleep, emerged from his wagon and looked about him. He had evidently heard from his servants whose was the wagon near, but he appeared disinclined to trouble the occupants. For so much Hendrika secretly thanked him. The burning sun moved slowly across the heaven, and, as the fierce rays shifted, so Hendrika and her child moved into the meagre shade given by the great wagon. The sun at this season was north of the line, and never quite overhead. But it was terribly hot, and the scant water was all but finished now. Hendrika had but just moistened her lips, and Andries had had a bare quarter of a pint; all the rest had been reserved for poor feverish little Barend, who evidently had had a touch of the sun on the preceding day’s trek, and was very ill.
Sometimes Hendrika’s glance turned swiftly towards the other wagon; and there was debate and anxiety in it, and a compression of the firm red lips, as if a struggle were waking in her mind. Oosthuysen rose and shouldered his rifle once during the day, and wandered into the bush, presumably to look for a chance eland or giraffe; but nothing came of it, no shot was heard, and before sundown he had returned, and flung himself into his wagon-chair, in which he sat moodily smoking.
Towards evening Hendrika’s eyes and ears were fastened intently upon the road from Inkouane. Surely her husband must soon arrive! There was water there, and he would hasten back, knowing the struggle with thirst his dear ones were fighting through. Yes, undoubtedly he must be here soon. But hour after hour slipped by; the red sun sank, the night came, the stars sprang forth in their armies, and presently the moon rose as fresh and serene and gracious as though she had never seen one hour of suffering upon the tired earth. All was still upon the veldt. There was not even the occasional deep breathing of the oxen as they lay by the trek chain, for the oxen were far away, all but the three dead beasts which lay near, and had already become offensive.
At eight o’clock, Hendrika, who had been nursing little Barend by the fire since dark, gave him – for he was now clamourous again – the last kommetjeful of weak coffee. She had nothing better to give the child; the water was none too sweet, and was better boiled and made into coffee than drunk alone. After this Barend was put to bed on the wagon-kartel, and the sheepskin kaross thrown lightly over him.
Again Hendrika got down from the wagon and stood by the fire. There had been a bitter struggle agitating her bosom for hours past, and now the time was come. She must smother her stiff Dutch pride, and go as a suppliant to Schalk Oosthuysen and beg for a little water for her child. Her own thirst, heightened by the oven-like heat and the long day of waiting and anxiety, was intense, and Andries, the Hottentot – faithful and uncomplaining though he was – was in like plight. These things were as nothing; their sufferings could be borne for another day and night; but Barend, her beautiful, sunny little Barend, with his now flushed cheeks and feverish skin and hoarse voice – he must be saved pain at all cost. Her mind was made up. She looked across to the fire by the other wagon. There sat Schalk sullenly, his figure bulking against the blaze, smoking his big pipe as usual.
Hendrika walked steadily across and up to the firelight. Only the Boer sat there; his servants were already asleep under the wagon. Schalk turned in his chair and looked up at his visitor as she approached. It was not a pleasant face to-night. The man was evidently in a sullen, obstinate fit of temper at the general outlook, and his aspect was discouraging enough. Hendrika broke the silence.
“Meneer Oosthuysen,” she said, rather hurriedly for her, “I have come to beg some water. My boy is sick and feverish, and my vatje is empty. I have not a drop of water left. I expected my husband back this evening with a fresh supply; he has not arrived, and there are no signs of him. You can help me, can you not?”
A curious expression flitted over the impassive countenance of the Boer: it passed like a fleeting shadow, but the firelight just caught it.
“Hendrika Van Staden, why should you come to me now?” he said. “All was over between us, you said; and I wanted to see your face no more. I have scarcely enough water for myself and my men for another day. My oxen may not be back, the Lord knows when! In these times one must look after oneself. Your husband will be back by morning, no doubt, and your boy can wait till then. No, I cannot help you. Allemaghte! why should I, indeed? All my troubles come from you. You have treated me scurvily in the past; my turn has come now!”
The last few days of suffering and disaster – for he had already lost heavily among his cattle – seemed to have changed the man’s nature. All his evil impulses had come uppermost.
Hendrika argued, pleaded, threatened, cast away her pride and implored Oosthuysen, by all the memories of their youth together, to help her, even with a beaker or two of water. But all of no avail. The Boer sat grim, obstinate, ferocious, and would not be moved.
In despair she sought her wagon again. A terrible night followed. Barend was awake long before the light with raging thirst in his throat. The mother bathed his hands and brow with vinegar, moistened his lips with it, did all she could to soothe and comfort him: it was of slight avail. The fever increased; the poor sufferer’s cries for water were incessant. What Hendrika went through during that dreadful night no pen can tell. The desert was a hell; the stars above mocked her; the moon gleamed in contemptuous serenity; the airs whispering through the bush passed idly by, tittering their light gossip one to another. Where was God, that He could let her child suffer so? Surely, surely, all the Predikants and the Doppers and the rest of them were wrong! There could be no God, and the Bible was a lie! Sometimes, when Barend fell asleep for a few minutes, she prayed and wrestled with her agony, and fifty times sprang up thinking she heard her husband’s approach.
At dawn Oosthuysen was stirring, and got down from his kartel. Hendrika had been watching like a hawk for this. She hurried swiftly across, and in rapid sentences told him of her child’s danger. She fell on her knees before him – this proud, beautiful, strong woman, whose boast had been that she could have had every Boer of the Transvaal at her feet – and begged him in a flood of tears to give her some water and save her child. At this moment, even after these scores of hours of fatigue and thirst and bitter suffering, and under the grey morning light, the woman looked very beautiful, worn and dishevelled though she was. Her kapje was off, and her golden hair, unfettered by the usual tight Dutch cap, crowned her with a strange glory.
The Boer was visibly moved.
“Hendrika,” he whispered hoarsely, “I love you still. Yes, I love you more than ever. I will give you all the water I have. Allemaghte! Yes, I’ll foot it without water to Inkouane if you will leave your husband and come away with me. We can trek far to the north and make a home of our own. Come, Hendrika! After we reach Inkouane, your husband will be behind for his cattle, and we can get away; and if you like, bring the boy too. There is the water,” pointing under his wagon, “nearly a vatjeful; you shall have it all. Think well of what I say. We have been happy before, and can be happy again.”
Hendrika sprang to her feet with flashing eyes.
“You must be mad,” she said, with fierce scorn, “to dream of such a thing! Can you think so ill of me? No, schelm, scoundrel that you are, you know you cannot! Is this your final answer. Do you still refuse me water?”
“I do,” he returned; “unless…”
She turned away with a fierce, hopeless gesture, and left him.
How Hendrika Van Staden passed the next eight hours she could never satisfactorily describe, even to herself. Slowly the hot day came up, and slowly passed upon leaden wings. Andries was sent out to scour the bush for any bulbs or roots that might contain moisture. But, alas! just in this locality none such could be found. Meanwhile, Barend rapidly grew worse; the fever pressed more hardly upon him, the thirst became more intolerable; convulsions were succeeded by coma. It seemed that the end was near. The water-bearers from Inkouane still tarried; every moment became more distracting, more agonising, for the wretched mother.
Suddenly a terrible thought flashed through her brain, and no sooner was it conceived than her mind was made up. She went softly to her wagon, took down her husband’s Martini-Henry carbine from the hooks on which it reposed, drew it from its lion-skin cover, and pulled two cartridges from a bandolier; one she pushed into the breech of the carbine, the other she thrust into her bosom, and then, carrying the gun behind her, she walked straight across to Oosthuysen’s camp. The Boer happened to be sitting in the shade at the back of the wagon, and heard nothing of her approach till her voice rang sharply through the hot air.
“Meneer Oosthuysen, I want you!”
Schalk sprang up with alacrity. No doubt, he thought to himself, he had conquered. His vile offer was to be accepted. There was a strange set look in the woman’s beautiful eyes as he faced her. Her head was thrown back in the way he knew so well of yore, her white throat was displayed, her arms were behind her back. A little defiant, perhaps, in her yielding, but still she was to be his. Never, he thought, had she looked more noble.
“Schalk,” she said, in her firm, clear voice, “I must have that water.”
“Well,” he replied, “it is yours. You know my terms.”
“Almighty God!” she gasped; “then you will have it! See here, this gun is loaded. If you hand me half your water, I’ll forgive all your brutality; if not, I’ll shoot you dead. Choose, and in one instant!”
The Boer evidently imagined it was a mere case of “bluff,” and he grew angry.
“I tell you,” he cried, “you shall have not one drop of water unless you swear to leave your husband and come with me! Those are my last words.”
“Your last indeed!” echoed Hendrika, in a deep, low voice. Her carbine went up. The Boer made one dash to disarm her, and in the same instant her forefinger pressed the trigger and a bullet crashed through Oosthuysen’s brain. He fell forward and lay there in the sand without another motion, stone-dead.
Scarcely noticing the body, Hendrika went straight to the water vatje for which she had done this terrible act. She lifted it from the hook, and, exerting all her strength, carried it across to her wagon. Then, procuring brandy, she mingled water with it, and with a teaspoon poured some of the mixture between the parched lips of her half-lifeless child. In ten minutes there were signs of returning consciousness, and presently Barend opened his eyes. Her child was saved, and the woman’s heart, spite of the deadly horror that was upon her, echoed faint thanks. She had saved her boy, but at what a price! In half an hour Barend was so much better that she was able to leave him dozing quietly, and once more she betook herself to Oosthuysen’s camp. The Boer’s Kaffirs had returned, and were standing over the dead body, talking and gesticulating in an excited way. Hendrika walked straight up to them, and, first picking up her carbine, said in a firm voice, “Yes, the Baas is dead. He refused me water, and I shot him. It was my child’s life or his. You had better go on to Inkouane and tell his friends to send back for the wagon.”
The natives, awed by her manner and the words she spoke, slunk away, and, picking up their blankets and assegais and a little store of water, struck into the bush, glad to be quit of this terrible woman.