CHAPTER XXXIV

STUCK IN THE MUD

The following day, Steve and his three companions had good sport amongst the guinea-fowl and other birds.

The transport riders had left early in the morning, each with a good load of firewood for the Pretoria market, as their month of inactivity was at an end, and they had once more to begin work. It had been agreed that the party with the cart should start about ten o’clock from the night’s camping place, after having had a turn at the guinea-fowl, etc., and as the waggons started at seven, the cart would catch up with them somewhere about noon, when they could once more have dinner together.

As agreed so done. Steve and his companions came speeding towards the drift, beyond which, it had been agreed, the waggons would outspan, and get dinner ready. As they came nearer, they heard an uproar of oxwhips clapping, and men shouting. When they arrived on the scene they saw that one of the waggons was _stuck_ in the drift.

All the other waggons had crossed safely, but the last one, the most heavily laden, and having the weakest span of oxen, had sunk deep in the mud of the drift. The water was no more than two feet deep, but the mud was nearly as deep in itself.

The occupants of the cart saw at a glance that there was no chance for them to pass while the waggon occupied the narrow drift. They, therefore, left Harrison in charge of the cart, and went forward to see how matters proceeded. They found the waggon sunk to the nave in the mud. The oxen were panting and struggling to pull through the mud. Their leader was pulled hither and thither as they swayed to and fro in their efforts to pull out. The men, half naked, were struggling about in the water, talking to the oxen, and clapping their whips. But in vain, the waggon would not budge an inch.

The youngsters from town thought this struggling about in the water trying to extricate a waggon stuck in the mud fine fun, so they took off their clothes, and joined the party of transport riders in the water.

Steve and his friends soon discovered that the pleasantest part of the fun was to sit, perched on top of the waggon, and watch the efforts of the others to urge the oxen forward.

There was a lull. Another span of oxen had been sent for to hook on in front. Speelman, who had been the liveliest in his efforts to get forward, was standing alongside of the hind oxen. He was almost naked, having just a remnant of a shirt on. He looked like a dusky mermaid of the waters, he moved so rapidly about; he was now under the oxen, now right under the trek chain; he seemed to be everywhere.

‘I say, Speelman, did you see any snakes this morning?’ asked Steve.

‘No, baas, don’t want to see ’em,’ said Speelman, suspiciously looking about him, as if he expected to see snakes in the water.

‘Jump on the ox,’ cried Keith; and in a second Speelman was astride of the kicking bullock.

‘Stand on your head in the water,’ cried Keith again, not expecting to be obeyed in this. But Speelman ducked into the water, head foremost, and only the tips of his legs were seen above water, kicking furiously.

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ said Steve, laughing. ‘It is dangerous; he might get drowned.’

He remained down so long, and the kicking became so furious, that Steve became anxious. He shouted to him to get up, but Speelman could not hear him.

‘By Jove! his head must be sticking in the mud,’ he cried, and jumping down, he seized Speelman by the legs and pulled him up. Assisted by Keith from the waggon, the poor old Hottentot was dragged on to the seat of the waggon. The poor old fellow presented a most comical face when pulled up. He was drawing in great breaths, to get his steam up again, while he spat the black mud out of his mouth. His whole head, eyes, ears and all were thickly coated with the black, sticky mud, while his pepper corn hair had disappeared under a coating of the same black, smooth pomade. It appears that his head really _did_ stick in the mud.

‘You must not do that again, baas; poor old Speelman would have been drowned if the baas had not pulled him out,’ said he to Keith.

As to Keith, he and his companions had been too frightened to laugh at this exhibition of Speelman’s funniosities. He gave Speelman half-a-crown, and told him to go and wash the mud out of his mouth at the canteen beyond the drift. At this moment the extra span of oxen arrived, was attached to the front of the regular span, and with a _Trek, trek, haai you schelm, vat zou blik schottel_, the waggon moved forward, and was soon outspanned with the rest on the other side of the drift. The cart followed over, and soon the whole party was partaking of the regular bush veld fare--venison steak, leg of venison, broiled guinea-fowl, and _storm jagers_ (dough cakes).

Speelman followed the advice given him by Baas Keith, and after having imbibed a pint of peach brandy, was as merry as a cricket, and was none the worse for his immersion, except, perhaps, that he was a little more pot-bellied than usual from the quantity of water he had drunk while standing on his head in the drift.

After dinner, Steve and his party took leave of the transport riders with mutual expressions of good will and hopes of meeting again.

In this way they proceeded from camp to camp. Many parties of farmers were met wintering with their herds in the bush veld; and all they had to do was to decide at which encampment they would outspan, or at which they would spend the night, which was mostly decided by the party of farmers who could give the most favourable report as to the game in their neighbourhood.

They had various success. One day, perhaps, they had the best of sport, the next day, perhaps, they failed in bringing down a single head of game. But on the whole, they were perfectly satisfied with their trip. We shall relate only one more incident of their holiday trip. It was the last day; that evening they hoped to sleep in Pretoria again. They were speeding along merrily. It was still forenoon, and Pretoria was hardly four hours distant, so they had no doubt of reaching home before night. It had rained severely the day before along the track of country on which they were then travelling. Suddenly they turned into the main road from the warm baths, and now they had reason to regret the rain of the day before--they were in the famous _turf veld_.

They had not proceeded far before the turf began to tell severely on the pace of the horses. At first they slackened their speed only a little, but soon they were going at barely more than a walk. The sticky black soil was coating the wheels to such a degree that the spokes gradually became nearer and nearer to each other, until the wheels had no spokes, but became a solid mass of black turf. All that the travellers could do was to halt and scrape off the worst part of the mud, when for a time they were able to go on again at a slightly better pace. Full advantage was taken of any unbroken veld, where the heavy waggons had not yet cut up the soil into furrows and ridges of soft black soil. But these patches were scarce, as every driver of waggon or cart generally turns out of the beaten track into the grass alongside, and in course of time the quarter or half mile strip of country, which is supposed to be left unfenced along all roads as feeding ground for trekking herds, becomes so cut up that very little choice is left the traveller as to where he shall steer his weary beasts.

The young men were wearily and dejectedly plodding along, dismounting now and again to scrape the wheels, when they came to a waggon standing in the middle of the road--deserted. The oxen were still inspanned and seemed waiting for their owner. No fear of their running away; how could they? Their own feet were invisible, a round mass of black _turf_--twice the usual size of ox feet--was all that was visible where their feet ought to be, while the wheels of the waggon seemed to be made of solid chunks of mud--no spokes, no rims, no naves being visible.

‘Well, this is funny,’ remarked Harrison; ‘a waggon without owner. There is something wrong here; nobody would leave their waggon inspanned like this--untended.’

‘Yes, it is queer,’ answered Steve. ‘But I fancy there is the owner coming on,’ said he, pointing to a man visible in the road about half a mile farther on.

‘It may be the owner, but he is not coming, but standing, evidently waiting for the party I see farther on.’

‘Why, the nearest one is a woman,’ said Keith, ‘the other one is a man; but I wonder what is the matter with them? They both remain standing on one spot, but they are gesticulating like mad.’

They soon approached the first party they had seen. IT _was_ a woman. She was an elderly old lady, very stout in the beams, and one would have thought, even under ordinary circumstances, she must find it difficult to walk any distance. She appeared to be standing on two lumps of turf, but--they were sticking to her feet. Every step she took increased the size of the lump, until at last she was obliged to stop, she could drag her burden (which, unlike that of Christian, was attached to her feet) along no more.

‘Well, I’m blessed if it is not old Mrs M’Kwaire,’ cried Steve.

‘And who may she be?’ queried Keith.

‘Why, she is Mrs M’Kwaire,’ he replied, laughing. ‘She is an old lady of Dutch extraction, married to an old Irishman, both characters in their way--very comical and amusing as a rule; it is most amusing to set old M’Kwaire’s tongue a-wagging by mentioning _Home Rule_. If you once start him, you may go away for half-an-hour and come back to find him still talking to some imaginary antagonist about Home Rule and the wrongs of Ireland.’

‘Hillo, Tante, why don’t you ride on the waggon?’ cried out Steve, as they stopped alongside of her.

‘That is what I would like to do,’ she replied, ‘but that foolish Pat would get down to pick up a yoke skey lying in the road, when he remained _stuck_, and, as the oxen would not stop, I, like another fool, got down to help him while the oxen walked on with the waggon to where it is now standing. And now I am sticking between Pat and the waggon; I can’t get to him, he cannot get to me, and neither of us can get to the waggon.’

The young fellows could not help bursting into loud roars of laughter at the ludicrousness of the scene. They halted as near to the old lady as possible, and helped her on to their cart and drove on to where Pat was standing, talking and swearing all the time.

‘Well, old _Stick-in-the-mud_,’ cried Keith, ‘it seems the mountain _won’t_ come to Mahomet, and Mahomet _can’t_ go to the mountain; what does Mahomet intend doing now?’ All laughed at this sally.

‘Begorrah, sor, ye niver would lave a pore old mon ’ere.’

‘No, I am afraid that would be another wrong to old Oireland. Well, Pat, if Ireland can get out of her troubles as easily as you, I would advise you to get back to her, and stand for the first election of president, king, or emperor, whatever your new constitution would call your chief ruler. I think you stand a good chance.’

‘Come along, Keith, that is enough for one day, you are getting too humorously clever,’ said Steve. ‘Give us your hand, Pat, and jump up if you can.’

But Pat could not jump. He had to be dragged into the cart, and was thus able to sit down and scrape his feet clean again.

Pat and Mrs Pat were driven back to their waggon, and left behind to proceed to their farm, while the party in the cart proceeded on their way to Pretoria, where they arrived just as darkness was closing in.

‘There is one thing I would like to remark now that we are home again,’ remarked Keith. ‘And it is just this. I have been converted. I had always been impressed with the idea that the Boers are half savage, exclusive, inhospitable and unkind to strangers, especially to Englishmen. I have seen my error. I do not believe there is a country in the world where one would receive such kindness, consideration and hospitality as we have received during our trip. I for one reckon myself as the friend and champion of all Boers from to-day.’

‘You are right,’ said Harrison. ‘When we started, I hardly believed Steve’s promise of hospitality from all and sundry, and fully expected to have rough times of it, and I have been agreeably disappointed at the kindness shown us by all.’