Chapter Twenty Two.
For a Night Attack.
It was a weird march in the silence and darkness, but the men were as elastic of spirits as if they had been on their way to some festivity. There may have been some exceptions, but extremely few; and Dickenson was not above suggesting one, not ill-naturedly, but in his anxiety for the success of the expedition, as he explained to Lennox in a whisper when they were talking over the merits of the different non-commissioned officers.
“I don’t believe I shall ever make a good soldier, Drew,” he said.
“What!” was the reply; and then, “Why?”
“Oh, I suppose I’ve got my whack of what some people call brute courage, for as soon as I get excited or hurt I never think of being afraid, but go it half-mad-like, wanting to do all the mischief I can to whoever it is that has hurt me; but what I shall always want will be the cool, calm chess-player’s head that helps a man to take advantage of every move the enemy makes, and check him. I shall always be the fellow who shoves out his queen and castle and goes slashing into the adversary till he smashes him or gets too far to retreat, and is then smashed up himself.”
“Well, be content with what you can do,” said Lennox, “and trust to the cool-headed man as your leader. You’ll be right enough in your way.”
“Thankye. I say, how a trip like this makes you think of your men and what they can do!”
“Naturally,” said Lennox.
“One of the things I’ve learnt is,” continued Dickenson, “how much a regiment like ours depends on its non-commissioned officers.”
“Of course,” replied Lennox. “They’re all long-experienced, highly-trained, picked men. See how they step into the breach sometimes when the leaders are down.”
“By George, yes!” whispered Dickenson enthusiastically.—“Oh, bother that stone! Hff!—And I hope we sha’n’t have them stepping into any breaches to-night.”
“Why?”
“Why! Because we don’t want the leaders to go down.”
“No, of course not,” said Lennox, laughing softly. “But, talking about non-commissioned officers, we’re strong enough. Look at James.”
“Oh yes; he’s as good as a colonel in his way.”
“And the other sergeants too.”
“Capital, well-tried men,” said Dickenson; “but I was thinking of the corporals.”
“Well, there’s hardly a man among them who mightn’t be made a sergeant to-morrow.”
“Hum!” said Dickenson.
“What do you mean?” cried Lennox shortly.
“What I say. Hum! Would you make that chap Corporal May a sergeant?”
“Well, no: I don’t think I would.”
“Don’t think? Why, the fellow’s as great a coward as he is a sneak.”
“Don’t make worse of the man than he is.”
“I won’t,” said Dickenson. “I’ll amend my charge. He’s as great a sneak as he is a coward.”
“Poor fellow! he mustn’t come to you for his character.”
“Poor fellow! Yes, that’s what he is—an awfully poor fellow. Corporal May? Corporal Mayn’t, it ought to be. No, he needn’t come to me for his character. He’ll have to go to Roby, who is trying his best to get him promoted. Asked me the other day whether I didn’t think he was the next man for sergeant.”
“What did you say?”
“Told Roby that he ought to be the very last.”
“You did?”
“Of course: right out.”
“What did Roby say?”
“Told me I was a fool—he didn’t use that word, but he meant it—and then said downright that fortunately my opinion as to the men’s qualities wasn’t worth much.”
“What did you say to that?”
“‘Thankye;’ that’s all. Bah! It set me thinking about what a moll the fellow was in that cave business. It was sheer cowardice, old man. He confessed it, and through that your accident happened. I don’t like Corporal May, and I wish to goodness he wasn’t with us to-night. I’m hopeful, though.”
“Hopeful? Of course. I dare say he’ll behave very well.”
“I daren’t, old man; but I’m hopeful that he’ll fall out with a sore foot or a sprained ankle through stumbling over a stone or bush. That’s the sort of fellow who does—”
“Pst! We’re talking too much,” whispered Lennox, to turn the conversation, which troubled him, for inwardly he felt ready to endorse every word his comrade had uttered.
“Oh, I’m talking in a fly’s whisper. What a fellow you are! Always ready to defend anybody.”
“Pst!”
“There you go again with your Pst! Just like a sick locomotive.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t hear anything. Oh yes, I do. That howl. There it goes again. One of those beautiful hyenas. I say, Drew.”
“Yes?”
“My old people at home live in one of those aesthetic Surrey villages full of old maids and cranks who keep all kinds of useless dogs and cats. The old folks are awfully annoyed by them of a night. When I’ve been down there staying for a visit I’ve felt ready to jump out of bed and shell the neighbourhood with jugs, basins, and water-bottles. But lex talionis, as the lawyers call it—pay ’em back in their own coin. What a game it would be to take the old people home a nice pet hyena or a young jackal to serenade the village of a night!”
“There is an old proverb about cutting your nose off to be revenged upon your face. There, be quiet; I want to think of the work in hand.”
“I don’t,” replied Dickenson; “not till we’re going to begin, and then I’m on.”
The night grew darker as they drew nearer to their goal, for a thin veil of cloud shut out the stars; but it was agreed that it was all the better for the advance. In fact, everything was favourable; for the British force had week by week grown less demonstrative, contenting itself with acting on the defensive, and the reconnoitring that had gone on during the past few days had been thoroughly masked by the attempts successfully made to carry off a few sheep, this being taken by the enemy as the real object of the excursions. For the Boers, after their long investment of Groenfontein and the way in which they had cut off all communications, were perfectly convinced that the garrison was rapidly growing weaker, and that as soon as ever their ammunition died out the prize would fall into their hands like so much ripe fruit.
They were thus lulled as it were into a state of security, which enabled the little surprise force to reach the place made for without encountering a single scout. Then, with the men still fresh, a halt was made where the character of the ground suddenly changed from open, rolling, bush-sprinkled veldt to a slight ascent dotted with rugged stones, which afforded excellent cover for a series of rushes if their approach were discovered before they were close up.
This was about a mile from the little low kopje where the Boers were laagered; and as soon as the word to halt had been whispered along the line the men lay down to rest for the two hours settled in the plans before making their final advance, while the first alarm of the sentries on guard was to be the signal for the bayonet-charge.
“I don’t think we need say any more to the lads,” whispered the major as the officers crept together for a few final words. “They all know that the striking of a match for a furtive pipe would be fatal to the expedition.”
“Yes,” said Captain Roby, “and to a good many of us. But the lads may be trusted.”
“Yes, I believe so,” said the major.
“There’s one thing I should like to say, though,” said Roby. “I’ve been thinking about it all the time we’ve been on the march.”
“What is it, Roby?” said the major.—“Can you hear, Edwards—all of you?”
“Yes—yes,” was murmured, for the officers’ heads were pretty close together.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Captain Roby, “that if we divided our force and attacked on two sides at once, the Boers would believe that we were in far greater force, and the panic would be the greater.”
“Excellent advice,” said the major, “if our numbers were double; but it would weaken our attack by half—oh, by far more than half. No, Roby, I shall keep to the original plan. We don’t know enough of the kopje, and in the darkness we could not ensure making the attack at the same moment, nor yet in the weakest places. We must keep as we are. Get as close as we can without being discovered, and then the bugles must sound, and with a good British cheer we must be into them.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” was murmured, and Captain Roby was silent for a brief space.
“Very well, sir,” he said coldly. “You know best.”
“I don’t know that, Roby,” replied the major; “but I think that is the better plan—a sudden, sharply delivered surprise with the bayonet. The enemy will have no chance to fire much, and we shall be at such close quarters that they will be at a terrible disadvantage.”
“Yes,” said Captain Edwards as the major ceased speaking; “let them have their rear open to run, and let our task be to get them on the run. I agree with the major: no alterations now.”
“No,” said Dickenson in a low growl; “no swapping horses when you’re crossing a stream.”
“I have done,” said Roby, and all settled down into silence, the officers resting like the men, but rising to creep along the line from time to time to whisper a word or two with the non-commissioned officers, whom they found thoroughly on the alert, ready to rouse up a man here and there who was coolly enough extended upon his back sleeping, to pass the time to the best advantage before it was time to fight.
Every now and then there came a doleful, despairing yelp from some hungry animal prowling about in search of prey, and mostly from the direction of the Boer laager, where food could be scented. Twice, too, from far off to their left, where the wide veldt extended, there came the distant, awe-inspiring, thunderous roar of a lion; but for the most part of the time the stillness around was most impressive, with sound travelling so easily in the clear air that the neighing of horses was plainly heard again and again, evidently coming from the Boer laager, unless, as Lennox suggested, a patrol might be scouting round. But as each time it came apparently from precisely the same place, the first idea was adopted, especially as it was exactly where the enemy’s camp was marked down.
The two hours seemed very long to Lennox, who lay thinking of home, and of how little those he loved could realise the risky position he occupied that night. Dickenson was flat upon his back with his hands under his head, going over again the scene in the cavern when he was looking down the chasm and watching the movement of the light his friend had attached to his belt.
“Not a pleasant thing to think about,” he said to himself, “but it makes me feel savage against that corporal, and it’s getting my monkey up, for we’ve got to fight to-night as we never fought before. We’ve got to whip, as the Yankees say—‘whip till we make the beggars run.’ What a piece of impudence it does seem!” he said to himself a little later on. “Here we are, about a hundred and fifty hungry men, and I’ll be bound to say there’s about fifteen hundred of the enemy. But then they don’t grasp it. They’re beggars to sleep, and if we’re lucky we shall be on to them before they know where they are. Oh, we shall do it;” and he lay thinking again of Corporal May, feeling like a boy once more; and he was just at the pitch when he muttered to himself, “What a pity it is that an officer must not strike one of his men!—for I should dearly like to punch that fellow’s head.—Ha! here’s the major. Never mind, there’ll be other heads waiting over yonder, and I dare say I shall get all I want.”
He turned over quickly, not to speak, but to grip his comrade’s hand, for the word was being passed to fall in, and as he and Lennox gripped each other’s hands hard and in silence, a soft, rustling movement was heard. For the men were springing to their feet and arranging their pouches and belts, before giving their rifles a thorough rub to get rid of the clinging clew.
“Fall in” was whispered, and the men took their places with hardly a sound.
“Fix bayonets!” was the next order, and a faint—very faint—metallic clicking ran along the lines, followed by a silence so deep that the breathing of the men could be heard.
“Forward!”
There was no need for more, and the officers led off, with the one idea of getting as close to the Boers as possible before they were discovered, and then charging home, keeping their men as much together as they could, and knowing full well that much must be left to chance.
The next minute the men were advancing softly in double line, opening out and closing up, as obstacles in the shape of stone and bush began to be frequent. But there was no hurry, no excitement. They had ample time, and when one portion of the force was a little entangled by a patch of bush thicker than usual, those on either side halted so as to keep touch, and in this way the first half-mile was passed, the only sound they heard being the neighing of a horse somewhere in front.
Chapter Twenty Three.
The Advance.
The horse’s neigh was hailed with satisfaction by the officers, for it proved that they were going right; and soon after, this idea was endorsed and there was no more doubt as to their being aiming exactly, for right in front the darkness seemed to be intensified, and the advancing party could dimly see the rugged outline of the kopje marked against the sky.
Lennox drew a deep breath full of relief, for from what he could see there would be no terrible blundering and fighting their way up precipitous tracks, as the Boers’ stronghold was nothing more than a vast mound, easy of ascent; though he did not doubt for a moment but that wherever the ground was fairly level the lower part would be strengthened by breastworks and row after row of wagons, from behind which the Boers would fire.
The advancing force tramped on as silently as ever, in spite of the impediments in their way; but there was no alarm, no scout sitting statue-like upon his active, wiry Basuto pony, and farther on no bandolier-belted sentry, rifle in hand, shouted the alarm. They might have been approaching a deserted camp for all the hindrance they met with.
It seemed to Lennox, just as others expressed it later on, that it was too good to be true, and the young officer’s heart beat fast as, revolver in one hand, sword in the other, he stepped lightly on, prepared for a furious volley from the Boer rifles, being quite certain in his own mind that they must be going right into an ambush.
But no—all was safe: and they were so near that at any moment the bugles might sound, to be followed by the rousing cheer of the men in their dashing charge.
Suddenly there was a pause, and a thrill ran along the line, for there was something in the way not five yards from Lennox’s position in the line.
“A sentry!” was whispered, and the line advanced again, for a burgher was lying across the way, fast asleep, and giving warning thereof through the nose—sleeping so hard that the men stepped right over him, he as unconscious as they were that other sentries were failing as much in their wearisome duty and being passed.
“It must be now,” thought Lennox, as he could dimly make out, spreading to right and left, a line of wagons, but not closed up, for there were wide intervals between; and now a low, dull, crunching sound and the odour of bovine animals plainly announced that there were spans of oxen lying close by the wagons as if ready for some movement in the early morning for which their drivers had made preparations overnight.
As it happened, the interval between two of the wagons was fairly wide just opposite the spot where Lennox was in line with his men. Dickenson was off to his left, and Roby was leading.
In a whisper the major indicated that the men should close up and pass through this opening, but in the excitement of the moment he spoke too loudly, and from somewhere close, the guard having been passed in the darkness, a man started up and shouted:
“Who comes there?”
His answer was given by the loud call of a bugle, and as he fired his warning shot the major’s voice was heard shouting, “Forward—bayonets!” and with a ringing cheer the men dashed on as best they could, making for the centre of the Boers’ position, shouting, cheering again and again, and driving the yelling crowd of excited Boers who were springing up in all directions before them like a flock of sheep.
The confusion was awful: rifles were being fired here and there at random, and more often at the expense of friend than of foe; while wherever a knot of the enemy clustered together it was as often to come into contact with their own people as with the major’s excited line, which dashed at them as soon as an opening could be found, with such effect that the Boers, thoroughly surprised, gave way in every direction, fleeing from bristling bayonets and overturning one another in their alarm.
It was terrible work, for the attacking line was so often arrested by impediments whose nature they could not stop to grasp, that it was soon broken up into little groups led by officers commissioned and non-commissioned. But still, after a fashion, they preserved the formation of an advancing wave sweeping over the kopje, and their discipline acted magnetically with its cohesion, drawing them together, while their enemies scattered more and more to avoid the bayonet as much as to find some shelter from which such of them as had their rifles could fire.
It was panic in excelsis, and though many fought bravely, using their pieces as clubs where they could not fire, the one line they followed was that of flight for the enclosure behind, where their horses were tethered; and in less than ten minutes the major’s force had swept right through the Boer laager on to open ground, where, in response to bugle, whistle, and cry, they rallied, ready for rushing the enemy wherever they could see a knot gathering together to resist, or from which firing had begun.
Another five minutes, during which there was desperate work going on near what had been the centre of the attacking line, and the beating of horses’ hoofs and trampling feet told that the Boers were in full flight in the direction of the next kopje, where their friends were in all probability sleeping in as much security as had been the case where the attack was made. And now, as soon as the major could get his men in hand, they dropped on one knee to empty the magazines of their rifles into the dimly seen cloud of flying men running and hiding for their lives, the volleys completely dissipating all thoughts of rallying to meet the attacking force; in fact, not a Boer stopped till the next kopje was reached and the news announced of their utter defeat.
It was quick but terrible work, for the men’s bayonets had been busy. Their blood was up, and they felt that they were avenging weeks of cruel suffering, loss, and injury. But now that the wild excitement of the encounter was at an end, and they were firing with high trajectory at their panic-stricken foes, the bugle rang out “Cease firing!” and they gathered together, flinging up their helmets and catching them on their bayonets, and cheering themselves hoarse.
The next minute they were eagerly obeying orders, with the faint light of day beginning to appear in the east, and working with all their might to collect and give first aid to the wounded, whether he was comrade or enemy: no distinction was made; everything possible was done.
But before this Major Robson had selected the best runner of his men volunteering for the duty, and sent him off to Groenfontein bearing a hastily pencilled message written upon the leaf of his pocketbook:
“Boers utterly routed—kopje and laager taken. Many wounded; send help.”
For the attacking force had not escaped unhurt, several having received bullet-wounds, as where the Boers could get a chance they fired well; but as far as could be made out in the first hurried examination not a man was dangerously injured, and in most of the cases their hurts were cuts and bruises given by the butts of rifles. As to the Boers, the majority of their hurts were bayonet-thrusts, in some cases the last injuries they would receive; but quite a score were suffering from the small bullet-holes made by the Mauser rifles fired by their friends in their random expenditure of ammunition, such of them as had been shot by our men lying far out on the veldt, having received their wounds during their hurried flight and not yet been brought in.
Many of the wounded Boers—there was not a single prisoner, orders having been given not to arrest their flight—looked on in wonder to see the easy-going, friendly way in which our soldiers gave them help. For it was a cheery “Hold up, old chap!” or “Oh, this is not bad; you’ll soon be all right again.”
“Here, Tommy, bring this Dutchman a drink of water.”
For the fierce warrior was latent once again, and now it was the simple Briton, ready and eager to help his injured brother in the good old Samaritan mode.
There was other work in hand to do as soon as it was light enough—the roll to call—and there were missing men to be accounted for; while, as the officers responded to their names, there was no answer to that of Captain Roby.
“He was fighting away like a hero, sir, last time I saw him,” said Sergeant James, whose frank, manly face was disfigured by a tremendous blow on the cheek.
“Search for him, my lads; he can’t have been taken prisoner,” said the major. “It’s getting lighter now.”
“Poor fellow! I hope he hasn’t got it,” said Dickenson to himself as he nursed a numbed arm nearly broken by a drive made with a rifle-butt.
Lennox was called, and Dickenson’s eyes dilated and then seemed to contract, for there was no reply.
“Mr Lennox.—Who saw Mr Lennox last?”
There was no answer for some seconds, and then from where the wounded lay a feeble voice said, “I saw him running round one of the wagons, sir, just in the thick of the fight.”
“He must be down,” said the major sadly. “Look for him, my lads; he is somewhere on the ground we came along, lying perhaps amongst the Boers.”
Dickenson groaned—perhaps it was from pain, for his injury throbbed, pangs running right up into the shoulder-joint, and then up the left side of his neck.
“Oh! don’t say poor old Drew’s down,” he said to himself. “Just, too, when I was growling at him for not coming to look me up when I was hurt.”
No one did say he was down but the young lieutenant’s imagination, and he sat down on a rock and began watching the men coming and going after bringing in wounded men.
“Who said he saw Mr Lennox last?” cried Captain Edwards.
“I did,” said the wounded man in a feeble, whining voice.
“Who’s that?” said the major, stepping towards the man, who lay with his face disfigured by a smear of blood.
“I did, sir. Dodging round one of the wagons somewhere. It was where the Boers stood a bit, and I got hurt.”
“Could you point out the place?”
“No, sir; it was all dark, and I’m hurt,” said the man faintly.
“Give him some water,” said the captain. “Your hurts shall be seen to soon, my lad. Cheer up, all of you; the major has sent for the ambulance-wagons, so you’ll ride home.”
“Hooray, and thanks, sir!” said the worst wounded man, and then he fainted.
Just then, as the first orange-tipped clouds were appearing far on high, four men were seen approaching, carrying a wounded man slung in Sergeant James’s sash; and as soon as he caught sight of the injured man’s face Major Robson hurried to meet the party.
“Roby! Tut, tut, tut!” he cried. “This is bad work. Not dead, sergeant?”
“No, sir; but he has it badly. Bullet at the top of his forehead; hit him full, and ploughed up through scalp; but as far as I can make out the bone’s not broken.”
“Lay him down, sergeant. How long will it be,” he muttered, “before we get the doctor here? Where did you find him?”
“Lying out yonder all alone, beyond those rocks, sir,” replied the sergeant.
“Water—bandage,” said the major, and both were brought, and the best that could be done under the circumstances was effected by the major and Sergeant James, while the sufferer resisted strongly, every now and then muttering impatiently. Then irritably telling those who tended him to let him go to sleep, he closed his eyes, but only to open them again and stare vacantly, just as Dickenson, who had been away for another look round on his own account, came up and bent over him.
“Poor fellow!” muttered Dickenson sadly, and he laid his hand sympathetically upon that of the wounded captain.
“I don’t think it’s very serious,” said the major. “Look here, Dickenson; we have no time to spare. Take enough men, and set half to round up all the bullocks and sheep you can see, while the others load up three or four wagons with what provisions you can find. Send off each wagon directly straight for camp, and the cattle too, while we gather and blow up all the ammunition and fire the wagons left. It will not be very long before the enemy will be coming back. Hurry.”
Dickenson was turning to go when the major arrested him.
“Any news of Lennox?” he said.
“None, sir,” said the lieutenant sadly.
But his words were nearly drowned by an angry cry from Roby: “The coward! The cur! He shall be cashiered for this.”
“Go on, Dickenson,” said the major; “the poor fellow’s off his head. He doesn’t mean you.”
The lieutenant hurried away, and for the next half-hour the men worked like slaves, laying the wounded Boers well away from the laager, and their own injured men out on the side nearest Groenfontein; while Dickenson, in the most business-like manner, helped by Sergeant James, sent off a large drove of oxen, the big, heavy, lumbering animals herding together and trudging steadily away after a wagon with its regular span laden heavily with mealies, straight for Groenfontein. For a few Kaffirs turned up after the firing was over, evidently with ideas of loot, and ready to be impressed for foreloper, driver, or herdsmen to the big drove of beasts.
A few horses were rounded up as well, and followed the oxen; while, as fast as they could be got ready, three more provision-wagons were despatched, the whole making a long broken convoy on its way to the British camp.
By this time the men, working under the orders of Captain Edwards and the major, had got the Boers’ ammunition-wagons together in one place behind a mass of rocks, on the farther side of the kopje, away from the wounded. Then the weapons that could be found were piled amongst the wagons in another place; and the troops were still working hard when the major bade them cease.
“We can do no more,” he said; “we have no time. But oughtn’t the ambulance-wagons to be here by now? The enemy can’t be long; they’re bound to attack. Ah, Dickenson, have you got all off?”
“All I could, sir, in the time.”
“That’s right. I want your men here. You’ll be ready to help to get off the wounded as soon as the wagons come?”
Dickenson nodded, with his head averted from the speaker and his eyes wandering over the injured men.
“No news of Lennox?” he asked.
“None. I can’t understand where the poor fellow is, unless he was carried off in the rush of the Boers’ retreat. A thorough search has been made. Here, get up on the highest part of the kopje with your glass, and see if you can make out anything of the enemy.”
The lieutenant was in the act of opening the case of his field-glass, when from where the wounded lay came another angry burst of exclamations from Roby, incoherent for the most part, but Dickenson heard plainly, “Coward—cowardly hound! To leave a man like that.”
Dickenson turned a quick, inquiring look at the major.
“Delirium,” said the latter sharply. “I don’t know what the poor fellow has on his brain. Oh, if the ambulance fellows would only come! There, my dear boy, off with you and use that glass.”
Chapter Twenty Four.
The Sergeant in his Element.
Dickenson dashed off and climbed the low kopje, zigzagging among rough stone walls, rifle-pits, and other shelter, and noting that, if the Boers came upon them before they could retreat, there was a strong position for the men from which they could keep the enemy at bay; and, soldier-like, he began calculating as to whether it would not have been wiser to decide on holding the place instead of hurrying back to Groenfontein, with the certainty of having to defend themselves and fight desperately on the way, small body as they were, to escape being surrounded and cut off.
To his great satisfaction, though, upon reaching the highest part of the mound and using his glass, there were only a few straggling parties of men dotting the open veldt, where everything stood out bright and clear in the light of the early morning. Some were mounted, others walking, and in two places there was a drove of horses, and all going in the direction of the next laager held by the Boers.
He stood with his glass steadied against a big stone and looked long, searching the veldt to right and left and looking vainly for the main body of the enemy retreating; but they were out of reach of his vision, or hidden amongst the bushes farther on. But even if the foremost had readied their friends, these latter were not riding out as yet to make reprisals, and, as far as he could judge, there was no risk of an attack for some time to come.
For a moment a feeling of satisfaction pervaded him, but the next his heart sank; and he lowered his glass to begin looking round the kopje where here and there lay the men who had fallen during the surprise.
“Where can poor old Drew be?” he almost groaned.
At that instant his eyes lit upon the figure of the major, waving his hand to him angrily as if to draw his attention; and raising his own to his lips, he shouted as loudly as he could, “Nothing in sight.”
The major’s voice came to him clearly enough, in company with another wave of the hand in the other direction: “Ambulance?”
Dickenson swung round his glass to direct it towards Groenfontein, and his spirits rose again, for right away beyond the long string of oxen and wagons, as if coming to meet them, he could make out three light wagons drawn by horses, and a knot of about twenty mounted men coming at a canter and fast leaving the wagons behind.
“Ha!” sighed Dickenson; “that’s good. The colonel must have started them to meet us the moment the firing was heard.”
He turned directly to shout his news to the watching major, who signed to him to come down; and he descended, meeting two men coming up, one of them carrying a field-glass.
“To watch for the enemy, sir,” said the latter as they met. “Which is the best place?”
“Up yonder by that stone, my lad,” replied Dickenson, pointing. “Any news of Mr Lennox?”
“No, sir; I can’t understand it. I think I saw him running down the side of the kopje just as we were getting on, but it was so dark then I couldn’t be sure.”
“I can’t understand his not being found,” said Dickenson to himself, as he hurried down to where the major was posting the men in the best positions for resisting an attack, if one were made before the party could get away.
Dickenson’s attention was soon too much taken up with work waiting, for the wounded had to be seen to. Rightly considering that before long the enemy would advance to try and retake their old position, the major gave orders that the Boer wounded be rearranged so that they were in shelter and safety; and then, as there was still no sign of danger, the few injured of the attacking force were borne to the nearest spot where the ambulance party could meet them. Then the final work of destruction began.
“Seems a thousand pities,” said Captain Edwards, “badly as we want everything nearly here.”
“Yes,” said the major; “but we can take no more, and we can’t leave the stores for the enemy.—Here, Dickenson, take Sergeant James and play engineer. I have had the trains laid and fuses placed ready. You two must fire them as soon as we are a few hundred yards away.”
Dickenson shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
“Take care, and make sure the fuses are burning; then hurry away. Don’t run any risks, and don’t let Sergeant James be foolhardy.”
“I’ll mind, sir,” said Dickenson shortly.
“The wagons will be fired before we start, so that the wind will keep them going.”
“What about the powder?” said Dickenson gruffly. “That is all together. There are three wagons wheeled down into the shelter of the rock, so that the blast will not reach the fire.”
“It’ll blow it right up,” growled Dickenson.
“No,” said the major; “the rocks will deflect it upwards. I’ve seen to that.”
“Couldn’t we make the mules carry off the wagons? All three ambulances will not be wanted.”
“My dear boy, you mean well,” said the major impatiently; “but pray be content with taking your orders. Edwards and I have thought all that out. The fire will not go near the wounded Boers, and the explosion will not touch the fire. As to carrying off these wagon-loads of cartridges that will not fit our rifles or guns, what is the use? Now, are you satisfied?”
“Quite, sir,” said Dickenson. “I was only thinking that—”
“Don’t think that, man; obey orders.”
“Right, sir,” said Dickenson stiffly, and he went off to look up Sergeant James. “Hang him!” growled the young officer. “It doesn’t seem to be my work. Making a confounded powder-monkey of a fellow!”
He glanced up, and saw that the men were busy on high with the field-glass, but making no sign. Then he noted that the ambulance, with its escort, was coming on fast; and soon, after a little inquiry, he came upon the sergeant, busy with the men, every one with his rifle slung, linking wagons together with tent-cloth poles and wood boxes and barrels so that the conflagration might be sure to spread when once it was started, to which end the men worked with a will; but they did not hesitate to cram their wallets and pockets with eatables in any form they came across.
“Make a pretty good bonfire when it’s started, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Humph! Yes,” said Dickenson. “But what are those two barrels?”
“Paraffin, sir, for the beggars’ lamps.”
“Well,” said Dickenson grimly, “wouldn’t it help the fire if you opened them, knocked in their heads, and bucketed out the spirit to fling it over the wagon-tilts?”
The men who heard his words gave a cheer, and without orders seized the casks, rolled them right to the end where the fire was to be started, drove in the heads with an axe, and for the next quarter of an hour two of the corporals were busy ladling out the spirit and flinging it all over three of the wagons and everything else inflammable that was near.
“Now pack the paraffin-casks full of that dry grass and hay,” cried Dickenson, who had been superintending. “It will soak up the rest, and you can start the fire with them.”
The men cheered again, and in a very short time the two barrels stood under the tail-boards of two wagons, only awaiting the flashing-off of a box of matches to start a fire that no efforts could check.
“Here is the ambulance party,” cried Dickenson. “Come with me now, sergeant. Let your corporals finish what there is to do.”
“I don’t see that there’s any more to do, sir,” said the sergeant, wiping his wet face. “Want me, sir?”
“Yes; I’ve something to say. You will go down and see the wounded off. Oh dear! oh dear! I’ve been thinking of what we were doing, and not of poor Mr Lennox. You’ve heard nothing, I suppose?”
“Neither heard nor seen, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Seems to me that, in his plucky way, he must have dashed at the enemy, got mixed, and they somehow swept him off.”
“If they did,” said Dickenson, “he’ll be too sharp for them, and get away.”
“That he will, sir.”
“I was afraid the poor fellow was killed.”
“Not he, sir,” cried the sergeant. “He’d take a deal of killing. Besides, we should have found him and brought him in. He’ll turn up somewhere.”
“Ha! You make me feel better, James,” said Dickenson. “It took all the spirit out of me. Now then, I’ve some bad news for you.”
“Let’s have it, sir. I’ve had so much that it runs away now like water off a duck’s back.”
“It has nothing to do with water, sergeant, but with fire.”
“That all, sir? I see; I’m to stop till the detachment’s well out of the way, and then fire the laager?”
“No,” said Dickenson; “that will be done before the men have marched. You are to stop with me and light the fuses.”
“To blow up the ammunition, sir? Well, I was wondering who was to do that.”
“It’s a risky job, sergeant.”
“Pooh, sir! Nothing like advancing against a lot of hiding Boers waiting to pot you with their Mausers. Beg pardon, sir; who was Mauser?”
“I don’t know, sergeant. I suppose he was the man who invented the Boer rifles.”
“And a nice thing to be proud of, sir! I’m not a vicious sort of fellow, but I do feel sometimes as if I should like to see him set up as a mark, and a couple of score o’ Boers busy trying how his invention worked.”
“Come along,” said the lieutenant.—“Then you don’t mind the job?”
“Not I, sir. I always loved powder from a boy. Used to make little cannons out of big keys, filing the bottoms to make a touch-hole. I was a don at squibs and crackers; and the games we used to have laying trains and making blue devils! Ha! It was nice to be a boy!”
“Yes, sergeant; and now we’ve got something big to do. But there, you’re used to it. Remember getting away the powder-bags with Mr Lennox?”
“Remember it, sir? Ha! But I was in a fright then.”
“Of being blown up?”
“Well, sir, if you’ll believe me, I never thought of myself at all. I was all in a stew for fear the powder should catch from the lantern and make an end of Mr Lennox.”
“I believe you,” said Dickenson; and they stopped at the spot where the ambulance-wagons had trotted up, and the leader of the mounted escort had dropped from his panting horse to speak to the major.
“Then you’ve done it, sir?”
“Yes, as you see. What message from the colonel?”
“Covering party advancing, sir, to help you in. You are to get all the provisions and cattle you can, and retire. But that I see you have done. Enemy near, sir?”
The major glanced at the top of the kopje before replying, and then said briefly, “Not yet.”
Chapter Twenty Five.
Another Explosion.
The wounded men—a couple of dozen all told, many of the injuries being only slight—were rapidly lifted into the light wagons while the horses and mules were given water, and all went well, the more slightly hurt cheering and joking their bearers, and making light of their injuries in the excitement of the triumph.
“Mind my head, boys,” said one; “it’s been knocked crooked.”
“And my leg’s loose, you clumsy beggar; it’s there somewhere. Don’t leave it behind.”
“I say, Joey, I’ve got a hole right through me; ain’t it a lark!”
“Here, you, sir! Take care; that’s my best ’elmet. I want it for a piller.” And so on, and so on.
Only one man groaned dismally, and that was Corporal May.
“I say, mate; got it as bad as that?” said one of the bearers.
“Oh! worse—worse than that,” moaned the corporal. “I’m a dead man.”
“Are you, now?” said one of his fellows in the company. “I say, speak the truth, old chap; speak the truth.”
“Oh!” groaned the corporal. “Why am I here—why am I here?”
“I dunno,” said the bearer he looked at with piteous eyes. “I never was good at riddles, mate. Can’t guess. Ask me another.—There you are, lifted as gently as a babby. You’re only a slightly; I do know that.”
The corporal was borne away, still groaning, and the man who had spoken last handed him some water.
“Cheer up, corporal,” he said; “you’ll be back in the ranks in a week.”
Meanwhile the bearers were busy in the shelter where Captain Roby lay, flushed, fevered, and evidently in great pain, while his brother officers stood round him, eager to do anything to assuage his pangs and see him carefully borne to the wagon in which he was to travel.
“How are you, Roby?” said Dickenson, softly laying a powder-blackened hand upon the injured man’s arm, while the bearers stood waiting to raise him.
The question and the touch acted electrically, Roby started; his eyes opened to their full extent, showing a ring of white all round the iris; and he made an effort to rise, but sank back.
“You coward—you miserable cad!” he cried. “You saw me shot down—I implored you to help me to the rear—and you chose that time to show your cowardly hate—you, an officer.—Coward! You ran—you turned and ran to save your beggarly life—coward!—coward! Oh, if I had strength!—I’ll denounce you to the colonel. Cur!—coward!—cur!—I’ll publish it for all the world to know.”
Dickenson started at first, and then listened to the end.
“All right,” he said coolly. “Don’t forget when you write your book.”
“Lift him, my lads, gently; we have no time to spare,” said the major sternly; and as Roby was borne away, shouting hoarsely, “Coward!—cur!” Captain Edwards said sharply in a whisper, so that the men should not hear:
“Dickenson! Is this true?”
“Oh! I don’t know,” was the reply. “I recollect the bugle sounding, and then I was too busy to know what I did till it sounded ‘Cease firing!’ I know I was out of breath.”
“Take no notice,” said the major quickly. “The poor fellow’s raving. Coward! Tchah! Be ready, Dickenson. You’ve found the sergeant?”
“All ready, sir.”
In a very few minutes the ambulance-wagons were off again, with their attendants ordered to go at a steady walk, and, if an attack was made, to keep the red-cross flag well shown, and avoid the line of fire if possible.
And still there was no alarm given from the top of the kopje of the Boers’ approach.
A short time was allowed for the ambulance to get ahead, during which the officers had another look at the Boer wounded, the major ordering water to be given to the men. Next a few sheaves of abandoned rifles were cast into the wagons to be burned, and a final look was given to the preparations already made for the destruction of the camp.
At last, while the long line of captured stores was crawling over the veldt, and a great number of the other oxen which had wandered off to graze were, according to their instinct, beginning to follow their companions as if to make for Groenfontein, the order was given for the men to fall in ready for the march back.
All was soon in order, and the major turned to Dickenson, who stood aside with Sergeant James, waiting to perform their dangerous task.
“I was going to appoint four more men to fire the wagons,” said the major, “but with the preparations you have made the flames will spread rapidly, and you two can very well do it; and as soon as the fire has taken hold you can light the fuses yonder.”
“Men signalling from the top of the kopje,” said Captain Edwards.
“That means the enemy in sight,” said the major coolly. “Signal to them to come down.”
As the captain turned away to attend to his orders the major held out his hand to Dickenson.
“Do your work thoroughly,” he said gravely, “and then follow as fast as you can. I will leave pickets behind to cover you.”
Dickenson nodded, but said nothing, only stood fingering a box of matches in his pocket and watching the major hurrying down the encumbered slope of the kopje to join the men awaiting the order to march.
“Sentries on the top coming down, sir,” growled the sergeant; and Dickenson nodded again, turning to watch the two men running actively along and leaping from stone to stone, till they were pretty close to the drawn-up force, when the bugle rang out, the voices of the officers were heard, and the retiring party went off at a good swinging march.
Dickenson watched them for a few minutes without a word, while the sergeant stood with his rifle grounded and his hands resting upon the muzzle, perfectly calm and soldierly, patiently waiting for his orders, just as if he and the sergeant were to follow as a sort of rear-guard instead of to fulfil about as dangerous a task as could fall to the lot of a man, knowing too, as he did, that the enemy had been signalled as advancing—a body of men armed with the most deadly and far-reaching rifles of modern times.
“About time now, sergeant,” said Dickenson coolly.
“Yes, sir; ’bout right now, I should think.”
“I want them to have a fair start first,” continued Dickenson; “and I can’t help feeling a little uneasy about the enemy’s wounded, for there will be an awful explosion.”
“Oh, they’ll be all right, sir. Make ’em jump, perhaps, and think they’re going to be swept away.”
“I wish they were farther off,” said Dickenson; and then he uttered an ejaculation as he started aside, an example followed by the sergeant, who chuckled a little as he exclaimed:
“Wish ’em farther off, sir? So do I.”
For, following directly one after the other, two shots were fired from the shelter where the wounded Boers had been carefully laid in safety, a couple of them having evidently retained their rifles, laying them under cover till they could find an opportunity to use them.
“That’s nice and friendly, James,” said Dickenson coolly. “Forward!—under cover.”
“I feel ashamed to run, sir,” said the sergeant fiercely.
“Look sharp!” cried Dickenson, for two more bullets whistled by them. “I don’t like bolting, but it seems too bad to be shot down by the men we have been getting into safety.”
“And fidgeted about, sir,” said the sergeant grimly. “I wish you’d give me orders to chance it and go back and give those blackguards one apiece with their own rifles. It must have been them the captain meant when he was letting go about cowards and curs.”
“Very likely, poor fellow!” said Dickenson, marching coolly on till they were covered from the Boers’ fire. “There, they may fire away now to their hearts’ content,” he continued, as he halted at the end of the prepared wagons. “Wind’s just right—eh?”
“Beautiful, sir; and as soon as the blaze begins to make it hot you’ll find the breeze’ll grow stiffer. It’s a great pity, though.”
“Yes; I wish we had all this at Groenfontein.”
“So do I, sir; but wishing’s no good. I meant, though, it’s a pity it isn’t dark. We should have a splendid blaze.”
“We shall have a splendid cloud of black smoke, sergeant,” said Dickenson, taking out his box of matches. “Ready?”
“Ready, sir,” replied the sergeant, and each held his match-box as low down in the paraffin-barrel as the saturated hay would permit, struck a match, and had to drop it at once and start back, for there was a flash of the evaporating gas, followed by a puff of brownish-black, evil-odoured smoke, which floated upward directly.
“Bah! Horrible!” cried Dickenson, coughing. “My word, sergeant! there’s not much doubt about the Boers’ camp blazing.”
“Serve ’em right, sir, for using such nasty, common, dangerous paraffin. Here comes the wind, sir: what did I say?”
For the soft breeze came with a heavier puff, which made the forked tongues of flame plunging up amongst the thick smoke begin to roar, and in a very few seconds the fire was rushing through one of the tilted wagons as if it were a huge horizontal chimney.
“Did you get singed, sergeant?”
“No, sir. It just felt a bit hot. Hullo! what’s that?”
For a horrible shrieking and yelling arose from the direction of the wounded Boers.
“The crippled men,” said Dickenson. “They’re afraid they are going to be burned to death. We ought to go and shout to them that there’s nothing to fear.”
“Yes, sir, it would be nice and kind,” cried the sergeant sarcastically; “only if we tried they wouldn’t let us—they’d shoot us down before we were half-way there.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Dickenson, who stared almost in wonder at the terrific rate at which the fire was roaring up and sweeping along, threatening, as wagon after wagon caught, to cover the kopje with flame.
“Perhaps, sir,” said the sergeant, with a grim smile, “it would be a comfort to the poor fellows’ nerves if we sent up the ammunition-wagons now.”
“Whether it would or not, sergeant, we must be sharp and do it, or with these flakes of fire floating about we shall not dare to go near our fuse.”
“That’s what I’m thinking, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Forward, then;” and the pair went on at the double to the spot where the train was laid, the fuses being some distance from the ammunition-wagons, and on lower ground sheltered by great stones.
The next minute the pair were down on one knee sheltering their match-boxes from the wind behind a big rock, with the train well in view, for those who laid it had not scrupled to use an abundance of powder.
“I did not reckon about this wind,” said Dickenson. “As fast as one of us strikes a light it will be blown out.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And we shall never get the fuse started.”
“We must try, sir.”
“Yes,” said Dickenson. “Here, it must be one man’s job to fire the train; the explosion will send off the next wagon.”
“And no mistake, sir. We ought to have had a lantern to light the fuse at. But you get lower down, sir, and I’ll set off the whole box of matches I’ve got here, chuck it into the train, and drop behind this big stone.”
“That seems to be the only way to get it done,” replied Dickenson.
“Yes, I’m sure of it, sir,” said the sergeant.
“All right, then; run down and get behind that piece of rock. I’ll do it directly.”
“No, no, sir; let me do it,” pleaded the sergeant.
“’Tention!” roared Dickenson. “Quick! No time to lose. Off at once.”
The sergeant’s lips parted as if he were about to say something, but Dickenson gave him a stern look and pointed downward towards the stone, when discipline ruled, and the man doubled away to it, grumbling and growling till he was lying down panting as if he were out of breath.
“I could have done it better myself,” he said hoarsely; and then, “Oh, poor lad, poor lad! If—if—”
There was a sharp crack, followed by a pause filled up by the shrieking and yelling of the wounded Boers. Then the sergeant felt that he must raise his head and see how matters were going on; but he refrained, for there was a peculiar hissing noise. Dickenson had taken about twenty matches out of the box he carried, held them ready, and ignoring the fuse, he struck the bundle vigorously, stretched out his hand, which was almost licked by the flash of flame, and applied it to the thickly-laid train.
For a few moments there was no result, the wind nearly blowing out the blazing splints; but just as the young man was hesitating about getting out more matches—phitt! There was a flash as the powder caught and the flame began to run in its zigzag course right along the ground towards the nearest ammunition-wagon.
Turning sharply, Dickenson laid his hands upon a block of loose stone, vaulted over it, and dropped flat upon his face, conscious the while of the piteous cries of the wounded men.
The next instant there was a tremendous concussion, the stone giving him a violent blow, and as the sky above seemed to blaze there was a roar like thunder, then a perceptible pause, another roar, again a pause, and another roar.
Then for a few moments the young officer lay deafened and feeling stunned, till beneath the pall of smoke which hung over him he opened his eyes and saw the sergeant kneeling by his side with his lips moving.
Dickenson stared at him wonderingly, while he saw the horrified look in the man’s face and its workings as he kept on moving his lips, and finally half-raised his young officer and laid him down again.
“What’s the matter?” said Dickenson—at least he thought he did—he felt as if he had said so; but somehow he could not hear himself speak for the crashing sound of many bells ringing all together.
He did not for the moment realise what had happened, but like a flash the power of thinking came back, and drawing a deep breath, he tried to get up, but could hardly stir. Something seemed to hold him down.
“Give me your hand, sergeant,” he said, but still no words seemed to come, and he repeated what he wished to speak; but before he had completed his sentence, he grasped the fact that the sergeant’s manner had changed, for he rose up, felt behind him, looked at him again, and seemed to speak, for his lips moved.
“Are you hurt?” Dickenson said, in the same way.
The sergeant’s lips moved and he shook his head, looking the while as if he were not hurt in the least.
“Then why don’t you speak?” said Dickenson.
The man smiled and pointed to his ears.
“The explosion has deafened you?” said Dickenson dumbly, for still he could not hear a word. “What do you mean? Oh, I see.”
For the sergeant clapped him on the chest, and then placing his shoulder against the stone, he seemed to be exerting all his strength to force it uphill a little, succeeding so well that the next moment Dickenson felt himself slip, glided clear of the sergeant’s legs, and rose to his own, while the man leaped aside and the great block slipped two or three yards before it stopped.
“Then I was caught by the stone?” said Dickenson wonderingly. “I felt it move.”
He felt sure now that he had said those words; but in his confused state, suffering as he was from the shock, he could only wonder why the sergeant should begin feeling him over, and, apparently satisfied that nothing was broken, begin hurrying him along in the direction taken by the retreating force, which, now that the dense cloud of smoke was lifting, he could see steadily marching away in the distance, but with a group of about a dozen lingering behind.
Just then the sergeant stopped, unslung his rifle, placed his helmet on the top, and held it up as high as he could, till Dickenson saw a similar signal made by the party away ahead.
“They know we’re all right,” said Dickenson, still, as it seemed, dumbly: and the sergeant nodded and smiled.
“It was an awful crash. I mean they were terrible crashes, sergeant.”
There was another nod, and after a glance back the sergeant hurried him along a little faster.
“Can you—no, of course you can’t—hear whether the Boers are calling out now?”
The sergeant shook his head.
“Poor wretches!” said Dickenson. “But they were too far off to be hurt.”
The sergeant nodded.
“Here, I can’t understand this,” said Dickenson.
“You pointed to your ears and signified to me that the explosions had made you as deaf as a post.”
The sergeant turned to him, looking as if he were trying to check a broad grin, as he pointed to his officer’s ears. That made all clear.
“Why, it is I who am deaf,” cried Dickenson excitedly; and almost at the same moment something seemed to go crack, crack in his head, and his hearing had come back, with everything that followed sounding painfully loud.
“And no wonder, sir,” said the sergeant. “It was pretty sharp. My ears are singing now. Does it hurt you where you were nipped by the stone?”
“Feels a bit pinched, that’s all.”
“And you’re all right beside, sir?”
“Yes, I think so, sergeant.”
“That’s good. Well, sir, you did it.”
“What! blew up the wagons? Yes, sergeant, I suppose we’ve done our work satisfactorily. But do you think the Boers would be hurt?”
“If they were, sir, it was not bad enough to make them stop singing out for help. I heard them quite plainly after the explosions. Can you walk a little faster, sir?”
“Oh yes, I think so. I’m quite right, all but this singing noise in my ears. I say, though, what about the enemy?”
“I don’t know anything about them, sir; the kopje hides them for the present, but once they make out how few we are, I expect they’ll come on with a rush; and the worst of it is, they’re mounted. But it’ll be all right, sir. The colonel said he was sending out a covering party to help us in, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” replied Dickenson.
“Oh, we shall keep them off. They’ll begin sniping as soon as they get a chance, but they’ll never make a big attack in the open field like we’re going over now.”
A very little while after they overtook the party hanging back till they came up, Captain Edwards being with the men, ready to congratulate them on the admirable way in which their task had been carried out.
The brisk walking over the veldt in the clear, bright air rapidly dissipated Dickenson’s unpleasant sensations, and when the main body was overtaken the young officer would have felt quite himself again if it had not been for the dull, heavy sense of misery which asserted itself: for constantly now came the ever-increasing belief that he must accept the worst about his comrade, something in his depressed state seeming to repeat to him the terrible truth—that poor Drew Lennox must be dead.
He found himself at last side by side with the major, who as they went on began to question him about his friend’s disappearance, and he frowned when Dickenson gravely told him his fears.
“No, no,” said the major; “we must hope for better things than that. He’ll turn up again, Dickenson. We must not have our successful raid discounted by such a misfortune.—Eh, what’s that?”
“Boers in sight, sir,” said Sergeant James. “Mounted men coming on fast.”
“Humph! Too soon,” said the major, and he proceeded to make the best of matters. The ambulance party was signalled to hurry forward, and a message sent to the little rear-guard with the store wagons and cattle to press forward with their convoy to the fullest extent. Then, as the mounted Boers came galloping on and divided in two parties, right and left, to head off the convoy, the eager men were halted, faced outward, and, waiting their time till the galloping enemy were nearly level at about three hundred yards’ distance, so accurate a fire was brought to bear that saddles were emptied and horses went down rapidly. Five minutes of this was sufficient for the enemy, the men swerving off in a course right away from the firing lines, and, when out of reach of the bullets, beginning to retreat.
“Has that settled them?” said Captain Edwards.
“No,” said the major; “only made them savage. They’ll begin to try the range of their rifles upon us now. Open out and hurry your men on, for the scoundrels are terribly good shots.”
The speaker was quite right, for before long bullets began to sing in the air, strike up the dust, and ricochet over the heads of the men, to find a billet more than once in the trembling body of some unfortunate ox. But fighting in an open plain was not one of the Boers’ strong points; the cover was scarce, they had their horses with them, and the little British party was always on the move and getting nearer home. Several bold attempts were made to head them off, but they were thwarted again and again; but in spite of his success, the major began to grow frantic.
“Look at those blundering oxen, Dickenson,” he cried. “It’s a regular funeral pace over what will be our funerals—the brutes! We shall have to get on and leave them to their fate. I’ll try a little longer, though. I say, we must be half-way now.”
“Yes; but unfortunately there’s a fresh body of the enemy coming up at a gallop,” said Dickenson, who had paused to sweep the veldt with his field-glass. “Yes, twice as many as are out here.”
“What!” cried the major. “Well, there’s no help for it; we shall have to leave the cattle behind. Send a man forward to tell the convoy guard to halt till we come up, and let the cattle take their chance.”
“The men with the wagons too, sir?”
“No,” cried the major; “not till we’re at the last pinch. We must try and save them.”
The messenger was sent off at the double; and as the retreating party marched on, the major continued to use his glass, shaking his head in his annoyance from time to time as he saw the Boer reinforcements closing up.
“Oh!” he groaned, “if we only had a lancer regiment somewhere on our flank, just to manoeuvre and keep out of sight till their chance came for a charge. Make them run—eh, Edwards?”
“Yes,” said the captain dryly; “but unfortunately we have no lancer regiment on our flank.”
“No,” replied the major; “and we must make the best of it.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Sergeant James to Dickenson; “but don’t it seem a pity?”
“What? To have got so far and not be able to get back unhurt?”
“I was thinking of the cattle, sir,” replied the sergeant gloomily. “Hungry and low as the poor lads are with the want of meat, it seems a sin to forsake all that raw roast-beef. It’s enough to make the men mutiny.”
“Not quite, sergeant,” replied his officer as he tramped steadily on. “But look forward; it doesn’t seem to make any difference. The baggage-guard has halted, but the oxen are marching on, following the wagons steadily enough.”
“Yes, sir; as the old lines used to say that I learnt at school, ‘It is their nature too.’”
“I suppose the enemy will divide, take a long reach round, and get ahead of the convoy.”
“Yes, sir, that’ll be their game. They’ll make for that patch of wood and rocks in front, occupy it, and force us to make a what-you-may-call-it.”
“Détour?” said Dickenson.
“That’s it, sir.”
“Yes,” said Dickenson thoughtfully; “they’ll be able—mounted—to make it before we can.”
But the major seemed to think differently, for he sent fresh men on to hurry the convoy, his intention being to occupy the rough patch of a few acres in extent, hoping to keep the enemy at bay from there till the promised help came from Groenfontein.
“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently when Dickenson joined him for a few minutes to receive fresh orders. “It’s distant, and we shall be without water; but it must be done. They must not even stampede the cattle.”
“The major says the cattle must be saved, sergeant,” said Dickenson as he doubled and rejoined his little company.
“Does he, sir?” said the sergeant cheerfully. “Very well, sir, then we must do it. Beg pardon, sir; might be as well for you to go on and say a few words to the lads to cheer them up.”
“They’re doing wonderfully well, sergeant.”
“That’s true, sir; but we want ’em to do better. They don’t see the worst of it. It’s all very well to appeal to a soldier’s heart and his honour, and that sort of thing; but this is a special time.”
“What do you mean? This is no time for making speeches to the brave fellows.”
“Of course not, sir. But just you say in your merry, laughing way something about the beggars wanting to get our beef, and you’ll see what the lads can do. Taking a bone from a hungry dog’ll be nothing to it. The lads’ll shoot as they never shot before, for there isn’t one of them that isn’t thinking of roast and boiled.”
Dickenson laughed, and went on at once along the little column, saying his few words somewhat on the plan the sergeant had suggested, and it sent a thrill through the little force. They had just come up with the convoy guard, who heard what he said, and somehow or other—how, it is as well not to inquire—several of the great lumbering beasts began to bellow angrily and broke into a trot, which probably being comprehended by the drove in front, they too broke into a trot, which in turn was taken up by the spans in the wagons, and the whole line was in motion.
The drivers and forelopers who led the way made for the cover, and at the word of order that passed along the line the men doubled, cheering loudly the while, and sending the bullocks blundering along in a cloud of dust.
“Steady, there! Steady!” shouted the major. “Never mind the cattle. The lads will be winded, and unable to shoot.”
“Yes,” panted Captain Edwards; for while this had been going on, the enemy, now tripled in number, were repeating their former evolution, and two clouds of them taking a wide sweep round were nearly abreast of the little force, evidently on their way to seize the patch of bush as a shelter for their horses while they dismounted, occupied the cover, and dealt destruction to those who came on.
The major saw the uselessness of his manoeuvre now, and was almost ready to give it up; but still he had hopes.
“The cattle will screen our advance,” he said, “and the enemy are bound to ride right round on account of cover for their horses. I believe even now that we can get to this side as soon as the Boers get to the other, and we must clear the bush at the point of the bayonet.”
The men soon knew what was required of them, and they kept on steadily at the double. But minute by minute it grew more evident that the fast, strong ponies of the enemy, long as the sweep being taken on either side proved to be, must get to the cover first; and, to the despair of the officers, while they were still far distant in the deceiving, clear air, they saw the two big clouds of the enemy, as if moved by one order like a well-trained brigade of cavalry, swing round right and left and dash for the thick patch of dwarf trees dotted with rocks.
“We’re done, sergeant,” said Dickenson breathlessly.
“Yes, sir,” said the man coolly; “they’ve six legs to our two. I’m sorry about that beef, for I’d set my mind on a good meal at last.”
At that moment the bugle rang out, for it was madness to press on, and the men, disappointed of their bayonet-charge to clear the little open wood, began to draw breath ready for their next order to turn off right or left and continue the retreat out of rifle-fire as soon as they could.
“Oh, it’s maddening!” cried Dickenson passionately as he unfastened the cover of his revolver holster.
“Oh no, sir,” said Sergeant James. “Case for a cool head. You’ll see now how neatly the major will get us out of fire and take us round. I wish, though, that our covering party had been within reach.”
An order rang out directly for the party to advance left incline, which meant the giving up of their loot, and the men went on with set teeth as they saw the two great clouds of Boers growing darker as they pressed in for the patch of trees; and then there was a cheer bursting from every throat—a cheer that was more like a hoarse yell, for from both ends of the little wood, still some five hundred yards away, there was a puff of smoke, followed by the rattle of a Maxim-gun on the right, a small field-piece, shrapnel charged, on the left, and directly after a couple of volleys given by well-concealed men.
The effect was instantaneous: riders and fallen horses and men were struggling in wild confusion, falling and being trampled down, and those unhurt yelling in wild panic to get clear. And all the while, as fast as they could fire, the hidden covering party in the wood were supplementing the Maxim and gun fire by emptying their magazines into the two horror-stricken mobs. For they were nothing better, as in a selfish kind of madness to escape they dragged their horses’ heads round and lashed and beat at them with the butts of their rifles, to begin frantically galloping back by the way they came.
But the worst of their misfortune had not come. Each wing had to gallop for some distance within shot of the major’s little force, which poured in volley after volley before “Cease firing!” was sounded, the Boers having continued their flight right away, evidently making for their ruined laager, leaving horse and man dotting the veldt.
The men were too busy congratulating each other upon their victory, and helping to round up the cattle scared by the firing, to pay much heed at first to the wounded enemy; but as soon as a dozen of the best riders were mounted on some of the Bechuana ponies which, minus their riders, had begun to contentedly browse on such green herbage as could be found, the major set a party to work bringing the wounded Boers into the shade.
“Their own people will see to them as soon as we are gone,” said the major. “What do you make out, Edwards?” he continued to that officer, who was scanning the retreating enemy through his glass.
“They seem to me to be gathering together for another advance,” said Captain Edwards.
“No,” said the major, “they will not do that. This has been too severe a lesson for them. They’ll wait till we are gone, and then come to see to their killed and wounded. That was a sudden turn in the state of affairs.”
“Ha!” replied Captain Edwards. “I was beginning to wonder how many of us would get back to Groenfontein.”
“Yes,” said the major; “so was I.”
In a very short time the ambulance party and the convoy, with its great train of cattle, were once more on their way to the camp, well-guarded by half the party Colonel Lindley had so opportunely sent to the help of the expedition, the rest, with the major’s little force, following more deliberately, keeping on the alert for another attack from the Boers, who waited till their foes were quitting the field before coming slowly on. But not for a new encounter; their aim now was only to carry off their wounded comrades and bury their dead.
“Yes,” said the major, “they have had one of the sharpest lessons we have given them during the war. We suffered enough in carrying the kopje by surprise; this time we have not lost a man.”
These last words haunted Dickenson all the way back to the camp, which was reached in safety, the men being tremendously cheered by the comrades they had left behind. But in spite of his elation with the grand addition to their supplies and the two great triumphs achieved by his men, the colonel looked terribly down-hearted at the long array of wounded men; while with regard to Lennox he shook his head.
“A sad loss,” he said. “I looked upon Drew Lennox as one of the smartest young fellows in the corps. It’s very hard that misfortune should have befallen him now.”
“But you think he’ll get back to us, sir?” said Dickenson excitedly.
The colonel gave him a quick look.
“I hope so, Mr Dickenson; I hope so,” he said. “There, cheer up,” he added. “We shall soon see.”