Chapter Twenty Seven.
Night Work.
By a sudden effort I threw off the dreamy sensation—the feeling that I was half-stunned by the pressure of the task I had undertaken, now that it had suddenly grown so much greater than I had anticipated—and I walked alongside the wagon-box, breathing hard, and planning that at the first sound of approaching enemies I would rush forward to where Joeboy was tramping beside the foreloper, assagai in hand, and make a dash with him for liberty. But the minutes glided by, as the line of wagons, all going on with the regularity of some great, elongated machine, rolled easily along over the soft earth, the rested bullocks pulling steadily under the guidance of their leaders and drivers.
In vain I listened for the furious rush of horses and the challenges and orders to stop; then, by degrees, I began to grasp the fact that, though hundreds of Boers must have heard the wagons start, not one gave heed to the crack of whip, the cries of the black drivers, or the creaking and rumbling of the wheels. The moving of wagons of stores was quite a matter of course; somebody had given orders for their position to be changed, and that was all. These sounds were nothing to the weary men, rolled up in their warm blankets, making the most of their night’s rest. Doubtless it awoke many; but they only listened for a moment, and then turned over to sleep again. Oxen, their drivers, and the wagons had nothing to do with the enemy. Had there been a trumpet-call, a single shot, or a loud order, to a man they would have sprung up to rush to their horses, saddled, and been ready to attack or defend; but the shifting of some wagons during the night—what was that? Nor was the Boer force a carefully drilled cavalry brigade, with its transport-corps under the strictest discipline, every man part of a machine which only moved by order, and whose stores and supplies were under the most severe regulation and guard; it was a loose, irregular horde, whose officers had to permit the men to fight very much as they pleased, so long as they fought well and advanced and retreated at the word.
It took time to reason all this out, and to get to believe that our bold ruse was succeeding to a far greater extent than I had ever dared to hope. There it was all plainly enough—all real; the wagons were going steadily along, the first guided by Joeboy, and the rest following with their black conductors quite as a matter of course.
As far as I could make out in the darkness, we were going along parallel with the lines of the sleeping Boers. Growing more excited now, I began to wonder how soon Joeboy would turn the heads of the leading bullocks and strike out for the fortress; then my thoughts drifted into a fresh rut, and I speculated as to how long it would be before we came upon some outpost and were turned back.
Hardly had this idea crossed my mind, sinking my spirits almost to despair, when a great figure loomed up before me. Joeboy was at my side.
“Got um all, Boss Val,” he said in a low tone. “Doppies come and stop us soon. Say, ‘Where you go?’”
“Yes; and we shall be turned back,” I replied quickly.
“Um? No. Joeboy say, ‘Big boss tell us to go right away other end.’ Joeboy hear and know how Doppie talk, and Joeboy say right words.”
“Are you sure?” I said in Boer Dutch, to test him.
“Um? Yes. Know what to say, like Boss Val know. Always talk like Boer before Joeboy come and live with Boss Val.”
“Of course,” I whispered, with a feeling of relief.
“Um! Boss Val jump in wagon and say nothing. Go to sleep like. Doppie coming.”
He gave me a push towards the wagon and went forward at a trot. Yielding to his influence, I climbed in at the front, past the driver, and drew the curtains before me, only leaving a slit through which I could hear what passed. I was not kept waiting long. As far as I could judge, about a dozen mounted men cantered up, and a thrill ran through me as a familiar, highly-pitched voice cried in English, with the broadest of Irish accents:
“Whisht now, me sable son of your mother! What does this mane?”
“Moriarty,” I said to myself; and, with my heart beating fast, and a strange feeling of rage flushing up to my head, my right hand went to my revolver and rested upon the butt as I strained my ears to listen for every word. My thoughts, of course, flashed through my brain like lightning; but the answer to the renegade captain’s words came slowly, Joeboy replying in deep guttural tones, using Boer Dutch, to say:
“I don’t know what you mean, Boss?”
“Ugh! You soot-coloured, big-lipped baste!” snarled Moriarty; and then in Boer Dutch, “Where are you taking the wagons?”
“Over yonder,” replied Joeboy.
“Why? Who told you?”
“Big boss officer man,” replied Joeboy calmly enough. “Say want more mealies there. Make haste and be quick. Ought to have gone there last night. Wake all up and say come along.”
“Oh,” said Moriarty thoughtfully; and then, as I waited with my trepidation increasing, to my great surprise and relief he said a few words to those with him, which I could not catch; then aloud, in Dutch, “All right. Go on.”
When he began speaking Moriarty did not stop the wagons, which had crawled on in their slow and regular ox-pace, so that I was taken nearer and nearer till I was in line with the group of horsemen, and then past them; then the voices grew more indistinct. As the last words were uttered the patrol or outpost, whichever it was, trotted off, leaving me wondering what the broad-shouldered black just before me on the wagon-box might be thinking about what had passed, and my peculiar conduct in taking refuge inside. “A shout from him, if he is suspicious, might bring them back,” I mused; so, under the circumstances, I decided to keep up the appearance of having got in for the sake of a rest, and sat back upon one of the sacks.
However, I was not permitted to stay long inside, for as soon as the mounted Boers were out of hearing Joeboy came to the front of the wagon and called to me in his deep tones—speaking in Boer Dutch—to come out.
I stepped out past the driver, yawning as if tired, and leaped down, to walk on with the black.
“Hadn’t you better turn the heads of the leading bullocks now towards the laager, Joeboy?” I said.
“Um? Did,” he replied, “soon as Doppie captain went away. Going straight home now.”
“Ah!” I ejaculated. “Capital! But we shall be stopped again and sent back.”
“Um? Joeboy don’t think so. Doppie over there, and Doppie over there,” he said, pointing in opposite directions with his assagai.
“You think we shall not meet another party, then?”
“Um? Can’t hear any,” he replied.
“But about the drivers and forelopers? When they find where we’re going they’ll want to go back to the lines.”
“Um? No,” said Joeboy decidedly. “Black Kaffir chap. Not think at all. Very sleepy, Boss Val. Jus’ like big bullock. You an’ Joeboy tell um go along and they go along.”
“But suppose they turned suspicious and said they wouldn’t go with us?”
“Um?” said Joeboy, and I heard him grind his teeth. “They say that, Joeboy kill um all: ’tick assagai in back an’ front. All big ’tupid fool. Ha! ha! Joeboy almost eat um.” He laughed in a peculiar way that was not pleasant, and it moved me to say:
“Don’t attempt to touch them if they turn against us. I’ll threaten them with my pistol.”
“Um? Boss Val think better shoot one? No; Boss Val mustn’t make Doppie come. Joeboy say ‘Trek,’ and they no trek, he ’tick assagai in um back.”
“No, no; there must be no bloodshed.”
“Um? Blood? No; only ’tick in little way. Make um go like bullock. Make um go like what Boss Val call ‘’tampeed.’ Black Kaffir boy not say ‘Won’t go.’ Be ’fraid o’ Joeboy.”
I thought it very probable, and said no more. Leaving him with the foreloper of the first wagon, I stood fast and listened intently while the whole of the six great lumbering wagons, drawn by their teams averaging four-and-twenty oxen, crept past me. The forelopers walked slouching along, shouldering a bamboo sixteen or eighteen feet long, without so much as turning their heads in my direction; and the drivers on the wagon-boxes were sitting with heads down and shoulders raised, apparently asleep and troubled about nothing. They all trusted to the front wagon for guidance, as their teams, until the oxen were tired, needed no driving whatever, but followed stolidly in the track of those in front.
So slow!—so awfully slow! when I wanted them to go in a thunderous gallop! Yet I knew this was folly. I wanted to play the hare, though I knew that in this case the tortoise would win the race; for to have hurried meant some accident, some breaking of the heavy wains: a wheel off or broken, the giving way of trek-tow or dissel-boom. There was nothing for it, I knew, but to proceed at the oxen’s steady crawl, which had this advantage: the wagons made very little noise passing over the soft earth, the oxen none at all worth mention. But it was agonising, now that we had started and actually been passed on by the enemy’s patrol, to keep on at that dreadful pace, which suggested that, even if we did go on without further cheek, when day broke we should still be within sight of the Boer lines and bring them out in a swarm to turn us back.
It seemed to me we must have been creeping along for an hour, though perhaps it was not half that time, when suddenly the first team of oxen was stopped, the wheels of the first wagon ceased to move, and the whole line came, in the most matter-of-fact way, to a stand. No one seemed to heed, and the oxen went on contemplatively chewing their cud.
“What is it?” I said, running up to Joeboy.
“Um! Cist!” he whispered. “Doppie coming.”
I could hear nothing, and it was too dark to see, so I stood listening for quite a minute, knowing well that the black must be right, for his hearing was wonderfully acute. Then in the distance I heard the sound of trotting horses coming along at right angles towards us; and as it occurred to me that the patrol would come into contact with us about the middle of our long line, I began to wonder whether Joeboy would be able to get the better of the Boer leader again.
Nearer and nearer they came, and a snort or the lowing of a bullock would have betrayed us; but the stolid beasts went on ruminating, and, to my utter astonishment, the little mounted party rode past a couple of hundred yards behind the last wagon, as near as I can tell, and the sound of the horses’ hoofs and chink of bit against ring died away.
“Ha!” I ejaculated, with a sigh.
“Um?” said Joeboy, who had come by me unheard. “Yes, all gone. Doppie big fool. No see, no hear. Joeboy hear; Joeboy see wagon and bullock long way off. Doppie got wool in um ear an’ sand in um eyes.”
“So have I, as compared with you, my big black friend,” I thought to myself; “but I don’t want you to call me or think me a big fool, so I’ll hold my tongue.”
“Doppie can’t hear now,” said Joeboy. “All agone. Not hear any more.—Go on. Trek!” he cried in his deep, guttural tones; and the bullocks dragged at the great tow-ropes, the axles groaned, and away we went again in the same old crawl hour after hour, but without further alarm, though in one prolonged agony of anxiety, during which I was always looking or listening for pursuers.
Then came another trouble: the darkness was greater than ever. It was a cloak, certainly, for our proceedings; but there was not a star visible to guide us in our course towards the old stronghold.
“Think we’re going right?” I asked again and again.
“Um? Joeboy think so,” he always replied. “Wait till light come. Soon know then.”
Words of wisdom these, of course; but though we kept on in what we believed a straight line for our goal, the line we were taking might be right away from the camp, or we might be proceeding in a curve which would bring us within easy reach of the enemy—perhaps as near as when we started. Truly we were in the dark; and as the air grew colder towards daybreak, everything looked, if possible, blacker still.
“Morrow morning,” said Joeboy, suddenly coming back to where I trudged alongside one of the wagons, whose drivers appeared to be all asleep.
I looked in the direction he indicated, and there was a faint dawn low down on the horizon.
“Then we’re going wrong, Joeboy,” I said; “that’s the east.”
“Um!” he said. “Too much that way. Going right now.”
I looked back in the direction of the Boer camp, but nothing was visible there. It seemed as if the darkness lay like a cloud upon the earth; but, upon turning again to look in the way the heads of the oxen were pointed, I could see what looked like a hillock in the distance. Fixing my eyes upon it, I could gradually see it more distinctly, and in a few minutes’ time made out that what had seemed like one hillock was really two—the one natural, the other artificial: in other words, the pile of ironstone and granite in one case, the built-up stronghold in the other.
“Joeboy,” I said, beckoning him to one side after a furtive glance at the black foreloper, “we’re a long way off, and the Boers will miss the wagons and see us soon.”
“Um? Yes,” he said coolly.
“Do you think that you can get the bullocks to go faster?”
“Um? No,” he said. “Must go like this.”
“But the Boers will come after us as soon as they see us.”
“Um? Yes; but can’t see us yet. When Doppie see us Boss Denham see us too, and come along o’ fighting boys.”
“Yes; I had half-forgotten that,” I replied. Not thinking of anything more to say, I trudged on. At last, as the light grew stronger, Joeboy turned to me to say:
“Boss Val see Doppie now?”
I looked back in the direction of the enemy’s lines and shaded my eyes; but nothing was discernible.
“I can’t see them yet,” I said.
“Um? No. Joeboy can. Can’t see a wagons yet.”
“They can’t see the wagons?” I cried. “How do you know?”
“Come on horses after us,” he said. “Gallop fast.”
“Of course,” I replied, and looked anxiously at our great, lumbering prizes, wishing I could do something to hurry the bullocks on; but wishing was vain, and I knew all the time it would be madness to attempt to hasten the animals’ pace, and likely only to end in disaster.
The darkness, which had appeared to be low between us and the Boer lines, now began to turn of a soft grey, which minute by minute lightened more and more, and rose till it looked like a succession of horizontal streaks, beneath which lay something disconnected and strange, but which gradually took the form of a long line of horses, broken here and there by little curves which, by straining my eyes, I made out to be wagon-tilts seen through the soft pale-bluish air. Next, on turning sharply to look in the direction of our comrades, there were the old piled-up walls of our stronghold clearly marked against the sky.
“It’s a long, long way yet, Joeboy,” I said.
“Yes, long way,” he replied.
“Can you see the Boers on the move?”
He shook his head, and then hurried to the foreloper, a heavy-looking black, who was signalling to him.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
An Unexpected Obstacle.
“What does he want?” I muttered to myself as I looked on curiously, for I could not hear what was said; but, to my horror, there appeared to be something like a quarrel, as the foreloper suddenly threw down the long bamboo he carried and then squatted upon the ground.
In an instant the shaft of Joeboy’s assagai fell with a sounding thwack across the man’s bare shoulders, making him spring to his feet and snatch a knife out from his waistcloth. My hand went to my revolver, and I ran to Joeboy’s aid; but there was no need. In an instant the glistening blade of my companion’s assagai was pointed at the foreloper’s throat, making him recoil; and then, in response to a threatening thrust or two, the man picked up his long, thin bamboo and replaced his knife, while Joeboy, pointing fiercely to me, rated the man in his own tongue.
“What is it, Joeboy?” I asked as the man went back to the head of the bullock-team.
“Um? Say want to ’top and rest bullocks and make fire for breakfast, Boss. I say he go on till we get to laager. Say he won’t, and Joeboy make um. Boss Val put little ’volver pistol away and unsling gun; pretend to shoot um.”
I did as Joeboy suggested, and the man went down upon his knees and laid his forehead upon the earth. I needed no telling what to say next.
“Get up! Trek!” I shouted as fiercely as I could. The man leaped to his feet and urged the bullocks on, while the driver on the box made his great two-handed whip crack loudly in the quiet of the morning. The actions of these two being taken up by the men with the wagons behind, the bullocks for a time went on at the rate of quite another half-mile an hour extra.
“Um!” ejaculated Joeboy, with a look of satisfaction in his eyes; “rifle gun reach long way. Boss Val see boy not driving well, pretend to send bullet in um head, and make um jump along. Ha!”
Noticing that the black was using his hands like a binocular glass, and looking back, I asked anxiously, “What is it?”
“Um? See Doppie coming now?”
I looked, but could make out nothing; yet I was satisfied it was so. I now gazed eagerly in the direction of our goal, for Joeboy had first turned his eyes there.
“Can you see help coming, Joeboy?” I asked anxiously.
“Um? No,” he replied.
“Then it’s all over,” I said in despair.
“Um? Yes, here um come.”
“Ah!” I cried, remembering now the signal agreed upon. “Is it the Lieutenant—Mr Denham?”
“Joeboy can’t see so far as that,” replied the black. “Only see horses coming fas’. Coming to fetch wagons and plenty mealies and flour. Boys all say ‘Hurrah!’ and make all horses laugh.”
“But do you think they will get here first?”
“Um? Yes. Doppie got longer way to come.”
“Ha!” I ejaculated, with a sigh of relief.
A few minutes later the foreloper on whom so much depended—guided, no doubt, by our anxious looks in one direction—made out the coming of our friends, and I saw his eyes open widely till there was a great opal ring round the dark pupils. Looking at me despairingly, he pointed with his long bamboo in the direction of the galloping troop.
I nodded, and pointed forward. After an uneasy glance at my gun, he went on with his team in the direction we wished.
“Black boy run away fas’,” said Joeboy, suddenly laughing merrily, “but ’fraid lead bullet run fasser.”
“I suppose so,” I said slowly as I turned to look back. The light being now much increased, I readily detected a strong troop of the Boers in motion, and doubtless coming in our direction. I drew my breath hard as I looked at the long lines of slowly plodding oxen and then in the direction of our rescuers, who must have seen we were pursued, for they were galloping. Then, to my horror, Joeboy turned to me and nodded, after gazing back.
“Um?” he said in a long, slow, murmuring way, “’nother lot o’ Doppie coming. Big lot.”
I darted a look at our comrades, who came sweeping along over the veldt; but they were still far distant, and we seemed to be creeping along more slowly than ever.
“Not enough; not enough,” I thought; but I wasted no time in regret. There were fully fifty friends, all good horsemen and able shots, coming to our help; so I need not despair. Thinking of what would be the best tactics under the circumstances, there seemed to be two ways open to us: for the troop to fall in on either side of the last wagon, and keep up a running fight; or, if the Boer party proved too strong, the six wagons could be drawn up laager-wise and turned into a temporary fort, with the bullocks outside, our men firing, till help came, from behind an improvised shelter formed by the sacks of grain and meal.
Then I reasoned despairingly that the Boers would send forward troop after troop to recover, the wagons. “If they can,” I now muttered through my teeth. For I was more hopeful now, as it soon became evident that the enemy had twice as far to come as our men had. At last, when the mental strain had become almost unbearable, Denham and his troop dashed forward, cheering madly.
“Bravo! bravo, Val!” he shouted to me, pulling his horse up so suddenly that it nearly went back on its haunches. “Here, you, Joeboy, keep the teams going. Fall in, my lads! Dismount!”
The troop sprang from their saddles, swung round their rifles, and waited. In obedience to Denham’s next order I followed the last wagon, rifle in hand. Seeing the uneasy glances the drivers and forelopers directed at it from time to time, I felt convinced that if it had not been for this they would have played some trick with the bullocks, or have done something to stop the further progress of our prize-convoy, now that they fully understood what was wrong.
For me the suspense was over, though the plodding of the oxen still seemed maddening; but I had active work to do yet, with Joeboy for my aid, keeping the blacks well to their work. This we did vigorously, being called upon very soon even to threaten and command.
Just when least expected, and following upon a determined charge made by our pursuers, there was a rattling volley delivered standing by our men, who, steadying their rifles upon their horses’ backs, emptied many a saddle. But the Boers came on till within about a hundred yards, when a second volley was poured into them, sending horses and men struggling to the ground. The troop now divided in two, swinging round to right and left and dashing back towards the second party, who were now well in sight.
It was at the first volley that the alarmed black drivers nearly got out of hand, while the teams began to huddle together and threatened a stampede. The black boys, however, soon saw they had more to fear from us than from the Boers; and by the time our friends had remounted and trotted up to us the wagon-train was steadied again.
“Can’t you get any more speed out of them, Val?” shouted Denham.
“No,” I said; “this is the best they can do with the loads. You fellows must save the prize now.”
“And we will,” cried Denham, waving his hat, with the result that his men cheered.
Meanwhile the detachment of the enemy we sent to the right-about in a headlong gallop had settled down to a trot to meet the reinforcements coming up; but we had also a force coming to join us; so, when the enemy had joined hands and came on again, we of the wagon-train had two troops for our protection, who, coming on at a walk behind, readily faced round, dismounted, and poured forth a withering fire, which again sent the enemy scuttling away on their shambling ponies.
So the march went on for the next hour, during which troop after troop of the Boers reinforced our pursuers, but always to find that our force had been strengthened. Then the Colonel joined us with all he could command, and a fierce little battle raged. Again the Boers were repulsed. There being no cover for their men, which is so necessary for the practice of their marksmanship to the best advantage, the clever cavalry manoeuvres of the Light Horse proved too much for them.
Unsuccessful attempts to recapture the wagons were kept up till they were drawn as close to the opening in the old fortress walls as they could be got, the enemy being kept at bay while the bullocks were driven in. Then followed troop after troop of our men, who dismounted and hurried to the top of the walls, where they covered the retirement of their comrades so effectually that the enemy were soon in full retreat, gathering up their wounded as they passed without molestation from us.
That afternoon the Boers’ wagons, surmounted by a white flag, were seen coming across the plain, their attendants being engaged for a long time in the gruesome task of collecting the dead.
It must not be supposed, however, that our men had not suffered; we had a dozen slightly wounded. Inside the walls that evening there was a triumphant scene of rejoicing, in which to a man the wounded took part. The wagons had been emptied, and grain and meal stored under cover; horses and bullocks had a good feed, and one of the wagons was demolished for firewood, our whole force revelling in what they called a glorious roast of beef.
I never felt so much abashed in my life, I could not feel proud; though, of course, I had done my best. I tried to explain that it was poor old black Joeboy we had to thank for the success of the raid; but the men would not listen. If ever poor fellow was glad when the sentries had been relieved and the fires were out, so that rest and silence might succeed the wild feast, I was that person. I felt utterly exhausted, and I have only a vague recollection of lying down upon some bags of mealies, and of Denham, who was by me, saying:
“Hurrah, old fellow! The chief must make you a sergeant for this.”
I don’t think I made any reply, for I was nearly asleep; and that night seemed to glide away in a minute and a half.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Another Discovery.
Denham and I went out early next day with a small party and an empty wagon to go over the ground between our laager and the Boer lines, following the route taken with the captured wagons, to make sure that no wounded and helpless men were left on the veldt, and to collect such rifles and ammunition as had been left.
A sharp lookout was kept against surprise; but there was no need. Denham’s glass showed that the Boers, probably satisfied with their reverses of the previous day, were keeping to their lines.
We went as far as the spot where the first attack on us was made, finding only a few rifles as we went, noticing on our way sixteen dead horses—ghastly-looking objects, for near every one numerous loathsome birds rose heavily, flying to a short distance; and footprints all around in the soft earth showed that hyenas had been at the miserable banquet. The ground here and there also showed the unmistakable tracks of lions; but I am not sure they had been partakers.
“Well, I’m precious glad there’s no burying of the dead, or bringing in wounded Boers as prisoners,” said Denham as we rode back slowly side by side. “I don’t mind the fighting when my monkey’s up—it all seems a matter of course then; but the afterwards—the poor dead chaps with all the enemy gone out of them, and the suffering wounded asking you for water, and whether you think they’ll die—it makes me melancholy.”
“It’s horrible,” I said; “but it was none of our seeking.”
“No; it’s the Boers’ own fault—the beasts! Fighting for their liberty and patriotism, they call it. They won’t submit to being slaves to the Queen. Such bosh! Slaves indeed! Did you ever feel that you led the life of a slave under the reign of our jolly good Queen?”
“Pooh!” I exclaimed.
“Pooh! puff! stuff!—that’s what it is, old fellow. They’re about the most obstinate, stupid, ignorant brutes under the sun. They don’t know when they’re well off as subjects of Great Britain, so they’ll have to be taught.”
“Of course,” I said. “But they are brave.”
“Well, yes, in a way,” said Denham grudgingly. “They’ll fight if they’re ten or a dozen to one, and can get behind stones or wagons to pot us; but they haven’t got sense enough to know when they’re well off, nor yet to take care of six wagon-loads of good grain and meal, and nearly a hundred and fifty oxen.”
“Well, no; they were stupid there,” I said.
“Stupid, Lieutenant Moray!”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Oh yes; all right. You’re not a commissioned officer yet, but you will be. Promoted for special bravery and service in the field.”
“Nonsense!” I said, flushing up.
“Oh, but you will be, sure. Not that I think you deserve it. There wasn’t much risk.”
“Oh no,” I said; “only the risk of being taken, and shot for a traitor, a thief, and a spy.”
“That’s only what the Doppies would call it, and they’re idiots.”
“If a fellow is going to be shot,” I said, “it doesn’t make much difference to him whether he’s shot by a wise man or a fool.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Denham quickly. “I’d rather be shot by a wise man than by a Boer pig. But there was no risk. You and that big nigger went in the dark, and you had luck on your side, and— Oh, I say, Val, you did it splendidly! I had a good tuck-out of mealie-porridge this morning, and three big slices of prime beef frizzled. I feel quite a new man with all that under my jacket, and ready to take two Boers single-handed.”
“Yes, a good meal does make a difference,” I said, smiling with pleasant recollections of my own breakfast.
“Difference! Oh, it was splendid! I felt as if I could have voted for you to be made colonel on the spot, and black Joeboy adjutant, when I caught sight of you coming with six wagons and teams instead of one. My dear boy, you’ve won the affection of every one in the corps, from the Colonel right down to the cooks. It’s only cupboard-love, of course; but they’re very fond of you now. We were going to chair you round the big court last night, but the Colonel stopped it. ‘Let the poor fellow have a good rest,’ he said. But we did all drink your health with three times three—in water. Here—hullo! What game do you call that?”
He pointed to where, half a mile away, a dozen of our men were riding out, closely followed by the bullocks we had captured overnight.
“Taking the teams out to graze, I suppose. The poor beasts must be well fed to keep them in condition.”
“Of course. But how do we know that they won’t all bolt back for the Boers’ camp? They’re Boer bullocks, you know. Oh! I’ll never forgive the Colonel if he loses all that beef.”
“The poor brutes will only make for the nearest patches of grass and bush,” I said, “and their guard will take care to head them back if they seem disposed to stray.”
“But is any one on the lookout with a glass on the wall?”
“Sure to be,” I said.
“I’m not so sure,” cried Denham impatiently. “Why, there must be going on for six hundred sirloins there, without counting other tit-bits; and if the bullocks are taken care of, each one is a sort of walking safe full of prime meat for the troops.”
“There—look!” I said; “they’re settling down to graze, and the guard is spreading out between them and the open veldt.”
“Yes, I see,” said Denham anxiously; “but I hope they’ll take great care. That job ought to be ours.”
But it was not, and I did not want it. I said so, too.
“That’s bosh,” replied Denham. “You say so because you’re not hungry; but just wait till you are, and then you’ll be as fidgety about the bullocks as I am.”
“But you’re not hungry now,” I said laughingly.
“Well, no—not at present; but I shall be soon. I haven’t made up the balance of two days’ loss yet. Ugh! only fancy—grilled cat’s-meat for a commissioned officer in Her Majesty’s service! Ugh! To think that I was compelled by sheer hunger to eat horse! I’d swear off all flesh-feeding for good if it wasn’t for that beef.”
He burst into a hearty fit of laughing then, and we rode on, chatting about our position and the fact that the Boers seemed to consider they could not do better for their side than keep us shut up as we were till we surrendered as prisoners of war.
“That’s it, evidently,” said Denham. “They hate us horribly, for we’d been doing a lot of mischief amongst them before you joined, as well as ever since.”
“Shall we be able to cut our way through before long?” I asked.
“I don’t know, old fellow,” he replied.
“We ought to,” I said, “because we could be of so much use to the General’s troops.”
“Well, I don’t know so much about that,” said Denham as we neared the fortified gateway, with its curtain of empty wagons. “I’m beginning to think that we’re being a great deal of help to the General here.”
“How?” I asked wonderingly. “Our corps is completely useless.”
“Oh no, it isn’t, my little man. Look here; I’m of opinion that we’re surrounded by quite a couple of thousand mounted men.”
“Yes, perhaps there are,” I said, “at a guess.”
“Well, isn’t that being of use to the British General? We’re keeping these fellows fully occupied, so that they can’t be harassing his flanks and rear with all this mob of sharpshooters, who know well how to use their rifles.”
“I say,” I cried, “what’s the matter yonder?”
“Nothing! Where?”
“Look at the baboons right at the far end of the kopje. They’re racing about in a wonderful state of excitement.”
“Smell cooking, perhaps,” said Denham. “Here, Sergeant,” he continued, calling up Briggs, “take Mr Moray and a couple of men. Canter round yonder and see if you can make anything out. Scout. Perhaps the brutes can see the Boers advancing.”
In another minute we were cantering round the ragged outskirts of the great pile of stones, where they came right down to the plain, among which were plenty of grassy and verdant patches, little gorges and paths up amongst the tumbled-together blocks; and as we rode along we startled apes by the dozen from where they were feeding, and sent them shrieking and chattering menacingly, as they rushed up to the higher parts.
It was away at the extreme end where the main body of the curious-looking, half-dog, half-human creatures were gathered, all in motion, and evidently much exercised by something below them on the side farthest from where we approached.
“They’re playing some game, Mr Moray,” said the Sergeant, speaking quite respectfully to me, and, as I thought, slightly emphasising the “Mister,” which sounded strange. “Tell you what it is: one of the young ones has tumbled into a gully and broken his pretty little self.”
“Give the order to unsling rifles, Sergeant,” I said quietly, “and approach with caution.”
“Eh? What! You don’t think there’s an ambuscade—do you?”
“No,” I said as I watched the actions of the apes keenly; “but I do think there’s a lion lying up somewhere.”
“A lion!”
“Yes; one of the brutes that were feeding on the dead horses in the night. He has made for the shelter yonder, and is in hiding.”
“And the monkeys have found him, and are mobbing the beggar now he’s sleeping off his supper?”
“That’s it, I think,” I replied.
“Then let’s get his skin if we can. Steady, all, and don’t fire till you get a good chance.”
We checked our horses so as to approach at a walk, the Sergeant sending me off a few yards to his left, and the other men opening out to the right.
I fully expected to see the baboons go scurrying off as we approached; but, on the contrary, they grew more excited as, with rifle ready and Sandho’s rein upon his neck, I picked my way alongside the others in and out among the great blocks of stone at the foot of the kopje, where there was ample space for a couple of score of lions to conceal themselves. But I felt sure that as soon as we came near enough, and after sneaking cautiously along for some distance, the one we sought would suddenly break cover and bound off away across the veldt.
Wherever I came to a bare patch of the sandy earth I scanned narrowly in search of “pug,” as hunting-men call the traces; but I could not make out a single footprint. There were those of the baboons by the dozen, and the hoof-tracks of horses, probably those of some of our men when they made a circuit of the rocky hillock. Every hoof-mark was made by horses going in the direction we were; but still no sign of a lion.
“Keep a sharp lookout,” said the Sergeant softly; and I remember thinking his words unnecessary, seeing that every one was keenly on the alert.
“Seems to me a mare’s-nest,” said the Sergeant to me dryly, as he cocked his eye and pointed down at the footprints.
“No,” I said; “the baboons have got something below them on the other side, or they wouldn’t keep on like that. Ah! look out!”
“What can you see?” cried the Sergeant.
“Marks of blood on the ground here. The lion has caught one of the baboons, I expect, and he’s devouring it over yonder under where the rest are dancing about and chattering.”
“And enough to make them,” said the Sergeant between his teeth. “Shoot the beggar if you can, sir.”
“I’ll try,” I replied; and Sandho advanced cautiously, with the cover getting more dense, till, just as I was separated from the Sergeant by a few big blocks of ironstone, from out of whose chinks grew plenty of brushwood, Sandho stopped short, threw up his muzzle, and neighed.
“What is it, old fellow?” I said softly, as I debated whether I should dismount so as to make sure of my shot. “There, go on.”
The horse took two steps forward, and then stopped again.
“Here’s something, Sergeant,” I said. “Push on round the end of that block and you’ll see too.”
“Lion?”
“No, no. Go on.”
Sergeant Briggs pushed on, and uttered a loud ejaculation.
“One of the Boers’ horses?” I said.
“One of the Boers, my lad,” he cried. “Close in there.”
The two men drew nearer, and the next minute we were all gazing down at where one of the enemy’s wounded horses had evidently pitched forward upon its knees and thrown its wounded rider over its head to where he lay, a couple of yards in advance, with a terrible gash across his forehead, caused by falling upon a rough stone. But that was not the cause of his death, for his jacket and shirt were torn open and a rough bandage had slipped down from the upper part of his chest, where a bullet-wound showed plainly enough that his lungs must have been pierced, and that he had bled to death.
“Poor chap!” said the Sergeant softly; “he’s got it. Well, he died like a brave man. Came up here, I s’pose, for shelter.”
“There’s another over yonder,” I said excitedly, for about fifty yards away from where we were grouped, and high above us, the baboons were leaping about and chattering more than ever.
“Shouldn’t wonder,” said the Sergeant; “and he aren’t dead. Trying to scare those ugly little beggars away.”
“I’ll soon see,” I said; and as I urged Sandho on, the shrinking beast cautiously picked his way past the dead group, and we soon got up to a narrow rift full of bushes, the path among the rocks running right up to the highest point, towards which the baboons began to retire now, chattering away, but keeping a keen watch on our proceedings.
“Another dead horse, Sergeant,” I shouted back.
“Never mind the horse,” cried Briggs. “Be ready, and shoot the wounded man down at sight if he doesn’t throw up his hands. ’Ware treachery.”
I pressed on into the gully, at whose entrance the second dead horse lay, and the next minute, as Sandho forced the bushes apart with his breast, I saw marks of blood on a stone just beneath where the apes had been chattering in their excitement; and then I drew rein and felt completely paralysed, for a faint voice, whose tones were unmistakable, cried:
“Help! Wather, for the love of Heaven!”
Chapter Thirty.
Briggs’s Irish Lion.
“Why, it’s an Irish lion!” cried the Sergeant, who was now close behind me.
I was too much surprised to say anything then; but I felt afterwards that I might have said, “Irish jackal! The Irish lions are quite different.” But somehow the sight of the badly-wounded man disarmed me, and I dismounted to part the bushes and kneel down beside where my enemy lay back with his legs beneath the neck and shoulders of his dead horse, blood-smeared and ghastly, as he gazed wildly in my face.
“Wather!” he said pitifully. “I am a dead man.”
“Are you, now, Pat?” cried the Sergeant, in mocking imitation of the poor wretch’s accent and high-pitched intonation.
“Don’t be a brute, Sergeant,” I said angrily as I opened my water-bottle and held it to the man’s lips. “Can’t you see he’s badly hurt?”
“Serve him right,” growled the Sergeant angrily. “What business has he fighting against the soldiers of the Queen? Ugh! he don’t deserve help; he ought to be stood up and shot for a traitor.”
“Be quiet!” I said angrily as I held the bottle, and the wounded man gulped down the cool water with terrible avidity.
“All!” he moaned, “it putts life into me. Pull this baste of a horse aff me. I’ve got a bullet through my showlther, and I’m nearly crushed to death and devoured by those imp-like divils o’ monkeys.”
“Here, you two,” cried the Sergeant surlily, “uncoil your reins, and make them fast round this dead horse’s neck.”
Our two followers quickly executed the order, and then, the other ends of the plaited raw-hide ropes being secured to rings in their saddles, they urged on their horses, which made a plunge or two and dragged their dead fellow enough on one side for the Sergeant, with my help, to lift the poor rider clear.
“The blessing of all the saints be upon you both!” he moaned. “There’s some lint in my pouch; just put a bit of a bandage about my showlther. I’m Captain Moriarty, an officer and a gintleman, who yields as a prisoner, and I want to be carried to yer commanding officer.”
He spoke very feebly at first; but the water and the relief from the pressure of the horse revived him, and he began to breathe more freely, his eyes searching my face in a puzzled way as if he thought he had seen me before.
I took no heed, but did as he suggested; and, finding the lint and a bandage, roughly bound up the wound, which had long ceased bleeding.
“Can ye fale the bullet in the wound, me young inimy?” he said, with a sigh.
“No,” I replied, looking him full in the eyes. “Our doctor will see to that.”
“Then ye’ve got a docthor with ye?” he said, pretty strongly now.
“Of course we have,” growled the Sergeant, whose countenance seemed to me then to bear a remarkable resemblance to that of a mastiff dog who was angry because his master spoke civilly to a stranger he wanted to hunt off the premises. “Do you take us for savages?”
“Silence, sor!” cried our prisoner, “or I’ll report ye to yer officer.”
“Silence yourself!” cried the Sergeant. “What do you want with a doctor, you Irish renegado turncoat? You said you were a dead man.”
“Whisht! I’m a prisoner; but I’m an officer and a gintleman.—Here, boy, ordher your min to carry me out of this.”
“My men!” I said, laughing. “I’m only a private, and this is my sergeant.”
“Thin ye ought to change places, me boy.—Give orders to your min to carry me out of this, Serjint.”
“I’m about ready to tell the lads to put an end to a traitor to his country.”
“Tchah! Ye daren’t do annything o’ the kind, Serjint, for it would be murther. This is my counthry, and I’m a prisoner of war.”
“Let him be, Sergeant, and we’ll get him into the camp.—Can you sit on a horse, sir?” I said.
“Sure, how do I know, boy, till I thry? I’ve been lying under that dead baste till I don’t seem to have any legs at all, at all. Ye must lift me on.”
“Officer and a gentleman!” said the Sergeant scornfully. “I never heard an Irish gentleman with a brogue like that. I believe you’re one of the rowdy sort that call themselves patriots.”
“Sure, and I am,” cried our prisoner. “But here, I don’t want any wurruds with the like o’ ye.—Help me up gently, boy, and let me see if I can’t shtand.”
“Take hold of him on the other side,” I said to the Sergeant, and he frowningly helped, so that we got our prisoner upon his feet.
“Ah!” he said, with a groan. “I think I can manage it if ye lift me on a horse.”
Sandho was led up, and with a good deal of difficulty and a repetition of groans and allusions to the state of his lower members, the Captain was hoisted into the saddle, and after another draught of water he declared that he could “howld” out till we got him to the “docthor.”
“He doesn’t look as if he could try to make a bolt of it,” growled the Sergeant; “but you’d better throw the reins over your horse’s head and lead him.—And look here, Mr Officer and Gentleman, I’m very good with the revolver, so don’t try to spur off.”
Our prisoner waved his hand contemptuously and turned to me.
“Sure, me wound and me fall put it all out of me head; but I had a man with me when I was hit, and we were cut off in the fight.”
“Yes,” I said; “the poor fellow lies close here—dead.”
“Thin lade the horse round another way, boy. I don’t want to look at the poor lad. Ah! I don’t fale so faint now. To think of me bad luck, though. Shot down like this, and not in battle, but hunting a gang of wagon-thieves.”
“Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!” roared the Sergeant, slapping his thigh again and again as he laughed. “Come, I like that, Mr Moray.—Here, Mr Captain, let me introduce you to the gentleman who so cleverly carried off your stores last night.”
I was scarlet with indignation at being called a cattle-thief, and turned angrily away.
“What!” said the prisoner; “him? Did—did he—did—But Moray—Moray? Sure, I thought I knew his face again. Here, I arrest ye as a thraitor and a deserter from the commando, boy;” and his hand went to the holster to draw his revolver, which had not been interfered with.
“Drop that!” roared the Sergeant roughly, and he dragged the prisoner’s hand from the holster, wrenching the revolver from his grasp, and nearly making him lose his balance and fall out of the saddle. “I’ve heard all about it. So you’re the Irish scoundrel who summoned that poor lad, and when he refused to turn traitor and fight against his own country, you had his hands lashed behind his back and treated him like a dog. Why, you miserable renegado! if you weren’t a wounded man I’d serve you the same. An officer and a gentleman! Why, you’re a disgrace to your brave countrymen.”
“Whisht! whisht!” cried our prisoner contemptuously.
“Whisht! whisht! I’d like to whisht you with a Boer’s sjambok,” cried the Sergeant. “Here he finds you wounded and where you’d have lain and died, and the carrion-birds would have come to the carrion; and when the brave lad’s helped you, given you water, bound up your wound, and put you on his own beast, like that man did in Scripture, you turn round in the nastiness of your nature and try to sting him. Bah! I’d be ashamed of myself. You’re not Irish. I don’t even call you a man.”
The Sergeant’s flow of indignation sounded much poorer at the end than at the beginning; and, his words failing now, I had a chance to get in a few.
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” I said. “You forget he’s a wounded man and a prisoner.”
“Not half enough, Mr Moray,” cried the Sergeant. “I’m not one of your sort, full of fine feelings; only a plain, straightforward soldier.”
“And a brave man,” I said, “who cannot trample on a fallen enemy.”
Sergeant Briggs gave his slouch felt hat a thrust on one side, while he angrily tore at his grizzled shock of closely-cut hair: it was too fierce to be called a scratch.
“All right,” he said—“all right; but the sight of him trying to get out a pistol to hold at the head of him as—as—”
“Be quiet, Sergeant,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “Look: the poor fellow’s turning faint. Let’s get him to the camp. Ride alongside him and hold him up or he’ll fall.”
“If I do may I—”
“Sergeant!” I shouted.
“Oh, all right, all right. I— But here, I’m not going to let you begin to domineer over your officer.”
“Sergeant,” I said gently, and without a word he pressed his horse close alongside the prisoner, thrust a strong arm beneath him, and we went out into the open, passing, after all, the prisoner’s Boer companion, whose fighting was for ever at an end; and at last we reached the entrance to the old fort, with our wounded prisoner nearly insensible. After the horses had been led in, the prisoner had to be lifted down and placed in the temporary hospital made in a sheltered portion of the passage. Here the surgeon saw him at once, and extracted a rifle-bullet, which had nearly passed through the shoulder.
The Colonel was soon made acquainted with all that had passed, the Sergeant being his informant, and men were sent out to give a soldier’s funeral to the dead Boer, who, with the Captain, must have dashed out in one of our skirmishes, after being wounded, and tried to escape by going right round the kopje, but had fallen by the way.
“Here, Moray,” said the Colonel to me the next time he passed, “you’ve been heaping coals of fire upon your enemy’s head, I hear?”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” I said uneasily.
“I’ve heard all about it, my lad; and a nice sort of a prisoner you’ve brought me in. If he had been a Boer I’d have put him on one of the captured horses and sent him to his laager, but I feel as if I must keep this fellow. There, we shall see.”
“A brute!” said Denham that same night. “He’s actually had the impudence to send a message to the Colonel complaining of his quarters and saying that he claims to be treated as an officer and a gentleman.”
“Pooh! The fellow only merits contempt,” I said.
“There are fifteen Irishmen in the corps, and they’re all raging about him. They say he ought to be hung for a traitor. He doesn’t deserve to be shot.”
“But there isn’t an Irishman in the corps would put it to the proof,” I said.
“Humph! Well,” said Denham, “I suppose not, for he is a prisoner after all. Officer and a gentleman—eh? One who must have left his country for his country’s good.”