Faerylands Forlorn; African Tales (1910)

8/12/2019 Faerylands Forlorn; African Tales (1910)

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THE LIBRARYOFTHE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIALOS ANGELES


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Digitized by the Internet Archivein 2007 with funding fromMicrosoft Corporation

http://www.archive.org/details/faerylandsforlorOOcripiala


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FAERYLANDS FORLORN


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FAERYLANDSFORLORNAfrican Tales

byARTHUR SHEARLY CRIPPS

Author of' Lyra Evangelistica ' and ' Magic Casements '

Joint Author of ' Primavera

OxfordB. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET

LondonS1MPKJN, MARSHALL & CO., LIMITED

1910


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agfcg-f

TO THE RADIANT MEMORY OFLIEUT.-COL. SIR MARSHAL CLARKE,

K.C.M.G.

SOMETIME RESIDENT COMMISSIONERIN MASHONALAND

' He that overcometh, and keepeth My works untothe end, to him will I give power over the nations : . .And I will give him the morning star.'

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CONTENTSPAGEFAERYLANDS FORLORN I

I. THE OPEN WAY .... 3II. ISRAEL IN OPHIR 20

III. THE LAST FENCE .... 31IV. CHARNWOOD FOREST - - - 47V. THE HORNED HORSE ... 65

VI. A TRAVELLER'S TALE \ A TRADER'SSTORY 8l

VII. THE OLD BOY 96VIII. THE MIRACLE OF THE NATIVITY - 106IX. A CHANGE OF COLOUR - - - Il6X. LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY - - 1 30XI. FORT STUBBS: A TROOPER'S STORY 1 48XII. TRIAL BY JURY : A FARMER'S STORY I 57

XIII. ART THOU FOR US, OR FOR OURADVERSARIES? - - - 171

XIV. THE VELD FIRES: A MINER'S STORY 179XV. THE SCALES OF PASSION : A

FRIEND'S STORY.... 189XVI. THE OPEN HOUSE - - - 200XVII. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES - - 213

TO OUR MOTHER-COUNTRY - - 233vii


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NOTEI AM indebted to The Spectator, TheCommonwealth, The Treasury, TheNation, and two magazines connectedwith the Mashonaland Mission for leaveto reproduce certain matter that hasappeared in their pages.

A. S. C.


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FAERYLANDS FORLORN' Perilous seas infaery lands forlorn?

Keats.Dreamers by Usk and A valon,Dwellers by Uricon or Dee,The way your forebears might have goneMay ye not wend at liberty ?If briars about the palace be,Where Quests allured and armour shone-If locked the postern, lost the keyMore fiefs hath Faeryland than one West from the crown-lands of the sunSailed Paul, that prince of heraldryNo purple drops he poured uponTroy's pomp of graves aside the sea,Lulled by no epic euphonyHis rapt eyes stared as eyes of stoneOn carven Zeus or Cybele.More fiefs hath Faeryland than one I

i B


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2 FAERYLANDS FORLORNClear on Troy's beach from Macedon1 Come Help ' he heard Europa's plea,He sped by forest tracks o'ergrownThe red sun-way of chivalry ;White honour, wild knight-errantry,Altar and fane and anchorage loneHe willed our sires such birthright free.More fiefs hath Faeryland than oneSeers norland-bom, sail south with meNow For our sands are fleet to run Come, ride our moors in knightly glee More fiefs hath Faeryland than one


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THE OPEN WAYI recognised his name at once whenthey told it me' Dick Ward.' I hadknown him at Oxford years ago. Hisworlda fairly earnest and vociferousoneacclaimed him as the illustrator ofthe ' Morte d'Arthur ' and the ' LegendaAurea.' His designs had even reachedat least one illiterate exile in Rhodesia.Only last month someone had sentthem on to me in the covers of a newArt series.What could have possessed Dick thathe should elect to make holiday among

artless pioneers ?Here he wasstranded in our tiny

township, ninety miles or more from therailway. His borrowed mules were sick

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4 THE OPEN WAYof one of the cryptic sicknesses of ourcryptic country. His inexorable boatwas due to steam away from Beira inless than a week's time, so he told me.I had come into town that day inChristmas week to make ready for across-country journey of my own. Inthe lurid heat of a summer lunch Dicktold me his troubles, piquantly enough,considering the ennui of his theme.Our country had not impressed him,I gathered. How he had ever been

fool enough to conjecture that it would,was now a favourite subject for hisinquiry.

In the cool of the stoep, when thesolace of tobacco had been vouchsafedhim, he found strength to let be thepast and to face the future. How washe to catch his boat without ruininghimself ?The second time that he asked methe question a flash of real illuminationdazzled me. He should not have such


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THE OPEN WAY 5a bad holiday, after all, if he would onlyheed what I had in mind to say tohim.He was sallow and rather listless to

look at as he lolled there in a deck-chair, but he was by no means in suchshocking training as some wealthier andless artistic African explorers I haveknown. I remembered what pilgrim-ages we two would go to Dorchester orWitney on old Oxford Sundays, alsowith what a raking stride he set thepace on a certain historic night. Hestill looked much as he did then,only he had grown grey over thetemples.So I asked him if he would bear mecompany.1 You may catch the boat if you'll

come with me,' I said. ' We shouldstrike the rail on the fourth day.'He did not seem over keen about

coming, but he said he would.' I make no promises,' I said, ' but


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6 THE OPEN WAYyou may see something by the wayquite worth your coming out from homefor.'

And what is that ?' he asked.' Why, the Way itself,' I said.Then I told him a Mashona riddle:What is that which has no end?'

Whereof the answer is ' The Way ' ;and I expatiated on its significance asto the magic of the open road.

' All right,' he said ; ' you seem quitekeen. I suppose it's this sort of thing,isn't it ?And this shall be for music when no one else is

near,The fine song for singing, the rare song to

hear ;That only I remember, that only you admire,Of the broad road that stretches and the road-

side fire.'' Yes, that's the sort of thing,' I said

1 but don't expect too much ; you knowfor yourself what our waggon roads are,and the narrow Kaffir paths will worry


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THE OPEN WAY 7you ; yet it's that sort of thing reallyand oh, it's worth it '

' It's worth trying, after all I've gonethrough,' he said. ' I'm out here, andI've had a bad poor time, and droppeda lot of money.'He fell to talking of the glories ofEuropean civilisation as they glared soraw and unbaked in this seventeen-year-old state of ours.Some of his mots were delicious in

themselves, others were platitudinousyet I was uncharitable enough to revelin the irony of all alike. Irony so rarelycame my way nowadays; we noblepioneers took ourselves so seriously.Under a clear and windless heavenwe made our way as far as my house

that evening.He told me on the road of companypromoters and of officials who hadbeset his journey, of grossly gorgeousmeals, of artless pomp and ineffectiveluxury.


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8 THE OPEN WAYThe corrugated iron of the country,

so terribly symbolical, had entered eveninto his soul. Yet censorious though hewas as to the banalities of the ChosenBritish People in this Land of Promise,he was not without sympathy for hismany hosts, nor without gratitude forthe kindnesses they had shown him.

' A mission ' he muttered, as we camedown the last hill. His tone was rathermelancholy. ' I was driven out to seea mission by the head of a departmentonly last week,' he said. I asked forparticulars.He said he had not thought the build-ings very edifying.

' Oblongbrick and iron. I dare saythey find them very useful. The churchhad as much style as the others. Aplethora of Bavarian chromos inside itIt must have been a little hard to learnto pray there There was a praise-worthy general atmosphere of blue-mottled soap and staring and glaring


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THE OPEN WAY 9prints and chintzes. It all seemed veryAmerican and efficient in its own way.There was no sort of attempt to con-fuse beauty and truth. Perhaps it wasall for the best.'

His remarks nettled me. I fired upand fought the battles of my fellow-Philistines against this languid onlooker.At last we were home.

I need not describe at length hissojourn there. It was a blessed surprisefor me to find him so uncritical. Haplyhe was conscious of having smitten toright and left rather relentlessly thoselast few hours. He certainly took akindly view of his surroundings, bothby night and in the morning. Hespared their futilities, he praised theirrusticities.

I ventured even to invite him to theLiturgy at dawn. ' How can we livethe primitive life without the primitivelove of sacrifice?' I pleaded.He demurred, but came. He approved


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io THE OPEN WAYthe dome of our church. The use of astringed instrument as a sacring bellpleased his fancy. The coloured metal-work by native artificers won his realregard. On the whole he was contentedwith the rendering of the Rite. Therewere large reservations in his content-ment, but he was disposed towardstoleration, if nothing more, and that youwould say, if you knew the man, wasmuch to gain from him.

It was Childermas Day, and he waspleased to approve our anthem of theguileless and undefiled, and of theFollowing of the Lamb. He toldme so afterwards, as we walked upto the house between the bananapalms.Thus it came about that we went on

our way after breakfast fairly hopefully,and at amity one with another. He wasresigned to wander in the wildernessamong Kaffir Amalekites and Philistines.He had had a bitter bad time among


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THE OPEN WAY nthe little country towns of the ChosenBritish People. He had some smallhope that the wilderness might use himmuch better.The rain came on that morning, but

we trudged on by deeply furrowed pathsin our dank clothes, hardily. The brightweather of the afternoon came like adream as we left the stump-sown milletand maize gardens, and climbed up intoa rolling country of rocks and foamingstreams and woodlands.Our carriers travelled fast, and wemade but one halt for the boiling ofa kettlethe clear weather was tooprecious in our eyes.So it came about that at red sundownwe fell to at a huge Homeric meal out-

side a Mashona hill village. 'This ishunger,' Ward said. The black potbubbled and sputtered, the kettle hissedand steamed. We said grace and drankthe sweet and ate the strong, andsmoked and talked on under the stars.


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12 THE OPEN WAYWe watched one of the carriers feedingtheir steaming pot with meal whileanother stirred ; then he who stirredserved out the dark red millet dough.We watched the frizzling of a fowl onthe embers. The feasters had brownlocusts, too, enough and to spare, giventhem by the people of the village, sothey knew no lack of meat for thatsupper.

Dick laid his pipe down afterwards,and listened while we used our voices.How much more fluent than English isthe patois of this country for singingand praying ; since, whatever the wordyou use, a vowel should end itThey made Dick a bed of leaves, and

he lay in his blankets smoking and say-ing little. At last he sighed, and said1 Good-night.' His head went under hisgrey blanket, just as a mosquito beganto wind ' its small but sullen hornwithout. No rain came in the night, sowe had no recourse to the huts. Indeed,


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THE OPEN WAY 13the weather kept a charming truce withus all the days that were left of ourjourney.We saw no lions or big game, andthe few small buck and guinea-fowl thatwe saw we left unmolested ; not even asnake splashed our peaceful path withblood. I would rather not try tochronicle those days. Should I set downfully what befel in them you would belikely enough depressed by the dulnessof our steady going forward. But withus who went the way it was far other-wise.

I would only hint at the awe of thetowering ironstone range of Che Wasi-kana and Che Wakomana, and of thethree swollen rivers that we forded.My friend was carried through two ofthem ; at the second crossing his bearerslipped on a sunken rock, and halfplunged him under. At the third cross-ing he would go his own way barefoot,and, hand-in-hand with two Mashonas,


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14 THE OPEN WAYhe strove with the rush of the tide. Hecame dripping and glowing to the sandswhere the fire was already lit, and thewater simmering refreshfully. That wason the last afternoon when we werenearing our goal.

It was a happy old-year night, thatlast night of our journey. Yet we wererunning short of food then, for all mycare. Dick had been too lavish with hisgifts, alike to friends by the road andto lithe and comely fellow-travellers.In the panegyric that he pronounced onthat night of nights, he remembered allalike, and taxed my powers of inter-pretation exorbitantly. He rememberedthe carriers allnot forgetting that one,the one with the terra-cotta skin andPunic features, whose treadings hadslipped in the drift ; he remembered thetrader who made us coffee and sconeswhen we reached him in the middayheat ; he remembered the dark Wesleyanneophytes, whose kindness had con-


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. THE OPEN WAY 15doned their dingy tweeds and burningprint dresses; he remembered, too, thewhite sundowner who proffered us hislast drink.

' The new sun rose, bringing the newyear.' We were camping on a height,with a stream racing down the granitebeneath us. Hills rose up behind usand before. Our morning altar was agrey rock-slab, with the dawn-colouredeast for altar-piece.We broke fast, then we followed a

track downwards.Soon we were in the valley of the

railway. The train was due at sunsetto-night ; his boat was to sail in twodays from to-morrow.

I had but a few miles more to go ofmy own journey.We called a long halt in the bush amile from the town. We were all butout of bread now, yet rice and monkey-nuts made amends at this, our last mealtogether.


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16 THE OPEN WAY1It was worth coming out for,' hesaid.

' What was worth ?'' The Way,' he said. ' It's a parable

of your whole country,' he went on.1 The Way is far more than aught itleads to. I'd like to come again to thisnew-old world. But, another time, I'drather not waste five-sixths of my daysseeking what our own old-new worldcould give me far better.'Soon, after we had smoked much andtalked little, I begged a picture of him.' Paint us a picture of the Way,' I said.' I want to hang it somewhere by thewayside, if you will send it me.' Hesaid he was willing to try.He has not come back yet, but I donot doubt his will to come next year.His picture has come on before him.We have hung it in a new chapel underthat ironstone rangewe built thischapel on a site he praised himself ; aswe came by, on the Way, he said it


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THE OPEN WAY 17reminded him of one of the Franciscanholy places.

In the picture there is set forth ahugely wide Mashonaland hillside, witha white Way running up it. Theheavens are full of gold, and the grassof silver ; everywhere is the clear shiningafter night-dews or rain.As you look and look, you see a Figure

that at first, perhaps, was hidden fromyou.The white Way becomes to your eyes

a white Body. Just where the Feetshow white they are studded by rocks.The Arms are white tracks convergingon the middle way. The Hands againare rock-studded. The Face smiles outof a beard of tangled bushes.On the Brow is set a circle of peakedhutsa Kaffir villagethat It wears asa Crown. The legend under the pictureis only four short words long : I amthe Way.' The picture grows upon meeach month as I stand at the altar

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18 THE OPEN WAYbefore it, and I have seen a swart wor-shipper or two looking and looking at itlonger than I have ever done. One ofthe Chosen British People saw it lastweek, when he came riding through ourmissionary Bohemia.He looked at it for quite a long time,

and then he looked at me kindly, as ifhe did not want to wound my feelings.He said : ' Do you mean to tell me thatsuch a famous artist as Mr. Ward foundnothing better to paint in all Rhodesia ?Why didn't he paint our bridge overVictoria Falls, or our Founder's Tomb,or Government House at Salisburyorsomething with some human interestin it ?'

I laughed a little.1 It is an unsatisfactory sort of picture,'

he went on. ' Don't you think so your-self?'

I shrugged my shoulders.I risked a question : ' Is not the mea-

sure of that picture's failure to satisfy,


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THE OPEN WAY 19the measure of its power to suggest ?'He did not follow me ; but then, he didnot know what Ward and I knew aboutthe secrets of the Way.

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II

ISRAEL IN OPHIRWhen I first saw him he was at break-fast in the hotel. I think the breakfastwas a four-shilling one ; the courses weremostly out of tins, and the surroundingswere not luxurious. The alabastine thattinted the walls, though, was a joyousand brave rose-colour, and the atmo-sphere it gave was cheering. I rememberI didn't like his ostentatious way of eat-ing sausages, and calling for a secondhelping of them. I was new then to theways of his compatriots in South Africa.I shuddered for his murdered scrupu-losity, but he seemed quite callous.

Afterwards, as we walked out togetherhe to his trading-station, I to my Mis-sionI began to understand. His nation-

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ISRAEL IN OPHIR 21ality held him fast, his national faithvery lightly. He regarded the Law'sprescriptions as eminently sanitary, andsalutary for his ancestors. As a modern,he felt neither the need nor the obliga-tion to observe them. He was veryclose, I thought, from observing hisdealings with his carriers. His altruisticsense seemed rather torpid. Curiouslyenough, he quoted Omar Khayyam withmore zest and correctness than he didthe Old Testament. Four to one, Ithought, and the one a very hashy andhazy reminiscence On the other hand,the four were very correct repetitions,with an unpleasant twang of heterodoxyabout them all four.

His name was Samuel Roseway, andhe was trading near meat least, onlysix miles or so off, which is near for ourcountry.When I passed his way a fortnightlater, we had some coffee together. Heseemed to have Old Testament feelings


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23 ISRAEL IN OPHIRabout the spoiling of the Mashonas as asort of Egyptians. Afterwards I gatheredthat he had Old Testament feelingsabout myself as a somewhat provocativetype of Gentilea species of Edomite.I was disposed, I confess, to toy withcertain Satanic feelings of my mediaevalancestors. He looked rather sleek thatday, and not positively decisive as toshaving or neglect of shaving ; he wasvery swarthy, and his jewellery wasflorid. He showed me before I wentsomething worth seeing.

It was in a sort of grove about a milefrom his store, a tiny conical tower risingamong great rocks, of the Zimbabwepatterna modest and sincere trophy,as it seemed, of Art. ' A tower of Ash-taroth,' I said. I quoted Scripture tohim, then I told him some shreds ofZimbabwe theory. ' How grim it mustlook by moonlight ' I said. ' We shallhave you falling away, as did your fore-fathers.' He resented the idea ; he had


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ISRAEL IN OPHIR 23not much turn for Gentile humour. ' AJew has too much sense for heathenmonkey-tricks,' he said. I ventured tohint that any faith with a spark in it wasbetter than one in ashes. I quoted hisown Omar instinctively, and declaredOne glimpse of It within the Tavern caughtBetter than in the Temple lost outright.He grunted. When I went away, thevision of that forlorn tower of Astartewent with me. My thoughts went backto it again and again. I must see howthe stones looked, with a sickle of moonabove them. So I willingly arranged totake a night tramp that way when Ishould be travelling in the east country.I would try to press on three milesfarther towards the river before en-camping.When I got to his station the sun hadjust set, and the five-day moon was

beginning to look about her. Rosewaywasn't at his station. It was locked and


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24 ISRAEL IN OPHIRsilent. I sat down on a grain-bag, wait-ing for my boys to come up. Soon Iheard someone lurching through thetrees, coughing and spitting. It wasRoseway coming home from the kraalon the tower road, not very steadily.It was beer-time then, the time whenthey were beginning to thresh out themillet corn. I could see by his rollingwhat he had been after. His languagewasn't very choice, and I won't put itdown. He wanted his pick and crow-bar, he said. He found them, and wentoff by himself. He kept cursing andthreatening some place or other. Ithought it must be a kraal, and I triedto get him to give me tea, and stop athome, and keep the peace. But hewouldn't; he was in too much of a hurry.He would cook me something when hecame back, he said. - He'd be quick, ifI'd stop and boil the kettle. He said hewasn't going to do anybody any harm.So I started cooking with my boys. We


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ISRAEL IN OPHIR 25had all eaten, and waited, when I thoughtit was about time to go and look afterhim. I left one boy to watch our things,and took another. We went up thetrack that he had gone by, and foundhim, sure enough, by the poor little towerthat used to be. He was sweating andpanting. ' I've made a job of it,' hesaid ; ' I used to be a housebreaker downWhitechapel way.' He had indeed madea job of it. There were not many stonesleft upon other stones. I called himPhilistine and Goth, but he did not seemto mind. Then we came home to tea.He told me on the way how the placehad bothered him. He'd got roundthere one night, and got some of hisclothes off, and made a fool of himselfbefore the Kaffirs. ' I suppose it's a bitin my blood,' he said. ' I thought aboutwhat you told me, and I got scared ofthe place. There was something else,too, I can't tell you. I didn't get muchbeer this afternoon. I didn't really.


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26 ISRAEL IN OPHIRI've worked it all off now, and I'm nota bit sorry I've broke this idol-shop.'

I did not stop long with him thatnight. I was rather sore as to thetower. If I'd chosen to report him, theGovernment might have made a row.I had half a mind to. That night, as Iwent by the ruined place, the moon wasframed in the great grove of trees.' He'll cut down the grove next,' Ithought. But he didn't, and, after all,there was an abundance of rocks andgroves in that land of rocks and grovesfor the night visitations of the moon-goddess. The place wasn't well known,like the Great Zimbabwe, and I didn'ttell many tales, so I don't think he evergot into trouble over it.But it was wonderful, when I came the

same way again four months afterwards,to see the change in the man. I stoppedwith him a night that time. Was thereever a stricter Jew than he had become?It was good to see it, he was so evidently


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ISRAEL IN OPHIR 27in earnest about righteousness andmercy and the light of the Countenanceof God. He only had meat once whileI was with him. He showed me that itcame from a sealed tin with a LondonRabbi's signature upon it, to attest itscleanliness. He told me that he hadbeen down to Bulawayo, and had hiscattle-marriage with a Mashona girllegitimatized with full rites. ' Shebelieves,' he said. She came in at hiscall. She had almost Jewish featuresherself. A very tender face it was,tender-eyed, as was said of Leah's. Isaid something about the similarity offeatures. ' Wait till to-night ; I willshow you something,' he said. We allwent to the broken tower that sunset.The ruins lay full in the full moon's blaze.' This is the watch-tower of Ashtaroth,the seducer of our people,' he said, andfinished with a curse. How eagerly thewoman's voice assented to it Then shespat fiercely upon the stones.


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28 ISRAEL IN OPHIR' I will tell you a story,' he said. ' It

was in the kraal hard by, four monthsago. She was possessed in spirit. Shecried out that she and her people camelong ago seeking gold, that the moon-goddess had deceived them, and they hadforsaken the Rock of their might. Andshe cursed the tower of the moon, thatevil goddess who will come night afternight to laugh over God's people thathave married with the heathen, andlearned their ways.' 'Your blood wasup against the beguiler of her fathers,' Isuggested. ' Yes,' he answered, ' andthe place seems more wholesome sinceI broke the tower.'When we got back to the house, thegirl came and repeated to me certainwords that he had taught her in theMashona. My knowledge of the tonguewas good enough to guide me to theirmeaning. ' Intreat me not to leave thee,neither to refrain from following afterthee, for whither thou goest, I will go ;


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ISRAEL IN OPHIR 29and where thou lodgest, I will lodge ; thypeople shall be my people, and thy Godmy God.' She stood by the wood-fire, thesacred hearth of her husband's homethe door was open, and Astarte lookedthrough after her rather regretfully.Away in the groves about the house acertain dove crooned and crooned againin the moonlight. I thanked her for herrecitative. Then I burst forth into therhetoric of her husband's prophet. Ihad been rendering him only that lastweek into the Mashona, ' Who are thesethat fly as a cloud, and as the doves totheir windows ? Surely the isles shallwait for me, and the ships of Tarshishfirst, to bring thy sons from far, theirsilver and their gold with them, untothe name of the Lord thy God, and tothe Holy One of Israel, because He hathglorified thee.'Her eyes glowed certainly ; his, too,

unless I am mistaken. Those who havecome so far may come farther in Israel.


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30 ISRAEL IN OPHIRThe words that he had taught her werethe words of Ruth the Moabitess onthe road that brought her even untoBethlehem.

NOTES BY EXPERTSR. N. H.The woman's statement is de-cidedly interesting as corroborating the theory

of a Semitic settlement in Rhodesia.D. MacI. The woman's statement was

obviously fictitious. Vide my book.


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IllTHE LAST FENCE

I went to the New Year sports in Zit-plaaten more than a year ago. It is adrunken little dorp among the hills. Ihad heard that Gwynne was to be therefor the races, and I found him there.

I had known him at school, but wehad met very seldom since we came outto this country. After we left school hehad been at Cambridge while I was atOxford, and I had heard his fame fromtime to time. Then he had gone toAfrica long before I did. I want to tellyou more about him by-and-by.Now, as to the day of the sports last

year. Gwynne's mare was Rhodesian-born. He had bred her in the days ofhis prosperity ; she had been foaled just

3*


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32 THE LAST FENCEfive years before. She was a brightchestnut, with a star under her forelock.She had won a race or two. Now shecame winning all the way, her ownerriding in the most important steeple-chase of the daythe Zitplaaten Plate.There was a sudden lull in the shout-ing. She had fallen at the last fence,

and she did not get up. Gywnne stoodover her, biting his lip. Many tenderedadvice. But she never got up againshe was shot that evening. Gwynnefought shy of me in his desperation.He told me afterwards he thought heshould have done for himself, but some-one came and knocked him up justbefore he was ready. So they got drunktogether, and he forgot what he hadmeant to do till he had slept upon it.A day or two after he came to my placeand talked over things with me. Hewas very pale, but then he was alwayscuriously pale. He had fallen on verybad times lately. At Cambridge he had


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34 THE LAST FENCEcautioned not to force labour, but inout-of-the-way places there are bigtemptations to do things that shouldnot be done. At his back is the effectiveengine of a British police-system, andit is lamentable when that high-powerengine is used to enforce a rough-and-ready tyranny. How many in theposition have come to griefGwynne came to grief.How he could have done what I

know he did, I do not find it easy tounderstand.A sensitive man should surely havemore sense than to amass, month aftermonth and year after year, bad debts ofremorse. He sold natives, I am told, bythe hundred to a particularly unhealthymine, and made his pile fast. Thensomebody (urged by spite, I fear, ratherthan philanthropy) did an exceedinglyuseful work in denouncing him.

Afterwards he drank freely while hispile lasted, and did very little else.


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THE LAST FENCE 35Then, when his funds ran out, he soughta rather slouching employment as abuyer of natives' cattle on commission.He did rather well at that so long as hekept sober.

It was curious how he had kept hisbeautiful mare so long, when so muchhad gone from him. Now she wasgone. He came and talked to me abouther when the wrench was over. He wasastonishingly full of hopes and plans aswell as regrets. Yet at the time I didnot believe much in what he was saying.He was going to keep straight now,and make money and start for homebefore a year was out ; then he would getmarried, and live on a farm in Wiltshirethat had just been left him. He hadno doubt at all what he would do, sohelp him GodAnd he did much of it.Next year, or rather the end of thatsame year, when he came to my place

on his way to the dorp for the New YearD 2


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THE LAST FENCE 37I'll try and show some of the rotten-ness of the present system so as to getit reformed. I'll try and do somethingto undo certain things in the past.'

I tried to get him to go more intodetails. But he sidled off uneasily. Heshrank from the veriest mention ofmines or natives, or abuse of executivepower. As it was, I expect I said toomuch. For, before the night was over,I heard him shriek. He was sitting upin bed ; when I lighted a candle I couldsee he was sweating, as if he were inhigh fever.

' Don't mind my shouting,' he said.1 It's only something that comes whenthe cocks crow the first time, as regularas clockwork. I'm getting rather sickof it. I'm glad I've got my seat in thepost-cart this week, and my passagetaken by the mail from Cape Town. Atany rate, it may get less, if it won't goaway, but here on the Veld it seems togrow.'


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38 THE LAST FENCE1 What ?' I said, but he didn't answer.

Just before he went away he told me.He went away in the afternoon justafter our dinner. He was bound for thedorp ten miles or more distant, so as tocatch the coach there.

1 It's a boy with a waistcoat and ayellow tie with blue stripes,' he said'he comes always at the same time,the very moment that the cock crows.I don't know quite what he's after. Idon't remember any boy like him at allat all.'

1 Yellow and blue stripes. I seem tohave heard a yarn about the verycolours,' I muttered. ' Let me try andremember 'But I didn't remember, I couldn't

even be at all sure that there was any-thing for me to remember, though thewords seemed old friends. Then thetime for him to be starting came.We went into the church togetherbefore he left. I suggested that we


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THE LAST FENCE 39should say Te Deum. He rather de-murred. ' But,' I said, ' you have a dealto be thankful for, getting the new startyou have. And, remember, the hymn'snot all Gloria, it is Miserere near theend.'So I had my way, and we said it

together before we said good-bye.I took stock of him as he went fromme. We had parted at the drift, andhe went up the hill-track, turning morethan once to wave from the green ascent,with the sun shining strongly upon him,and a tiny shower spattering him feebly.He was a tall, fair, intellectual, evenspiritual-looking man. He seemed fullof the fire and zest of life, despite thatterribly pale face of his.

1 Unstable as water ' the wordsseemed to come with the spitting ofthe shower. But there came otherand sunnier words hard behind them,1 springing out of the earth by clearshining after rain.'


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40 THE LAST FENCEThis man had been very far into a

country that lacks well-informed histo-rians. He was the sort of man who hadthe wit to make his experiences usefulto others. It was astonishing that heshould have come so straight on hishome journey. Now, there seemed tobe no fence in his way to stop him, sofar as I could discover.

Next morning there came news fromtown, and I went inin a hurry. Itwas a grim tale that had come out tome, but confused.By the time I had been in town a few

minutes, and listened to story after story,I began to form a fairly clear picture ofwhat had happened the evening before.Gwynne had come into town at fiveo'clock from the north-east. About halfan hour before a party had also come intotown from the south. They were tradersand miners coming to the New Yearsports. Wilgress the trader, who hadhad a row with Gwynne just a year ago,


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THE LAST FENCE 41was one of them. He had with him hiscousin, and they went to the store andannexed a bottle a-piece. They went tothe room they had engaged, opposite tothe hotel stables, and there made merry.They were very fresh for a fight at sixo'clock.To them entered, punctually on the

stroke of six, Alfred Gwynne. Theyboth rushed for him. Gwynne tried toget away. He was weak as water. Hiswhite face really meant something. Hedid not want to fight. If he had wanted,the two would scarcely have given himmuch of a field, in their glow of Cape-brandy courage. They made at him asrat-catchers make at their vermin. Theywere not scrupulous as to where handsor feet struck home. Only one mantried to help Gwynne. Others looked oninterested, till the decisive moment wasgone by. He was knocked down two orthree times over, he was pummelled andkicked on the ground. It was not a


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42 THE LAST FENCEstruggle with much art or many gracesto adorn it. When they were at lastdragged off him, he was done for. Inten minutes he was dead.As to the rest of the history, it did

not interest me muchwhat particulardregs of language Wilgress and hispartner had used on this occasion ; howsoon they were in a liquorish sleep afterthey were got to gaol; what an ab-normal state Gwynne's spleen was in atthe time of death, so the doctor said. Ilistened, but I was not so very muchinterested. How he had picked himselfup after a very bad fall I remembered.How hard and straight he had riddenfor home I had seen for myself. Andnow he was down at the last fence, andhis racing was over. He would neverwin the Reform Stakes for the countryhe had wronged. I roused myself toask a question or two. ' Was he sober ?''No doubt about that. He hadn'ttouched a drop for nearly a year.'


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THE LAST FENCE 431 But how was it he got into the brawl ?'

' Because he went into the room wherethe two were drinking.' ' But why inthe world did he go ?' There was nosatisfactory answer. Yet perhaps therewas no particular mystery in the matter,after all.We went to his burial. The rainslopped over us on the way, and thecemetery looked peculiarly ragged.Some mules had been Christmasingrather riotously among its mulberryhedges.

After the public prayers, I said thelast bit of the Te Deum to myself,wondering if he could hear me. It wasonly a few hours then, since we hadsaid it together.

Late that afternoon I heard somethingthat interested me. I was talking to atwelve-year-old English boy of myacquaintance. He told me he had likedMr. Gwynne very much. He said some-thing about Wilgress under his breath


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44 THE LAST FENCEthat I fear was unprintable ; the languageof pioneers' children is apt to be Eliza-bethan, but not in the best sense.

' Mr. Gwynne gave me a bottle ofmixed sweets yesterday, and we walkedup from the store together. Then hewent into the room at the hotel, and Ido wish he hadn't gone.'

1 Why did he go into the room, Bob ?'I asked.Bob looked scared. ' He said he saw

the boy with the yellow tie and the bluestripes go in there. He asked me if Ididn't see him. But I didn't see anyboy '

' Are you quite sure he said that ?' Iasked.

' Do you think I'd forget, and himdead and all ?'Who was the boy with the yellow tieand the blue stripes ?

I seemed to have heard of him, yet Icould not remember where. Of courseI remembered what Gwynne had said


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THE LAST FENCE 45about his night-terror, but there wassomething before that to be remem-bered. Should I ever remember it ?

I did remember it after three weeks.It came like lightning. Someone men-tioned the name of the Scotsman whohad told me the boy's story. Then thestory rushed back to me. I had beentold it two or three years back, just afterGwynne's loss of his billet. Now thatI was once put on to it, I could re-member it almost word for word. ' Wewere stuck for boys some years ago, andthe rains were coming on. I had heardGwynne wasn't very particular, but I didnot know him very well. So I got aletter from his headquarters to him, toask him to give me any assistance in hispower. He construed it in his own way,and sent his black police to turn someout for me. The draft came to me nextnight. There was one boy who was initwith a waistcoat and a yellow tiewith blue stripesthat I took particular


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46 THE LAST FENCEnote of. He looked too much dressedup for a working nigger. Next morn-ing, to my horror, I heard this particularboy was dead. It gave me a turn. Idon't think I'll ever have anything to doagain with forced labour; at least, itwill be long before next time comes.The poor wretch had been sick, and thepolice-boy had rapped him with a knob-kerrie to make him come out. Thenhe had been marched eighteen miles orso. It gave me a turn.'So I understood something of themystery of that last fence. I understoodwhy Gwynne went out of his course,exploring those drunkards' quarters.Someone had been sent to lead him bythat way of destinythe way to followhis mare.


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IVCHARNWOOD FOREST

This is, in a way, a dull story, as beingsuch a very stale one ; yet sometimes itis worth while to retell that which hasa knack of recurring again and yetagain.He was a friend of Ward's, whocame out to South-East Africa, andWard had told him of me. But Wardhad not written to tell me of this,so I was surprised when he came tosee me.

I will not mention his name for suffi-cient reasons ; I will call him Celestine,as it is a pleasant name. Possibly thosewho know their Dante will understandhow I came to pitch upon it.

I had seen in a local paper that Mr.47


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48 CHARNWOOD FORESTCelestine, the distinguished sculptor, wasvisiting the countrywith a view to thefulfilment of a commission he had inhand.He was commissioned to execute avery notable statuethat of a magnatein our capital, who had been chosenfor apotheosis in his prosperous life-time.

I was not enthusiastic about the mag-nate, and I did not read the paragraphwith any particular interest.

It was about a month after its appear-ance that Celestine came. He arrivedone sunset with three carriers. I thoughthe was a Government official of somesort when I saw him. He was yellow-haired and sunburnt, he was dressed infairly fresh white, and sprucely shaven,and he looked jolly, even though he hadcome thirty miles that day.He sat down to bread and cheese, andseemed to have a good appetite. Wetalked about the crops, the present


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CHARNWOOD FOREST 49drought (the time was the end ofJanuary), and the road he had come.Then at last, when we were smoking

after supper, he to|d me who he was.I was staggered when he said that he

had come to stay for a month, if I didnot mind.

* What will you do with yourself in aplace like this ?' I asked, aghast.He smiled. ' Ward hinted to me thatI might find plenty to do,' he said. ' Idon't want to play all the time. I wantto make studies and models of reliefdesigns for my pedestal in Rosebery.Mayn't I stay ?'Of course I could not refuse. I said

I would try and make him comfortablein the way of our countryside, but thatI had not much of things in general,especially of time, to spare.He told me his view of our section ofAnglo-Africa. His criticism resembledthat of Ward. He admitted that hehad bowed in the House of Rimmon

E


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50 CHARNVVOOD FORESTthese last two months. But he had noserious illusions as to its claims torespect.

' What I have endured is all in theway of business,' he said. ' These peoplewill have the statue that they want.They won't get a pearl, if I know it.Therefore they won't want to rendme.'

In the morning he surprised me byhis punctuality at church, and by hisbonhomie at breakfast. Afterwards hedrew me a little sketch of the Rose-bery statue, over which he smiled.

It was clever ; the cruelty of the con-ception was decently subdued, but itwas not to be mistaken. There stoodthe father of his peoplevery puffy,almost breathless, in his evident desireto demonstrate his goodwill to thecrowds beneath. The crafty little eyesasked : ' How far can I go ?' The out-stretched hand pleaded : ' How muchwill you give ?' The paunchiness of the


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CHARNWOOD FOREST 51figure and the folds of the chin reinforcedthe effect. I laughed.

' It is really like that,' he said. 'It ismst a shade more reticent. But it is atruly Rhodesian work of art, I can assureyou. Aspirations are restrained, ani-mality is indulged. They will knowtheir man, and rejoice in him; they willnot grudge their cheque; they may evengive me a further commission.' Hesighed.

I made over to him a huge shed thathad been planned for a tobacco-barn.It was only thatched at one end, so far.He would find light as well as shelterthere for his work. Then he questionedme about pot-clays and coloured earths,and went away to make experiments.When we strolled out together justbefore sunset, we took the road by theriver. The sun was shining brightly,but there were many white clouds, andthe wind blew cool. We met a trainof women crowned with gourd-pitchers

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52 CHARNWOOD FORESTcoming from a spring, and he began tosketch them greedily. He showed methe sketch afterwards ; he had entitledit ' Choephorae.'

1 Listen/ he said, as the sun set justwhere a poort divided the hills to west1 1 will tell you something.'Then he told me that the idea had

come to him of redeeming that banalpiece of work in Rosebery. He wasdesigning four elaborate panels in highrelief for the pedestal.

' I have come here to go into a sortof retreat,' he said.He took out his sketch-book just asthe gong clanged out the Angelus. Hebowed his head, and waited reverently.Then he showed me that sketch-book.He had really worked these few days,since he had left the town. Thereinwere children dancing rhythmically;therein were men swinging and swayingat their hoe-work and their wood-cut-ting ; therein were small boys riding


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CHARNWOOD FOREST 53cattle home at night ; therein was aheifer or horned beast of some sort,* lowing at the skies ' ; therein werewondrous studies of the straight backsof his carriers as they brought himacross the Veld.

' The valleys here are valleys ofvision,' he said. ' I understand nowwhat one used to be taught aboutAthens. There, in a continual pageantof knotty backs and square shouldersand draperies that flowed, one couldaspire to carve gods and goddesses.That is to say, if the wind blew.'

' It blows where it lists,' I said ; ' andI doubt whether It would blow here.It's a great temptation to get slackin these lonely places. It comes hardto most people to work for work'ssake.'When we got home that night wefound a police-trooper established in thehouse. He had been sent out to searchfor Celestine. The magnate had been


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54 CHARNWOOD FORESTpuzzled and concerned at his mysteriousdisappearance. The policeman seemedpleased at rinding him safe and sober.'The last case I had to hunt up I

found very bad in the rats at a Kaffirkraal,' he explained.He rode off next morning with thenews that Celestine was in fair hands,and had come out into the Veld on atour of exploration.

Celestine seemed very quiet and con-tent as the weeks went by. He askedme to let him leave me for almost allthe mornings, and not to come to watchhim at work just yet. The magnatewrote him a letter, rallying him on hispredilection for Mashona beauty andMashona brewing, but he did not suc-ceed in getting him back to Rosebery.Celestine thanked Heaven emphaticallythat he didn't feel obliged to see themagnate again in solid flesh, at anyrate until another commission had beenoffered him. He sent Mrs. Magnate a


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CHARNWOOD FOREST 55beautiful dwarf model of a Mashonawoman suckling her baby. I expresseda doubt as to her appreciation of it.

1 If it doesn't edify her, she has onlyto let it fall,' he said.He worked harder and harder, as itseemed to me, at his studying andmodelling. He came to the Sacrificeevery day. He made our altars hisspecial care. Shall I ever forget thebeauty of the High Altar on February 6the Feast of St. Dorothy ? He knewstrange bits of old lore, and he said thatthis saint was a patroness good to invokein thunderstorms. He owed her specialthanks for her care in a storm this lastChristmas. Roses and lilies, peachesand apricots and red appleshe ran-sacked the country for themto recallher story on her festival.

In the last week of our stay togetherhe seemed to grow very thoughtful. Hewould excuse himself time and timeagain from afternoon excursions. All


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56 CHARNWOOD FORESTthe while he never asked me to come tohis workshop, and I never went.The day before his start for home

was a Monday. Then, at last, in theafternoon, he asked me to come and seewhat there was to see.The panels for the Rosebery pedestal

were of fired clay, the figures were inhigh relief. On one side there was tobe shown a hunting-scene. On anotherthere was to be shown a beer-party,whereat neighbours forgathered to cutdown bush and hoe a new garden. Foranother side was planned a processionof women, carrying pitchers on theirheads from a rocky river-bed up a hillto a village. For the remaining panelhe had modelled a delightful design ofsmall herd-boys in forest country, amongthe goats and sheep and cattle.

' I am so glad you like these childrenand these goats,' he said. ' I putmuch work into them. But they areworth it.'


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CHARNWOOD FOREST 57'These panels,' I said. 'Think who's

going to surmount them 'He laughed, and brought out thesketch of the statue.

' As I told you,' he said, ' the statueitself is slightly more reticent. Even ifit does amuse us two, there are not somany Roseberyites likely to see thejoke.'

' It's too bitter a jest,' I said.' Do you really think so ? He's made

an average beast of himself on occa-sions, they tell me. What if I avengecertain offences of his against a weakerrace ? What if I contrast their sym-metry with his obesity, native eugenicswith European degeneracy? Lo, andbehold

The victor victim bleeds Why not ? I don't feel disposed to lethim off. I expressly stipulated that if Isubmitted for the committee's approvalmy figure's design, they should leave


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58 CHARNWOOD FORESTme a free hand as to the panel work ofthe pedestal. They did not understandwhat I was up to. I have given them awork of art, possibly at the expense ofa work of adulation. So be it 'Then he showed me a real wonder

an earthen reredos, with figures in fairlyhigh relief, that he had wrought me.

' It is very rough,' he said, ' but Iworked at speed. The idea only cameto me ten days ago in church one morn-ing. I worked almost anyhow to get itdone.'

It is rough, but enormously effective.The central design is of the woundedLamb. Group after grouphusband-men, water-carrying women, herd-boyswith their cattleall converge on thecentre.Around the throne of the Victim a

dance of girls and boys sweeps in awhirl of joy: they are dancing beforethe Lord. I took in detail after detailas the sunlight streamed in through the


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CHARNWOOD FOREST 59roof-timbers to west, and caught thefaces.

Suddenly I saw a tall figure of a manin a working smock. His face wasaverted from the Vision, in curious con-trast to those of his comrades. Heseemed to be moving away. The sadface was meant for a portrait, I feltsure, as I compared it with a facebeside me.

' Do you understand ?' asked Celes-tine.

'No,' I said. ' Tell me what youmean.'

' Forgive me for introducing myself,'he said. ' Donors used to introducethemselves into pictures sometimes,didn't they? I'll tell you very brieflywhat I mean. I am clearing out ofRhodesia. If I stayed, I suppose Ishould live at Rosebery or some othersmall town, with roofs of corrugatediron. I should gamble on mines pos-sibly, philander with Kaffir models pos-


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CHARNWOOD FOREST 61' It sounds sad,' I said. ' Isn't it any

good my saying anything?'* No, I don't think so,' he said.He was very quiet that evening, but

we talked with some enthusiasm abouta favourite book or two.

In the morning Celestine started. Ihad begged him to hurry on andjoin some waggons going down theroad, for the weather looked like break-ing.So we had our Service very early,

before sunrise. His reredos was therein position.

' Does it want some gold and coloursused on the Vision ?' he said ; ' or doyou like the earth-colours through-out?'We decided in the end to leave it asit was. I was sorry in a way at ourdecision, as I think he might have stayedto enrich his work if we had decidedotherwise. He gave me a book that hehad written my name in. It was the


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62 CHARNWOOD FORESTbiography of an English painter whosework I loved.

' When you have read it,' he said,' write and tell me what you think of it.The bit about his young working days,when the London skies seemed alwaysblue, and the London air full of bells,appealed to me. Yet I have beenhaunted even more by the bit about hisgoing to Charnwood Forest, and hanker-ing to live in a cell there. Doesn't thebook say that he would look back tothat old desire of his long afterwards ?Tell me if the book doesn't sadden youas it draws towards its end? The herois so plainly wishful for the wings of adove. Yet Society draws its meshesabout him tightly, and yet more tightly.If only he had gone to CharnwoodForest '

' This place is your CharnwoodForest,' I said.He gave a sort of gulp. He was notlong starting. Thus he made his great


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CHARNWOOD FOREST 63refusal. He went, I suppose, to be aconsiderable success, yet not to attainas he might have attained.

I see his face every time I minister atour High Altar.He may have had great possessionsat home. But what were they to thepossessions he displays in his portrayalof that surrounded Figure, and of thosegroups ' coming to the Sacrifice 'tenderness, reverence, rapture ? Whatwere they to the gifts he shows in thosepanels (too little valued) that arewrought in bronze about the pedestalat Roseberysympathy, grace, humour?There the monument stands in themarket-place. The blatant face is seton high, the groups in their arrestedexuberance are set low. But these latterseem to be exalted in their way, ' allbreathing human passion far above.'What is he doing nowwho offeredus exiles so much, and yet denied us so

much more ?


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64 CHARNWOOD FORESTIt makes me rather wretched some-

times to think of him. He never writes.He went away with a laughing faceenough, yet I know that he went awaysorrowful.


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66 THE HORNED HORSEThe old horse had broken into a canter

at near view of a habitation, and weraced home. But the bull had muchthe better of it. My mount was hope-lessly outpaced, and the bull swung roundinto the yard in triumph. In due timewe followeda rather sorry pairtherider in splashed and green-worn black,the horse, always a dingy and lividcolour, now bemired, and with the taleof his years writ large on his heavingflanks. Davenant looked at us as wecame into the yard like a man in adream, not a very happy dream, as itseemed to me. Then he roused himselfand came and shook hands of welcome.He had been living there ever so long.The green oasis of his garden was therewhen I first came that desert road, thetrees already tall, and the roses alreadyprofuse in blossom.He was an interesting sort of pioneer,this Davenant, an ultramontane devoteeof Tolstoi, a before-his-time reactionary,


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THE HORNED HORSE 67refreshingly unlike most of his fellow-settlers.

It is quaint in Mashonaland how youfind extremes jostlingelectric light andcamp fires, the steam-plough and Kaffirhoes, positivists and pagans, new-worldhustlers and quietists, whether primaevalor ultra-modern.On that Christmas Eve I followedDavenant into his one great room. Thefurniture was very rude, yet not withoutsome beauty of design. In the twoshelves of the long book-case there werebooks of many poets, old and new.There were four pictures in the room,all spacious ones, one on each of thewalls. There was an engraving ofMillais' ' Christ in the Carpenter'sShop.' There was an engraving ofTolstoi in a peasant's smock. Therewas a cartoon called ' Love rules HisKingdom without a Sword 'an idyl ofbeasts and birds and the sway of gentle-ness. There was also a rather noble

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68 THE HORNED HORSEcopy in oils of Watts's picture'TheRider on the White Horse.'

I stood looking at this last awhile,when he was making ready for supper.He did not keep me waiting long. Thenwe sat down to a jug of milk and a loafof bread with apricots, peaches, andfigs in abundance.

It was after supper, when I had lightedmy pipe, that the moon rose and shonein at the window. I was thinking ofsaddling up for the last twenty mileshome when he said something that ledtowards a story. The prefaces to thatstory were a remark of his and the con-versation that followed it. He saidsuddenly, ' I haven't seen that horse ofyours before.'

1 No,' I said, ' I only bought him thislast September.' I told him how muchI had given, and he congratulated meon my bargain.'The only thing I see against him

beside his age is his colour,' he said.


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THE HORNED HORSE 691 1 have a reason against it. But hemay suit you well enough.'

1 What name would you give hiscolour?' I asked.

* He's what I should call a pale horse,'he answered.Then we talked of something else.But just as I got up to go, he said,

' You've got a Bible with you, I expect.The last leaves of mine were loose whenI had the fever this month, and they gotburnt by accident. I wonder if you'dread me a few verses I want to recall inRevelation. Just begin the sixth chapter,if you don't mind.'

Wondering, I pulled out my Bibleand read. When I came to the secondverse, I remembered the passage well.I was going to read about the pale horse.I was curious, indeed, to know why.

1 And I saw and behold a white horse. . . and He that sat on him . . . wentforth conquering and to conquer. . . Andthere went out another horse that was


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70 THE HORNED HORSEred ; and power was given to him ....that they should kill one another. . . .And I beheld, and lo a black horse. . . .And I heard a voice . . . say, A measureof wheat for a penny. . . . And I lookedand behold a pale horse, and his namethat sat on him was Death, and Hellfollowed with him.'

' That will do,' he said. ' You seewhat it means ; you may believe it ornot, but I think that it is true.'Then he told me his story, and I

knew that it was true, at least to him.There was truth in the well of each eye,calm eyes that looked into mine anddeprecated my unbelief. It was not abad scene or time for such a story.Christmas Eve From the littleMashona School in the field behindcame an old English carol tune; jollyand beefy, it lumbered on, drawing thewell-vowelled African words lightlyalong with it.From a kraal far away came the thud


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72 THE HORNED HORSEmiles to the east in the Karuma hills.He died two or three years after theyshifted the station away. He gave mea sign as he came up to me, and I bentmy knee. He was carrying the Viaticumto a prospector some ten miles beyondmy place. I was glad to see him indeed,it being Christmas-time, and all. ButI need not tell you about that. Sufficeit,that Christ Who goes forth from HisTabernacle, conquering and to conquer,came riding by my homestead that day.

I need not tell you what victory Hewon here. Suffice it that the Rider onthe White Horse came.

It was the year after that, not Christ-mas Eve, but a day in the beginning ofDecember, that the Rider on the RedHorse followed Him here.Hewas a police-trooper riding a pretty

enough chestnut.He off-saddled just as it was growingdark, and stopped the night with me.He told me something of what was in


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THE HORNED HORSE 73the wind. He was going with theRaiders. ' How they fared in the Trans-vaal you will remember, also how theMatabele rose in March and theseMashona people in June. There wasmuch killing one another close here.They left me safe enough. But youwill have heard of what happened atSmith's Drift, and of the reprisal thatour people made. You will have heardhow they wiped out that kraal on theround hill you pass to-night.'

I nodded. His story was fantastic,but he told it truthfully. He had lookedat me in doubt once or twice to see howI took it. Was I laughing at him ordisbelieving his sanity ?He seemed reassured now. He went

to the fire, and fetched me a liveember for my pipe. When it haddone its kindling work, he began oncemore.

' You were here yourself when theBlack Horse passed, weren't you?'


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74 THE HORNED HORSEI started.1 When was it ?' I said, trying toremember.' The day before Old Christmas Day,

January 5, 1902,' he said. ' Don't yourecall it ? -

I was certainly here early in Januarythat year,' I said. ' Yes, and I do re-member a black horse.'

I had got to his place just as the raincame on on that 5th of Januarytherain we had been waiting for so long tosave the crops. I remembered well nowthe big drops pelting and the cattlefrisking ; then, just as I was hastily off-saddling, another rider had come theother way of the road, riding fiercely.He looked to be a full-bearded Dutch-man riding a black horse. Davenantand I had wondered a deal about him,and why he went on in the rain.

' Did you ever hear who he was ?' Iasked.1 No,' said Davenant, ' but he brought


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THE HORNED HORSE 75a true sign enough. I did not tell you,but I guessed it that very evening.We were not going to be saved by therain, after all ; it was to give out onlythe next day, and the crops were to beterribly short. The famine came nextseason. It was God's own mercy thatit was an early season, and that themealies made haste. Did people wantfood out your way ?'

1 Yes,' I said. ' It was ghastly.'' I remember making up my mind,'he said, ' that Christmas Day, to touch

no food till the sun went down. Itseemed no time for feasting. Peopleforaged for wild fruit, and leaves, andmushroomspeople who were too weakto work much in their gardens when theweeding work was wanted. White menbought up goats and sheep fearfullycheap, and sold grain or meal fearfullydear. Yes, it came true all right,thesign of that Black Horse.' He hesitated.' And now you come riding '


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76 THE HORNED HORSE' Riding on my pale horse,' I said.

' And what's going to happen now ?'' Oh, it's a sign,' he answered. ' I've

had such bouts of fever this last year.The next will be the last, I suppose.'

I told him that the red horse had notmeant his own murder, nor the blackhorse his own starvation, so why needhe suppose he was the one to die ?

1 Because I've had other signs. Iguessed this sign of the horse wascoming some day, and I guessed itwould have the one meaning. It'scurious how one looks up and down aroad, expecting people and things. Andnow it's come.'

I didn't like the faith in his tonefaith is apt to be so very influential incases like his. I smoked my pipethoughtfully, but I could find nothingthat it seemed of much use to say.Then I remembered where I was, andhow far I had to ride, and how much I

had to do ere dawn of to-morrow's


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THE HORNED HORSE 77Christmas, and I sped off in the broadmoonshine.I had ridden just about a mile whenI swung my ominous horse's head round,and clattered back to the homestead. Ihad thought of something that it mightbe of some use to say.I threw the reins over a post, andrushed in. He was sitting as in a dreamby the fire, looking rather down, Ithought. It took him a second or twoto remember who I was.I I came back to say just this,' stut-tered I : ' the pale horse did not win therace to your house this evening. Re-member the child on the red bull. Herode the race, and he came in winner.'

' I don't quite understand,' he saiddreamily, with a slow smile. ' Who'sthe child, and why does he ride the redbull ?'

1 Ask your own Christian sense,' Isaid. ' The boy was your herd-boy, andthe bull was yours, I imagine. But these


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THE HORNED HORSE 79on in the next March and April. Butwhen I went back that way at Whitsun-tide, Davenant was alive, and lookedwell. We smiled a little as we talkedof the portents.

' You were right,' he said. ' I am gladyou rode back and put me right aboutthe sign.'

' Well,' said I, ' it came to me like aflash that it was the right thing to do.You wanted the thing put figurativelyjust in the way that you were lookingat it. I didn't want to come this wayand find Tolstoi Garth gone the way ofso many homesteadsa few gum-treestowering up out of the Veld that has gotits own again. Question : Which doeshe lie under ? 'He smiled. ' Yes, I know that sort

of thing too well at Lead-Mine Vale andthe other places down east. I admityou did reassure me wonderfully.Who'd have thought of your interpreta-tion of the race between the pale horse


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80 THE HORNED HORSEwith you up, and my herd-boy's mount,the horned horse of Bethlehem ?'

' I am glad I came back ; I am gladI told you not to forget the PeasantChrist,' I said. Answer a fool accord-ing to his folly. I answered a seeraccording to his sight.'


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VIA TRAVELLER'S TALE: A

TRADER'S STORYThis is the story of Nikopulos, who diedand was buried at my station the secondyear that I went trading far away in theKaruma hills.

I wrote it down on scraps of paper inGreek and French and English, as helay that morning in the heat of thefever. He told a vague tale, as it seemedto me, with gaps of lost meaning. Butas I came through a certain SouthAfrican town on my way home, I soughtout first one Greek and then another(there are many of them in that town)and I hired first one, and then anotherby the day, whilst I sought interpretation and elucidations.

81 G


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82 A TRAVELLER'S TALE:The first Greek was dull indeed ; the

second helped me a great deal.I think now that I have gathered the

sense of much that was told me in thosetwo hours of that autumn morning, whenNikopulos lay on my old stretcher andtalked against time. You know thelinesAh, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering

square.Those lines came back to me, I re-

member, on that morning as I heard thepigeons cooing in my verandah, and sawthe light growing through the rose-bushes beyond the uncurtained window.It came to my mind that the end wassurely near. I was sad indeed that Ihad been so tardy in sending in searchof aid. For he had come in two nightsago now, and I had sent to the doctoronly last night.


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A TRADER'S STORY 83But I had scarcely known what to

make of him when he came in thatevening.We had been carrying poles from thewood four miles away, four Mashonasand I. I was deliciously tired, and Idrank my coffee, and ate my bread andmonkey-nuts. Then I lit my pipe, andtook the north-western path in a blazeof sheen from the low sun, while theevening grew cool and happy. Thenorth-western path was the path of mys-tery and wonder, as it seemed to me,there in my Bohemia of the Bush-Veldand hills.From the south and east came Europe

and America pressing up the railways,with their Age of (corrugated) Iron.To the north and west there were

surely voids that might hold Ages ofmore dainty metals.He came down the north-western road,a forlorn figure ; he had one carrier

behind him, a tall Yao, bearing his tinyG 2


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84 A TRAVELLER'S TALE:pack. His boots showed his naked feet,his trousers showed his torn shanksterribly festered. He had a very beauti-ful Indian scarf wound about his head,otherwise all about him was pitifullyworn and poor.He had come through a very lonelycountry, he said, this broken-down Greek

with a face that had been beautiful afterthe fashion of his countrymen. He hadbeen ferried across the Zambesi farabove the Falls.We did not understand one anothervery well : I was ashamed of my Greek,and he of his English. He could speakFrench well, but I failed in my reminis-cences in spite of several hardy attempts.That night I fed him well, gave him afairly easy bed, and lent him some salvefor his sores. Grass-seeds had been histraveller's bane on the way down; hehad been very ill-clad and short of food,and desirous of going quickly. He didnot seem so very ill that night. He


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A TRADER'S STORY 85talked long and feverishly of Greece andespecially of a farm under Mount Par-nassos, a farm whose tobacco had miracu-lously refused to recede with Heaven inan age of unfaith.The next day he was much worse in

the morning. I went and talked withhis boy about him. How far had hecome these last days ? Was he a goodtraveller, and had he had much sick-ness ?The boy said he had engaged with

him beyond the Zambesi. He was nearlydead of fever then, he said, and he hadlain seven days. But after that he hadtravelled fast some days. He said I hadbetter send for a doctor; he had thoughtthis last week that his master was inextremity. So I sent that evening.

I sat up for some time that nightthen I slept, when he had been sleep-ing awhile. At cock-crow I awoke, andit was soon afterwards that he began totell me what he told me.


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86 A TRAVELLER'S TALE:The sun had not been up an hourbefore he slept again, and this time he

did not wake.This is his story : ' I went far, very

far, to the north-west, and I came wherewhite men had been that were lost manyyears gone by.'He repeated the words when I couldnot understand them at first. Then hesaid : ' You had better write the wordsas I say them. There is little time. Iwill say them slowly, but be fast. Writethe words, and Demetrios, who keepsthe store in Kimberley, or George, whowas my banker in Cape Town, they cantell you what they mean.' I nodded,and wrote as fast and as clearly as Icould. Greek, and French, and English,and AfricanI set the words down aswell as I could spell them. I did nottease him with questions more thantwice or thrice. I made sure that wewere cut short for time.

' It is a land that it is good to live in,'


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A TRADER'S STORY 87he said, ' but it is far to go from eithercoast, and hard to come at indeed. Onthree sides there is a wide river, and onthe other side there are deep marsheswith much sickness all the year. Ishould say the land itself is as great asCrete, but much of it is forest-groundstill. It was as it were by chance thatI came thither.

I had started from the West Coaston my last trading journey. I had gonefar to east-north-east from the OldSlave Coast. I was seeking a secretware, and I bought much of it on myway. Then I bestowed all I had boughtsafely in a village that I knew. I wenton with my carriers farther than ever Ihave gone before and I have gonefarther than mostand then it was thatI lost my way.

1 1 had gone out hunting with a littlefood, so that I might stay out a day ortwo if I found no game, for I was meat-hungry. I lost myself altogether one


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A TRADER'S STORY 89such as pictures show. But the peoplethat tended me were black enough, withbut a tinge of Northern blood. Theyfed me well, and nursed me well, andso it was I came back to life, yet I wasnever the same since. Three months Iwent in and out of their town and vil-lages, and I found them in very fairorder for this unruly world. I had neverthought to find such a state in misbe-gotten Africa.'And I heard the story of how

their Frankish sires came thither. Ifound some that could speak Latin alittle; and if I could not speak it,I could read it when they wrote itclearly.

' It was a pilgrimage that broughtthem thither long ago. There weremany that came, out of Brittany andEngland for the most partsome say ahundred, some say twelve - score. ABishop led them from Brittany, andthere were seven Breton knights and


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go A TRAVELLER'S TALE :seven English knights, and there werearchers and men-at-arms in numbers.

1 When the English made truce withthe French (about a year or two beforeByzantium fell, was it not?), these allmoved on towards Byzantium, meaningto fight with the Prophet's people.They were a great company indeed thensome five hundredbut they left manyby the way. And Byzantium fell beforeever they came near it.' And so that Bishop vowed a vow toseek the honour of Christ elsewhere.He would win one of the Holy Placesor die in the adventure. And manyvowed with him. But one said that itwas madness and idle death to go withhim, for the Reign of Anti-Christ hadbegun, and all the Holy Land in Asiawas kept by strong men armed. Thencame a Greek pilgrim to the Bishop, andtold him of a Holy Place in Africa farsouth by the sources of the Nile. Thitherit was reputed that Our Lady brought


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A TRADER'S STORY 91Our Lord long ago, when she fled fromHeroda beautiful place and a solemn,by the fountain-head of Pharaoh's rivera cave of majesty and great wonder, amidtrees that never shed their leaves andflowers that never lacked blossom.

' When they heard of this noble place,all of those adventurers with one accordvowed to seek it, and departed intoEgypt, and took the way of the Nile.They came to a lake following up theriver, but found no cave, and were indoubt what to do. Then was it revealedto the Bishop in a dream that they shouldgo to the south-west into a forest place,and follow a stream that they should findtherein. Therefore they followed thatstream, and on the seventh day theycame to a river, and having crossed thatriver, they found a pleasant land high-set above the waters. And they grewsure that it was the very land theysought. For even as they forded theriver, a wood-dove came flying, and led


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92 A TRAVELLER'S TALE:them into a path among the hillspath worn, as it seemed, by the feet ofmany pilgrims that came through Egyptof old.

' Then they marvelled how they hadmissed so long the straight way, butthanked God that they had found it atlast, and, going on, beheld the Cave, andadored and built a Sanctuary. Afterthat they found no strife, for the folkthat were girdled by the river were goat-herds and husbandmen who had hiddenthemselves safely among the woodsand waters, and never needed to learnwar.

* Then those pilgrims built houses, andknight after knight carved himself outa manor and cleared the woodland.And they ploughed and hunted andfeasted as of old in the North, andadored God in His Sanctuary. Then,after a year, fully half of them startedto go home, and to take their kindredword of that worshipful pilgrimage.


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A TRADER'S STORY 93' But the rest, who stayed with the

Bishop, promised to abide where theywere, till those should come again orsend. So they waited year by year, butnone ever came. What had befallen tothose that went homeward I do notknow, nor could ever find out. Thoseothers waited, and found death one byone; and those that remained for awhilewere few and old, and there grew to belittle thought of returning among them.There were no Northern women thathad come all that great way, and manyof them had taken wives of the wood-dwellers. Now, the people are blackerthan Egyptians are, but you can see theold blood very plainly sometimes in lipsand nostrils and in eyes of grey or blue.They have built seven churches, I think,and ten or twelve manor-houses withred-tiled roofs, but of the round Africanmould. Their law is the old feudal law,that is alike sterner and milder thanours. They have no wish to slip the


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94 A TRAVELLER'S TALE :yoke that has grown to their necks, andfrets them no longer.

* But oh, the blessed Faith there Itis, I think, as it was in the days of Louisthe King. Trust me, sir, that think todie within this hour I saw miracles, andwondered not overmuch, for I had seenthe faith of them that worked them.'The Host is to man, woman, and

child, even to the perverse and wickedthere, the daily miracle of their Lordand God.

1 O my God, I have got my death inthis journey of mine, but I think, too,that I have got me life eternal WhenI came into that land, I believed little ornought, but now I believe all.'With that he fell to his prayers, and

asked me to keep still and pray for him.And so he told me no more, but sleptand passed in the Faith of the Resur-rection just before the priest cameafoot from the Mission, and the doctoron horseback from the town.


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A TRADER'S STORY 95My boy, and his, and I, buried him,

under a great cactus-tree among therocks.I cut a Greek cross to put over him,

and a Greek text upon it. And often Iwould look towards the north - west(towards the blue range of hills thatcould purple so gloriously), and I wouldwonder over the tale that he told me,and sometimes I would dream about itof nights.


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VII

THE OLD BOYHe was a hard-headed man to mythinking when I first saw himBradlaw.The time of that first seeing was onlylast summer.

Perhaps he was too hard-headed, per-haps there is danger in all extremesrobustious as well as sentimentalper-haps that is the moral of his tale.Anyhow, here it is.He came to our little township of

Elgin, in Zambesia, last summer asCivil Commissioner, and he set to workto reform us. He put the township ona business footing, its court, its gaol, itslibrary, its hospital, its tennis-club, itsVolunteers, its tree-planting, and publicworks generally. He really did a fair

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THE OLD BOY 97amount of useful business in a very shorttime. It was on the native questiononly that I dissented seriously fromhim, and that question has a way ofmixing itself up with things in generalin Zambesia.He insisted that our barbed-wire PassLaw must be enforced to the last jotand tittle. The gaol was full in histime, in great part with black offenders,who were condemned on highly technicalcharges. He pressed upon the newly-constituted Municipal Council by-laws,minutely specifying the clothing re-quirements of natives who should pre-sume to enter our township. Theycrossed the side-walks at their peril. Anadmiring European populace applaudedhis spirited policy. Yet storekeeperssoon began to swear into their beards.Afterwards, when the Kaffir trade thathad kept them going dwindled awayto vanishing point, they were not soguarded.

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98 THE OLD BOYBradlaw was not so very popular erethat summer ended. People hinted that

he was a crank. He had some soundideas certainly, but he rode them tohell. It was right at the end of thesummer that I gave him my candidopinion about some of his doings. Wewere sitting on his stoep at the time,and he had done me the honour toinvite my criticism.

'Just picture to yourself,' I said,' the two worlds side by sidethe whiteand the black. We are in the freedomof modern England, or rather morethan that. They are in the helotageof old Sparta, or something not so veryfar in front of it. Pass Law and By-laws enforced by a man like you meana continuous tyranny. Fancy livingunder it day and night I'm glad myskin's the right colour.'He was pleased to chuckle good-humouredly.'Go on. I like to get Exeter Hall


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THE OLD BOY 99on the telephone. It's a poor weirdlittle voice out here, and not up tomuch harm.'

' Never mind. You'll know all aboutit some day,' I said hotly. 'You deserveto suffer a little of what you inflict. Ifyou could only eat something thatwould turn your skin black, or do some-thing yourself that would get you intotrunk without any option, or go dottyand be boxed up in a lunatic asylum,you'd know all about it 'He started in his chair, and saidsomething nasty. I had succeeded indrawing blood somehow. He growledtwo or three words I couldn't properlyhear, and then changed the subject.

It was two or three months after thathe came riding over to our Mission tosay good-bye. He had been gazettedto a good appointment. He had risenon the stepping-stone of Elgin to higherthings. But I did not come down theroad to meet him, or line up our boys to

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ioo THE OLD BOYsalute him in decorous lines. I wasotherwise employed.

I was in the churchyard, busy at afuneral. The sun was very low; thedays were growing short then, and therewas much left to do. The side-chamberof the dead must be screened off care-fully, so that no earth might fall therein,then the main grave must be filled, andthe night was coming fast. I was read-ing that tremendous apostrophe to the* most worthy Judge Eternal,' and myeyes were filling. One of our Christianshad slipped away in the night : such ahandsome and friendly oneso young, awidow's child, and her only living boy.What should I do when the mothercame from the other side of that bluehill-range fifty miles away, and cried tocareless me for her son ?

I looked up, and saw Bradlaw'ssarcastic eyes watching me. He hadhitched his horse to the fence, and stoodlooking over the stile.


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102 THE OLD BOYcould manage it anyhow, without delay.I started almost at once.

I called at a house in the town on myway up to the Residency.'Very strange in his manner these

last three days,' I was told. ' Somepeople said it was drink, others that itwas worse than that.'He came and sat out on the stoepwith me. He took me to task veryseverely.

1 There's a boy of yours, a boy whowears the red cross of your Mission,who has been annoying me,' he said. ' Ican't think that a nigger would do whathe has done without being coached byhis master. You're at the bottom of itall, I firmly believe.' His face grewlivid. His utterance grew thick andhard to follow. He was much excited.* I go out for a walk at sunrise, youknow, every morning. These last threemornings, he's been walking up theside-walk, up and down. But I can't


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THE OLD BOY 103catch him, and the police can't catchhim. I'm coming over to your Missionto identify him this afternoon. It's nogood your trying to screen him.'

' Wait a bit,' I said. ' I don't believeit's one of our boys ; you've got boys onthe brain.'He looked at me wildly.

1 1 don't know what you mean,' hesaid.

I had come into town with a photo-graph of all the boys at the Mission, thatI was posting home to England.

1 Look here,' I said, cutting thestring. ' Here's a group of all theboys on the place taken only a fortnightago, as clear as life. Is it one ofthese ?'He caught at the picture eagerly.' Here he is,' he said. ' Isn't this

one of your boys ?'He pointed to the face next to myown. I started.1 It's an old boy,' I said.


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104 THE OLD BOYI was going on to explain, but he

interrupted me.'Oh, I'm so glad,' he said. 'Then

it's no blessed delusion '' It's an old boy,' I repeated. ' It's the

boy I was burying that afternoon youcame. He passed away the night before,after two days' illness. He's dead.'He stared blankly at me.

' Excuse me,' he said. ' Light up,won't you ? I shan't be long gone.'He stepped inside into the study.He was gone full ten minutes, then he

came out with a letter written. Theenvelope was addressed to myself. Hewent back into the study, and I beganto read

' What I saw was no dream, nor wasit a delusion. It is a dreadful thoughtthat your Christian niggers are emanci-pated after death from all wholesomerestrictions. I cannot see my way toenforce the regulations properly undersuch circumstances. What am I to


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THE OLD BOY 105do ? On the other hand, people willthink I imagined what I saw. I shallbe put under restraint. It was you whocompared the state of white men inasylums to that of natives under mypolice orders. I can't face it. My brotherused to be under restraint. God forgiveme But I don't think He is likely to.Good-bye '

I rushed to the door when I had readso far, but I was much too late. Thedoor was bolted, and he would not openfor all my knocking. It was after ahorridly drawn - out pause that thesound of the shot came.


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VIIITHE MIRACLE OF THE

NATIVITYThe priest from the north-west hadbeen telling Madambi and others ofthe Mashonas about the Christmas atBethlehem, and he told the legend ofhow Jewish ox and ass knelt and adoredthere in the stable. He went on to tellhow the cattle in his own

Documents

Faerylands Forlorn; African Tales (1910)