Читать книгу: «Tales of South Africa», страница 11

Chapter Eleven.
The Story of Jacoba Steyn

Jacoba Steyn lives with her brother Hans and his wife and numerous family on a remote farm far up in Waterberg, to the north-west of the Transvaal. She is, although now well on in middle age, a spinster – a rather remarkable circumstance among the women of the South African Dutch. For Jacoba is, as Dutch Afrikanders go, not uncomely, and few Boer women of her looks and condition in life escape, or desire to escape, from the joys and cares of matrimony. You would never think, to look at Jacoba Steyn nowadays, that there was much of romance or sentiment in her nature. She is now a stout spinster of forty-seven, thick and square of figure, and, as she takes her kapje off, you may note the grey threads showing thick in her dull brown hair. Yet Jacoba cherishes within her broad breast a very real and very tender romance, as all her relations and some few of her friends know.

Thirty years ago there came into the life of this staid, sober-minded Boer woman a bright gleam of passion, which ever since has illumined her quiet existence. That romance will never fade from her heart. Its tender memory shapes and tinges almost every act of her working, everyday life. It softens those somewhat rude asperities of manner which the average Boer housewife usually exhibits. It gives that kindly content which shines forth from the blue eyes and upon the homely features of spinster Jacoba. All the ragged, rough, and noisy crew of children – there are nine of them – of her brother Hans call in Tant Jacoba for the settlement of quarrels and the drying of tears. Her renown as a peacemaker has a far wider field than that of her somewhat sharp-tongued sister-in-law, the mother of all this unruly brood. Until ten years ago many of the neighbouring Boers of Waterberg – bachelors and widowers – still cherished the hope and belief that Jacoba Steyn was to be induced into the bonds of matrimony. Jacoba was still on the right side of middle age; she was far from ill-looking in the eyes of a Dutch farmer; a certain air of refinement, peculiar to herself, distinguished her from all her fellows. And she had flocks and herds of her own, running upon her brother’s veldt, as well as some good tobacco “lands,” which yielded no mean profit each year. The few cows and goats set apart for Jacoba in her infancy, according to the ancient patriarchal Boer plan, had increased and multiplied. Jacoba Steyn’s stock always had luck, and throve handsomely; and so at the age of thirty-seven she was still looked upon as an excellent match. But Jacoba had throughout her life steadily refused all offers of marriage. It was very exasperating to her family in her younger days, and a complete mystery to the Boer men who knew little of her earlier life. Gradually it dawned upon the minds of these slow-witted Waterberg Dutchmen that in real sober truth Jacoba Steyn was not to be won, that she was vowed to spinsterhood, and that some unaccountable attachment of her girlish days prevented her from ever accepting another man’s attentions.

When she had reached the age of forty, her youngest brother, Hans, with whom and whose family she had, since the death of her parents, always lived, ceased to urge upon her to take a husband. It was hopeless, and, after all, Jacoba’s cattle, goats, and savings would be a great help to the children at some future time. And so, at the age of forty-seven, Jacoba had outlived the attentions of bucolic swains, and the strong and even forcible recommendations of her own family, and was left to pursue unmolested the tenor of her quiet existence. She helped Lijsbet, her brother Hans’s wife, with her unwieldy family, performed more than her share of the household duties, and wore always a look of quiet happiness upon her broad, pleasant face. Twice or thrice a year she trekked with the family to Nachtmaal (Communion) at Pretoria. After all, Jacoba was a woman, and even she, weaned though she was from the hopes and fears and commoner frets of the world, could not find it in her heart to deny herself the pleasure of a few days in the Boer capital, the sight of shops and winkels (stores) and English folk, the joys of attendance in the Dutch Reformed Church, and some little intercourse with the predikant (pastor). The predikant knew something of Jacoba’s strange story; he was a man of some refinement and much sympathy; and it did the quiet Dutchwoman good to have a talk with the minister she had known so long. Sometimes on the calm Sunday evenings up in Waterberg, when the cattle and goats are kraaled for the night and the still veldt lies golden beneath the kiss of sunset, when the bush koorhaan (bustards) are playing their half-hour of strange aerial pranks and evolutions yonder, just outside the dark fringe of bush, Jacoba wanders from the low homestead and sits up above the Falala River, dreaming upon an old, old tale. That tale was once full of mingled memories – bitter-sweet. You may tell now, from the clear, tender look on the good woman’s face, that her thoughts are mainly pleasant ones. Time and she have healed, or nearly healed, her once bruised heart. Jacoba’s tale is a simple one. Yet it has its romantic side. It is not widely known even in Waterberg, and it may perhaps be worth the telling.

Jacoba Steyn’s father was one of those sturdy emigrant Boers who crossed the Vaal River towards 1837, defeated that terror of the north, Moselikatse, and his fierce Matabele warriors, drove them beyond the Limpopo, and took possession of the vast countries now known as the Orange Free State and Transvaal. Jan Steyn was, until the verge of old age, one of those restless frontier-men who are never content to settle down entirely to the pastoral life of the average Dutch farmer. He was a great hunter, and during the first ten years of his career beyond the Vaal he found almost as much occupation as he needed within the boundaries of the newly formed republic. But after that time elephants began to grow scarce within the Transvaal, and the ivory-hunters had to push their way farther afield. Moselikatse’s country – which we now call Matabeleland – was a sealed book for the Boers; the old Zulu lion seldom allowed them to enter it, and then only on payment of an extortionate tribute. Some of the hunters gradually thrust their way through Zoutpansberg eastward into the low countries (rich in game, but terribly feverish and unhealthy), towards Delagoa Bay; others gained permission from the Bamangwato chief, Sekhomi, and followed the ivory into the wild deserts towards Lake N’gami and the Zambesi. Among these last was to be found Jan Steyn. Jan had settled, after the final defeat of Moselikatse and his hordes, in that magnificent district of the western Transvaal now known as Marico. He had had hard times during the war with the Matabele, and had lost more than half his cattle. However, he consoled himself by selecting a 6,000 acre farm of rich and well-watered land, which he appropriately christened “Beter laat dan Nooit,” (“Better late than never”). His friend Jan Viljoen, the famous elephant-hunter, was his nearest neighbour. Viljoen had named his farm “Vär Genoog,” (“Far Enough”), not by any means a bad name for a trekking farmer who had wandered in search of a home from the Knysna, on the extreme southern littoral of Cape Colony, to the far Marico River.

Well, Jan Steyn built himself a house of Kaffir bricks, beaconed off his farm, and settled down for a year or two to get things into shape. After that time the wandering spirit overcame him again, and, leaving his farm in charge of a near relation, he put his family into the big tent-wagon and trekked away each season of African winter into the hunting veldt. Jan Viljoen and other neighbours followed the same plan. Elephants were inordinately plentiful, tusks were magnificently heavy, and a good trade in ivory could, in those days, be done with native chiefs. Jan Steyn’s wife and family – six in all – always accompanied him on these expeditions. The tough vrouw refused to be left behind, and where she went the family went also. So that from her earliest years the little Jacoba remembered always the strange, wild life of the hunting veldt, the voice of lions and hyaenas by night, the great camp-fire, the return of the hunters laden with the hard-won spoils of chase, the dark groups of Kaffirs carrying in the long gleaming tusks of ivory. Like her mother, Jacoba as she neared her teens, could load a gun, and upon occasion, even knew how to discharge it.

By the year 1855, the Transvaal elephant-hunters were trekking very far afield in search of ivory. Livingstone’s discovery of Lake N’gami in 1849 had opened up a new region, teeming with the great tusk-bearing pachyderms, and a few Boer hunters began to filter gradually into the deserts towards the Lake and the Chobe River. Among these were Jan Viljoen, Piet Jacobs, and Jan Steyn. And so it happened that in 1859 the Steyn family for the fourth season had reached the south bank of the Botletli, better known as the Lake River, which runs south-east from Lake N’gami.

They had had a terrible struggle across the thirst-land lying between Shoshong, the Bamangwato Stadt, and the Lake River. More than once it seemed that they must have left their wagons behind in the desert; but they had somehow battled through, with the loss of three good trek oxen.

It was within an hour of sundown when they rose the little swelling of the plain, just where you strike the river, and drew up their wagons by the big thorn tree for the night N’gamiland hunters will know that tree; it bears the initials of most of the wanderers who have passed that way. Jacoba Steyn was but a girl of seventeen then, but she will never, to her dying hour, forget the scene that lay before her. Boer women are not, as a rule, impressionable; they give little heed to the sights that surround them, and have no eye for the picturesque. But this evening, of all others, will, for a particular reason, remain imprinted deep in the tablets of Jacoba’s remembrance. Below the wagons lay the Lake River, now somewhat shrunk within its low banks, and teeming with bird life. Just here the tall reeds had been burnt down, and there was a clear view. Flamingoes, ibises, coots, great gaudy geese, thousands of wild-duck, widgeon, and teal thronged the shallows and darkened the river surface. Elegant jacanas flitted brilliantly upon trembling islets of floating weed. Noisy spur-winged plovers clamoured with sharp metallic voices. Aloft soared a great fishing-eagle or two. And from afar, following one another slowly and solemnly in even, single-file procession, long lines of monstrous pelicans filled the sky. Their soft, melancholy whistling sounded clear, even amid the lowing of the parched oxen, now frantic and well-nigh dead with thirst. To the right the vast reed-beds of the Komadau marsh filled the view for miles. In front, outlined clear against the flaming sunset, stood up here and there a few tall palm trees, marking the course of the river. Beyond these the dry plains stretched to the north and west in illimitable monotony.

Just beyond where the Steyns had outspanned was the wagon of another traveller. And as Jacoba Steyn stood, stretching herself a little after the long wagon journey, and gazing about her, the owner of it walked up from the river. He was an Englishman, that was perfectly clear. His smart, erect carriage, short, neatly trimmed dark beard and moustache, and the cut of his breeches, gaiters, and boots, at once proclaimed the fact. He looked to be about the middle height; he was strong and well set up; an air of careless grace sat well upon him. He had dark and very handsome grey eyes, and a most pleasant smile, and his face, throat, and bare arms were deeply tanned by the sun. He wore a broad-brimmed felt hat for head-gear, and his grey flannel shirt was open at the throat, and had the sleeves rolled up. On his shoulder rested a double-barrelled shot-gun. At his heels followed a pointer dog, and a young native boy, the latter carrying several couple of duck and geese. As the stranger approached the wagons and doffed his hat, something in Jacoba’s heart told her that she had never seen so completely good-looking a man. She stared hard with all her eyes as the Englishman advanced towards her. As he drew near and held out his hand, and said, in a clear, pleasant voice, “Dag, juffrow,” Jacoba’s eyes fell beneath the steady gaze of his, and she whispered bashfully, as she put her palm into his, “Dag, meneer.”

That, as well as I can describe it, is the picture that even now, thirty years after, is constantly before the mind’s eye of Jacoba Steyn.

Captain Meredith had soon introduced himself to the Steyn family. He was heartily received; for the Transvaal Boers, even in those days, had no grudge against individual Englishmen. Their dislike was for the British Government and British officialism, which, from their point of view, had driven them to trek from the old colony. While the oxen and horses were being watered at the river, a bottle of the captain’s brandy was produced, and Dutch and Englishman pledged one another in soupjis of right “French.”

Meanwhile, the Steyns proceeded to unburden their wagons and prepare for the night. The sailcloth was spread between the two wagons; Jacoba’s fowls and chickens, and her cat Tina and the kittens were set loose. The captain invited them all to his wagon to supper. He had the flesh of a fat cow eland all ready, and it would save much trouble to the tired trekkers if they took their evening meal with him. In an hour’s time they all sat down together, a jovial party, to sup by the light of two blazing camp-fires. The Kaptein, as the Steyns already called Meredith, was an English officer spending his leave on a hunting trip. It was his second expedition; he had been to the Lake two years before; and he spoke Cape Dutch. That was well for all parties; they could converse freely; and as all were interested in the life of the hunting veldt, there was plenty to talk about Meredith, too, had fought in the Crimean war four years before; and although these homely Boer folk had the vaguest ideas as to Russia and its whereabouts, they were interested in hearing of fighting, especially of warfare and siege amid the deep snows of the frozen North. And so, after pipes and coffee, the gathering separated, and Jacoba went to her kartel bed and dreamt of the alert, brisk Engelschmann and his handsome face and grey eyes.

It was settled next day that the two parties should trek up the river and hunt together for a time. Meredith was not sorry to make this arrangement. He had left Natal with an English hunting friend. A severe attack of fever on the Crocodile River had, however, driven his comrade south; and, after a lonely hunt in the country about the Great Salt Pan, north of the Lake River, he was not disinclined to have the companionship of white folk again, rough Boers though they were. The wagons stood for another two days at this outspan, while the Steyns’ oxen rested and refreshed themselves after their desperate trek across the “thirst”. On the last evening, Meredith was down at the river with his fishing-rod, catching “cat-fish,” of which there were quantities. The Steyns were busied about their wagons, preparing for the evening meal; the men-folk were sitting here and there, some on the dissel-boom, some on wagon-chairs, smoking contentedly. Little Hans, the youngest of the family, a sturdy imp of eight years, who had already formed a strong attachment for the English captain, had run down towards the water after his new acquaintance. Suddenly Jacoba glanced in that direction and uttered a choking cry. The rest of the family, hearing her exclamation, looked up, and were instantly horror-struck like herself. A hundred and fifty yards away, little Hans was standing close to the edge of a dense mass of reed-bed. Fifteen yards away from him crouched a big yellow-maned lion, its tail twitching very softly from side to side, its gaze fixed intently on the youngster’s face. Hans had seen the brute, and stood spellbound. Fifty paces away behind the boy was Captain Meredith, who too had that instant caught sight of the lion, and comprehended the whole terrible situation. He was armed only with his fishing-rod. For one brief instant all the gazers at that terrible picture were rivetted where they stood, frozen with apprehension.

Jan Steyn was the first to move. He rose from his chair and plunged silently into his wagon for a rifle. But even he was not quick enough. Meredith, defenceless though he was, had already made up his mind. Flourishing his rod, and shouting objurgations on the lion at the top of his voice, he ran swiftly straight in the brute’s direction. To the utter surprise of all the watchers and the intense astonishment of Meredith himself, the lion, after baring his teeth in a savage defiance, suddenly changed his mind, turned tail, and disappeared like a yellow flash into the tall reeds. Meredith now picked up Hans, who, released from the strain of apprehension, burst into tears upon his shoulder, and carried him up to the camp. Vrouw Steyn first took the lad from his arms, pressed him to her breast, kissed him, and then, putting her arms round the captain’s neck, gave him two or three hearty kisses. That was the bravest thing, she said, she had ever heard of, much more seen, and she and her family would never forget it as long as they lived. Then the stout old vrouw resigned herself to a quiet flood of tears and went about her work. Jacoba came next. The tears were already streaming down her cheeks. Hans was her favourite brother, and very dear to her. She came softly to Meredith, took his hand, modestly kissed him on the right cheek, and thanked him again and again. Jan Steyn and his three big sons, ranging from fifteen to two-and-twenty, one after another followed, thrust their big hands into the captain’s, and in their gruff Boer manner did their best to convey their hearty if, somewhat uncouth, thanks.

After that episode the friendship between Boers and Englishman grew apace. The men hunted together as they moved slowly up the river, and brought in many a head of game. Once or twice they came up with elephants on the south bank of the river and secured some good teeth, and the Kaptein, or Hendrik, as they all now familiarly called him (his name was Henry), proved that, besides being a brave man, he was a first-rate hunter and shot – as good a man, the Steyn lads said, as their own father, which was their highest form of praise.

It was amusing to notice the domestic reforms that the Englishman and his ways introduced into the Boer family. Instead of for ever stewing lumps of game flesh in the big pot, or cooking dry karbonadjes over the embers, the captain persuaded the vrouw to follow his own example, and roast wild-duck or a joint of springbok in a Kaffir pot, with hot embers below and on the lid. Sometimes he persuaded her to cook springbok chops and “fry” in an open frying-pan, as had he taught his own native cook. He presented her with one of his two frying-pans for this purpose. He even inducted the good-wife and Jacoba into the mysteries of curry, and gave them a supply of powder which lasted them for a year or two later. In proof that these innovations were acceptable, you may find them to this day, thanks to Jacoba’s and Hans’s remembrance of the English captain, steadily practised in Hans’s household in Waterberg. Even Hans’s wife, obstinate Boer woman though she is, has long since admitted their merits. On the other hand, Meredith had to acknowledge that he could not improve upon the Steyns’ coffee-making, which, performed though it was in an ordinary iron kettle, was as good as could be. Many an Englishman, however, has discovered that fact.

As for Jacoba, she foregathered with Meredith as often as she had opportunity. It was a delightful thing for this simple, untaught Boer maiden to hear news of that vast, dim outer world, and to gather some little idea of modern civilisation. For the Transvaal Boers, you must understand, to this day, linger in their isolation at least a hundred years behind the average European. Sometimes, when the captain came home early from hunting, Jacoba would walk with him to the river-side, or to the spreading lagoons which were now everywhere forming upon the flats, and watch him shoot wild-duck and geese, or some rare specimen or curious bird. Those were delightful times for the girl, as she and her hero strolled home in the soft African twilight, with all the glamour of evening about them. For within the secret recesses of her maiden heart she had long since set up the handsome Englishman as her hero. Jacoba at seventeen was a very comely girl; her complexion was fresh and clear – a rare thing among Dutch Afrikanders. She looked, as indeed she was, always pleasant and good-tempered; her blue eyes were as clear and honest as an African winter morning; from beneath her big sun-bonnet (kapje) her plentiful fair hair fell in a single thick plait down her back. Her figure, it is true, was nothing to boast of; but then, in the faraway veldt, who troubles about an inch or two at the waist? Meredith liked this frank, comely, modest South African maiden; even he, man of the world though he was, could scarce help but feel a little flattered at the manifest preference she showed for his society. Then the child – for, measured by the European standard, she was but a child – had so many questions to ask him upon all sorts of subjects; and it really was a pleasure to answer some of these naïve, unsophisticated inquiries, and to try and teach her something of the life and thoughts of Europe. And so it befell that Jacoba’s heart insensibly slipped from her, and she grew in her secret soul to love and almost to worship this fascinating Englishman, who knew everything, and did everything – from shooting an elephant to inspanning an ox – better even than her father and brothers, and could teach her own mother how to cook. She loved to watch him as he saddled up in the early dawning and rode off across the plains, or into the bush veldt, with her father and brothers in search of game. How nimble was this Englishman, and how graceful! With what an air he sprang into his saddle, and sat his horse, and even carried his rifle! And how fresh and trim and clean the man always looked! I am afraid Jacoba began secretly to contrast the captain with her own heavy, untrimmed and not over-clean kindred – much to the detriment of the latter.

In a little while the girl had come to look forward to Meredith’s return from hunting as the one great pleasure in the long day. Sometimes, when the men were in pursuit of elephants, and slept out on the spoor, it seemed as if the slothful hours would never pass. Her mother noticed the change in Jacoba’s demeanour, and would sometimes rate her for her forgetfulness and absent ways. “Jacoba,” she would say, from her low chair under the shady lee of the wagon, “your mind is always running on that English ‘Kaptein.’ Wake up, child, and think what you are doing, or I shall send him packing.”

Yet it must be confessed that the big ponderous vrouw was, in truth, almost as taken with the stranger as her own child. She liked, as every one else in the camp liked, his pleasant, hearty ways, and the air of novelty and briskness that his presence brought into the dull lives of herself and her folk. She liked his friendship for her child most of all, stout anti-Briton though she was in the abstract. It would be a fine thing indeed, she whispered to herself, if the captain should ask the girl in marriage, and set her up as a great lady. Vrouw Steyn had very faint ideas of what great ladies did, and how they comported themselves; yet as a child she remembered seeing the wife of the Governor of the Cape, and other official dames, at Graaff Reinet. And besides, she had once or twice seen old copies of the Illustrated London News, from which she assisted her own misty and fantastic glimmerings upon the subject.

It was curious to note in these days how particular Jacoba had grown about her clothes and person. It would be hard to say how she managed it. She had but two print gowns, and yet now she always appeared in a spotless frock in the afternoons. After all, even hunting Boers carry soap, and in the hot sunshine and parching winds of South Africa you can dry a print dress on a bush in a very little while. The captain had presented her, among other feminine treasures, with a brand-new pair of nail-scissors, and her hands were now kept as daintily as a Cape Town meisje’s. Even her brothers could scarcely help noticing the smart ribbons that, especially on Sundays, decked her gown and hair.

It must be said on the captain’s side that he behaved fairly well in a somewhat difficult position. He was an honourable man, and he had no intention in the world of stealing this simple girl’s affections. He was, in truth, much too keenly occupied in the wild pleasures of hunting big game to think about her affections at all. To him she was a mere child, and as such he had grown to treat her. It is true that it was a pleasant thing to find, even in this faraway desert – tolerable in many respects only for the game it held – a pretty fresh-eyed maid such as Jacoba, Dutch and semi-civilised though she was. Perhaps, if he had reflected a little, his friendship for the girl might have been somewhat less intimate. He treated her, indeed, in a careless brotherly, or perhaps, rather, cousinly way. When he came home from the hunt, often towards 3 o’clock, after a cup of coffee and a snack of food, he would exchange his heavy gun for the fowling-piece, whistle for Juno, the pointer, and stroll off arm-in-arm with Jacoba down to the river-side or the nearest lagoon. Sometimes little Hans would accompany them; sometimes he was lazy and stayed behind. It must be said that insensibly the captain and Jacoba grew to prefer their expeditions alone. When Meredith had shot enough wildfowl and red-billed francolin, he and Jacoba would stroll up to the camp-fire as the dusk fell. I am afraid, somehow, that the captain’s arm often wandered to the maid’s waist; sometimes even he took a kiss quite unresistingly from Jacoba’s fresh lips and soft cheek. It was thoughtless of him, which was perhaps the worst that could be said. For Jacoba those evening walks were full of unfading joy; to this hour she cherishes every incident of them, middle-aged woman though she is.

As the wagons moved up the river, elephants became more plentiful. On several occasions the hunters had crossed the water and followed the great tusk-bearers into the jungles beyond. They had had first-rate sport, and secured some magnificent teeth. One morning, at earliest dawn, some Makobas punted their dug-out canoes across the river, and reported that a good troop of elephants had drunk during the night. For a consideration they would take the hunters across. All was now bustle and excitement in the camp. Jan Steyn and his two eldest sons and the captain were soon equipped. They swallowed a hasty breakfast, and then, walking their horses down to the river, got into the boats and swam their nags over behind them. There was some risk from crocodiles, but the feat was safely accomplished. Then they took up the spoor in earnest. Some Masarwa bushmen tracked for them, and they rode at a brisk pace upon the trail, hour after hour, until noon had come and the sun lay midway in the sky between north-east and north-west. At half-past twelve they came suddenly upon the elephants in some troublesome thorny bush. There were eighteen in all, and some good bulls among them. Meredith quickly got to work and slew two magnificent bulls, carrying long, even teeth, after a hot and most exciting chase. He next tackled a big cow, furnished with a capital pair of tusks. After a sharp gallop he got alongside and put a four-ounce ball, backed with seven drachms of powder (those were the days of smooth-bores and heavy charges), behind her shoulder. But, stricken though she was, the cow was by no means finished. She turned short in her tracks, and, spouting blood, came with a ferocious scream straight for her tormentor.

Meredith had instantly turned his horse and spurred for flight. But, as it happened, in a hundred yards he was met by an absolutely impassable cul-de-sac of thorn-bush. Almost before horse and man knew where they were, they were caught up and flung to earth. The great cow drove her left tusk deep into the off flank of the horse, and hurled the poor brute and its rider away from her in one confused and bleeding mass. Before she could halt and turn again, the impetus of her ferocious charge took her thirty yards farther, right through that seemingly impenetrable wall of bush. It was her last effort. The heavy bullet had done its work. Thrice she lifted her blood-dripping trunk as if for air. Then she swayed softly to and fro, and suddenly sank down upon all-fours, as if kneeling, and so yielded up her fifty years of life.

Meredith himself was found by his native boy ten minutes afterwards in but sorry plight. He had fallen underneath his horse when the pair of them had been hurled aside by the enraged cow, and the terrible impact had not only rendered him senseless, but had broken his right forearm and several ribs. His horse lay across his body breathing its last, with entrails protruding from a gaping wound in the flank. The boy, with the assistance of a Bushman, extricated his master and laid him upon the earth. In half an hour the Steyns came up. They had slain between them four elephants – a bull and three cows – and were well content. They now at once ascertained the Englishman’s injuries. He lay still insensible. They set his arm and bound it up in a pair of rough splints, and then carried him to the river, across which the Makobas again ferried them. Arrived at last at the camp, Vrouw Steyn and her daughter at once insisted that, for better nursing, the captain should be placed under the tent-sail, between the two Dutch wagons. There she and Jacoba tenderly laid him, bound up his ribs, washed the blood from his face, and poured brandy and water between his lips.