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Chapter Eleven.
To take his Place

It was a curious court-martial this before which he was now convened, thought Colvin, the ridiculous side of things striking him, as an hour later he stood once more before the Commandant’s tent, having washed and got some breakfast in the interim. This old Dutch farmer, clad in greasy moleskins, and crowned with a weather-worn, once white chimney-pot hat, was his judge, with absolute power of life and death, and looked moreover as solemn as though he thoroughly realised it. Those others too, squatting on the ground, smoking pipes, and very frequently spitting: on their good word depended to a very great extent his own life.

“Do you confess to having assisted the prisoner to escape?” asked the Commandant. “It will save trouble and lighten the guilt upon your soul if you do.”

“Certainly I do not, Mynheer,” returned Colvin. “How can I have assisted any prisoner to escape when I was a prisoner myself?”

“Maagtig! Said I not that all Englishmen were liars?” grunted the old burgher, for the benefit of those within the tent.

Morkel, too, Colvin had not failed to observe occupying the same seat as yesterday. But Morkel had turned on a wooden expression of countenance, and avoided catching his eye. Clearly Morkel believed in the maxim anent self-preservation. He had a wholesome fear of drawing suspicion upon himself.

“We will first hear the testimony of Adrian De la Rey,” said the Commandant.

Colvin managed to repress the astonishment he felt as Adrian came forward. The latter differed in outward trappings from the other burghers only in the fact that his get-up was smarter. He, too, avoided Colvin’s glance.

“Tell your story,” said the Commandant shortly. But before the other had said half a dozen words, Colvin interposed:

“Excuse me, Mynheer Commandant. But in taking evidence it is usual and indispensable to take it on oath – to swear the witness to tell the truth. Now this has not yet been done.”

It was just possible some advantage might be gained by this formula being observed, but Colvin did not reckon it would amount to much. Morkel, however, put in a word in favour of the suggestion, and accordingly Adrian was sworn after the usual Dutch method, with his right hand held up. Then he proceeded to tell his story.

As one of the field-captains of the burgher force it had been his duty to go the round of the sentries. Two mounted guard over the place wherein Frank Wenlock was confined, namely, the stable at the back of Gideon Roux’ house. The door was locked with a strong padlock, and there was one window, which was iron barred, and fairly strong. One sentry was stationed beneath this, and the other before the door. When he arrived at the stable he was surprised that the sentries gave him no recognition, but, on examining further into the matter, he found they were both asleep. Moreover, he could hardly wake them, and when he did, they excused themselves by saying that the Englishman in the camp – not the prisoner, but the other Englishman – had given them a soepje out of his flask. His first thought being for the security of the prisoner – the witness had ordered the door to be opened. But the key could not be found. It had been in the first sentry’s keeping. Then having called several times to the prisoner inside, and receiving no answer, the witness had caused the door to be broken open. The prisoner had vanished.

This had happened at about twelve o’clock. But half an hour earlier he had met Colvin Kershaw wandering through the camp, and they had stood chatting for a while. Kershaw had told him he had been at Gideon Roux’ house, and was returning to his tent. After his discovery of the escape he, Adrian, had thought of arresting the accused, but had placed his tent under guard until the morning.

“The accused man says it was under guard all night,” said the Commandant. “Do you know anything of such a guard?”

“Nothing whatever, Mynheer.”

Now, indeed, the whole mystery was clearing up, decided Colvin, but clearing in such wise as would be disastrous, if not fatal, for himself, Adrian De la Rey was the prime mover then in this matter. Adrian had every motive for destroying him, and now Adrian had concocted this plot for his destruction. He saw through it now, and his heart sank within him. Schoeman and his crew would be willing accomplices. He had no friends here in this camp, and he knew, all too well, that no chance would be allowed him of communicating with those he had elsewhere. Now he claimed his right of cross-examining witnesses. At first the “court” was not inclined to allow this. Of what use was it? It savoured of the blasphemous. God-fearing burghers, who had sworn to tell the truth, and had called God to witness, could not lie. But he pressed his point and, being supported by Morkel, carried it.

Not much good did it do him, however, with this witness. Not all his cross-examination could shake this tissue of amazing lies which Adrian reeled off with a glibness which imposed on his hearers up to the hilt. Everything he had said he stuck to; doing it, too, with a sorrowful and against-the-grain air. This Englishman with all his lawyer tricks could not shake that honest and simple testimony, decided these unsophisticated burghers, and all his efforts at doing so only served to deepen the adverse feeling.

The two sentries were then called, and their testimony exactly corresponded with that of Adrian! They were somewhat heavy-looking young men – brothers, named Hattingh. Asked what the drink consisted of, they thought it was whisky. It was not square-face or dop? No; they were sure it was whisky. All Englishmen drank whisky; therefore, decided the hearers, the man who gave them the drink must have been this Englishman.

Both brothers had the same tale to tell, and they told it so glibly, so naturally, as to puzzle even the accused himself. They were of the type that do not make good liars – that is, in the sense of ability to sustain a series of consistent and circumstantial lies; indeed, had he been an impartial auditor of their testimony, instead of one vitally concerned therewith, he was forced to own to himself that he would have believed it. Such being the case, it was hardly to be wondered at if those who heard it believed every word.

These witnesses knew this Englishman, but not very well. They had seen him sometimes about the camp, and when he came up and chatted to them, and offered them something to drink, they were only too glad, for the nights up here in the Wildschutsberg were chilly, and a drop of something warmed a man.

And here we will digress briefly to explain that what would have been a very serious offence for all concerned, in the British regular, or even irregular forces, constituted just no offence at all in a Boer commando. For a Boer commando represents a chronic state of “marching-at-ease,” and the fact of a couple of sentries having a chat with a comrade and a “nip” out of his flask was nothing.

Both these men Colvin cross-questioned, not at any length, and in a conciliatory tone, and his main points were as to how they could be sure of his identity in the dark, especially as they had owned to being personally unacquainted with him. But the questions seemed genuinely to surprise them. For one thing, it was not so dark. The stars were shining very brightly. A Boer was not an Englishman that he could not see out of doors by starlight.

Then followed Gideon Roux, who testified that Colvin had spent at least two hours at his house the evening before. He would have left about the time named by Adrian De la Rey, but he could not say for certain within half an hour or so.

What had the accused to go upon? One after another of these men came forward unhesitatingly to swear away his life, for that is what he fully realised this mock trial to have for its object. The net was winding itself more fatally about him, and by nothing short of a miracle now could he be extricated from its entangling meshes. In Gideon Roux’ malignant face a gleam of devilish exultation seemed to lurk, as though he recognised that this was a safer, surer method of disposing of an obnoxious and inconvenient person than shooting at him in the dusk from behind a rock. Those around listened in solemn and impressive silence. The groups of bystanders had been steadily augmenting, and now nearly the whole camp stood crowded around, in a strangely picturesque armed assembly.

After Gideon Roux followed that worthy’s vrouw, looking quite as slatternly and rather more frightened than on that occasion when Colvin had partaken of her somewhat grudging hospitality. She emphatically confirmed all that her husband had said. The course the accused took with her was to remind her as impressively as he was able of the oath she had taken, and to suggest that she had better think well over her testimony lest she should have been mistaken. Sheer waste of words.

Colvin realised that he was doomed, and that every man in that camp believed every word that had been stated with regard to him. So when Hermanus Delport, and one or two others, came forward to corroborate that he had spent the evening at Gideon Roux’ house, he simply refused to waste time or trouble asking any more questions. What he would ask, however, was that the man who had mounted guard over him should be put forward the man who had kept him a prisoner all night – that was, from just after sundown – by the Commandant’s orders.

“I gave no such orders, as I have said before,” said Commandant Schoeman. “Were any such orders given, Heeren, by any of yourselves?” turning towards the other occupants of the tent.

“Nee—nee,” came forth the reply, universal and emphatic. “We know of no guard being placed over the accused during the first part of the night.”

Colvin had thought they had now got more than ample testimony – false testimony – to afford them all the pretext they wanted. But he reckoned without Commandant Schoeman. Said the latter:

“Mynheer Morkel. Will you kindly stand where the others have stood, and tell what you know of this matter?”

Morkel fairly started, a great look of dismayed consternation overspreading his features.

“But I know nothing about it, Mynheer Commandant,” he protested. “I have not seen or spoken to Kershaw since I begged you to grant him an interview last night.”

“Just so, Mynheer Morkel. But we want to know what passed between you and the accused man before that. Stand up. The exigencies of the Republics imperatively require it.”

This was a command there was no disobeying, so Morkel stood up, and was duly sworn. He would willingly have perjured himself up to the scalp in such a cause, but he knew it would be useless. There might have been spies overhearing all that had passed between him and Kershaw relative to Frank’s condemnation, or even if not there would be no difficulty in putting forward sufficient witnesses to swear that they had overheard it, giving of course their own version.

Bidden by the Commandant to state exactly what passed between himself and the accused with regard to Frank Wenlock, Morkel said that he himself had brought Kershaw the news that the other was condemned to death. How had the accused received it? He had been very much shocked and distressed naturally, the other having been a great friend of his – Morkel left out “fellow-countryman” just in time. But even with all his Court experience he made the mistake of expatiating on what had led to that friendship, realising with dire dismay, when too late, that he had furnished an additional motive for Colvin to act as was alleged.

“Did he not ask what could be done for the condemned man?” inquired Schoeman.

“He did, Mynheer Commandant. But – ”

“He asked that question more than once?” interrupted the remorseless voice.

“Naturally, Mynheer. That was why he so urgently wished for an interview with yourself – to plead the cause of his friend.”

“And when he found that he could not obtain that interview, what then?”

“He was disappointed, naturally. But he said it would all come right. He could not believe that brave men – burghers fighting for their liberties and independence, civilised Christian men, could take the life of a man, especially a young man, by nature hot-headed and foolish, simply because he had made some rude and insulting remarks,” added Morkel, somewhat mendaciously, and indeed he seemed to have scored a strong point, for a murmur, not unsympathetic, went up from the audience. “The behaviour of Frank Wenlock was insulting and offensive, the accused had said, but surely not a crime worthy of death,” went on Morkel, waxing eloquent.

“That will do, Mynheer Morkel. You can now take your place again,” said the Commandant. Then to Colvin, “What have you to say? Now we have heard all the witnesses, what have you to say?”

“Very little, Mynheer. This is a plot. Adrian De la Rey has a grudge – a bitter grudge – against me, the reason of which does not matter. I believe he has manufactured the whole of this accusation. I believe he himself let Wenlock escape so as to fasten it on to me. Gideon Roux owes me money, and therefore would naturally turn against me. His vrouw looked frightened enough to satisfy even you that she was talking under compulsion. Hermanus Delport is a friend of and related to Gideon Roux. As for the two men who were on guard over Frank Wenlock, I believe they are under some extraordinary delusion and were speaking the truth as far as they knew. Morkel has stated the burden of our conversation quite correctly. But there is one witness we have not heard, and that is the man who turned me back into my tent last night.”

“There is no such man,” retorted Schoeman shortly. “It is all a fabrication. Well, then, that is enough. You came into our camp, and enjoyed our hospitality.”

“No, I was brought here by force,” interrupted Colvin.

“Still, still! Do not interrupt. You then took advantage of your position here to commit a hostile act – an act of hostility against the Republics, which have sheltered and shielded you – by aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner.”

“That is not true,” retorted Colvin. “Before God, in whose presence we stand, I know no more of Frank Wenlock’s escape, have had no more to do with it, than the President himself.”

“Do not add lying and blasphemy to your offence,” said Schoeman unctuously. “For the crime of which ample testimony has convicted you, you will take the escaped prisoner’s place. You will be shot at sundown.”

A gasp went up from the listeners. The proceedings had impressed them deeply.

“Not yet,” said Colvin, in a loud firm voice. “I appeal to the President. In the presence of you all I appeal for justice to His Honour the President of the Transvaal Republic.”

Schoeman smiled coldly. “His Honour is not our President – not yet. We are not of the Transvaal Republic. Do you wish to converse with a minister of the Gospel to prepare you to meet your Creator?” he added, still unctuously.

“Yes,” answered Colvin, unwilling to let slip any potential loophole, however minute. “Mynheer Albertyn, of Schalkburg, is a good man. Can he be fetched?”

The Commandant looked surprised, then conferred in a low tone with his subordinate commanders.

“He can be fetched,” he answered. “And as you have shown a proper frame of mind, instead of blaspheming God – as your fellow-countryman did – more time for preparation shall be allowed you. Instead of at sundown, you must be ready for death an hour after sunrise to-morrow. That will allow you some hours to pray with the predikant.”

“I am grateful for that, Mynheer Commandant. But now, hear me. Standing here, on the threshold of death, I proclaim Adrian De la Rey a liar and perjurer – a perjurer who has taken the name of the great God to witness his falsehood. Out there,” waving his hand in the direction of the far-off British entrenchments, “is possible death for any man – glorious for the patriot, but for the liar and perjurer what – ? I see you, Adrian. Do not try and skulk out of sight among honester men than yourself. Well, then, look me in the face, liar! So sure as I stand here will death find you. Within three days death will find you out. Now, liar and coward, well may you grow pale.”

Adrian, white as a sheet, was trying to meet his denouncer’s gaze, but for the life of him could not at that moment. Muttering something, he slipped away. And Colvin Kershaw followed his guards to his final prison, well knowing that his hours were numbered.

Chapter Twelve.
Gert Bondelzwart’s News

The town of Schalkburg was still in possession of the enemy. The Free State flag waved above the Court-house, and the “patriot” burghers, whether of the Free State commando or rebel colonial Boers, had things all their own way, and a great time generally, for they proceeded to “commandeer” all the necessaries of life, and a good many of its luxuries, from the temporarily conquered people, and to make themselves very much at home among them, mostly at the expense of the latter. For these the only thing to do, however, was to accept the situation, and make the best of it.

There was one to whom this course recommended itself, and that was Mr Jelf. He would laugh ruefully over his enforced suspension – ruefully because he was sure the Colonial Office would hold him responsible, since for what is a long suffering Civil Commissioner not responsible – and play whist with his superseder, a Free State attorney, who had been set up by the burghers to administer the law as Landdrost. But there was practically no law to administer in Schalkburg, for now every man did what was right in his own eyes, unless some misguided and commandeered native shirked or strove to abscond. In such cases the newly fledged Landdrost did administer the law, resulting in vehement contact between raw hide and the aboriginal cuticle.

Jelf was not a little anxious on the score of his absent subordinate, who had been away on one of those semi-official investigations what time the town was captured. He hoped Morkel had not come to grief with those fiery English aspirations of his; and then he would smile to himself as he reflected that such sentiments were patient of sudden metamorphosis under stress of circumstances. No, Morkel would turn up again sooner or later, he supposed.

He had felt very disgusted at the behaviour of Jan Grobbelaar. This was the ultra-loyal Field-cornet then! Stephanus De la Rey, at any rate, had been an honest man, but Swaart Jan was a snake in the grass, and he, Jelf, had not hesitated to tell him so when he had ridden up beside Commandant Schoeman to demand the keys of the offices. But the little man had merely shown his tusks in a deprecating grin. “What would Mynheer have?” he said. “A man must march with his own countrymen. But Mynheer and he need be none the less friends for all that.”

As a matter of fact, Jelf had no reason to complain of his treatment under the circumstances. He was a good-natured man and not unpopular among the Dutch farmers of his district, and now these showed him respect and consideration.

Schalkburg just then comprised another inmate, and that a personage not the least important in the unfolding of our narrative, namely, Aletta De la Rey. She was staying with some relatives, an old couple who had retired from farming, to settle in the township on their own erf; and she had been obliged to seek shelter with them because on reaching home she had found that all the family were away in the Free State – a fact which had not been known to her, partly owing to her sudden and unexpected homeward move, partly that, thanks to the war, communication was frequently interrupted and always uncertain. But, as it happened, she welcomed the discovery with a feeling of intense relief. She had shrunk in anticipation from the questionings of her own family, now she would be spared these for a while longer. The Van Heerdens, her relatives, were a very old couple with hardly an idea outside their own erf and the covers of the family Bible. They were not likely to bother her with inconvenient questions.

Poor Aletta! She had indeed gone through the fire since the day of that horrible discovery. What a bright Paradise had she been living in – and now? Her ideal vanished – her idol fallen and shattered – what more did life hold out for her! Ah, to think of it, this man who had been to her as a very god – who was not as other men – who had come into her life to take possession of it, and to whom she had surrendered, a willing, happy captive – for him to deceive her, to make her the victim of such a commonplace, petty form of deception! Surely that discovery had killed her love.

Why had he done it? It was so needless, so commonplace, so cruel! Why had he left her to endure the agony of apprehension on his account for days, for weeks – the while he was safe and sound within a few hours of her, carrying on this intrigue? She would rather – infinitely rather – that that agony had met with its worst and fatal fulfilment, that he had been brought back to her dead. To think that he, her god, could stoop so low, could place himself in such a contemptible, pitiable light before her. That look in his face as he met her glance – the startled shame and consternation at being found out – that would haunt her to her dying day.

Why had he ever professed love for herself? And having done so, why – if he had found such profession premature – did he not say so openly? It would have been a cruel insult; still she thought she could have borne it better. She had never grudged May Wenlock her bright physical attractions; indeed, she had recognised them openly and to the full. She remembered how often they had laughed over old Tant’ Plessis’ favourite saying as to May being the only English girl, and now she concluded that the old lady was not such a fool as they had supposed. Possibly nationality did count in the long run, though, where love was the consideration, Aletta, for her part, could not understand how nationality should make a hairsbreadth of difference. And, again, she thought, she herself was not even decent-looking – well she remembered how that statement had been received by him to whom it was addressed – whereas this English girl was bounteously dowered by Nature with outward attractiveness, and, after all, she supposed this was what weighed with men. Well, she must get this man out of her mind. With time and determination she supposed it could be done. She must grow to regard him as one who had passed out of her life, as one who was as completely dead to her as though actually so to this world, and must contemplate the fact with equanimity, with utter indifference. Oh yes, that would come – in time.

Would it? This was a very changed Aletta now, and the merry, happy, spontaneous peal of laughter was never now heard – even the faint and ghostly semblance of it but seldom. The sweet, bright, radiant spirits seemed to have found a grave. Yes, on the whole, perhaps it was as well that these relatives of hers were too old, and other people too preoccupied with the movement of events around, to notice the difference.

“Missis, I have something to say,” exclaimed a voice in Dutch. Looking up, Aletta saw a tall, ragged, travel-worn looking yellow man. His hands were trembling as he fumbled with the catch of the garden gate. She came quickly down the garden path to meet him, realising as she did so, that her walk was somewhat unsteady. For in the man who had thus suddenly broken in upon her meditations she recognised Colvin’s Griqua servant, Gert Bondelzwart.

“I have dreadful news for you, Missis,” jerked forth the latter, his voice shaking with excitement. “They are – going to shoot him!”

Aletta could feel her cheeks grow pale and icy.

“Who is going to shoot whom?” her bloodless lips managed to gasp forth.

“Baas Colvin. Die Boeren mensche,” he answered. “Ja, they have sent in now for the predikant to come out to the Baas. He is to be shot to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, good God!” – No, she must not faint, she must act. “Where, Gert?” she went on. “Where?”

“At Krantz Kop, Missis. Gideon Roux’ place – Schoeman’s commando.”

“Has Mynheer started yet? Quick! Say.”

“Nee, Missis, not yet. Four burghers came to escort him out, and they have off-saddled while the predikant is inspanning. Oh, mijn lieve Baas—mijn lieve Baas! What can be done, Missis? What can be done?”

The fellow was actually weeping. Even in the agony of the moment the thought flashed through Aletta’s mind that this man could command such devoted attachment from even a Hottentot.

“What can be done!” she repeated. “This is what you have to do, Gert. Saddle up the rooi-schimmel there in the stable. Put a man’s saddle on him, for you will have to ride him, and come round with me to the predikants house – now at once.”

“Ja, Missis.” And Gert departed with willing alacrity. Aletta ran quickly to her room. A couple of minutes sufficed for her to get into such travelling attire as she deemed necessary. But one article of her outfit where with she provided herself would have struck with wild amazement and misgiving anyone who should have seen her. She felt devoutly thankful that the old couple had toddled off to exchange gossip with a neighbour, for not only had she the house to herself, but was spared the vexation and delay of explaining her movements.

Mynheer Lukas Albertus Albertyn, V.D.M. resident minister of the Dutch Reformed Church at Schalkburg, was a fair type of the average country predikant, which is to say that he performed all the duties of his office with ordinary conscientiousness, had a keen eye to the customary emoluments of the said office, both in currency and in kind, and was regarded with veneration by the female side of his flock, and the older and less progressive of the male. His political sympathies were all with his own countrymen and the cause of the Republics, and his outward appearance we know, for we have already made his acquaintance during the opening event of this narrative – at the political meeting gathered to hear the fervid oratory of Andries Botma, to wit.

Mynheer was seated in his dining-room snatching a hasty lunch prior to setting forth upon his errand of mercy. Truth to tell, he was rather a puzzled predikant at that moment. What on earth did they want to shoot this Englishman for? He was well known to many of them, was in sympathy with them, too, and moreover was engaged to the daughter of one of their most prominent burghers. Again, it was odd that an English man should send for him at such a time. Englishmen of Colvin Kershaw’s class, when they did not hanker after Popery, scoffed at all religion, was Mynheer’s experience. There was an English predikant at Schalkburg, too – one who set up candles and brazen idols, and called those of the Reformed creed ugly names – why did this Englishman not send for him?

Perhaps because of the candles and idols. And at this point Mynheer’s reflections were suddenly and somewhat unceremoniously interrupted, for a quick knock sounded on the door-panel, followed by the entrance of its perpetrator almost before he had time to call out “Come in!”

“Why, Aletta!” he exclaimed. And then the words of welcome died in his throat. This girl was engaged to the Englishman who was to be shot on the following morning!

“I am going out to Krantz Kop with you, Mynheer.” she began. “I know you will not refuse me a seat in your trap – remembering” – and her voice was caught back by a sob, which, however, she manfully suppressed.

“But, Aletta, my child, only think. You can be of no use, I fear. Had you not better resign yourself to the will of the Almighty and remain at home and pray – while there is yet time?”

Hollow sounding as this commonplace was – claptrap even – it had asserted itself as a mere veil to mask the speaker’s own feelings. Anti-English or not, he was a good-hearted man, this predikant, and then, too, Aletta had been one of the most brilliant and satisfactory of his confirmees. He had a great partiality for her.

“Nee, Mynheer,” she answered, “the time for mere praying has not yet come. And even if it had, I must see him once more. Don’t you understand? But if you refuse me, I can still go by myself. I have a horse here, and I will ride all the way, even if I kill the animal.”

Her quick, eager decisiveness, the utter misery depicted in her face, showed him that here was no mere weak girl to be reasoned with and advised, but a resourceful, determined woman. Here was a side to Aletta De la Rey’s character which was a revelation to the worthy predikant.

“Well, well, of course you must go with me, my child,” he answered very kindly. “They are nearly ready for us.”

“I have just time to write a line to my father,” said Aletta, moving to a writing table without ceremony. This was no time for trivial observances she felt. She dashed off a few hasty lines, hasty but emphatic, and thoroughly lucid and to the point. Her father was not very far from the Free State border. By an effort he might arrive in time, and his influence was great.

The predikant’s Cape cart was already inspanned, and the attendant burghers, who were seated in their saddles, stolidly waiting, saluted her as she appeared. Gert Bondelzwart, too, was all ready.

“Gert,” she said in a low tone, “you know your shortest, straightest way. Do not lose a minute, even if you kill the horse. A minute may mean a life remember. No one will attempt to stop you, for I have put that upon the letter which will open a way for you anywhere.”

“Ja, Missis,” said Gert, and away he went. Then she got into the cart beside Mynheer, and they, too, started.