Chapter Thirty Six.
The Use of Muscles.
Some one wrote, “Circumstances alter cases.” Everybody knows how true that is, and how often we have illustrations in our own lives. Here is one: to catch hold of a rope after jumping to it is wonderfully easy, and in our young days the sensation of swinging to and fro in a sort of bird-like flight through the air is delightful—that is to say, if the ground is so near that we can drop on our feet at any moment; there is no thought of danger as we feel perfect confidence in our power to hold on. It is a gymnastic exercise. But change the scene: be hanging at the end of the same rope, with the knowledge that a friend and comrade is in deadly peril, and that, though resting against a rocky slope which gives you foothold and relieves the strain on your muscles, there is beneath you a horrible chasm full of black water, hidden by the darkness, but lapping and whispering as if waiting to receive the unfortunate. It is then that the nerves weaken and begin to communicate with and paralyse the muscles, unless there is sufficient strength of mind to counteract the horror, setting fear at defiance.
The best thing under these circumstances is to get the body to work, and make brain take the second place. In other words, act and don’t think.
I must confess that my endeavours during those perilous moments were quite involuntary; for it was in a kind of desperation that I got my toes upon a solid piece of the slippery rock and pressed myself against the steep slope for a few moments, listening to the firing, some of which sounded close, some more distant. Then, shouting to Denham to hold on, I glanced at the lamp, which was flaring bravely and giving a good light, but only at the expense of the rapidly melting fat. The next minute I was climbing as quickly as I could by the rope, and shuddering as I heard stone after stone go down, any one of which I knew might crash full upon Denham.
There was no time to think—I was too hard at work; and, to my surprise, I found myself just beneath the long bridge-like piece of stone which had been laid across the opening to the shaft; while, by holding on to the rope with one hand and, reaching up the other to grasp the stone, I could see by the light which rose from below—reflected from the glistening wall, for the lamp was out of sight—that the rope was one of the strong tethering-reins, fastened round the stone as if for the purpose of lowering a bucket.
The next minute I was seated on the stone, with my feet resting on the side of the shaft-hole, and drawing up the raw-hide rope hand over hand. After pulling up some feet of it I came upon a knot which felt secure, and I then hauled again till I came upon another, also well made. With the rope gathering in rings about my knees and behind me, I kept hauling till I came to knot after knot, all quite firm. I found that the rope was dripping with water, and knew that it had been just drawn out of the pool below. The end of the rope came to hand directly; and, with trembling fingers, my first act was to tie a knot a few inches up before doubling the strong raw-hide plait and tying it again in a loop, which I tested, and found I could easily slip it over my head and pass my arras through so as to get it beneath the armpits.
I had the rope off again in a few seconds, held it ready, and shouted down to Denham, who had been perfectly still.
“Now then,” I cried; “can you hear what I say?”
“Yes,” came in a strange, hollow tone.
“Look out! I’m going to lower you a rope with a loop all ready tied. Slip it over your head and under your arms.”
“Ah!” he said softly; and, as I rapidly lowered down the rope, though the tone seemed only like an expiration of the breath, it yet sounded firmer than that “Yes” of a few moments before.
“I can’t see, old fellow,” I cried, when I had paid out what I thought must be enough; “but this ought to be near you now. Can you see it?”
“Yes; but it is a dozen feet too high,” he replied. “It won’t reach me.”
“Yes, it will,” I roared, for there was a despairing tone in those last words. “Plenty more. Look out!”
I lowered away, and then shouted again:
“That enough?”
“Yes,” he said, with a little more spirit in his tone; “it’s long enough, but quite out of my reach—a couple of yards away, and I dare not move.”
“I’ll swing it to and fro till it comes close. Look out! Here goes.”
I began to swing the rope; and as it went to and fro it sent small stones rattling down and then splashing into the water, making me shiver. But they evidently fell clear of Denham, who sent a thrill of encouragement through me when he now spoke more cheerily.
“That’s right,” he said, and his words were repeated by the echoes. “A little more—a little more. No. Harder. It keeps catching among the stones. Give a good swing.”
I did as he told me, and then nearly let go, for he uttered a wild cry, almost a shriek. The next moment there was a peculiar rattling sound; the lamp flashed out brilliantly and lighted up the shaft; there was a sharp hiss, followed by a splash, and then all was in darkness.
“Denham!” I yelled, and I let the rest of the rope run through my hands till it could hang taut, meaning to slide down it and go to his assistance, for I was sure that all depended upon me now. I was already changing my position, when—my sinking heart, which seemed to suggest that I was about to descend to certain death, giving a sudden bound, and I felt choking—Denham spoke again.
“I couldn’t stop the lamp,” he said; “the rope caught it and knocked it off the ledge; but I’ve got hold.”
“Hurrah!”
I suppose I shouted that word, but it came out involuntarily. Then I listened, my heart beating painfully, for I could hear the poor fellow moving now, but, as it seemed, sending stone after stone rolling and splashing into the water.
However, nerved into action again, I did as he bade me, all the time fearing it was too late, for he shouted hoarsely:
“Pull up, Val—pull! I’m going down.”
My hands darted one over the other, the slack seeming endless as I heard a low rushing sound mingled with the splashing of falling stones. Then there was a sharp jerk at my wrists, and the rope began to glide through my hands till I let one leg drop from where my foot rested against the edge of the shaft-mouth, and quick as thought flung it round the rope so that my foot and ankle formed a check; with the result that I was nearly jerked off my seat before the rope was stopped.
“Ah!” came from below, and I heard no falling of stones now; but there was a splashing and dripping sound which for the moment I did not understand. Once more I thought all was over, for the rope seemed to slacken; but hope came again.
“Pull up steadily,” came in firmer tones; and, though I could not see, I supposed that Denham had drawn his feet from the water and was trying to climb up the rope. I knew it was so directly, for he spoke.
“I’ve got the rope well under my arms,” he panted out, “and if you keep hauling gently, I think perhaps I can climb up the side; but you must be ready for a slip. Can you pass it round anything?”
“Yes,” I said; and as the rope was eased I got both legs back into their position again, thus hindering my power of hauling dreadfully, but guarding against the rope being dragged down again rapidly by passing it over my right leg and under the left.
“Are you sure you can hold on if I slip?” said Denham now.
“Yes, if you come slowly. The rope’s strong enough, and I’ll get it up a yard at a time, so that’s all the distance you can pull.”
“Ah!” he cried; “then I can use both hands, and climb with more confidence. Now then, I’m coming up.”
“Ready!” I shouted; and I toiled on with the perspiration moistening my hands as I steadily hauled with my right and left alternately, gaining a foot with one and making it secure over and under my legs with the other. All the while I could hear him painfully climbing as if gaining confidence with every yard he came nearer the surface.
“Now rest,” he said, and I could hear him breathing hard.
Stones had fallen again and again as he climbed; but I was getting accustomed to their rattle and sullen plunge, for so long as the rope proved true they were robbed of their terrible meaning. Just, however, as my poor comrade said he meant to take a rest, there was another sharp jerk which told that his foothold had given way, and for a moment or two I was wondering whether I could hold on, as I listened to the falling of many stones. Once more he gained a good footing, and from where he half-hung, half-lay, he began to talk slowly about his position.
“It’s like climbing up the side of a house built of loose stones,” he said in a low tone; “but I mean to do it now if you can keep hold of the rope firmly.”
“I can,” I said.
“Ah! It’s a horrible place, Val; but you give me confidence. Now then, I’m rested. Can you haul up more quickly? I want to get it done?”
“No,” I said quietly; “I can only just make the rope safe.”
“Very well. Go on as you like. There, I’m going to begin.”
“Go on,” I said; and once more the painful climb went on, with the stones falling and splashing, and the sound of Denham’s breath at times coming to my ears in sobs which seemed terribly loud. It did not last many minutes; but no more agony could have been condensed into hours, and no hours could have seemed longer than the interval during which I strove to save my companion from death.
However, all things come to an end; and at last, when I was nervously on the qui vive for another slip, and just when Denham seemed to be creeping painfully up, though still many feet below, I suddenly felt one of his hands touch my ankle, and the other get a good grip of the rope where it lay cutting into my leg. Then I heard his feet grating and scraping against the side, and my heart leaped as he threw himself on his side away from the mouth of the hole, and lay perfectly still.
“Ah!” I cried; “at last!” and, freeing my legs from the rope, I moved painfully after him; but at the first attempt I felt as if the darkness was lighting up, flashes played about my eyes, there was a horrible swinging round of everything in my head, and I sank down, crawled aside a little way instinctively to get from the shaft-mouth, and then for a few moments all was blank. Not more than a few moments, however, for Denham roused me by speaking.
“Is anything the matter?” he said.
“Matter?” I replied, as the absurdity of his question seemed to surprise me. “Oh no, nothing at all the matter, only that my head feels as if it had been crushed by a stone, and we had just saved ourselves from the most terrible death that could have come to two poor wretches who want to live. It’s very comic altogether—isn’t it?”
Denham sat in silence, and we could hear the firing still going on. At last he spoke with a low, subdued voice.
“Yes,” he said, “we have escaped from a horrible death. Val, old fellow, I shall never forget this. But don’t let us talk about it. Let us talk about who did it. Some one must have struck at us and knocked us down that hole.”
“Yes,” I said; “and there’s only one ‘some one’ who could have done it.”
“That renegade Irishman?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It seems like this: he couldn’t have got away, but must have been in hiding here. He couldn’t escape the watchfulness of the sentries, I suppose.”
“No; and he must have managed to get that rope to let himself down from the walls.”
“To let himself down into a place where he could hide, I think,” was my reply.
“For both purposes. But what a place to hide in!” said Denham, with a shudder. “He could not have known what he was doing, or he would not have gone down.”
“I believe he went down and was afraid to stay. Of course he was hiding somewhere here when we came along with the light.”
“And then struck us down. Are you much hurt?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I forgot all about it for the time in the excitement of trying to escape. How are you?”
“My head hurts me badly now. I believe I was struck with a heavy stone.”
“Of course. That was the wretch’s trick, and how he served poor Sam Wren. Here, let’s go to the hospital. I feel as if I want to see the doctor.”
“Yes,” said Denham faintly. “I hope he has no more wounded after all this firing.”
Denham rose to his knees in the darkness, and I did the same, bringing on the giddy feeling once more, so that I was glad to lean against the wall of the great passage.
“What is the matter?” said my companion.
“Not much; only a bit dizzy,” I replied; “and my legs feel so awfully stiff and strained that I can hardly stand.”
“My head swims too,” said Denham. “I am glad to lean against the wall. Ah! Look! here is some one coming with a light.”
I uttered a sigh of relief, and then, taking a good deep breath, I gave a hail which brought half-a-dozen men to us, headed by Sergeant Briggs, who uttered an ejaculation of surprise as he held up the wagon lantern he carried and let the light fall on our faces.
“Why, you gents haven’t run up against that savage sham Paddy, have you?” he cried.
“Yes, Sergeant,” said Denham, speaking faintly; “and he got the better of us.”
“He has, sir, and no mistake.”
“Have you caught him, Briggs?” I asked anxiously.
“No, my lad; I only wish we had. I never saw such shots as our men are! Wasted no end of cartridges, and not one of ’em hit. Did nothing but draw the enemy’s fire, and they have been answering in the dark. All waste.”
“But Moriarty?” asked Denham.
“Moriarty!” said the Sergeant scornfully. “I’m Morihearty well sick of him, sir. It’s all easy enough to see now. Instead of getting away, as we thought, after hammering poor Sam Wren with a stone, my gentleman’s been in hiding.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes it is, my lad. Then he’s been sneaking about in the dark, going about among the men like a sarpent, and then among the horses, helping himself to the reins with his knife.”
“To join together and make a rope to let himself down from the wall,” I said.
“That’s right, my lad—right as right; and all our chaps asleep, I suppose—bless ’em! They ought to be ashamed of theirselves. There was quite a dozen nice noo reins missing, and half of ’em gone for ever.”
“Not quite, Sergeant,” said Denham; “take your light and look carefully down yonder.”
The Sergeant stared, but did as he was told, holding the lantern low down by the crossing-stone.
“Well, I am blessed!” he cried. “Here, one of you, come and loosen this knot and coil the ropes up carefully.—But, I say, Mr Denham, how did they come there?”
Denham told him briefly of our adventure, and of what we surmised.
He whistled softly, and then said, “Why, I wonder you’re both alive. You do both look half-dead, gentlemen; and no wonder. This accounts for one lot, though. The others were tied together and one end made fast to a big stone—a loose one atop of the wall. He must have slid down there and got away. I never saw such sentries as we’ve got. All those cartridges fired away, and not one to hit. Why, they ought to have pumped him so full of lead that he couldn’t run. Run? No; so that he couldn’t walk. But you two must come to the Colonel and let him know.”
“No, no! Take us to Dr Duncombe,” said Denham.
“Afterwards, sir.”
“Then you must carry me,” said Denham, with a groan.
“Right, sir.—Here, two of you, sling your rifles and dandy-chair your officer to the Colonel’s quarters. Two more of you serve young Moray same way.”
“No,” I said, making an effort. “One man give me his arm, and I’ll try to walk.”
“So will I,” said Denham, making an effort. “That’s right, Val; we won’t go into hospital, only let the doctor stick a bit or two of plaster about our heads for ornament. Now then, give me an arm.”
The result was that we mastered our suffering, and were led by the Sergeant’s patrol to the officers’ rough quarters. The first thing the Colonel did was to summon the doctor, who saw to our injuries, while Denham unburdened himself of our adventures, my head throbbing so that I could not have given a connected narrative had I tried.
Denham protested stoutly afterwards that there was no need for the doctor’s proposal that we should be sent to the hospital to be carried into effect, and appealed to the Colonel.
“Look at us both, sir,” he said. “Don’t you think that after a good night’s sleep we shall both be fit for duty in the morning?”
“Well, Mr Denham, to speak candidly,” was the reply, “you both look as dilapidated as you can possibly be; so you had better obey the doctor’s orders. I give you both up for the present.”
Denham groaned, and I felt very glad when a couple of the Sergeant’s guard clasped wrists to make, me a seat; and as soon as I had passed my arms over their shoulders their officer gave the word, and we were both marched off to the sheltered hospital, where I was soon after plunged in a heavy stupor, full of dreams about falling down black pits, swinging spider-like, at the end of ropes which I somehow spun by drawing long threads of my brains out of a hole in the back of my head, something after the fashion of a silkworm making a cocoon.
Then complete insensibility came on, and I don’t remember anything. But on the day following Denham and I lay pretty close together, talking, and looking up at the sky just above, one of the wagon-tilt curtains being thrown back.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
A Hospital Visitor.
“Hang being in hospital!” Denham said over and over again. “I seem to be always in hospital. There never was such an unlucky beggar.”
I sighed deeply.
“It is miserable work,” I said.
“Yes; and it seems so absurd,” said Denham. “There’s something wrong about it.”
“Of course,” I said; “we’re wounded, and suffering from the shock of what we’ve gone through.”
“Gammon!” said Denham. “That wouldn’t knock us up as it has. We both got awful toppers on the skull; but that wouldn’t have made us so groggy on the legs that we couldn’t stand.”
“Oh, that’s the weakness,” I replied.
“My grandmother! It’s your weakness to say so. We’re made of too good stuff for that. Why, you were as bad as I was when the hospital orderly washed us. Bah! How I do hate being washed by a man!”
“Better than nothing,” I said. “We can’t have women-nurses.”
“No,” said Denham. “But what was I saying when you interrupted so rudely? Really, Val Moray, I shall report your behaviour to the Colonel. You’re not respectful to your officer. You’re always forgetting that you are a private.”
“Always,” I replied, with what was, I fear, a very pitiful smile, for my companion looked at me very sympathetically and shook his head.
“Poor old chap!” he said; “I am sorry for you. There, he shall be disrespectful to his officer when he isn’t on duty. I say, old chap, I wish you and I were far away on the veldt shooting lions again. It’s far better fun than fighting wild Boers.”
“What a poor old joke!” I said.
“Best I can do under these untoward circumstances, dear boy,” he said. “Yes, it’s a ‘wusser.’ I wish I could say something good that would make you laugh. But to ‘return to our muttons,’ as the French say. About being so weak. You and I have no business to shut up like a couple of rickety two-foot rules when we are set up on end. It’s disgusting, and I’m sure it’s old Duncombe’s fault.”
“No, you’re not,” I said.
“Well, I say I am, just by way of argument. It’s all wrong, and I’ve been lying here and thinking out the reason. I’ve got it.”
“I got it without any thinking out at all,” I said.
“Don’t talk so, private. Listen. Now, look here, it’s all Duncombe’s fault.”
“That we’re alive?” I said.
“Pooh! Nonsense! It’s that anti-febrile tonic, as he calls it. It’s my firm belief that he hadn’t the right sort of medicine with him, and he has fudged up something to make shift with.”
“What nonsense!” I said.
“It’s a fact, sir, and I’ll prove it. Now then, where are we hurt?”
“Our heads principally, of course.”
“That’s right, my boy. Then oughtn’t he to have given us something that would have gone straight to our heads?”
“I don’t know,” I said wearily.
“Yes, you do, stupid; I’m telling you. He ought to have given us something that affected our heads, instead of which he has given us physic that has gone to our legs. Now, don’t deny it, for I watched you only this morning, and yours doubled up as badly as mine did. You looked just like a young nipper learning to walk.”
I laughed slightly.
“No, no, don’t do that,” cried my companion in misfortune.
“You were wishing just now that you could make me laugh,” I said, by way of protest.
“Yes, old chap; but I didn’t know then what the consequences would be. It makes you look awful. I say, don’t do it again, or I shall grow horribly low-spirited. You did get knocked about. I say, though, do I look as bad as you do?”
“I believe you look ten times worse,” I said, trying to be cheerful and to do something in the way of retort.
“No, no; but seriously, do I look very bad?”
“Awfully!” I said.
“Oh, I say! Come, now, how do I look?”
“Well, there’s all the skin off your nose, where you scratched against the rock.”
“Ye–es,” he said, patting his nose tenderly; “but it’s scaling over nicely. I say, what a good job I didn’t break the bridge!”
“It was indeed,” I said.
“Well, what else?”
“Your eyes look as if you’d been having a big fight with the bully of the school.”
“Are they still so very much swollen up?”
“More than ever,” I said, in comforting tones.
“But they’re not black?”
“No; only purple and yellow and green.”
“Val,” he cried passionately, “if you go on like that I’ll sit up and punch your head.”
“You can’t,” I replied.
“No, you coward! Oh, if I only could! It’s taking a mean advantage of a fellow. But never mind; I’m going to hear it all. What else?”
“I won’t tell you any more,” I replied.
“You shall. Tell me at once.”
“You don’t want to know about that place on the top of your head, just above your forehead, where you are so fond of parting your hair?”
“Yes, I do. I say, does it look so very bad?”
“Shocking. He has crossed the strips of sticking-plaster over and over, and across and across, till it looks just like a white star.”
“Oh dear,” he groaned, “how horrid! I say, though, has he cut the hair in front very short?”
“Well, not so short as he could have done it with a razor.”
“Val!” he shouted. “It’s too bad.”
“Yes,” I said; “it looks dreadful.”
“No, I mean of you; and if you go on like that again we shall quarrel.”
“Let’s change the conversation, then,” I said. “I say, oughtn’t old Briggs to have been here by now?”
“I don’t know; but you oughtn’t to give a poor weak fellow such a slanging as that.”
“I say,” I said, “you wished we were up the veldt shooting lions.”
“So I do,” replied Denham. “Don’t you?”
“No. I wish you and I were at my home, with old Aunt Jenny to nurse and feed us up with beef-tea and jelly, and eggs beaten up in new milk, and plenty of tea and cream and—”
“Val! Val, old chap! don’t—don’t,” cried Denham; “it’s maddening. Why, we should have feather-beds and beautiful clean sheets.”
“That we should,” I said, with a sigh; “and— Ah! here’s old Briggs.”
“Morning, gents,” said the Sergeant, pulling back the tilt curtain after entering. “Hope you’re both better.”
“Yes, ever so much, Sergeant,” cried Denham. “Here, come and sit down. Light your pipe and smoke.”
“What about the doctor, sir?” said Briggs dubiously.
“Won’t be here for an hour. I’ll give you leave. Fill and light up.”
The Sergeant obeyed orders willingly.
“Now then,” said Denham, “talk away. I want to know exactly how matters stand since yesterday.”
“All right, sir,” said the Sergeant, carefully crushing out the match he had struck, as he smoked away.
“Well, go on,” said Denham impatiently. “You said yesterday that things were as bad as they could possibly be.”
“I did, sir.”
“Well, how are they now?”
“Worse. Ever so much worse.”
“What do you mean, you jolly old muddler?” cried Denham, rousing up and looking brighter than he had been since he came under the doctor’s hands.
“What I say, sir,” replied the Sergeant, staring. “Things are ever so much worse.”
“Val,” cried Denham, turning to me, “poor old Briggs has had so much to do with that scoundrel Moriarty that he has caught his complaint.”
“I beg pardon, sir,” growled the Sergeant stiffly; “I’ve always been faithful to Her Majesty the Queen.”
“Of course you have, Sergeant.”
“Beg pardon, sir. You said I’d caught his complaint, meaning I was turning renegade.”
“Nothing of the kind; but you have caught his national complaint, for there you go again—blundering. Can’t you see?”
“No, sir,” said the Sergeant, drawing himself up stiffer than ever.
“Then you ought to. Blundering—making bulls. If the state of affairs was as bad as it could be yesterday, how can it be worse to-day?”
The Sergeant scratched his head, and his countenance relaxed.
“Oh!” he said thoughtfully, “of course. I didn’t see that at first, gentlemen.”
“Never mind, so long as you see it now. But go ahead, Briggs. You can’t think what it is to be lying here in hospital, with fighting going on all round, and only able to get scraps of news now and then.”
The Sergeant chuckled.
“Here, I don’t see anything to laugh at in that,” cried Denham, frowning. “Do you find it funny?”
“I just do, sir. Think of you talking like that to me? Why, twice over when I was in the Dragoons I was bowled over and had to go into hospital, up north there, in Egypt. Thirsty, gentlemen? I was thirsty, double thirsty, in the nasty sandy country—thirsty for want of water, and twice as thirsty to get to know how things were going on. That’s why I always come, when I’m off duty, to tell you gentlemen all I can.”
“There, Val,” cried Denham, beaming. “Didn’t I always say that old Briggs was a brick?”
“I don’t remember,” I replied.
“Well, I always meant to.—Now then, Sergeant, go ahead.”
“Nay! I don’t want to damp your spirits, sir, seeing how bad you are.”
“I’m not bad, Sergeant; neither is Moray. We’re getting better fast, and news spurs us on to get better as fast as we can. Now then, don’t make us worse by keeping us in suspense. Tell us the worst news at once.”
“That’s soon done, sir. These Doppies, as they call ’em—these Boers—shoot horribly well.”
“Yes,” sighed Denham; “they’ve had so much practice at game.”
“They’ve got so close in now, with their wagons to hide behind, that I’m blessed if it’s safe for a sentry to show his head anywhere.”
“But our fellows have got stone walls to keep behind, and they ought by now to shoot as well as the Boers,” I said.
“That’s quite right, Mr Moray,” cried the Sergeant, angrily puffing at his pipe; “they ought to, but they don’t—not by a long way. Every time they use a cartridge there ought to be one Doppie disabled and sent to the rear. I keep on telling them this fort isn’t Purfleet Magazine nor Woolwich Arsenal; but it’s no good.”
“But, Sergeant,” cried Denham anxiously, “you don’t mean to say that we’re running out of cartridges?”
“But I do mean to say it, sir; and the time isn’t so very far off when we shall either have to hang out the white flag—”
“What!” cried Denham, dragging himself up into a sitting position. “Never!”
“Or,” continued the Sergeant emphatically, “make a sortie and give the beggars cold steel.”
“Ah! that sounds better,” cried Denham, dropping back upon his rough pillow. “That’s what we shall have to do.”
“Right, sir,” cried the Sergeant. “Cold steel’s the thing. I’ve always been a cavalry man, and I’ve seen a bit of service before I came into the Light Horse as drill-sergeant and general trainer. I’ve been through a good deal, and learned a good deal; and I tell you two young men that many a time in a fight I’ve felt wild sitting on horseback here, and trotting off there, dismounting to rest our horses; finding ourselves under fire again, and cantering off somewhere else—into a valley, behind a hill, or to the shelter of a wood, because our time hadn’t come—and the infantry working away all the while. I’m not going to run down the cavalry; they’re splendid in war when they can get their chance to come to close quarters. You see, we haven’t done much with our swords, for the Doppies won’t stand a charge. Where we’ve had them has been dismounted, as riflemen, and that’s what our trouble is now. We can’t get at the enemy; what we want is a regiment of foot with the bayonet. Just a steady advance under such cover as they could find, and then a sharp run in with a good old British cheer, and the Doppies would begin to run. Then we ought to be loosed at them, and every blessed Boer among them would make up his mind that it was quite time he went home to see how his crops are getting on.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said Denham gravely; “that’s exactly the way to do it, and that’s what people at home are saying. But we’re shut up here, ammunition is failing, and we have no regiment of foot to give the brutes the cold steel and make them run; so what’s the best thing to do under the circumstances?”
Chapter Thirty Eight.
The Sergeant’s Notion.
“Ah!” said the Sergeant, tapping the ashes out of his pipe and refilling it; “that’s a bit of a puzzle, sir.”
“Hang out the white flag?” cried Denham bitterly.
“No, sir,” cried the Sergeant fiercely.
“What then?” I said.
“What then, sir?” said Briggs fiercely. “We’ve got plenty of pluck and lots of fight in the boys.”
“Yes,” said Denham, with his eyes flashing. “Plenty of prime beef and good fresh water, Briggs; but scarcely any cartridges.”
“That’s right, sir; and so I took the liberty, when I got a chance, of saying a word to the Colonel.”
“What about?”
“The Doppies’ ammunition-wagons, sir.”
“Ah!” cried Denham, rising to his elbow. “I ventured to say, sir, that the young officer as brought in our supply of provisions would have laid himself flat down on the top o’ the wall and watched with his glass till he had made out where the best spot was, and then after dark he’d have gone out and made a try to capture one of the ammunition-wagons, and brought it in.”
“Impossible, Sergeant,” said Denham.
“Bah! That word isn’t in a soldier’s dictionary, sir. You’d have done it if you’d been well enough.”
“But the cartridges mightn’t fit our rifles, Sergeant.”
“Mightn’t, sir; but they might. Then, if the first lot didn’t, you’d have gone again and again till you had got the right sort. If none of ’em was the right sort, why, you’d ha’ said, ‘There’s more ways of killing a cat than hanging it,’ and gone on another plan.”
“What other plan?” I said sharply. “There is no other plan.”
“Isn’t there?” said the Sergeant, grinning. “They’ve got one wagon that I can swear to, having made it out through the glass Mr Denham lent me, full of spare rifles of the men put out of action.”
“Of course, of course,” cried Denham. “Oh dear! oh dear!” he groaned, falling back again with a pitiful look in his eyes. “I’m lying here, completely done for. Why can’t that doctor put us right?”
The Sergeant smoked on for a few minutes, looking fiercer than ever.
“Where’s Sam Wren, sir?” he said suddenly.
“He was fretting so much last night at being kept in hospital,” I replied, “that the doctor said he might rejoin his troop.”
“Glad of that. He’s one of our best shots. But what’s gone of your blacky, Mr Moray?”
“Joeboy? I don’t know,” I said. “Isn’t he with the horses? Oh, of course he’d be looking after mine.”
“He ain’t, then,” said the Sergeant.
“What!” I cried excitedly; “then what about my horse? I’ve been lying here thinking of nothing but myself. I ought to have seen to him.”
“Couldn’t,” said the Sergeant dryly. “But he’s all right.”
“Are you sure?” I cried.
The Sergeant nodded. “I saw to him myself. I like that horse.”
“Oh Sergeant!” I said, with a feeling of relief. “But what about Joeboy? I did wonder once why he had not been to see me.”
“I didn’t look after him, sir,” said the Sergeant. “He’s a sort of free-lancer, and not under orders.”
“But when did you see him last?” I asked.
“Well, I’m a bit puzzled about that. I say, hear that?”
“Hear them? Yes, of course,” said Denham angrily. “The brutes! The cowards! Oh, if I were only well!”
“Oh, let ’em alone, sir,” said the Sergeant coolly as, beginning with a few scattered shots, the firing outside had rapidly increased. “They’re doing no harm. Do you know what it is?”
“Our poor fellows exposing themselves thoughtlessly, I suppose,” said Denham bitterly.
“Only their hats, sir. It’s about the only pleasure the poor lads have. It’s a game they have for pennies. Some one invented it yesterday. Six of ’em play, and put on a penny each. Each game lasts five minutes, and the players put their hats upon the top of a stone. Then the man who has most bullets through his hat takes the pool.”
“What folly!” said Denham fretfully.
“Well, as I told them, sir, it isn’t good for their hats; but, as they said, it wastes the Doppies’ cartridges, and pleases the lads to make fools of ’em. You can hear them cheer sometimes when a hat is suddenly pulled down. They think they’ve killed a man—bless ’em! They’re very nice people.”
“But, Sergeant, you were telling me about Joeboy,” I said. “Can’t you think when you saw him last?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been trying to think it out, because I expected you’d be asking about him. It strikes me that the last I saw of him was the night I was going the rounds after the search for that Irish prisoner. Perhaps he’s tired of being shut up?”
“No,” I said emphatically.
“Those blacks are men who are very fond of running wild.”
“Joeboy wouldn’t forsake me, Sergeant,” I said impressively.
“Perhaps you’re right. He always did seem very fond of you—never happy unless he was at your heels; but he hasn’t been hanging about the hospital, you see. It looks like as if that Irishman had given him a crack on the head too, and pitched him down one of the mine-holes.”
“Oh no; horrible!” I said.
“Glad you take it that way,” said Briggs grimly, “because it would be bad for the water. Well, there’s only two other things I can think of just now. One’s that he might have been shot by the enemy when driving in the cattle.”
“Is it possible?” I said, in alarm.
“Well, yes, it’s possible,” said the Sergeant; “but I didn’t hear any one hint at such a thing happening.”
“Oh, surely the poor fellow hasn’t come to his end like that! Here, what was your other idea?”
“I thought that, being a keen, watchful sort of fellow, perhaps he might have caught sight of our prisoner escaping.”
“Ah!” I ejaculated.
“Yes; and knowing what I do of my gentleman, it seemed likely that he might have followed him just to see that he didn’t get into more mischief, particularly if he saw him upset you two.”
“No, no; he couldn’t. We saw no sign of him,” I said excitedly.—“Did you, Denham?”
“Who could see a fellow like that in the dark?” cried Denham peevishly.
“It is possible that, knowing what he did of Moriarty’s treatment of me, he may have felt that he had a kind of feud with him, and watched him.”
“For a chance to say something to him with one of those spears he carried,” said Denham, suddenly growing interested in our remarks.
“Oh no. I don’t think he would use his assagai except in an emergency.”
“That would be an emergency,” said the Sergeant. “I’ve thought it out over my pipe, and this is what I make of it: he has followed Master Moriarty, and I expect that we shall never hear of him again.”
“What! Joeboy?” I cried.
“No; Master Moriarty.”
“But that would be murder—assassination,” I cried.
“You can use what fine words you like over it,” said the Sergeant gruffly; “but I call it, at a time like this, war; and when Mr Joe Black comes back—as I expect he will, soon—and you ask him, he’ll say he was only fighting for his master; and that’s you.”
I was silenced for the moment, though my ideas were quite opposed to the Sergeant’s theory.
But Denham spoke out at once.
“That’s all very well, Sergeant,” he said, “but Mr Moray’s black boy is about as savage over his ideas of justice as he is over his ideas of decency in dress. He looks upon this man as an enemy, and his master’s enemy; and if he overtakes Moriarty he won’t have a bit of scruple about sticking his spear through him.”
“And serve him jolly well right, sir.”
“No, no; that won’t do,” said Denham.
“Not at all,” I cried, recovering my balance a little.
“But isn’t he a renegade, sir?” said the Sergeant.
“We call him so,” replied Denham.
“And didn’t he attack you two and try to murder you, sir, just as he did poor Sam Wren?”
“Yes, I grant all that, Sergeant; but we’re not savages. Now, suppose you had gone in chase of this man, and say you had caught him. Would you have put your revolver to his head and blown out his brains?”
“That ain’t a fair question, sir,” said the Sergeant gruffly; “and all I’ve got to say is, that I’m very glad, knowing what I do, that I wasn’t in pursuit of him, sword in hand.”
“You mean to say that you would have cut him down?” I cried.
“I don’t mean to say anything at all, Mr Private Moray, only that I’ve got my feelings as a soldier towards cowards. There, I won’t say another word.”
“Then I’ll speak for you,” said Denham. “You wouldn’t have cut the scoundrel down, nor shot him, but you’d have done your duty as trained soldiers do. You’d have taken him prisoner, and brought him in to the Colonel.”
“And he’d have had him put up against the nearest wall before a dozen rifles and shot for a murderous traitor, sir.”
“But not without a court-martial first, Briggs,” said Denham sternly.
“I suppose you’re right, sir; but I don’t see what comfort a trial by court-martial can be to a man who knows that he’s sure to be found guilty and shot.”
“But not till he has been justly condemned,” I put in.
“Like to know any more about what’s going on round about the fort, sir?” said the Sergeant, after giving me a queer look.
“Yes, of course,” cried Denham.
“Well, not much, sir. Colonel’s always going round about to see that the men don’t expose themselves, and I expect that at any time there’ll be orders given that neither the horses nor the bullocks are to be driven out to graze.”
“Then they are all driven out?” I said.
“Of course, sir. We couldn’t keep the bullocks alive without.”
“I wonder the Boers don’t shoot them,” I said.
“Don’t like shooting their own property,” said the Sergeant, with a grin. “They’re always hoping they’ll get ’em back; but they’ll have to look sharp if they do, for if they’re much longer we shall have eaten the lot.”
“Take some time to do that, Sergeant,” said Denham, laughing.
“Not such a very long time, sir. You see, the men have nothing but water to drink; tobacco’s getting scarce; there’s no bread, no coffee, no vegetables; and the men have very little to do but rub down their horses to keep ’em clear of ticks: the consequence is that they try to make up for it all by keeping on eating beef, and then sleeping as hard as ever they can.”
“I don’t know what we can do unless we cut our way through the enemy,” said Denham sadly. “I go on thinking the matter over and over, and always come back to the same idea.”
“No wonder,” said the Sergeant. “That is the only way; so the sooner you two get fit to mount the better, for I don’t see that anything can be done till then.”
“Are there any more—cripples?” said Denham bitterly.
“Oh, there’s a few who’d be off duty if things were right,” said the Sergeant cheerfully; “but they make shift. The Colonel limps a bit, and uses his sword like a walking-stick; six have got arms in slings, and four or five bullet-scratches and doctor’s patches about ’em; but there isn’t a man who doesn’t show on parade and isn’t ready to ride in a charge.”
“But riding,” I said, with the eagerness of one who is helpless—“what about the horses?”
“All in fine condition, gentlemen,” said the Sergeant emphatically, “but a bit too fine, and they look thin. The Colonel’s having ’em kept down so that they shan’t get too larky from having no work to do.”
“But they’re not sent out to graze now?” I said.
“Oh yes, regularly.”
“Then why don’t the Boers shoot them, so as to make them helpless?”
The Sergeant chuckled.
“Colonel’s too smart for them,” he said. “The bullocks are sent out in the day with a strong guard on foot to keep behind the oxen, but the horses go out as soon as it’s dark, every one with his man to lead him, and all ready for an attack. Ah! but it’s miserable work, and I shall be very glad when you two gentlemen are ready to mount again, so that we can go.”
“You’ll have to go without us, Briggs,” said Denham sadly. “I don’t suppose the Boers will shoot us if we’re taken prisoners.”
“That’s just what the Colonel’s likely to do, sir. It’s his regular way with his men. I must be off now, though. Time’s up. You’ll like to see this, though, Mr Denham?”
The Sergeant began to fumble in his pouch, bringing out several cartridges before he found what he wanted—a dirty-looking piece of milky quartz.
“What have you got there?” we asked in a breath.
“Stuff the men are finding in a hole at the back of the cook’s fireplace.”
“Why, it’s gold ore,” I said eagerly.
“Nonsense! What do you know about it?” said Denham, turning the lump over in his hand.
“I know because pieces like that are in the kopje near my home. Joeboy could find plenty like that. He took some to my father once, and father said it was gold.”
“Then you’ve got a mine on your farm?”
“I suppose so; but father said we’d better get rich by increasing the flocks and herds. Look there,” I said; “all those are veins of gold, and those others are crystals and scales.”
“There, catch, Sergeant,” said Denham bitterly. “We don’t want gold; we want health, and a way out of this prison.”
“That’s right, sir; and if you like I’ll try and come and tell you how things are going to-night.”
“Yes, do,” cried Denham. Then the Sergeant thrust his piece of gold ore and quartz back into his pouch, and marched away.
“Val, old chap,” said Denham as soon as we were alone, “that fellow seemed to cheer me up a bit while he was here.”
“Yes,” I said; “he roused me up too.”
“But now he’s gone I’m down again lower and lower than ever I was before. I begin to wish I were dead. Oh dear! who’d be a wounded man who feels as helpless as a child?”
I was silent.
“Is that doctor ever coming to see us again?”
“Yes,” said a sharp, clear voice. “Now then, most impatient of all patients, how are you getting on?”
“Getting ready for the firing-party to waste a few cartridges over, doctor. Can’t you see?”
“Humph!” said our visitor, feeling the poor fellow’s head and then his pulse. “Here, drink a little of this.”
“More physic?” groaned Denham despondently.
“Yes, Nature’s,” replied the doctor, holding out a folding cup which he had refilled. “Fresh water; a bucket just brought to the screen there by the orderly.”
As he spoke he raised the poor fellow up with one arm and held the cup to his lips.
Denham took a few drops unwillingly, then a little more, and finally finished the cupful with avidity, while the sight of my companion drinking seemed to produce a strange, feverish sensation in my throat.
The next minute the doctor had let Denham sink down, and refilled the cup and handed it to me. It was delicious, and I drained the little vessel all too soon. Then I was gently lowered, and the doctor repeated the dose with us both.
“That’s better,” he said quietly. “You two fellows have been talking too much; now shut your eyes and have a good long sleep.”
“What! in the middle of the day?” protested Denham.
“Yes. Nature wants all your time now for healing your damaged places. No more talking. I’ll come again by-and-by.”
“How absurd!” said Denham as soon as the tilt had fallen back to its place. “I can’t sleep now. Can you?”
“Impossible,” I said, and I lay looking up at the long slit of blue sky over the wagon-tilt. Then I was looking at something black as ink, and beyond it the slit of blue sky was fiery orange.
“Joeboy?” I said wonderingly.
“Um? Yes, Boss,” was the reply.
“How long have you been here?”
“Um? Long, long time. Boss Val been very fass asleep.”
“Hist! Is Mr Denham asleep?” I whispered.
“Um? Very fass; not move once.”
I was silent for a few moments, struggling mentally to say something, I could not tell what.
“Boss Val like drink o’ water?” said the black just then.
“Yes—no. Ah, I remember now,” I cried eagerly, for it all came back. “Where have you been all this time?”
The black smiled.
“Um? Been to see Boss and Aunt Jenny.”
“You have?” I cried eagerly. “But stop a moment. You went after that Irish captain?”
The black nodded, and, to my horror, his face contracted and his lips drew away from his white teeth, but not in a grin.
I lay back looking at him wildly, and as I gazed in his eyes the appearance of his countenance made me shudder just then, lit up by the fiery glow of the sunset which flooded the place through the openings above the tilt. It seemed to me horrible, and for a long time I could not speak. At last the words came:
“Did you know that he struck down Mr Denham, and nearly killed us both?”
“Um? Yes. Soldiers tell Joeboy.”
“And you followed him?”
“Um? Yes,” came, accompanied by a nod.
“And you’ve killed him with your assagai?” I said, with a shudder, as I glanced at where three of the deadly weapons lay at the side of my rough couch, across his shield.
“Um? No. Nearly kill Joeboy.”
“Ah!” I cried, with a curious feeling of relief.
“Joeboy run after him all away among the Doppies; when they shoot, Joeboy lie down, and then follow um till he see um. Then he shoot, and—look here.”
Joeboy held up his left arm, smiling, and I saw that it was roughly tied up with a piece of coarse homespun.
“He wounded you?”
“Um? Yes. Shot pistol, and make hole here.”
“And he got away unhurt?”
“Um? Yes; this time,” said the black. “Next time Joeboy make hole froo um somewhere. Hate um.”
“But your wound?” I said. “Is it bad?”
“Um? Only little hole. Soon grow up again.”
“Now tell me, how are all the people at home—my father, my aunt, and Bob?”
Joeboy shook his head.
“What do you mean?” I said. “Haven’t you seen them?”
“Um? No; all gone right away. Doppies been and burnt all up. All gone.”
“What’s that?” said Denham, who had been awakened by our talking—“the Boers have been and burnt up that jolly old farm?”
“Um? Yes, Boss. All gone.”
“The brutes!”