Dulcie Carlyon: A novel. Volume 2 (of 3)Grant, James
General
Dulcie Carlyon: A novel. Volume 2 (of 3)
Grant, James
Fiction
He had now to traverse miles of a genuine South African _karroo_, a
dreary, listless, and uniform plain, broken here and there by
straggling _kopjies_, or small hills of schistus or slate, the colour
of which was a dull ferruginous brown. No trace of animal nature was
there--not even the Kaffir vulture; and the withered remains of the
fig-marigold and other succulent plants scattered over the solitary
waste crackled under his feet as he trod wearily on.
Night was closing again, when, weary and footsore, he began to feel a
necessity for rest and sleep, and on reaching a little donga, through
which flowed a stream where some indigo and cotton bushes were
growing wild, he was thankful to find among them some melons and
beans. Of these he ate sparingly; then, laying his loaded rifle
beside him, he crept into a place where the shrubs grew thickest, and
fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Laden with moisture, the mild air of the African night seemed to kiss
his now hollow cheeks and lull his senses into soft repose.
Next day betimes he set out again, unseen by any human eye, and after
traversing the karroo (far across which his shadow was thrown before
him by the rising sun) for a few more miles, a cry of joy escaped him
when he came suddenly upon a bend of the Buffalo River and knew that
the opposite bank was British territory.
Slinging his rifle, he boldly swam across, and had not proceeded
three miles when he struck upon a kind of beaten path that ran north
and south; but, as a writer says, 'the worst by-way leading to a
Cornish mine, the steepest ascent in the Cumberland hills which
draught horses would never be faced at, is a right-royal Queen's
highway compared with a Natal road.'
Great was his new joy when, after a time spent in some indecision, he
saw a strange-looking vehicle approaching at a slow pace, though
drawn by six Cape horses. This proved to be Her Majesty's post-cart
proceeding from Greytown to Dundee, _viâ_ Helpmakaar, the very point
for which the escaped prisoner was making his way.
It overtook him after a time, and he got a seat in it among four or
five men like Boers, who, however, proved to be Englishmen. It was a
wretched conveyance, without springs, and covered with strips of old
canvas, patched in fifty places, and fastened down by nails. No
luggage is allowed for passengers in these post-carts, which carry
the mail-bags alone.
A naked Kaffir running on foot, armed with a whip, cut away
indefatigably at the two leaders; another on the box plied a long
jambok or team-whip of raw ox-thong, urging the animals on the while
in his own guttural language, and only used English when compelled to
have recourse to abuse, and after ten miles' progress along a
road--if it could be called so--encumbered by boulders in some
places, deep with mud in others, Florian found himself in the village
of Helpmakaar, and among the tents of the few survivors of the two
battalions of the 24th Regiment.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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