On the Veldt

by John Galsworthy

 

ON THE VELDT

It was mid-heat, the sun glistened on eucalyptus leaves; in the crooked shade of an aloe, a dog scratched up the sand. A stony rise of kopje made a half shield from the voiceless immensity of the plain; beneath, a wagon trail, creeping, dipped to cut a water track; struggling cut, curved before the loneliness, then shot out straight and desperate—a ray of civilisation. By the water a bit of glade seemed as sudden and disconcerting as a cloud stain upon the innocence of the sky, the indifferent, blue serenity presiding over drought.

In front of the whitewashed farm a figure presented itself for observation, in a rusty overcoat, jean trousers, the fragment of a shirt, torn boots, a battered hat; a wisp of red stuff knotted round his neck showed like a blood stain upon his chest. He made cavalry swordplay with a stick, lurching a little upon his bowed legs. The dog snarled, a wrinkled crone came out and clacked at him in Dutch.

“Parrot!” growled the man; “give me a drain o’ Cape Smoke.” He had cheeks the colour of parchment, a black patch of hair clung to his lips and chin. A fair girl, in a dress with a waist, showing a bit of her bare neck, appeared in a doorway. Her fleshly blue eyes summed things with a calculating stare; she joined in.

“Be off! skellum! rascal! be off! my father shall bring his gun,”

The man remained unmoved.

“Parrots! give me a drain o’ Cape Smoke. I been walkin’.” His black eyes leered at the girl’s neck. “Edu-cation!—hic—Walkin’!—walkin’!—never gettin’ anywhere! Give us a drain o’ Cape Smoke—it’s the presen’ moment with me.” He launched a kick at the dog sniffing at his legs, and resumed his stare.

“Have you anything to sell?” said the girl with composure.

“Only my—hic—soul,” replied the man; “give me a drain o’ Cape Smoke.”

“Not so much as shall wet your tongue, skellum!”

“Good!” said the man with admiration; “they tol’ me——.”

“You!” A huge man in a leathern jacket, with an iron-grey beard and fine eyes, stood behind him. The tramp pirouetted.

“Give us a drain o’ Cape Smoke!” he said.

The big man called to the crone.

“Tantie, give the Schwein a bit of biltong.”

“Curse your biltong!” said the tramp: “I’ve had a feed; d’ye think I’d carry y’r dirty biltong because I might want it to-morrow? No, sir! I want to be—drunk—now.”

The big man raised his fist.

“Clear out!” he said: “if I catch you—look out for the zjambok!”

“Shall I fetch it, father?” said the girl.

The tramp stood his ground.

“Touch me! just touch me—hic!” he said.

“Clear out!” repeated the big man. The other took a step; his eyes roved.

“I’m goin’—this little circus’s yours!—the outside’s mine! Who's got the best of it? I’m one drain short!—Dirck Pieters gav’ me a drain—Nel gav’ me a drain!—I’m one drain short!—hic—it’s a pity!”

“Clear out!” said the big man a third time; “get your drink at the stream there—that’s for cattle. Pieters! Nel! My name’s Roux. You remember it—to give it a berth; it’s the first name in these parts.”

“Hic!—it’s a pity; I’m goin’ to Springbok; there’s plenty liquor there—there’s plenty liquor in this wide world.” He lurched heavily, and, breaking into a run, charged out on to the veldt, feinting and guarding at the air with his stick. At the watercourse his figure vanished in the shadow of bushes.

Old Roux put a hand gravely to his beard; his daughter burst into a shrill laugh; the crone hugged herself in the doorway.

“Gottam Anglish skellum!” she moaned joyfully. All three went back into the house, and the dog took up his pastime of scratching in the sand.

Hours passed, the sun shifted unblinking away from the home of buck, jackals, meercats, towards the homes of men. Hottentot “boys” made casual appearance, and squatting on their hams gibbered jests. Two young men, slouch-hatted, rode in, driving cattle in a storm of whip cracks. A lean Kaffir with a pointed stick leaped amongst them, like a demon with a spurred hand, till the wide-horned beasts lumbered before him into the cattle kraal. Across the withers of one horse drooped the body of a springbok. The men dismounting gaped; a “boy” came running and there and then began to skin the bok. Old Roux, in a black coat, appeared, grave eyed, heavy of gesture.

“At what distance?” he called.

“Vier hundert—through the neck.”...

The aloe lost its shadow; a myriad of beetles scrambled where the bok had lain; the sky thrilled with young stars; from the plain came a parched sigh, heaved by the heart of solitude; from the house a smell of burning fat; noisy laughter; the glow of a window; upon a cracked piano a hymn and “Tarara-boom-de-ay” played in quick succession. Black shapes wandered now and then across the yard; the cattle snuffled; a yell trembled in the desert.

Old Roux came out, threw a rifle to his shoulder and fired at the heavens—the curfew of the farm....

To utter stillness succeeded a stealthy hissing—a crackle as of stiff parchment crushed in the hand. Thin tongues darted redly along the ground; a patch of the earth raised a faint red stare towards the stars; a breath of smoke wandered into the still air. Along the dark sand fire curved crimson, like the blade of a blood-stained sickle; it shot from pile to pile of cut milk-bush, and suddenly flared a challenge, spreading to inner stacks of hay. Horses snorted furiously; there was a trampling of hoofs. A sleepy, loin-clothed Hottentot peered round the corner of a building, threw his arms into the air, and vanished with a howl. Men came rushing, boys, half-naked women, a blinding glare gleamed bronze upon their skins; the air was full of writhing sparks. Old Roux, in sleeping gear of shirt and trousers, tore at his beard, called orders to the “boys” and prayers to an unheeding God.

He dashed at the flames and gave back with an oath. Within their stable, hedged by death, the horses screamed; the terror of men is as nothing to the terror of beasts at the breath of fire. The drought had sapped resistance, the water in the well was low, the stacks tinder to the burning. Safe within its belt of beaten sand, the house gleamed yellow. From the huddled group of men and women one would leap out and beat furiously at the fire with a stick, or cast a pail of water, that sprang hissing into the air—a futile puff of steam; a crooning mingled with the the the roar of flames.

The figure of the tramp appeared amongst them; he was sober; his face, fish white, was illumined by the blaze.

“’Ark!” he muttered; “’ark to the poor ’orses!”

Old Roux, apart, arms folded on breast, prayed aloud with fierce piety. His daughter cowered in a blanket. His sons were swearing. The screaming of the horses rose like cries from hell, Suddenly the tramp yelled.

“’Ark to the poor ’orses! Put your liquor up!—it’s a go! See me! you ——! See me!” Head down like a charging bull he sprang—wild cat—at a crack in the flames. His figure was spreadeagled black against the stable; the flames licked behind him; the crowd broke into a frenzied wail. From where he stood, with the heat leaping at his eyes, old Roux saw the charred wisp of man stoop to the flames, snatch a brand, spring through the door. Like a devil with a torch of divine fire he danced amongst the horses.

“Here!” roared Roux; “you beasts, you asses, beat the flames!” With sticks and sand and water they strove to keep the crack from closing. Maddened and snorting, scarred by the brand which descended like a whip upon his quarters, a grey horse charged the fire; from beneath his hoofs a whirl of sparks fled skywards like a million golden insects; his eyes rolled, he broke for the plain galloping for life from the redness of his terror, Lashed into courage by that gleaming scourge, brown, bay, dun, each followed, and vanished like a lost soul beyond the ken of the glare. The tramp alone remained. The fire snakes leapt at the doorway, their tongues clave to the thatching, a billow of smoke rolled slowly over the roof. Men ran here and there; old Roux stood motionless, peering under his hand; his daughter burst into shrill sobs. A hush followed. Suddenly the figure of the tramp appeared scrambling cat-like upon a far corner of the roof; at the edge doubled in a ball he leaped; and, picking himself up, limped slowly towards them. One by one each black man, woman, and child crept away. “For this,” they thought, “is a devil.”

“The —— squealin’ ’orses!” said the tramp. “Ugh, the—squealin’ ’orses! See here? I’ve burned my britches!”

He was black from head to foot; his clothes peeled off to the touch. Old Roux put a hand upon his shoulder.

“My name’s Roux; it’s the first name in these parts. Command me!”

The tramp shook himself.

“I want no words,” he said surlily; “I want water—an’ a drain o’ Cape Smoke.”...

Through the door the smoulder of the fire glowed like the dawn, alight upon the edge of the plain. Tantie crouched obsequiously in the grey light, waiting for a sign. Old Roux and one of his sons, with booted legs crossed, leaned against the wall; above, two pairs of gemsbok horns framed grimly the gaudy print of a child and dog—chance drift from some Christmas number. The tramp drank, his eyes sparkled.

“What’d I do it for? Gawd knows! it’s the present moment with me. What d’ye say? You wouldn’t have done it!... Concordia I came from; an’ I’m goin’ ——” He drank again: “Now ’ow can I tell? Once I was a —— mounted monkey; ’ad to go where I was told! Boot an’ saddle! Canteen shut! ugh!” He drank a third time. Old Roux emitted slow whiffs of smoke; his fine eyes were full of aversion, disgust, and a kind of awe.

“Ye haven’ the pluck of a crow!” said the tramp, with drunken gravity. “Take my—tip! Never sell your soul to anyone—not even—to—your—p-pocket. Look at me! I’m a m-man. The world’s mine. Gimme a —— horse, an’ I’ll bring the seas o’ this continent together. I’ll tie ’em in a knot.” He drank again: “You don’ b-believe! I’ll do it now; see me!” He started up, and seized his stick: “I’ll do it on my f-feet. I—I’m an edu-cated man! an’ you’re ——! Good-night, gentlemen. It’s the p-presen’ momen’ with me.” Making passes with his stick and gripping the neck of an almost empty bottle, he lurched out into the morning.

John Sinjohn