TALES AND SKETCHES.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 2951, 24 November 1900, Page 2 (Supplement)

TALES AND SKETCHES.

THE WHITE HORSE VELD.

A Transvaal Legend.

(By -H. A. BRYDEN.) Author of “ Tales of South Africa, Etc.

In the year 1878, Hans Mostert, a Government surveyor, was trekking leisurely through the Eastern Transvaal, engaged in the dutv of surveying new farms for the recently established” British Government. The territory of the bankrupt South African Republic had beea annexed in the previous year by Sir Theophilus Shop?tone on behalf of the British, and with characteristic Anglo-Saxon energy the finances of the new dependency were being rapidly re-organised, law and good government were being pushed into regions where they had been hitherto unknown, and the wild back country was being surveyed as rapidly as possible. Mostert was an educated Dutchman from the Gape Colony, who thoroughly .understood his duties, and from his knowledge of the Boer taal (dialect), and Boer idiosyncrasies was enabled to carry out his work far more smoothly than an Englishman. He had been hard at works for months past, and having satisfactorily concluded a large portion of his task, was now' approaching the famous hunting grounds of the Low Veld, where, in a country still swarming with big game, he looked forward to enjoying a long month or two of sport and recreation. His wife, a young Englishwoman, accompanied him, and the two, although -well accustomed to the free and pleasant life of the back ' country, were anticipating with feelings of the keenest pleasure an expedition into the mysterious and unknown Low Country that lay before them. t 1 Evening was falling as the travel-worn waggon, rumbled slowly up to a rough Boer farmhouse which stood, thirty miles from any other civilised habitation, remote and solitary, upon the lower slope of a frowning mountain side. Hans Mostert, who was riding, touched his tired horse with the spur, and moved on a little ahead of his cavalcade, up to the door of the homestead. A big, untidy looldng Boer was standing, pipe in mouth, just outside the low stone, dwelling, and to him Mostert addressed himself.

“Uncle,” he said, “can I outspau here?” “ Ja,” returned the Boer, “you may outspan. Who Are you, and where do you come from ?”

Mostert explained his business. The big Boer grumbled at the idea of an

official of the hateful British Government penetrating to this part of the world. But be was not an unkindly fellow. “You are an Afrikander, of course?” he f queried. I “Yes,” replied Mostert, “from the Old i Colony. I suppose my family has been in South'Africa at least as long as your own. We came over in 1679.” “ That is good enough for me,” returned the Boer. “After all, we are all of one family. You may outspan in welcome and come in. I daresay the vrouw can give you a shake-down. Is there anyone else in the waggon ?” Mostert had been awaiting that question with some anxiety. “ Yes,” he answered, “ my wife, an En-

glishwoman.” “An Englishwoman!” repeated the Boer in an altered tone. “Wacht een hietje (wait a moment) while I go inside.” The man went into his living room, and there for a few minntes engaged himself in close confabulation with his wife. Presently he emerged. This time, as he addressed himself to Mostert, he avoided his glance, and -with a sheepish air plunged into his subject. “I am sorry, Kerel” (mv friend, or my dear fellow), he said, “hut the vrouw says she won’t have an Englishwoman inside her house. You may outspan, and run your

oxen in the veld, and take water, but we can’t have your wife in here. You know our reasons.” Mostert had half expected something of the kind, but his blood rose hotly at the discourtesy. However, he had trekked far, and was in no mood for going on that night through the deep and troublesome poort that lay before him. “That’s not a very neighbourly spirit, my friend,” he answered quietly. “ However, I am not fust now inclined for argument, and my wife is tired. I’ll take you at your word, and outspan for the nicrht. The hospitality of the veld is good enough for me.” So saying, he turned his horse’s head, rode back a hundred yards to his waggon, and outspanned by a clear rill of water that ran down the mountain side. The oxen were sent in charge of their native leader for an hour’s grazing, the horses were knee haltered and turned loose, a fire was made, and supper got under way; and while these preparations were being made, Hans Mostert told his wife of his reception at the homestead. After supper, as they sipped their coffee under the glittering stars, and Mostert smoked his evening pipe, his wife produced her violin from the waggon and played, as she often did, any wandering airs that came •to hef fancy. A clear moon came round the shoulder of the mountain, paling the

brightness of the stars, and spreading a wonderful light over the wild landscape. Presently, as she played on, Kate Mostert

and her husband noticed the Big Boer, Karel Botma, steal out of his front door, ,and with two of his lads stand, listening manifestly with great interest, to the plaintive strains of the violin. In a few however, the vronw came to the door, saw anfl heard what was goings on, and in a sharp voice called them in. The trio crept back again, obedient at her command, the door was stmt, and all was quiet for the night. Mostert, and his wife exchanged gilances, as this little scene was enacted under the strong moonlight, and smiled. “I am Dutch myself,” said Mostert, reflectively, “ and to some extent I can sympathise with the bitterness of the Transvaal Boers at the annexation last year. But the hatred of these women f<#r anything English passes my comprehension.” Just then a Kaffir stole up to the camp fire, saluted the white man and his wife, and asked to be taken into service. He came from a kraal hard by. He had heard the baas was going hunting into the Low Veld, and he would act as guide and snoor game for him. The man was a Makatese, and spoke a Basuto dialect, which Mostert could easily comprehend. The surveyor made many inquiries, and half agreed to engage him. Questioning further, he ascertained that two roads or rather tracks, ran through the mountains down to the hunting veld. He expressed his wish to take the left-hand one, as it led him more into the country he wished to penetrate. But, to his surprise, the Makatese demurred to this route. It would lead the Baas, he said, into a piece of country three or four days ahead, that was mtaguti (bewitched). It was the country of a terrible white horse, ridden by an unseen rider, the ghost of a murdered Boer. It was a good game country, but no one, Dutchman or Kaffir, dared to hunt there.

Mostert and his wife laughed heartily as the Makatese finished his yarn. The very seriousness of the man aggravated the humour of the thing, and as he stood there in the fire blaze, the flickering lights playing upon his smooth, bronze skin and awestricken face, they could scarcely contain their mirth. But the man was in real, earnest; for him the subject was far too serious for jest. With some dignity he made his farewell. ‘‘Let the Baas ask the Boer there”—■ pointing to the homestead —“ in the morning,” he said. “He will find that what I have told the truth.” He departed to his kraal, after a present of a pannikin of hot coffee and some tobacco, and Mostert and his wife, turning into their comfortable waggon —fitted with green baize inside, and making quite a cosy apartment—slept peacefully till dawn. In the morning the surveyor •waited over to the Dutchman’s cattle and goat kraals, where he found Botina counting out his flocks and herds as they went forth to pas-

ture. That important operation concluded, Mostert addressed himself to his subject. He inquired the road to the best hunting veld, and incident allv mentioned the Kaffir’s absurd tale of the night before.’ Botma’s face suddenly lengthened and grew grave. " The talc is true enough,” be said. “ That veld, ‘ Wit paard Veld,’ (White Horse Veld), so we call it. or ‘Van Schoor’s Veld,' is haunted. Thirty years ago Frans Van School- first trekked in there hunting. He was a morose, savage fellow, and hated the idea of any other man sharing his sport, and, mounted on his white horse, he would chase Kaffirs and even Dutchmen out of the country. Sometimes he fired a shot or two to hurry them out. and there arc many^queer tales told of his treatment of the Kaffirs. Well, other Boers scarcely.Hked this sort of thing, and one of them/ Pieter Rossouw, went in and began shooting. Van Schoor came after him, the men had a violent quarrel, Van Schoor raised his gun, and Rossouw shot him dead as he sat on Ins white horse. The horse galloped away with its dead rider, and was killed by lions, and the pair were never seen again, except as spooks. Rossouw himself died a violent death soon after, far up in the north. And ever sinca that time this veld is haunted by Van Schoor’s white horse, ridden by an unseen rider. My friend, take my advice, don’t go into that country. You are sure to repent it. Many men have tried it, allured by the crowds of game. But whoever sees the white horse is sure to have bad luck. I know it,” staid the big Boer, with deep emphasis in his great voice, “ for my own family have suffered. Death or some other great misfortune is sure to overtake, if not the man himself who sees the spook, some one of his kin. I say again, don’t go there or you’ll bitterly repent it. Death surely rides in the White Horse Veld.”

The Boer was so obviously in earnest that Mostert. did not care to injure his feelings by laughing at his tale, as he felt inclined to do. He thanked B-o'ima for his informa-, tion, told him lightly that he himself had little faith in spooks or apparitions, and, having gained what further information he wanted as to the countrymen in front of him, went his-way. His men were inspanning the oxen, as he had ordered, breakfast awaited himself and his wife at the little camp table on the shady side of ‘he waggon, and, the meal despatched, and everything put in its place and made snug, they prepared to depart. The Makatese Kaffir squatted by. the remnants of the camp fire, where he had been assisting the men at breakfast. Mostert came up to him.

“ Well, my man,” he said, “are you coming with us.?” Is the Bans going into the White Horse Veld?” asked the native, looking up from a bone hs was picking. “ Yes, 1 shall hunt there first,” answered the white man.

“Then, Baas, I can’t go with you. Life is pleasant, and I don’t care to run nsks with spirits, and things of witchcraft. Farewell, Nkos, recollect I warned you.” Mostert climbed lightly to his saddle. “Farewell,” he replied, in Sesuto. “ When I come back this way in a month or two’s time you will be sorry for yourself. You will have lost two or three gold sovereigns in wages, plenty of sport, and more food than you could have eaten.”

The waggon rolled on ahead, Mostert’s wife sitting on the box enjoying the fresh winter morning and the magnificent scenery in front of 'them, and Mostert himself cantering on, was soon alongside.

In less than a week’s time the Government surveyor’s waggon was right in the heart of the dreaded country. They had descended terrace after ten-ace of hill and mountain, picking their way by kloof and pass through some of the wildest and grandest scemery in South Africa, and were now encamped in a fair rolling country of grass and bush and timber, through the heart of which ran a pleasant river. Game was plentiful. Already Mostert had killed koodoo, impala and waterbnck. They had found a spoor of giraffe, lion, buffalo, and other heavy game, and having fixed his camp on a piece of rising ground above the river, Mostert rode off one morning to begin his first real hunt in the new veld. He was away all day, and towards evening came into"camp, with his native after-rider, loaded up with buffalo meat and a good impala ram. His wife was sitting in her low camp chair under a shady tree. She caught sight of her husband quickly, rose, and came forward to meet him. He saw as he dismounted that her face was very pale, her eyes were burning and excited, something manifestly had happened, “What ds it, Kate?” he queried, as he stooped to kiss her. “Anything ■ happened?” '“Oh, Harry!” (his name was Hans, hut Englishlike, she called him Harry) she replied, in low yet excited tones, “ I don’t want to alarm the men, who are disturbed enough already. I have seen it. We have all seen it, and—well I can’t tell you why, but I am afraid—afraid. It’s foolish, I know, but, Harry, there’s something wrong, something evil, about this place.” “Come, wife,” he returned, “you are needlessly upset. A touch of fever possibly—l see you’re not well. Come under the trees and sit down, and tell me quietly what you have seen.” They strolled to the trees, Mostert meanwhile giving some orders as to feeding Hit horses and kraaling the oxen early within a strong thorn fence already erected, and then his wife began. “Harry,” she said, “don’t think I am imagining things or that lam ill. What I tell you I have seen is Gospel truth; Lawrence and the boys will corroborate me in all I say- We had a most ' pleasant day, resting here, and getting the camp quietly into order. The men worked well and Lawrence, as lie always does, kept things going capitally. After lunch I had a stroll towards the river, keeping within hail of the waggon, and then came back and had some coffee towards four o’clock. Half an hour after—l suppose an hour before you rode in—l was standing near the fire, giving some directions about the cooking. Lawrence was close to me. Suddenly he turned to me.

“‘ By Gosh, Ma’am!’ he cried, ‘a white horse cantering this way. Whose can it be? A bolter, for any money ; it’s saddled and bridled!’

“I looked and there, surely enough, galloping steadily across the grass, alongside the river, came a white horse. It came right on, and passed within sixty yards of ns. It was, as Lawrence said, saddled and bridled, and went exactly as if someone was riding it. That was the queerest part of it. As it swept past a strange feeling came over me. I can’t explain it- But some horrible dread seized upon me, a chill pierced me” —here she laid her left hand to her heart—“and I felt faint and sick. I stood staring as the thing swept by—without a sound, mind you, Harry—without a sound —and then it vanished into the bush yonder up the valley “ Look, look,” she cried, clutching her husband’s arm with a grip that astonished him, “It’s coming back. What is it, in God’s name?”

Mostert looked up the valley, and there, surely enough, cantering towards them, with that curious triple that the Boer’s nag so often, has, was a while horse. Mostert was quite cairn, and gazed hard and long, taking in every detail. The horse was a rough looking, ill-groomed, shooting pony, and as it approached closer lie saw that it was bitted with a severe curb hit, such as Dutch hunters love, and that it carried an oldfashioned saddle. The sim was nearing its hour of setting ; everything in the valley was steeped in the glorious red glow of the parting rays. The air was warm and pleasant- Yet, as the horse came along, a strange dullness seemed to creep up the valley. Mostert felt it and could scarce repress a shiver; his wife shuddeied visibly. As the horse ran by, Mostert noticed that, just as bis wife Imcl told him. it moved exactly as if bestridden by .some invisible rider. U- cocked its ears back and forth, just as a ridden horse will do, and its very movement seemed to indicate that it obeyed the guidance of some unseen hand. It was more than uncanny ; and yet, there in the broad daylight, what else could it be hut flesh and blood? Yet again, as Mostert listened, there was not the sound of a hoof stroke. The animal passed, tripled steadily down

the valley, and finally became lost to view in the jungle. „ “ A funny thing, a devilish funny thing, exclaimed Mostert to his wife, in a tone for more cheerv than bis inward feelings warranted, “but we’ll find out more about it to-morrow. Everything is explainable in this world. No doubt we shall In tup mwi anTltrSlppeDMd l^. let the *£? s/asMfc h— ? the camp cleaning up beads bil . skins and salting and drying meat tor du ton* Outwardly he was cheerful and oonSfed,°bTinw y ardly he waiting and watching, always, at every minute of the day watching for something that never came He had had a long talk with Lawrence, his factotum, foreman and bandy man. a honest and reliable Englishman, and his plan of action was decided upon. P His wife, cheery and tender as he was to her was depressed and out of sorts. N thing/ apparently, could banish some unaccountable load that weighed upon her spirits. Afternoon came and passed. At half-past four, just at the hour at winch Kate P Mostert bad seen it on the dav before the riderless white horse came cantering ’along the valley. Mostert and Lawrence had picked up their rifles and were ready for it, and as it passed within sixty paces of them, each took steady aim and fired. Both men were good shots, neither of them could well have missed that easy target. Yet the white horse passed on, untouched, uninjured, while the bullets struck up the red dust for across the river. Again, an hour later, came the uncanny thing, and again the rifles were discharged at it. The thing passed untouched. silently, inexplicably; yet to the eye. as it ambled by in the warm evening light it seemed, surely, a solid creature of flesh and blood. And yet, as it passed came again that unaccountable feeling ot fear, loathing, and depression which one had noticed upon its first appearance. Mostert had had enough of the White Horse Veld and its mysteries,_ and trekked out early next morning. Within a week ms wife sickened, and four days later lay dead, poor soul, within her waggon. Whether she died of fever caught in the low country during that brief visit, or whether the horror that seemed to have gripped her heart had really caused her death, her husband never co.uld tell. He could only recall Botma’s warning, and curse the hour that led him into the haunted! veld. He nursed his wife in her last days at Botma’s .farmhouse, and buried her near that desolate homestead. Vrouw Botma for once forgot her hatred of the English, and in poor Kate Mostert’s last hours tended her as assiduously and as tenderlv as if she had been her own flesh and blood. And the grim Boer woman shed many a kindlv tear over the fair young wife, cut off in the flower of her days. Fever or spook, you ask me? I know not, nor to this hour can Hans Mostert—now a gray-haired man—himself say. There are things unexplainable, passing daily in this world of ours. To this day fever haunts the deadly Low Country. And to this hour, if you chance to trek through the borderland of the Eastern Transvaal, you may leam that Van Schoor’s white horse still haunts its rider’s ancient hunting grounds, an object of dread and mystery to all who know of it.