Charge! | Page 3

spades.
That night, before going to bed, tired, but happy with the thoughts of our orchard to come, I walked with father beneath the great stars, going round the place--father with his rifle over his shoulder--to see if all was safe.
We went straight to the wagon, to find the oxen all lying down chewing their cud, and from under the tilt there came a deep, heavy snore; but there was also a rustling sound, a big black head popped out, and the man said, in a deep, thick voice:
"Boss, hear lion?"
"No," said my father sharply. "Did you, boy?"
"Iss. Oom! Wawk, wawk, wawk. Boss, lissum."
We stood there in the silence, and for a full minute I could hear nothing but the deep snore of the Boer and chewing of the oxen. Then, distinctly heard, but evidently at a great distance, there was the tremendous barking roar of a lion, and my father uttered a deep "Ha!"
"Boss shoot lion," said the black in a quiet, contented way; and from out of the darkness beneath the great wagon came the sound of the foreloper settling himself down once more to sleep. I remember wondering whether he had anything to cover himself, for the night was fresh and cold. I asked my father.
"Yes; I saw him with a sheepskin over his shoulders. He won't hurt."
We were interrupted by no lion that night, and at the first dawn of day we were out with the spades again; our black visitor, under my direction, digging the holes for the trees, while father planted, and Bob held the stems straight upright till their roots were all nicely spread out, and soil carefully placed amongst them, and trampled firmly in.
This went on till breakfast-time, when Aunt Jenny called us, and the Dutchman came and sat with us, while the great Kaffir carried his portion away, and sat under the wagon to munch.
After the meal the Boer lit his pipe, sat down on a piece of rock, and smoked and looked on till midday, by which time the fruit-trees were all planted, and the big Kaffir had trotted to and fro with a couple of buckets, bringing water to fill up the saucer-like depressions placed about each tree. Then Aunt Jenny called us to dinner, and after that the Boer said it was time to inspan and begin the journey back.
Oh, how well I remember it all!--seeing my father opening a wash-leather bag and paying the Boer the sum that had been agreed upon, and that he wasn't satisfied, but asked for another dollar for the work done by his man. Then father laughed and said he ought to charge for the meals that had been eaten; but he gave the Boer the money all the same; and Aunt Jenny uttered a deep grunt, and said afterwards in her old-fashioned way, "Oh John, what a foolish boy you are!" Then he kissed her and said, "Yes, Jen. I always was. You didn't half-teach me when I was young."
This was after we had watched the wagon grow smaller and smaller in the distance on its way back, and after the great black had stood and looked down at me and laughed in his big, noisy way.
Then once more we were alone in the great desert, father looking proudly down at his little orchard, and Bob walking up and down touching every tree, and counting them over again.
"Begins to look homely now, Val," he said; "but we must work, boy-- work."
We did work hard to make that place the home it grew to.
"It's for you, boys," he said, "when I'm dead and gone;" and it was about that time I began to think and understand more fully how father was doing it all for the sake of us boys, and to try and ease his heart-ache. Aunt Jenny set me thinking by her words, and at last I fully grasped how it all was.
"I believe he'd have died broken-hearted, Val," she said to me, "if I hadn't come to him. It was after your poor dear mother passed away. I told him he was not acting like a man and a father to give up like that, and it roused him; and one day--you remember, it was when I had come to keep house for him--he turned to me and said, `I shall never be happy in England again; and I've been thinking it would be a good thing to take those boys out to the Cape and settle there. They'll grow up well and strong in the new land, and I shall try to make a home for them yonder.' `Yes, John,' I said, `that's the very thing you ought to do.' `Ah,' he said, `but it means leaving you behind, Jenny, dear, and you'll perhaps never set eyes upon them