The Kopje Garrison: A Story of the Boer War
Chapter One.
How Drew Lennox and Bob Dickenson went a-Fishing
They did not look like fishermen, those two young men in khaki, for people do not generally go fishing with magazine-rifles instead of fishing-rods – certainly not in England. But this was in South Africa, and that makes all the difference. In addition, they were fishing in a South African river, where both of them were in profound ignorance as to what might take their bait first; and they were talking about this when they first reached the bank and saw the swift river flowing onward – a lovely river whose banks were like cliffs, consequent upon ages of the swift stream cutting its way downward through the soft earth, while here and there clumps of trees grew luxuriantly green, and refreshed the eyes of the lookers-on after a couple of months spent in riding over the drab and dreary veldt.
“Tackle isn’t half strong enough,” said the younger of the two, who was nearly good-looking; in fact, he would have been handsome if he had not always worn so stupid an aspect. “Think there are any crocodiles here?”
“Likely enough, Bobby.”
“S’pose one of them takes the bait?”
“Well, suppose he does!” said the other, who resembled his companion, minus the stupid look; for if the keen, dark-grey eyes were truth-tellers of what was behind them, he was, as the men in his company said, sharp as a needle.
“S’pose he does!” said the young man addressed as Bobby – otherwise Robert Dickenson, second lieutenant in Her Majesty’s – th Mounted Infantry. “Well, that’s a cool way of talking. Suppose he does! Why, suppose one of the great magnified efts swallows the bait?”
“Suppose he does. What then?”
“Why, he’ll be more likely to pull me in than let me pull him out.”
“No doubt about it, if the line doesn’t break.”
“What should I do then, Drew, old man?”
“I don’t know what you’d do, my little man. I know what I should do.”
“Yes. What?”
“Let go.”
“Ah, I didn’t think of that,” said the young officer quite calmly. “I say, though, if it turned out to be a hippopotamus?”
“I wish it would, Bobby – that is, so long as it was a nice fat calf. I’m so ragingly hungry that I should look upon a steak off one of those india-rubber gentlemen as the greatest delicacy under the sun.”
“Oh, don’t talk nonsense. One of those things wouldn’t be likely to bite. But I say, Drew, old chap, do you think there are any fish to be caught?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, Bobby. But here’s a river; it looks likely. Fishes live in rivers; why shouldn’t they be here?”
“To be sure; why not?” said the other, brightening up and looking better. “Who knows? There may be carp and tench, eels and pike.”
“Not likely, Bobby, my lad; but most probably there are fish of some kind, such as live on this side of the equator.”
“Mahseer, perhaps – eh?”
“Bah! This is Africa, not northern India. Let’s get down and make a beginning. We had better get down through that woody rift.”
“I wish I’d got my six-jointed rod, old fellow.”
“But as you haven’t, we must try what we can do with a line.”
“I say, it was lucky you thought to bring some hooks.”
“They were meant to try in the sea, old fellow, but I never had a chance. Come softly, and be on the lookout.”
“Eh?” cried the young man addressed, bringing the rifle he carried to the ready. “Boers?”
“Oh no; our fellows are not likely to let any of those gentlemen approach. I thought we might perhaps put up a deer, antelope, buck, or something.”
“Venison roast, hot, juicy! Oh Drew, old man, don’t; pray don’t! You gave me such an awful pang. Oh dear! oh dear!”
“Pst! Quiet! Don’t build your hopes on anything, because I dare say we shall be disappointed; but still we might.”
“Ah, might!” said the young officer. “Oh dear! I thought we might get wounded, or have a touch of fever, but I never expected that we should run the risk of being starved to death.”
“Then give us a chance of escaping that fate by keeping your tongue quiet. If we don’t get a shot at something down there, we may still hit upon a bag of fish.”
“Forward!” whispered the young officer, and together the pair approached the wooded gully and cautiously began to descend it to reach the river; but all proved to be silent, and in spite of their caution not a bush rustled, and their patient movements were in vain.
“I did expect a shot at something,” said the elder officer in a disappointed tone.
“Venison was too much,” said Bobby. “I expected it would be a sneaking leopard, or one of those doggy-looking monkeys.”
“The baboons? Oh no; they’d be among the rocky hills. But you need not be surprised, for this is the land of disappointments.”
“Oh, I say, don’t talk like that, Drew, old chap,” said the younger officer. “Fishermen have bad luck enough always, without your prophesying ill before we begin.”
“One can’t help it out here. Hang it all! we’ve had nothing but misfortunes ever since we came. Now then, you sit down on that rock, and I’ll sit on this.”
“Why not keep close together?”
“Because if we do we shall be getting our lines tangled.”
“Of course; I forgot that. Here, you’ll want some bait.”
The speaker took a small tin canister from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and made by the help of his pocket-knife a fair division of some nasty, sticky-looking paste, which looked as if it would soon wash off the hook upon which it was placed; and then the two fishermen separated and took up their stations about fifty yards apart, the two stones standing well out in the rapid current which washed around them and proved advantageous, from the fact that they had only to drop the baited hook into the water at their feet, when the swift stream bore it outward and away, the fishers merely having to let out line and wait, watchful and patient, for a bite.
It was very calm and beautiful in the bend of the river that they had chosen. There was a faint breeze, apparently caused by the rush of the stream, whose rippling amongst the stones with which the shore beneath the cliff-like bank was strewed made pleasant music; and as soon as the whole of the line was paid out the two young men sat silent and watchful, waiting for the tug which should tell that there was a fish at work. But a good ten minutes elapsed, and there was no sign.
“Humph!” grunted Dickenson, after his patience was exhausted. “No mistake about there being fish here.”
“How do you know?”
“One of them has taken my bait.”
It was on Drew’s lips to say, “Washed off by the stream;” but he remained silent as he softly pulled in his own line, to find nothing but the bare hook.
“There! do you see?” he said softly, the sound of his voice passing over the water so that it was like a whisper at his friend’s ear, as he dangled the bare hook.
“Oh yes, I see: fish nibbled it off.”
“Hope you are right,” said Drew softly, as he rebaited, dropped in the white marble of paste, and watched it glide down the stream, drawing out one by one the rings of line which he had carefully coiled up on the rock when he drew it out.
Then stooping and picking a long, heavy, stream-washed, slaty fragment from out of the water by his side, he made the end of his line fast to it and laid it at his feet, so as to have his hands at liberty. With these he drew out a cigarette-case and opened it, but his brow puckered up as he looked disconsolately at its contents.
“The last two,”