On the way to Lydenburg, not many treks from Paradise Camp, we outspanned for the day at a well-known and much-frequented public outspan. A fair-sized wayside store marked its importance. After breakfast we went to the store to swap news with the men on the spot and a couple of horsemen who had off-saddled there.
There were several other houses of sorts. They were rough wattle and daub erections which were called houses, as an acknowledgement of pretensions expressed in the rectangular shape and corrugated iron roof. One of these belonged to Seedling, the field cornet and only official in the district. He was the petty local justice who was supposed to administer minor laws, collect certain revenues and taxes, and issue passes. The salary was nominal, but the position bristled with opportunities for one who was not very particular; and the then occupant of the office seemed well enough pleased with the arrangement, whatever the public may have thought of it.
He was neither popular nor trusted. There were many tales of great harshness, injustice, corruption and favouritism in his dealings with White and Black men.
This, added to habitual drunkenness and uncertain temper, made a formidable tally in the account against him. He was also a bully and a coward, and all knew it; but unfortunately he was the law – as it stood for us.
Seedling, although an official of the Boer government, was an Englishman. There were several of them on the gold-fields in those days, and for the most part, they were good fellows and good officials – this one was an exception. We all knew him personally. He was effusively friendly, and we suffered him and – paid for the drinks. That was in his public capacity. In his private capacity he was the owner of the fighting baboon of evil and cruel repute.
If ever fate’s instruments moved unconscious of their mission and the part they were to play, it is certain that Jock and Jim Makokel’ did so that day – the day that was the beginning of Seedling’s fall and end.
It is not very clear how the trouble began. We had been sitting on the little store-counter and talking for over an hour, a group of half a dozen, swapping off the news of the gold-fields and the big world against that from Delagoa Bay and the bushveld.
Seedling joined us early and, as usual, began the morning with drinks. We were not used to that on the road, or out hunting; indeed, we rarely took any drink. But we had one round of drinks which was ‘called’ by one of the horsemen, and then, to return the compliment, another round called by one of us. A few minutes later Seedling announced effusively that it was his ‘shout’. But it was only ten in the morning, and those who had taken spirits had had enough. Thus Seedling’s round was reduced to himself and the proprietor. No man however thirsty would drink alone in those days – it was taken a mark of meanness or evidence of ‘soaking’ – and the proprietor had to be ready at any time to ‘take one for the good of the house’.
A quarter of an hour passed, and Seedling, who had said nothing since his ‘shout’ was declined, turned away and strolled out, with hands thrust deep in the pockets of his riding breeches and a long heavy sjambok dangling from one wrist. There was silence as he moved through the doorway, and when the square patch of sunlight on the earth floor was again unbroken the man behind the counter remarked:
‘Too long between drinks for him. Gone for a pull at the private bottle.’
‘Is that how it’s going?’
‘Yah! his liquor’s took him wrong today – you’ll see!’
We did see. We had forgotten Seedling, and were hearing all about the new finds reported from Barberton district, when one of the waggon drivers came running into the store calling to me, ‘Baas, Baas! Come quickly! The baboon has got Jock. It will kill him!’
I had known all about the vicious brute, and had often heard of Seedling’s friendish delight in arranging fights, or enticing dogs to attack it for the pleasure of seeing the beast kill the outmatched dogs. The dog had no chance at all, for the baboon remained out of reach in his house on the pole as long as it chose, and made its rush when it would tell best. But apart from this the baboon was an exceptionally big and powerful one, and it is very doubtful if any dog could have tackled it successfully in an open fight. The creature was clever. Its enormous jaws and teeth were quite equal to the biggest dog’s, and it had the advantage of four ‘hands’.
Its tactics in a fight were quite simple and most effective. With its front feet it caught the dog by the ears or neck, holding the head so that there was no risk of being bitten, and then gripping the body lower down with the hind feet, it tore lumps out of the throat, breast and stomach – pushing with all four feet and tearing with the terrible teeth. The poor dogs were hopelessly outmatched.
I did not see the beginning of Jock’s encounter, but the drivers’ stories pieced together told everything. It appears that when Seedling left the store he went into his own hut and remained there some little time. On coming out again he strolled over to the baboon’s pole about half-way between the two houses and began teasing it, throwing pebbles at it to see it dodge and duck behind the pole, and then flicking at it with the sjambok, amused by its frightened and angry protests. While he was doing this, Jock, who had followed me to the store, strolled out again making his way towards the waggons.
The baboon had taken refuge in its box on top of the pole to escape the sjambok, and when Seedling saw Jock come out he commenced whistling and calling softly to him. Jock, of course, heard nothing; but he may have responded mildly to the friendly overtures conveyed by the extended hand and patting of legs, or more probably simply took the nearest way to the waggon where he might sleep in peace. What the drivers agree on is that as Jock passed the pole Seedling patted and held him; at the same time he called the baboon and gave Jock a push which upset his balance. Jock naturally jumped round and faced Seedling, which meant he had his back to the baboon. He could not hear the rattle of the chain on the box and pole, and saw nothing of the charging brute. It was the purest accident that the dog stood centimetres out of reach. The baboon – chained by the neck instead of the waist, because it used to bite through all loin straps – made its rush, but the chain brought it up before its hands could reach Jock and threw the hindquarters round with such force against him that Jock was sent rolling metres away. I can well believe that this second attack from a different and wholly unexpected quarter thoroughly roused him, and can picture how he turned to face it.
It was at this moment that Jim first noticed what was going on. It was the hoarse threatening shout of the baboon as it jumped at Jock, as much as the exclamations of the men that roused Jim. He knew instantly what was on, and grabbing a stick made a dash to save the dog, with the others following him.
While Jock was spinning in the dust the baboon recovered itself, and standing up on its hind legs, reached out its long ungainly arms towards him, and let out a shout of defiance. Jock regaining his feet dashed in, jumped aside and feinted again and again, as he had learnt to do when big horns swished at him. He kept out of reach just as he had done ever since the duiker taught him the use of its hoofs. He knew what to do, just as he had known how to swing the porcupine. For all the fighting fury that possessed him, the dog took the measure of the chain and kept outside it. Round and round he flew, darting in, jumping back, snapping and dodging, but never getting right home.
The baboon was as clever as he was. At times it jumped about a metre in the air, straight up, in the hope that Jock would run underneath. At others, it would make a sudden lunge with the long arms, or a more surprising reach out with the hind legs to grab him. Then the baboon began gradually to reduce its circle, leaving behind enough slack chain for a spring; but Jock was not to be drawn. In cleverness they were well matched – neither made or lost a point.
When Jim rushed up to save Jock, his eager anxious shouts of the dog’s name warned Seedling and made him turn. As Jim ran forward the White man stepped out to stop him.
‘Leave the dog alone!’ he shouted, pale with anger.
‘Baas, Baas, the dog will be killed,’ Jim called excitedly, as he tried to get round. The White man made a jump towards him, and with a backhand slash of the sjambok struck him across the face, shouting at him again: ‘Leave him, I tell you.’
Jim jumped back, thrusting out his stick to guard against another vicious cut, and so it went on with alternate slash and guard, and the big Zulu danced round with nimble bounds, guarding, dodging, or bearing the sjambok cuts, to save the dog. Seedling was mad with rage, for who had ever heard of a Black man standing up to a field cornet? Still Jim would not give way. He kept trying to get in front of Jock, to head him off the fight, and all the while shouting to the other drivers to call me. But Seedling was the field cornet, and not one of them dared to move against him.
At last the baboon, finding that Jock would not come on, tried other tactics. It made a sudden retreat and, rushing for the pole, hid behind it as for protection. Jock made a jump and the baboon leaped out to meet him, but the dog stopped at the chain’s limit, and the baboon, just as in the first dash, overshot the mark. It was brought up by the jerk of the collar, and for one second sprawled on its back. That was the first chance for Jock and he took it. With one spring he was in. His head shot between the baboon’s hind legs, and with his teeth buried in the soft stomach he lay back and pulled – pulled for dear life, as he had pulled and dragged on the legs of wounded game; tugged as he had tugged at the porcupine; held on as he had held when the kudu bull wrenched and strained every bone and muscle in his body.
Then came the sudden turn. As Jock fastened on to the baboon, dragging taut the chain while the screaming brute struggled on its back, Seedling stood for a second irresolute, and then with a stride forward raised his sjambok to strike the dog. That was too much for Jim. He made a spring in and grasping the raised sjambok with his left hand held Seedling powerless, while in his right he raised his stick on guard.
‘Let him fight, Baas. You said it. Let the dog fight!’ he panted, hoarse with excitement.
The White man, livid with fury, struggled and kicked, but the wrist loop of his sjambok held him prisoner and he could do nothing.
That was the moment when a panic-stricken driver plucked up courage enough to call me, and that was the scene we saw as we ran out of the little shop. Jim would not strike the White man, but his face was a muddy grey, and it was written there that he would rather die than give up the dog.
Before I reached them it was clear to us all what had happened. Jim was protesting to Seedling and at the same time calling to me. It was a jumble, but a jumble eloquent enough for us, and all intelligible. Jim’s excited gabble was addressed with reckless incoherence to Seedling, to me, and to Jock.
‘You threw him in. You tried to kill him. He did it. It was not the dog. Kill him, Jock, kill him. Leave him, let him fight. You said it – let him fight. Kill him, Jock. Kill! Kill! Kill!’
Then Seedling did the worst thing possible; he turned on me with:
‘Call off your dog, I tell you, or I’ll shoot him and your - - - driver too!’
‘We’ll see about that! They can fight it out now,’ I said. I took the sjambok from Jim’s hand, and cut it from the White man’s wrist.
‘Now. Stand back.’
And he stood back.
The baboon was quite helpless. Powerful as the brute was, and formidable as were the arms and gripping feet, it had no chance while Jock could keep his feet and had strength to drag and hold the chain tight. The collar was choking it, and the grip on the stomach – the baboon’s own favourite and most successful device – was fatal.
It was not justice to call Jock off, but I did it. The cruel brute deserved killing, but the human look and cries and behaviour of the baboon were too sickening; and Seedling went into his hut without even a look at his stricken champion.
Jock stood off, with his mouth open from ear to ear. His red tongue was dangling, he was bloodstained and panting, but his eager feet were ever on the move shifting from spot to spot, his ears going back and forward, and his eyes – now on the baboon and now on me – pleading for the sign to go in again.
Before evening the baboon was dead.
The day’s excitement was too much for Jim. After singing and dancing himself into a frenzy round Jock, after shouting the whole story of the fight in violent and incessant gabble over and over again to those who had witnessed it, after making every ear ring and every head swim with his mad din, he grabbed his sticks once more and made off for one of the kraals, there to find drink for which he thirsted body and soul.
In the afternoon the sudden scattering of the inhabitants of a small kraal on the hillside opposite, and some lusty shouting, drew attention that way. Jim had found his drink.
We were loaded for Lydenburg – another week’s trekking through and over the mountains – and as we intended coming back the same way a fortnight later I decided at once to leave Jim at his kraal, which was only a little further on, and pick him up on the return journey.
I nearly always paid him off in livestock or sheep. He had good wages, and for many months at a time would draw no money. He was a splendid worker and as true as steel, so that, in spite of all the awful worry I had a soft spot for Jim and had taken a good deal of trouble on his account. He got his pay at the end of the trip or the season, but not in cash. It was invested for him – greatly to his disgust at the time I am bound to say – in livestock, so that he would not be able to squander it in drink or be robbed of it while incapable.
Jim’s gloomy dignity was colossal when it came to squaring up and I invited him to state what he wished me to buy for him. To be treated like an irresponsible child, to be chaffed and cheerfully warned by me, to be met by the giggles and squirts of laughter of the others, for whom he had the most profound contempt, and worst of all to see the respectable Sam counting out with awkward eager hands and gleaming eyes the good red gold, while he, Makokela the Zulu, was treated like a piccanin – ugh. It was horrible. Intolerable!
Jim would hold aloof in injured gloomy silence, not once looking at me, but standing sideways and staring stonily past me into the far distance, and not relaxing for a second the expression of profound displeasure on his weather-beaten face. No joke or chaff, no question or reason, would move him to even look my way. All he would do was, now and again, give a click of disgust, a quick shake of the head, and say, ‘Aug! Ang-a-funa!’ (I do not desire it!)
We had the same fight over and over again, but I always won in the end. When it was all over Jim recovered rapidly. At parting time there was the broadest of grins and a stentorian shout of ‘Hlala Kahle! Inkos!’ Jim went off with his springy walk, swinging his sticks and jabbering his thoughts aloud, evidently about me, for every now and again he would spring lightly into the air, twirl the stick, and shout a deep-throated ‘Inkos!’ full of the joy of living.
This time Jim was too fully wound up to be dealt with as before, and I simply turned him off, telling him to come to the camp in a forthnight’s time.
I was a day behind the waggons when we returned, and riding up to the camp towards midday I found Jim waiting for me. He looked ill and shrunken, wrapped in an old coat and squatting against the wall of the little hut. As I passed he rose slowly and gave his ‘Sakubona! Inkos!’ with that curious controlled air by which he managed to suggest a kind of fatalist resignation or indifference touched with disgust. There was something wrong, so I rode past without stopping – one learns to find out how the land lies before doing anything.
It was a bad story, almost as bad as one would think possible where civilised beings are concerned. Jim’s own story lacked certain details of which he was necessarily ignorant; it also omitted the fact that he had been drunk, but in the main it was quite true.
This is what happened. Several days after our departure Jim went down to the store again and raised some liquor. He was not fighting, but he was noisy, and was the centre of a small knot of shouting, arguing men near the store when Seedling returned after a two days’ absence.
No doubt it was unfortunate that the very first thing Seedling saw on his return was the man who had defied him and who was the cause of his humiliation. That that man should by his behaviour give the slenderest excuse for interference was in the last degree unlucky.
Seedling’s mind was made up from the moment he set eyes on Jim. Throwing the reins over his horse’s head he walked into the excited gabbling knot, and laid about him with the sjambok, scattering and silencing them instantly. He then took Jim by the wrist saying, ‘I want you.’ He called to someone to bring a reim, and leading Jim over to the side of the store tied him up to the horse rail with arms at full stretch. Taking out his knife he cut Jim’s clothing down the back so that it fell away in two halves in front of him. Then he took off his own coat and flogged him with his sjambok.
I would like to tell all that happened because it would explain the murderous man-hunting feeling that possessed us when we heard it. But it was too cruel. Let it be. Only one thing to show the spirit: twice during the flogging Seedling stopped to go into the store for a drink.
Jim crawled home to find his kraal ransacked and deserted, and his wives and children driven off in panic. In addition to the flogging Seedling had, in accordance with his practice, imposed fines far beyond Jim’s means in cash, so as to provide an excuse for seizing what he wanted. The police had raided the kraal, and the cattle and goats – his only property – were gone.
He told it all in a dull monotone. For the time the life and fire were gone out of him; but he was not cowed, not broken. There was a curl of contempt on his mouth and in his tone that whipped the white skin on my own back and made it all a disgrace unbearable. That this should be the reward for his courageous defence of Jock seemed too awful.
We went inside to talk it over and make our plans. The waggons should go on next day as if nothing had happened, Jim remaining in one of the half-tents or elsewhere out of sight of passers-by. I was to ride into Lydenburg and lodge information – for in such a case the authorities would surely act. That was the best, or at any rate the first, course to be tried.
There was no difficulty about the warrant, for there were many counts in the indictment against Seedling. But even so worthless a brute as that seemed to have one friend, or perhaps an accomplice, to give him warning, and before we reached his quarters with the police he had cleared on horseback for Portuguese territory, taking with him a lead horse.
We got most of Jim’s cattle back for him – which he seemed to consider the main thing – but we were sorely disgusted at the man’s escape.
That was the year of the gold-rush. Thousands of newcomers poured into the country on the strength of the gold discoveries. Materials and provisions of all kinds were almost unprocurable and stood at famine prices, and consequently we – the transport riders – reaped a golden harvest. Never had there been such times. Waggons and spans were paid for in single trips, and so great was the demand for supplies that some refused transport and bought their own goods, which they resold on the gold-fields at prices twice as profitable as the highest rates of transport.
Thus the days lost in the attempt to catch Seedling were valuable days. The season was limited, and as early rains might cut us off, a few days thrown away might mean the loss of a whole trip.
Near the Crocodile on our way down to Delagoa Bay we heard from men coming up that Seedling had been there some days before but that, hearing we were on the way down and had sworn to shoot him, he had ridden on to Komati, leaving one horse behind bad with horse sickness. The report about shooting him was, of course ridiculous – probably his own imagination – but it was some comfort to know that he was in such a state of terror that his own fancies were hunting him down.
At Komati we learned that he had stayed three days at the store of that Goanese murderer, Antonio. Antonio, suspecting something wrong about a White man who came on horseback and dawdled aimlessly three days at Komati Drift, going indoors whenever a stranger appeared, wormed the secret out with liquor and sympathy. When he had got most of Seedling’s money out of him, by pretence of bribing the Portuguese officials and getting news, he made a bold bid for the rest by saying that a warrant was out for him in Delagoa and he must on no account go on. He no doubt hoped to get the horse, saddle and bridle, as well as the cash, and was quite prepared to drug Seedling when the time came, and slip him quietly into the Komati at night where the crocodiles would take care of the evidence.
Antonio, however, overshot the mark. Seedling, who knew all about him, took fright, saddled up and bolted up the river meaning to make for the Lebombo, near the Tembe Drift, where Bob McNab and his merry comrades ran free of governments and were a law unto themselves. It was no place for a nervous man, but Seedling had no choice, and he went on. He had liquor in his saddle-bags and food for several days. But he was not used to the bush.
Those from whom he asked directions said that he bought beer from them, but did not want food; for he looked sick. He was red and swollen in the face, and his eyes were wild. The horse was weak and also looked sick, being very thin and empty, but they showed him the footpath over the hills which would take him to Tom’s – a White man’s store on the road to Delagoa – and he left them. That was Tom Barnett’s at Piscene, where we always stopped, for Tom was a good friend of ours.
That was how we came to meet Seedling again. He had made a loop of at least 250 kilometres in four days in his efforts to avoid us, but he was waiting for us when we arrived at Tom Barnett’s. We who had hurried on to catch him, believing that the vengeance of justice depended on us, forgot that it had been otherwise decreed.
Tom stood in the doorway of his store as we walked up – 1,5 metres in his boots, but every centimetre of it a man – with his hand resting idly on his hips and a queer smile on his face as he nodded welcome.
‘Did a White man come here on horseback during the last few days from the drift?’
‘No!’
‘On foot?’
‘No, not the whole way.’
‘Is he here now?’
Tom nodded.
‘You know about him, Tom?’
‘Seedling. The chap you’re after, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ we answered, lowering our voices.
Tom looked from one to the other with the same queer smile, and then making a move to let us into the store said quietly, ‘He won’t clear, boys. He’s dead!’
Some men coming along the footpath had found the horse dead of horse sickness half a day away, and further on – a kilometre or so from the store – the rider lying on his back in the sun, dying of thirst. He died before they got him in.
Jim sat by himself the whole evening and never spoke a word.
