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قراءة كتاب Richard Galbraith, Mariner; Or, Life among the Kaffirs
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Richard Galbraith, Mariner; Or, Life among the Kaffirs
and Natal,” he replied.
“And the natives, Sir,” put in Jack Thompson.
“Of them I know little by recent report, save that some of the tribes are friendly, while others are very hostile to the white man.”
“Pray Heaven,” I ejaculated, “that we may signal a ship before there is time to make their acquaintance.”
“If it be Heaven’s will, yes,” rejoined the missionary, fervently. “But who knows, He may have cast us on these shores as a fitting soil to plant the seeds of His religion, which alone can give eternal happiness.”
Jack and I made no answer, for as yet we were too worldly and weak of faith to feel as resigned to the ways of Providence as this self-sacrificing young minister, whose constant study was his Master’s will.
“But come,” he added cheerfully, “now we find it is an old comrade that, for the last half hour has been frightening us, let us continue our search for shelter and rest.” Instantly concurring in this proposal, we soon found an overhanging rock, which formed a species of cave, the inside being well sheltered from the view of anyone on the outside by thickly tangled mimosa, and other bushes.
Into this we crept, I first, with a skill surprising to myself, having, by the aid of a stick knocked over one of the little animals such as I had seen, and which Mr Ferguson informed us was called a hyrax, or rock rabbit, they being very plentiful on this coast.
When we all three were inside the cave, we began to prepare our dinner. Jack skinned the hyrax, while I looked about for the means to kindle the dry branches I had collected, to cook it. I had, I am sorry to say, never thought much of book-learning, but now I was to discover its immense value. While still puzzling my brains as to how to procure a spark, to no purpose, Mr Ferguson, who had quitted the cave after borrowing my knife, returned bringing two pieces of wood, one flat, the other of a different kind, sharpened to a keen point.
“Is that touchwood, Sir,” I asked eagerly.
“Well, yes,” he replied with a smile. “I will show you how the natives of Abyssinia, and I believe in this place also, procure fire when they want it. This,” he added, meaning the flat piece, “is a soft wood; this pointed one is of the hard acacia. Now be ready to help when I want you.”
So saying, he sat down, holding the flat piece of wood firmly on the ground with his feet, then, placing the pointed acacia stick vertically upon it, began twirling it rapidly between the palms of his hands.
Jack and I attentively watched the process, and soon saw the hard point make its way slowly into the other, producing a fine dust, which presently began to darken in colour, and finally to smoke; upon this, by Mr Ferguson’s orders we blew softly, and speedily after a flame springing up ignited the wood.
“Well, that’s stunning, at any rate!” cried Jack, as the flame began to kindle the heap of branches.
“Yes; but we must not let the smoke be seen, else it will warn any keen-eyed Kaffir who may be in the neighbourhood of our whereabouts.”
We now all set to work, and in this in voluntary picnic began to forget the dangers which encompassed us. A first-rate dinner we made, and, for my part, it tasted all the better for the short but earnest blessing Mr Ferguson asked for it. Afterwards he insisted upon Jack and I taking some sleep, of which we all stood in great need, saying it was necessary for one to remain awake, and that he would take the first watch, arousing one of us when our turn came.
To use an old expression, we were really dog-tired, and notwithstanding the hardness of our beds, scarcely a minute elapsed before we were sleeping soundly. Once, before falling off, I heard Mr Ferguson tell Jack that if he snored so loud he would arouse all Caffraria. I am ashamed to confess it even now, but so tired were we, that Jack and I never woke for our turn of watch, and the kind-hearted young clergyman never disturbed us, though he must have been quite as weary as we were.
We had been asleep some hours, for the sun had set, and a large, glorious-faced moon was shining down full upon this uncultivated but splendid land, when I was startled broad-awake by a hand being placed on my shoulder. At the same moment Mr Ferguson’s voice whispered in my ear—
“Richard—Richard Galbraith, get up; I believe our retreat is discovered, and the Kaffirs are upon us.”
Chapter Four.
A Visit from a Native—The Mercy of Providence.
The moon shone in over the tops of the bushes outside the cave, with a broad flood of splendid silver light, throwing fantastic shadows inside upon the minister and me, the heap of ashes left from the fire, and on Jack Thompson, still sleeping in the further corner.
The beams falling at a direct angle, the foot of the bushes, by contrast, was left in intense darkness, and in this direction it was that, as the minister aroused me, I caught the sound of a stealthy movement. With suspended breath I half raised myself on my elbow. The minister knelt by my side, his left hand clutching my arm, his face turned to the entrance of the cave, with a finger raised to his lip, commanding silence.
We felt at that moment that our lives trembled in the balance, and, scarcely permitting a nerve to stir, we watched.
The stealthy rustling among the bushes, continued, evidently coming nearer. Once I motioned towards Jack Thompson with a look that I thought he ought to be awakened, but bending to my ear Mr Ferguson whispered,—
“I fear to do so. Our presence may yet be unknown to our enemies, and Thompson makes such a noise, sleeping or waking, that for his safety, as well as ours, he had better remain quiet while he is so.”
“If not conscious of our presence,” I returned in the same low tone, “why are they here? Is it for fishing?”
The missionary shook his head, as he replied, “Scarcely. Why they are here I cannot tell, but certainly not for fishing, for the Kaffirs never eat fish; it being such an aversion to them, that they cannot even fancy other people doing so.”
A few minutes passed in silence, while still the cautious sound approached nearer—yes, up to the very mouth of the cavern in which we were—when with a great gawp, as I peered into the bushes, I ejaculated, “Heaven have mercy upon us!”
“What is it, Galbraith?” asked Mr Ferguson eagerly, bending to my level.
“See,” I whispered, “See; the lion.” And there it stood, its two red eyes of flame glaring in upon us, or rather into the cave.
I felt the tremor in my own frame spread to my companion, and I made an effort to rise so as to be on my guard, but Mr Ferguson prevented me, whispering,—
“Make no noise, Galbraith, he may pass on.”
I shook my head as I pointed to the fresh skin of the hyrax, the smell of which had no doubt attracted the animal. My sign was all eloquent, and like statues—for we felt how utterly armless, and therefore powerless, we were—we waited, our eyes fixed on our foe. Even in this terrible moment, I could not help thinking how justly the lion had been termed the king of beasts. To see him properly, if not comfortably, is to see him free in his native land. The grandness of