Tales of South Africa
TextAs soon as they had departed, all Hendrika’s stock of firmness vanished. She had been overwrought these forty-eight hours past. Now the tension had become too great. She knelt beside the dead body of Oosthuysen and wept in an agony of remorse, pity, and tenderness.
Why had she slain this man, with whom for years she had been associated in childhood? She remembered, ah! so well, their pleasant homes in Marico, the fertile valleys, the fair uplands, and the pleasant treks four times a year to Nachtmaal (communion) at Zeerust. Her tears flowed afresh. Presently she became calmer, climbed into Oosthuysen’s wagon, and took down a blanket, which she placed reverently, almost tenderly, over the dead body.
At that instant the dulled crack of a rifle-shot came from the direction of the Inkouanë road! Another! Alas! Hendrika knew what they meant. Her husband was approaching, water was at hand, help near. Now the full horror of her position smote upon her and froze her blood. All this terrible crime might have been avoided if but those shots had been heard one short hour ago. Her heart stood still, and she fell forward in a deathlike swoon beside the body of the man she had slain.
When Piet Van Staden rode up five minutes later and found his wife lying in a dead faint beside the yet warm corpse of Schalk Oosthuysen, even his dull Dutch nature was stirred and harrowed. What in God’s name could it all mean?
Presently, with the aid of brandy and water, Hendrika came to herself, and was able to tell her terrible story. It was a great shock to her husband; but he had a strong faith in his wife’s character, and he understood well enough that only the direst straits and the prospect of the almost instant death of their child could have induced her to take the blood of a fellow-creature upon her hands.
They buried Oosthuysen’s body that evening, and covered the grave with thorns, and set a strong scherm of thorns about it to keep off the wild beasts. During the night their oxen came in, and they trekked next day, with doubt and trepidation in their hearts, for Inkouane, where dreadful scenes were enacting. The pits had been meanwhile choked up with dead oxen, which had been cut out piecemeal; and now, the scant mess of foul blood and fouler water being exhausted, men, women, and children were enduring agonies of thirst. Men in such case were not likely to be hard judges: their one thought was for their own safety. Piet and his wife, therefore, having reported the full circumstances of Oosthuysen’s tragic death to the Boer leaders, were bidden to betake themselves away and never trouble the expedition again. Glad enough they were to escape thus lightly: blood for blood is usually the cry of people in a state of semi-civilisation such as these Trek-Boers.
And so, like Hagar of old, the Van Stadens passed out into the wilderness, and won their way with much toil and suffering to the Okavango River, beyond Lake N’gami. But Hendrika never shook off her trouble, or the feeling that unwittingly she had wrecked her husband’s life and doomed themselves to a weary banishment. Day by day she grew paler and more listless; her old fire and spirits had left her and could not be recalled, and, by the time they reached the marshes of the Okavango, she was utterly unfit to cope with the deadly fever of that unhealthy land.
At last, thin and worn and weak, the merest shadow of the once proud Transvaal beauty, she could travel no longer. They outspanned under a big Motjeerie tree, and there, tended by her husband and the still faithful Hottentot, Andries, and with Barend’s hand in hers, she passed from life into the unknown.
Hendrika Van Staden sleeps, as sleeps many another stout and heroic. Dutchwoman who has yielded up her soul in Africa, in the dim wilderness, beneath the great Motjeerie tree, amid whose spreading oak-like leafage the wild doves of the forest coo soft requiem. In the still solitudes around wander free and undisturbed the great game of the veldt she loved so well. And at night to the fountain near her grave come the tall giraffe, the mighty elephant, the painted zebra, the sinuous tawny lion, the tiny steinbok, and many another head of game, to quench their thirst.
What fitter resting-place could be hers? And if, indeed, Hendrika erred in the supreme trial of her life, what mother, what true woman, would have done otherwise? Who shall judge her? who cast a stone?
Chapter Seven.
A Legend of Prince Maurice
It was Christmas-time at the Cape, when many a man and woman of British blood, jaded by the sun and drought of an up-country life, flocks down to the sea. Cape Town and her charming suburbs were crowded; and the pleasant watering-places of Muizenberg and Kalk Bay were thronged with folk dying once more to set eyes on the blue ocean, to inhale the fresh breezes, and to remind themselves of their own sea-girt origin. From every corner of South Africa – from the old Colony, the Free State, the Transvaal, from far Bechuanaland – they had come. You might see sun-scorched wanderers from the far interior, hunters, explorers, prospectors, and pioneers. Some had come to restore broken health; some to taste again the sweets of civilisation, to spend hard-won money; or, perchance, an enthusiast might be seen who had been attracted south a thousand miles and more by the week’s cricket tournament on the Western Province ground at Newlands.
Cape Town was at her best and bravest. Adderley Street was as crowded as Bond Street in June; and upon every hand were to be seen and heard pleasant faces, cheery voices, and the hearty greetings of friends long severed by time and distance.
On the evening of the 23rd December, a young man sat in his pleasant bedroom in the annexe of the International Hotel, which lies rather out of the heat of the town on the lower slopes of Table Mountain. It was an hour before dinner, and the young man sat in his shirt-sleeves before the open window, idly smoking a pipe, and feasting his eyes on the glorious view that lay before him.
Jack Compton had just come down from two years’ travel and sport in the far interior; you might tell that by his lean, sun-tanned face and deeply embrowned arms, and by the collection of curios – bird-skins, photographs, horns, heads, assegais, and other articles that littered the room – and, after a rough time of it, was now enjoying to the full the ease and relaxation of life at the Cape. It was a noble prospect that lay spread before him – none nobler in the world. Cape Town, with its white houses and dark-green foliage, contrasted strongly in the near foreground with the peerless blue and the sweeping contours of Table Bay. Out at the entrance to the bay, Robben Island swam dimly into the far Atlantic. Across the bay, the eye was first smitten by the blinding dazzle of the beach of white sand below Blaauwberg. Then rose chain upon chain of glorious mountain scenery, the jagged sierras of Stellenbosch and the far line of Hottentots Holland melting in blues and purples upon the horizon. Under the setting sun the crests of these distant sierras were rapidly becoming rose-tinted, and the warm browns and purples glorified a thousandfold. Never, thought Jack Compton, as he pulled contentedly at his pipe, had he beheld a more enchanting scene.
At that instant his door was flung open, and a tall, sunburnt, keen-eyed man of thirty entered the room.
“Hallo, Jack, you old buffer!” he exclaimed, “what are you up to, sitting here brooding like a pelican at a salt pan? I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been chatting for the last two hours with a most interesting Johnnie just come round from Walfisch Bay. He’s been trading and hunting in a new veldt far inland to the north-east, and he’s had some extraordinary times. The country he’s been in is, seemingly, quite unknown to Europeans; the game’s as thick as sheep in a fold; and he’s had the most wonderful shooting. But there’s one adventure, which he’ll tell us more about after dinner, which has hit my fancy amazingly. As far as I can make out, Cressey – that’s the name of the man – has discovered some extraordinary link with the past – a Kaffir woman, chief of some native tribe, with good white blood in her veins. Cressey has got some of her belongings, and has promised to show them to us later on.”
“But,” put in Jack Compton, “what sort of a man is this Cressey? Can you depend upon what he says? There are some champion liars in this country, and any amount of improbable yarns floating from one ear to another. The Afrikander is the most credulous person in the world, and there’s something in the climate which quickly infects the Britisher – witness yourself. I suppose gold and diamonds are primarily responsible for it all, and the old-fashioned Boer, who’s the most marvel-swallowing creature of the nineteenth century.”
“That’s all right, old chap,” laughingly replied Tim Bracewell. “I won’t say any more at present. You shall judge for yourself. In my opinion this man Cressey isn’t one of your natural-born Ananiases. He gives one the impression of being perfectly straightforward. He’s a quiet, unassuming sort of man, rather hard to draw than otherwise. By the bye, we mustn’t talk too loud – he’s got a bedroom somewhere in this building.”
Half an hour later the two friends were lounging about the stoep of the International, waiting the summons to dinner, when a quiet-looking man in blue serge came up the steps. Tim Bracewell stepped forward and met him, and introduced him to Compton. The new comer was a well-set-up man of middle height. He had fair brown hair, a short beard, and a pair of keen, steady, blue-grey eyes.
After dinner, which the three men partook of at a table together, they came out to the stoep again, and fixed themselves in a snug corner for coffee and cigars. They had exchanged a good deal of their experiences together at the dinner-table, and Tim Bracewell now called upon Cressey to give them the promised history of his main adventure.
“Well,” said Cressey, “it’s a queer yarn, and I don’t know what you’ll say to it. You’re the first I’ve told it to; and let me ask you not to talk about it outside. I don’t want to be bothered by papers and interviewers and all the rest of it. I shall report my story to the Colonial Secretary for what it’s worth, and then I’ve done all I intend to. I started from Walfisch Bay with two wagons, loaded up with trading-gear, just eighteen months ago. I intended to hunt a bit, and I had five good ponies with me. I had also in my outfit three very good native ‘boys’ – one especially, ‘April,’ a most useful chap; he was a ’Mangwato, a capital fellow at languages, and understood Zulu and Dutch, and one or two Zambesi dialects. He was a good driver, cook, and hunter – one of the best all-round natives I ever came across.
“Well, I trekked through Damaraland and Ovampoland up to the Cunene River. I hadn’t much trouble with the Ovampo, as I knew their chiefs and headmen. But they’re a rum lot, and you’ve got to watch it in their country. I did pretty well, and sent down a decent troop of cattle taken in barter to a place I’ve got in Damaraland.
“After several months, I left the Cunene, and worked up for a new bit of country hitherto unexplored. I crossed the Okavango somewhere up towards its sources, and then found myself in the wild country of the Mukassakwere Bushmen. Here there was plenty of game, and I had some grand sport. The Bushmen were mad for meat and tobacco, and were only too eager – once they had found out my killing powers – to show me game. I had a glorious time among elephant rhinoceros, ‘camel’ (giraffe), and all the big antelopes. Elands were running in big troops, almost as tame as Alderney cows, and we lived like fighting cocks. I got a fine lot of ivory in this country; and then, taking some of the best of the Bushmen with me, pushed still farther north by east.
“One afternoon, after a long, troublesome trek through some heavy bush-country, in which we had been all hard at work cutting a path for the wagons, we emerged pretty thankfully into clear country again. Before us lay spread a vast open grassy plain, dotted here and there with troops of game. Beyond the plain, some thirty miles distant, there stood in purple splendour against the clear horizon a majestic mountain chain, its peaks just now tinted a tender rose by the setting sun. We all stood for a while gazing, open-mouthed, at the glorious scene before us, and then camped for the night. Round my servants’ camp-fire I noticed a good deal of animated conversation going on. Two Bushmen in particular were full of chatter and gesticulation. Their curious clicking speech came fast and thick, and they pointed often in the direction of the mountains in our front.
“After a time I called April to my fireside and interrogated him. He informed me that the Bushmen were speaking of a kraal of natives settled behind the mountain chain; that these natives were governed by a wonderful white-skinned woman; that they were quarrelsome and treacherous; and that we might have trouble with them. Having learned thus much, I tumbled into my wagon, pulled up the sheepskin kaross, and fell asleep.
“Early next morning I was up making ready for a longish ride. I was mighty curious to see this native village that the Bushmen spoke of, and especially the white-skinned chieftainess; at the same time I determined to prepare for any eventuality. I sent the wagons, after breakfast, back upon our spoor again, directing my men to camp in a strong place between some hills, more than a day’s journey back. Here there was good water; the camp could be rendered pretty impregnable by the help of a scherm of thorn-bushes; and, with my horses, I and my attendant could easily retreat thither in case of trouble. I now selected my two best ponies, and, taking April with me, and the two Bushmen to act as guides, we set off for the mountain. My man and I were each armed with a good double rifle, and had plenty of ammunition, water-bottles, and some billtong (sun-dried meat), biscuits, coffee, and a kettle; and, as I knew there were no horses among the natives in these regions, I had little fear of escape, if escape became necessary.
“We rode all that day across the big plain. It was a perfect treat to see the game on every side of us. There were rhinoceroses, elands, hartebeests, Burchell’s zebras, blue wildebeests, and tsesseby. They were excessively tame, and often came close up and stared at us. We fired no shot, however, but rode quietly on, occasionally diverging a little to avoid some sour-looking black rhinoceros, which stood, threatening and suspicious, directly in our path. We camped that night in a little grove of thorn trees just beneath the mountain.
“At earliest dawn of the next day we were up and away. The Bushmen led us to a kloof or gorge in the mountain chain, the only approach to the kraal we sought. We rode for two hours up a slight ascent over a very rough, rocky path; and then, suddenly turning an angle of the mountain-wall, we came in full view of the native town. A broad grassy valley, perhaps seven miles square, lay before us. This plain was dotted with circular native huts, built very much after the Bechuana fashion, and neatly thatched. Herds of cattle, goats, and native sheep were pasturing here and there, or lying beneath the shade of the acacias scattered about the plain. The town stood in an excellent position. The mountain chain upon the one hand, and a broad and deep river, flowing south-east, upon the other, served as sure defences against any sudden attack from without.
“Beyond the river, eastward, a vast sweep of broad plain, belted with dark-green ribands of bush and forest, stretched in interminable expanse to the hot horizon.
“Descending to the valley, we were not long in reaching a collection of huts, where we were pulled up short by a score of gesticulating natives, armed with huge bows and arrows, and spears. We had some trouble with these people; but after various messages and a halt of an hour or so, we were told to follow two headmen to the Queen’s residence.
“Mounting our horses – a proceeding which roused the most lively interest among the crowd, which by this time had gathered round us – April and I followed our guides, the Bushmen walking alongside. Passing numerous groups of well-built, well-tended huts, we were at last brought to the Queen’s kotla, a large circular enclosure, fenced by a tall stockade, in which was set the hut of the great lady I sought. A messenger soon brought permission, and we rode into the enclosure.
“In a couple of rapid glances I took in the whole scene. In front of a large, roomy, carefully thatched, circular hut were gathered some thirty headmen of various ages, all standing, and all armed with long spears, battle-axes, or bows and arrows. In the centre of this knot of dark Africans sat the chieftainess, a very fair-skinned woman, undoubtedly. Behind her stood two black female attendants, furnished with long fly-whisks, with which they occasionally guarded their mistress from the annoyances of insects. I rode up boldly to within ten yards of this group, and dismounted, as did my man April. Handing my horse to April, I took off my broad-brimmed hat, made my politest bow to the Queen’s grace, and then, calling Naras the Bushman, motioned him to stand forward and interpret Naras waited expectantly on the Queen, and, while she addressed him, I had leisure to examine her closely and very curiously. Mapana – that was her name – for a woman of native blood, was astonishingly fair. I can best liken her colouring to that of a fair octoroon. Her beauty amazed me. I have been in the West Indies, where, especially among the French islands, are to be seen some of the most beautiful coloured women in the world. Mapana’s beauty and grace reminded me in the strongest manner of some of these French octoroons. Her hair was soft and wavy – not harsh, like a pure African’s – and curled naturally upon her well-shaped head. Her features were good and regular; her mouth bewitching; her dark eyes tender, kindly, and marvellously beautiful. There was an air of refinement and grace about her, which strangely puzzled me. She wore a necklet of bright gold coins about her neck, and thick ivory bangles upon her shapely arms. A little cloak of antelope skin just covered her shoulders, but concealed not at all her perfect shape and bust. A short kilt or petticoat of dressed antelope skin, and neat sandals of giraffe hide, completed her costume. It is hard to judge the age of Africans. I guessed Mapana’s years at one or two and twenty. She sat there in an attitude of easy, natural grace, her pretty hands just covering a sword, apparently of European make, which lay across her lap. I think I never set eyes on a more perfectly captivating creature. I am not as a rule at all impressionable, but, as Mapana spoke, my downfall was complete – I fell in love with her at once.
“Mapana had one of those rare voices which, almost more than mere beauty alone, seem created to enslave mankind. I once, years ago, on a trip home to England, heard Sarah Bernhardt. The tones of her silvery voice came nearer to Mapana’s than any I ever heard.
“How so fair a woman came to be heading a barbarous tribe here in this outlandish corner of Africa, and whence she took her European descent, puzzled me intensely. I was determined somehow to hunt out the mystery. I had noticed, when we first encountered Mapana’s tribesmen at the foot of the mountains, that much of their speech resembled the Sechuana and Basuto tongues, with which I am well acquainted. The languages of the various Bantu tribes have strong affinities. I noticed many words even resembling Zulu and Amakosa among these people, who, by the way, called themselves Umfanzi. The difference of idiom and intonation at first bothered me; in a little while, however, as Mapana questioned and cross-questioned the Bushmen, I began pretty clearly to understand her. I spoke in a low tone to April; he too comprehended her speech. I now ventured to address her myself. I spoke slowly and distinctly; and, after a little, she began to understand much of what I said, as, too, did her headmen and counsellors. I explained that I was a subject of a great white Queen, dwelling far across some mighty waters; that I had heard of another white Queen, and had travelled far to pay her my respects, and to enter upon terms of goodwill and friendship with her and her tribe.
“My words seemed to give satisfaction. Mapana spoke in an aside with some of the older men about her, and then addressed me. She told me that she was of white descent herself – at a remote distance of time – that the blood had always been cherished in her tribe, and that she and her counsellors were glad to receive me. She directed me to be lodged in a new hut just outside her kotla, and intimated that she would be pleased to receive me later in the day. Meanwhile food and water, and whatever else we required, should be placed at my disposal. A guard of a couple of armed men was told off to keep away intrusive or too curious tribespeople from our quarters.
“We killed a sheep, and enjoyed a square meal; after which I went, surrounded by a concourse of interested natives, to a stream close by, where I had a good wash, combed out my hair and beard, and made myself presentable for the next interview with the fascinating Mapana. For the rest of the afternoon we sat resting, and luxuriated in a quiet smoke.
“At about four o’clock a young headman came with a message that Mapana wished to see me again. He seemed by no means pleased with his errand, and preceded me with a very unprepossessing scowl upon his face. The Queen was now only attended by a few of her women. I sat down near her; my conductor stood leaning upon his assegai.
“‘Seleni,’ said Mapana, looking at him, ‘I wish to speak with the white man alone; you can leave me.’
“‘Queen,’ answered the young man, not too civilly, I thought, ‘this man is a stranger. Who knows his heart? He may cherish mischief. I stay to guard the Queen from danger.’
“Mapana flushed a little. It was pretty to see the colour run under the clear brunette of her skin. ‘There is no danger,’ she said, with some asperity. ‘Go, till I call for you.’
“Making an obeisance, Seleni, much against his will, stalked out of the kotla.
“Mapana turned to me. ‘Seleni is a kinsman of mine,’ she said, ‘and he presumes upon it.’
“I had noticed that this young man, and one or two others among the headmen, were slightly paler in colour than the rest of the tribe, and I told Mapana so.
“‘Yes,’ she returned. ‘Seleni is descended from the white man from whom I descend, but by a baser branch. My forefathers come directly from the white man who settled among the Umfanzi long ago, and married the chief’s daughter. That white man – Morinza, we call him – became ruler over the tribe, taught us many things, and left the family of chiefs to which I belong. I have sent for you,’ – here she inquired my name, which I told her – ‘to look upon the things which I have here. They were Morinza’s, and they have always been cherished in my family.’
“Here she took the circlet of coins from her neck and handed it to me. She had also for my inspection the sword I have spoken of, and an old-fashioned book, very handsomely bound in red leather, curiously gilt and stamped. This book she took from a covering of soft hide, in which it was carefully wrapped.
“I was intensely interested, and first examined the gold coins composing the necklet. There were seven in all, four large and three smaller. I recognised at once the head of Charles the First, and made out without difficulty that the coins were twenty-shilling and ten-shilling pieces of that king’s reign. I next took up the sword. The scabbard had once been handsome in leather and metal, but was now worn and battered. The sword itself, a straight, narrowish rapier, was a very beautiful one. It was in excellent condition and finely engraved. On the centre of the blade were these words in old-fashioned lettering: – ”
“Rupertus Mauritio Suo Bredae, 1638.”
Latin for: “From Rupert to his Maurice. Before Breda, 1638.”
“Now in the mind of every schoolboy,” (said Cressey, pausing in his narrative) “the names Rupert and Maurice always run together. They were nephews of Charles the First, sons of Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and they are well-known in English history. Since I came to Cape Town, I have been to the library, and I find that Prince Maurice served his first or second campaign in 1638 with the Prince of Orange at the siege of Breda. Prince Rupert was there, learning the trade of war at the same time. The meaning of the inscription on that sword – which I have, and will show you presently – is to my mind perfectly clear.
“Well, to get on with my yarn. As I sat in Mapana’s kraal with the sword in my hands, I began to wonder whether I was in a dream. Was it possible that the beautiful brunette before me, chieftain of a tribe of outlandish Kaffirs, came of such stock as this? The idea seemed too wildly improbable. Yet, if her tale and the evidence before me meant anything, it meant that this sword, these gold coins, had once belonged to Maurice of the Rhine. I took the book in my hand and turned over its yellow pages. What I saw there yet more electrified me, and stimulated yet further my imagination. The book was an old French work on hawking, entitled, La Fauconnerie; par Charles d’Esperon; Paris: 1605. On the fly-leaf was written, in an antique yet clear hand: – ”
“Mauritio P. D.D. Mater Amantissima, Elizabetha R. 1635.”
Translated, this would run: “To Maurice, Prince, a gift from his most loving mother, Elizabeth, Queen, 1635.”
“There was no earthly reason to suppose that the inscription upon that old fly-leaf lied. That book then had once belonged to Prince Maurice; had once been the loving gift to him of the unlucky, beautiful Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, his mother. It seemed so strange, so tragic, to find here these relics of the old Stuart blood; to see before me perhaps even a descendant of that ill-starred line; that my mind, as I gazed from the old book to Mapana, from Mapana’s soft eyes to the book again, ran in a flood of strangely mingled emotions. I asked Mapana again to tell me how these things had come into her family.
“She reiterated that her father and grandfather had always told her that these were the things of Morinza (was not this name, I asked myself, an African corruption of Moritz or Maurice?), the white man, their ancestor. That he had them with him when he encountered the tribe. That in those days the Umfanzi lived much farther to the west (she indicated the direction with her hand), not far from a great water (probably the South Atlantic); that other things of his had also formerly belonged to them, but had almost all been lost in wars and wanderings.
“Now I have been always fond of history, and, as a youngster, the story of the Stuarts had a deep interest for me. I had a clear recollection in my mind that Prince Maurice had been lost at sea some time during the Commonwealth or Cromwell’s Protectorate, while on a privateering or filibustering expedition. Was it not possible, I asked myself, that he had been wrecked off the African coast, or even marooned by a discontented crew? I find, by the way, on coming down-country, that Maurice was actually off the west coast of Africa in 1652, the year of his supposed death. He is believed by some to have been lost in a storm off the West Indies, but the circumstance of his death seems to be very much shrouded in mystery. There is nothing clear about it.
“I told Mapana that I knew something of the origin of these relics. That their owner had once been a warrior in my country; and that I should like to take them home, and have them identified, if possible. That for her own sake this ought to be done.
“She looked very wistfully at me, but shook her head, and told one of her girls to put the sword and book back in her hut. The necklet she put on again. By this time it was dark, and we sat by a blazing fire of wood.
“Mapana now asked me to sup with her. I was not loth, of course; and, having still some coffee, sugar, and a tin of condensed milk in my saddlebags, I had them and the kettle brought round. I boiled some water, and treated my charming barbarian to her first cup of coffee. She was delighted, and drank two beakers of it with the greatest enjoyment. Then nothing would do but I must give her my teaspoon. It was an old worn silver one, as it happened. She looked so merry, so good-humoured, so fascinating, there by the cheery firelight, that I felt inclined to deny her nothing.
“‘But,’ I said, ‘you must give me something in return.’
“She looked reflectively for a moment, then sent a girl to her hut. The girl returned with two more of the gold coins I have mentioned. They were strung close together on fine sinew, and were used, as Mapana showed me, as a fillet or decoration for the head. We made the exchange amid much merriment and some chaff, and I think were mutually content. I certainly had the best of the deal. Mapana, at my suggestion, used the spoon with her milk and porridge, which she had previously eaten by means of a kind of flat spoon – and her pretty fingers. I don’t know what possessed me – perhaps it was the caressing touch of her hand, which had been once or twice laid upon mine while begging for the spoon – but, before saying good-night and going to my hut, I asked Mapana if she would like to be saluted in the fashion of my country. She assented with a smile. I stooped towards her, placed my hands upon her shoulders, and kissed her upon the cheek and lips. Never was caress more sweet! I don’t think Mapana thought so badly of it either; there was no sign of displeasure in her dark eyes. Her maidens were rather startled, and ejaculated some very astonished ‘ous’; but they were very discreet.