THE KOPJE FARM

By William Johnston

Author of "Tom Graham, V.C.," "With the Rhodesian Horse," etc.

With Coloured Illustrations by Lancelot Speed

COLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS

LONDON, GLASGOW, AND NEW YORK

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. JACK LOVAT II. A BOER LAAGER III. FRINGED WITH FIRE IV. MR. LOVAT'S ADVENTURE V. DIAMOND VALLEY VI. A CAPE REBEL VII. A WEIRD ADVENTURE VIII. THE AMBUSH IX. THE RESCUE X. THE FARM RECAPTURED XI. DIAMONDS GALORE

THE KOPJE FARM

CHAPTER I JACK LOVAT

Those stirring times are days of the past, and the unsheathed sword has given place to the ploughshare, but weird pictures of bloodshed among man and beast are indelibly impressed on Jack Lovat's brain, and his dreams of to-day are often linked with the scenes enacted during the "White Men's War" beneath the glittering Southern Cross.

Jack Lovat was not a Colonial bred and born, for his boyhood had been passed amid the peaceful surroundings of a Highland sheep farm in dear old Scotland. Mr. Lovat, Jack's father, had been a laird of substantial means, and was descended from a line of ancestors in whose veins coursed a strain of royal blood; but bad times came, and Jack, instead of proceeding to Loretto, took passage as a member of the Lovat family, in a Castle liner bound for Cape Town.

Jack was seventeen at the time our story opens. Rather above the middle height, he was broad, and his bronzed features testified to his three years' sojourn on the South African veldt.

The Kaffirs on his father's ostrich farm, near Orangefontein, had dubbed him "The Strong-armed Baas," only a month later than his advent to the holding locally known as "The Kopje Farm."

Pete, the Kaffir who acted as native foreman to Mr. Lovat, declared that "Baas Jack" could fell the biggest ox ever inspanned in a Cape waggon, which of course was an exaggeration of a very bad type, but to which statement Pete and the other "boys" employed on the estate pinned implicit faith.

The dogs of war had been let loose in South Africa, but Orangefontein had not been troubled as yet. Ladysmith, Kimberley, and gallant little tin-roofed Mafeking had been besieged and relieved, but round the homes of the settlers near Ookiep and Orangefontein tranquillity reigned.

On the outbreak of hostilities, Jack Lovat had begged his father to allow him to join a Colonial mounted corps, but Mr. Lovat withheld his permission.

"No, boy," said the ostrich farmer; "we will defend our home to the last, and I can't spare you; so say no more about it. It will be quite time for us to take up arms when the Boers come round here." So Jack, with a somewhat bad grace, had to rest content, and busy himself with attending to the ostriches and the big fruit farm on the bank of the Zak River.

One afternoon during the African winter, Jack and Pete were engaged in rounding up the ostriches. Mr. Lovat had left early in the morning for Springbokfontein. He had driven over to the town in a light Cape cart, in whose shafts was Bessie—a favourite mare, foaled on the farm, and belonging to Mary Lovat, Jack's sister.

Bessie was known to be the fastest roadster in the district, and was as playful as a kitten, and never was a horse better loved than was Bessie by Mary Lovat.

The ostrich farmer had promised Mrs. Lovat that he would be home soon after midday, and it was now four hours past that time; so Jack was naturally anxious.

In a cowhide portmanteau Mr. Lovat had taken five hundred sovereigns, intended for deposit in Springbokfontein Bank. The town guard in Springbokfontein was exceptionally strong, and Mr. Lovat, after much discussion with his wife and Jack, had decided to deposit the gold for safe keeping in the bank, instead of, as Mrs. Lovat at first suggested, hiding it in some carefully marked spot on the kopje, in case of the advent of the Boers.

The ostriches having been penned up in Cromarty Kraal—so called from his mother's maiden name—Jack turned to Pete and said, "My father is late. I hope he is all right."

"De baas will come in his own good time," observed Pete; "he will be able to take good care ob himself. Dere be no Boers about here."

"I should like to see some of them come," said Jack, with a laugh. "I think we could give a good account of them. Let me see," and the young settler began to count on his fingers; "there's you, Pete, and Saul, Moses, Jethro, Simon, Zacchary, Daniel, Obadiah, and I must not forget Pat, besides my father and self. That makes eleven, doesn't it? With the rifles and ammunition we got from Port Nolloth, and inside our strong walls, we could keep a commando at bay."

Jack's enthusiasm began to rise, and he went on: "I hope some of the beggars do come down upon us. I want to try my rifle upon something better than springbok and hartebeeste. What say you, Pete?"

A broad grin spread over the Kaffir's face, as he replied, "I dunno, Baas Jack. I no want a Mauser bullet through my skin. All de same, baas, if de time eber comes, Pete will be found ready to lay down his life for de baas, missis, little missie, an' you."

"Bravo, Pete! spoken like a man!" cried Jack, who nearly so far forgot himself as to shake hands with the Kaffir. "And now, Pete, let us go round and see what the boys are doing."

Kopje Farm well deserved its appellation, for it stood on the middle spur of a high, flat-topped range of hills. The building had been erected many years before by a Dutch settler, when trouble was rife with the Bantus, and its thick stone walls, loopholed here and there, gave it the appearance of a fort. Around the dwelling-house ran a wall of stone, some six feet in height and correspondingly thick, which had continuations to the ostrich kraal, where the birds were penned at night.

Jack found that the "boys" had finished their task of fastening up the ostriches committed to their charge, and were standing in a group, chattering in their guttural Kaffir tongue. A few yards away was Pat O'Neill, an Irishman hailing from the wilds of Connaught, who had followed the fortunes of the Lovat family as general factotum from the day the Scotch laird had landed in the colony.

Jack's quick eye glanced at the Kaffirs, after which he strode towards the place where Pat was standing contemplatively smoking a short black duddeen. Pat on seeing his young master approach, came instantly to the salute; for the Connemara man, twenty years before, had formed one of the glorious defenders of Rorke's Drift.

"Where is Saul?" inquired Jack of the Irishman.

"He has gone on an errand for the mistress, sorr," answered Pat. "One of Master Butler's children down the valley is laid up wid fever, an' the mistress, who is good to every one, has sent some cooling medicine for the poor thing, which will do it good, please God. Has the master returned from Springbokfontein?"

"He has not arrived yet, Pat," answered Jack.

"Then I shall be mighty glad when I see him," observed the Irishman.

"Things are all right, Pat," said Jack, forcing a laugh.

"They may be, and may not be, sorr," remarked Pat. "Zacchary has just told me that a commando of Boers under the daring leader, Christian Uys, is trekking this way. The last time the Boers were heard of they were in the Upper Zak River district. How in the world these niggers get news, sorr, is more than Pat O'Neill, late corporal in the ould 24th Regiment, can understand. Shall I saddle up and go to meet the master, sorr?"

"Not a bad idea, Pat. Just wait a moment until I see mother;" and Jack went inside the farmhouse, where he found Mrs. Lovat peering through a window at the long winding road leading down the valley towards Springbokfontein.

Hearing footsteps, Mrs. Lovat turned round, and seeing Jack, said, "I'm dreadfully anxious about your father, Jack. I cannot understand why he has not returned. It is so unlike him to disappoint me."

"He'll be all right, mother," observed Jack cheerfully. "Very probably he has met some one he has not seen for a time. He is sure to be here before nightfall. Did he take any lamps? I was busy branding an ostrich when he went away."

"Yes, he trimmed the lamps and put them on before he set out," answered Mrs. Lovat. "I was rather surprised, as I thought he would not need them."

"These South African roads are not good, and people are delayed sometimes," said Jack. "Pat is going down the road to meet him, so cheer up, mother. Where is Mary?"

"She has a bad headache, Jack, and is lying down on the couch in the dining-room," replied Mrs. Lovat. "I do wish this time of dreadful uncertainty was over. It seems to be wearing my life out."

"I should like to take part in the war, mother," said Jack. "I sometimes get tired of the humdrum life we lead. Why didn't dad allow me to join the Scouts Mr. Driscoll raised when the war broke out? I can fight as well as any man, and I know I can shoot straight."

"Jack!"

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, mother; but if any Boers come here to harm you or Mary, they will have a bad time of it, so long as I can stand on my feet or hold a rifle."

Tears came into gentle Mrs. Lovat's eyes, as she replied, "The war spirit is a dreadful thing, Jack. It seems a crime in this twentieth century for men to be so anxious to imbrue their hands in their fellow-creatures' blood. I am always saying, 'Lord! how long?'"

"Well, all I can say, mother, is that if any Boers try to take Kopje Farm, while I can handle my rifle, they will stand a chance of being winged for their pains," observed Jack. "No Boers come here unless I am disabled and can't stop them. I am going now to tell Pat to saddle up and give a look-out for dad;" and saying this, he strode out of the apartment and walked to where Pat was still standing staring at the road leading to Springbokfontein.

"Pat!"

"Yes, sorr," answered the Irishman, coming to attention; "I'm at your service, sorr."

"Put the saddle on Cawdor and gallop down the road. If you should happen to meet father, you need not say that I sent you. You understand?"

"I know your meaning perfectly well, sorr," replied Pat; and the honest fellow walked to the stables, where he saddled Cawdor, a beautiful Arab, which Mr. Lovat had purchased at Worcester a year before, while on his ostrich-selling peregrinations.

Jack looked attentively at Pat's preparations. The Irishman spent some time in examining the saddlery, paying special attention to the girths, and being apparently satisfied with his inspection, he mounted.

"You have forgotten your rifle," said Jack. "You had better take it with you."

"I've got a barker, sorr," observed Pat, with a laugh, tapping his hip-pocket. "An officer of the ould corps gave it me many years ago, an' we've not parted company yet."

"Wait here till I return," said Jack authoritatively; and the settler's son went back to the house.

Jack proceeded straight to a storeroom where Mr. Lovat was in the habit of keeping his rifles and ammunition. He selected a weapon of the Lee-Enfield pattern, and took down a bandolier which was hanging on a peg. The bandolier was empty, but Jack broke open an ammunition box and filled the pockets of the belt with cartridges, after which he returned to Pat.

"Here, take these, Pat," said Jack, handing up the rifle and bandolier, which the Irishman took. The latter slung the belt over his shoulder, and, at Jack's suggestion, filled the magazine of the rifle.

"Well, good-bye, sorr," said Pat, and the next moment Cawdor was proceeding at a canter down the mountain road.

An hour passed, still no signs of Mr. Lovat or Pat, and Jack's anxiety increased. The ostrich farmer was a man of his word, and Jack began to fear that something was wrong, but he kept a cheerful face in front of his mother and Mary.

They were sitting in the dining-room, partaking of tea, when a tap was heard on the half-open door. Jack instantly rose to his feet and went outside. In the hall stood Pete. The Kaffir did not speak, but beckoned with his forefinger, and then passed through a door leading to a back yard.

Jack followed, and when outside, said, "Well, Pete, what is it?"

"Baas Jack," exclaimed Pete, "I dunno, but something is wrong. Come!" and the native walked rapidly round to the front of the house, Jack following in wonderment.

"Look, baas," said the Kaffir, "what does that mean?" and he pointed to what appeared to be a moving spot on the veldt.

Jack gazed long and earnestly. "Why, it is a horse without a rider!" he exclaimed at last.

Kaffirs are noted for their keenness of vision, and shading his eyes with his right hand, Pete observed, "The horse is coming dis way, Baas Jack."

Pete was right. Nearer and nearer came the flying quadruped, until at last the stirrups from an empty saddle could be seen swaying backwards and forwards.

Jack's breath came thick and fast. The horse in a mad gallop was approaching them.

"Baas Jack," cried Pete, "it is Bessie!"

And so it proved. A few moments later, Mary's pet, the beautiful creature Mr. Lovat had driven to Springbokfontein that morning in the Cape cart, galloped up, covered with foam and blood!

Bessie was trembling in every limb, but she whinnied gently as Jack patted her neck. On Bessie's back was a Boer saddle. A sudden fear descended on Jack Lovat, and mentally he asked the question, "What has happened to father?"

The mare was bleeding from a wound in the right shoulder, evidently caused by a bullet.

"Take her round to the stables, Pete," said Jack. "I will join you presently." Saying this, he went into the house. He met Mrs. Lovat coming out of the dining-room, and she at once accosted him.

"What is the matter, Jack? I heard the noise of hoofs just now. Is it your father who has returned?"

"No, he has not come yet, mother," answered Jack. "You must finish your tea. Pete wants me round at the stables. I shall be back presently;" and he went out again, but Mrs. Lovat followed him.

Pete was busily engaged in rubbing down the mare, and when Mrs. Lovat caught a glimpse of the blood on the poor creature's hide, she cried out, "Why, Jack, it is Bessie! Where is your father?" and the settler's wife burst into a flood of tears.

"You are in the way just now, mother," said Jack gently. "Go inside, until I have seen to Bessie. Something, I am afraid, has happened. The poor thing is in great pain, and I must do what I can to relieve it. Do go inside, please, mother. I will come to you presently."'

Mrs. Lovat, whose vivid imagination had conjured up all kinds of evils, obeyed Jack, and returned to the house.

Now Jack Lovat's sterling qualities of coolness and resource began to be displayed. With the skill of an experienced veterinary surgeon, he examined Bessie's wound, and then carefully washed away the coagulated blood. A gaping orifice an inch in diameter in the animal's shoulder told Jack that it was a gunshot wound and that it had been caused by a Mauser expanding bullet.

The "boys" had gathered round, all anxious to help; but Jack would allow no other hands than those of himself and Pete to touch the mare, so the Kaffirs drew back, and stood whispering among themselves.

Suddenly a clattering noise was heard, and before the "boys" could get out of the way, Pat O'Neill, mounted on Cawdor, whose chest and flanks were foam-flecked, was on the top of them, sending Zacchary and Moses tumbling to the ground.

The Irishman was bareheaded, and the arteries in his temples stood out like whipcord. He pulled Cawdor up, and dismounted. Jack, with wildly dilated eyes, queried, "What is the matter, Pat? Have you seen father?"

"No, sorr," gasped the faithful Irishman, "I haven't seen the master; but a Boer commando—bad luck to them!—is making straight for us. And I'm afraid, sorr, it will be a bad job for all of us. Their scouts are close at hand even now. You'll fight, sorr?"

"Yes, we will all fight, Pat," answered Jack proudly. "Boys, all at once to the storeroom. Pete, take Bessie into the stable and give her some water and a feed of corn. I'm sorry for mother and Mary, but it can't be helped. No surrender to the Boers!"

And Jack Lovat, although only a lad, and suffering under dire apprehension, began his preparations for the defence of the Kopje Farm.

His worthy henchman, Pat O'Neill, had often detailed to him the story of the glorious defence of Rorke's Drift, where a few Britishers, many of whom were sick and wounded, for hours, amid flames and death-dealing bullets, had held at bay the flower of savage Tshingwayo's command.

"Master Jack," said Pat, as Mr. Lovat's son stopped for a moment in his work, "we will hould the place for the sake of the missis an' Miss Mary, an' please the Almighty, I hope wid the same results as we had at the Drift on the Buffalo River, when eight Victoria Crosses were won in one night."

"We will hold it to the last, Pat," responded Jack quietly. "My father has had to work hard for all he has, and the Boers shan't take it from him while my finger can pull a trigger;" and Jack Lovat meant every word he said.

CHAPTER II A BOER LAAGER

Eleven miles north-west of Orangefontein, and an almost equal distance from Springbokfontein, a party of Boers were laagered. They were Free Staters, with a sprinkling of Hollanders and renegade Britons—the latter, few in number, having at one time served with the English colours, and owing to their misdeeds, had deserted or been drummed out of the British army.

Nearly all were in rags, for that ubiquitous cavalry leader, General French, had not allowed them a minute's rest, but had hurried and harried them hither and thither, until the majority of the burghers had grown sick and tired of the guerilla warfare, and wished for the end to come.

Their portable possessions—and indeed the latter could not be otherwise than portable—were stowed away in a few light Cape carts.

Ammunition was scarce, and had to be husbanded with the greatest care, while food could only be procured with much difficulty from the scattered farmsteads among the mountains of the Langeberg Range.

A Boer of immense stature, holding in his right hand a formidable sjambok, was leaning against the wheel of one of the carts. He was a magnificent specimen of physical manhood, and the privations that for two long years he had uncomplainingly endured had only served to increase his tremendous muscular strength.

His bronzed and deeply marked features showed a strength of will and determination rare even in that race of obstinate men, the Boers of South Africa.

An immense beard swept his breast, the hair composing it being streaked with gray. When Christian Uys first shouldered his rifle on the outbreak of hostilities he was, comparatively speaking, a young man, but under the sombre folds of the flag of war he had grown prematurely aged and gray.

A young burgher passing with a led horse, with a limping gait, arrested his attention, and awoke him from the train of gloomy reveries he was indulging in.

"Ah, Van Donnop," said the commandant, "I wish to speak to you. What is the matter with your horse?"

The burgher whom he addressed was a sprightly young fellow of nineteen, strongly made, and as agile as the springbok he had hunted from youth upwards.

"It is lame, Commandant," answered the youth. "One of its pasterns is split. I do not think it will be able to travel farther. And my favourite horse, too. I am very sorry, for it has been mine since it was a foal."

"I too am sorry, Piet," said the officer in a sympathising tone of voice. "We are greatly in need of horses."

The commandant stooped down and examined the horse's hoofs, after which he looked up and remarked in a grave tone of voice, "A bad case, Piet. The poor brute must be killed."

A crimson flush surged up into the face of the young burgher, and he exclaimed excitedly, "Do not ask me to kill her, Commandant! She was my mother's gift to me when I was sixteen. I am hoping to leave her at my father's farm and obtain another mount in her place."

A look of pity crept into the commandant's face as he gazed at the boy.

"Ah, I forgot, Van Donnop," said the Boer leader; "you are now in your native parts. How long have you served in my commando?"