Volume Two—Chapter Eight.
The Attack on the “Great Place.”
It is night. Night, that is to say, for all practical purposes, though strict chronological accuracy might compel us to define it as morning; for nearly three hours have elapsed since midnight. But, be that as it may, at present it is as dark as the nethermost shades, as one of that long, silent file of horsemen, wending its way through the gloom, remarks to a comrade.
A chill breeze stirs the raw atmosphere, and sweeps before it puffs of misty vapour which have been resting thickly alike upon hill-top and low-lying bottom. Overhead a few sickly stars shine forth through the flying scud, to be quickly veiled again, and replaced by another spangled patch. And, advancing at a foot-pace, comes line upon line of mounted men, moving through the darkness like the phantom horsemen of some eerie legend. Very little talking is there in the ranks. Muffled in their overcoats and with hats slouched over their faces the men ride on, stolid, and meditative, and little inclined for conversation in the damp, raw air which has a corresponding effect upon their spirits, even if orders had not been issued for quiet and caution; for it is a night march in the heart of the enemy’s country.
It is difficult to distinguish face or feature of any description in the profundity of the gloom; but now and again the dull silence and the dead monotonous tramp of hoofs is relieved by the clank of arms and the jingle of a bit; or the smothered imprecation of some one whose horse has stumbled in the darkness, as he holds up the careless animal, who gives a snort of alarm. And the march continues on through the night, till at last the gloom shows signs of lightening, and we begin to make out the aspect of this bellicose-looking cavalcade advancing over the hills and dales of savage Gcalekaland. We see a number of roughly-clad, bearded men, mostly attired in serviceable corduroy and with a gaily-coloured handkerchief twined round their slouch hats, mounted on tough, wiry steeds. On their saddles are strapped blankets or mackintoshes and for arms each man carries a rifle of some sort—from the Government Snider, to the double-barrelled weapon in ordinary frontier use, rifled and smooth-barrel for varying distance or quarry. Not a few have revolvers also; and broad, heavy belts, holding at least two hundred rounds of cartridge, are buckled round them or slung over their shoulders. Many of which bullets will, I trow, find their mark in the dusky bodies of the savage enemy before the day is very far advanced. This is a corps of Irregular Horse, frontiersmen all of them. Another side of the column we see, in the gathering dawn, is composed of mounted volunteers—townsmen—whose gay uniforms, cavalry sabres, and glittering accoutrements, show out in contrast to the more sombre trappings of the corps first noticed. Yet of the two it is not difficult to predict which the enemy would rather meet in battle. Another ingredient in this martial array is the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police, two or three troops of which useful force, looking ready and soldier-like in their helmets and sober uniforms, flank the march—these are armed with short carbine and revolver. And lo, moving along, drawn by several stout horses, black and rakish-looking in the uncertain light, are the field-pieces, with their attendant gunners—a smart and efficient selection of men.
The object of the expedition may be divulged by a scrap of the conversation of one of its members.
“So we shall smoke the old fox out of his own earth at last,” is saying a sturdy young fellow in the ranks of the Irregular Horse.
“Ha, ha! Shall we? You don’t suppose old Kreli is sitting at home waiting for us, do you?” is his comrade’s reply. “Why, he’s miles off, I expect.”
“Bet you he isn’t,” cut in a third. “Bet you one to five in half-crowns we nobble old Kreli to-day.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the first speaker. “Jack’s so sure of his bet that he wants all the odds in his favour.”
“Well, well, yes,” rejoined the other, briskly. “We must have a bet on, you know, just as a matter of form. But you’ll have to hand over, Hicks, my boy. You laid me long odds when we started that we shouldn’t burn Kreli’s Great Place before Christmas, and—”
“And we haven’t,” interrupted Hicks. “There’s many a slip, you know, and we are not there yet; and the commander may take it into his head to—”
“Ssh-h! Silence there forward, please?”
The two disputants subsided. They were very near the scene of operations now, and almost immediately a halt was called. Beneath, in a hollow, lay the “Great Place,” a large collection of huts—well placed for convenience and comfort, but extremely badly for purposes of defence—on a bend of the Xora River, whose clear waters flowed gurgling past. Overshadowing the village on the one side was a great krantz, and around lay pleasant slopes of rolling pasture, relieved here and there by patches of mimosa thorns. All was wrapped in the most profound silence as the day broke. The inhabitants of the village slumbered unsuspectingly; and if the old chief was there it was extremely likely that the attacking column, drawing a cordon round the place, would have him fast shut within the trap. Meanwhile the said column rested upon its oars, and grumbled.
“What the devil are we waiting for?” fumed Hicks. “The niggers’ll all get away before we get so much as a long shot at them. And a fellow mayn’t even have a pipe while he’s waiting.”
“Keep cool, old man,” replied Armitage. “Or ask Captain Jim.”
“Captain Jim,” being none other than our old friend Jim Brathwaite, who, with characteristic energy, the moment war was fairly declared, had set to work to raise a select corps of his own—not a difficult proceeding, for men flocked from all parts to take service under a leader so popular and so well known for dash and daring—and in three days he had enrolled nearly a hundred picked men. This corps comprised all of our old Seringa Vale friends, and, being mainly of local origin, its members knew and trusted thoroughly each other and their leaders.
“Ah, now we shall hear something,” went on Hicks, as a Police orderly was seen to ride up and confer with their leader. “The advance, I expect.”
“Or the retreat,” suggested another, cynically. “Just as likely the one as the other, from all accounts.”
“Hallo. There’s the enemy, by Jupiter!” cried another young fellow.
All turned. A dark column was seen rapidly advancing up the hill in their rear, and more than one heart beat quicker as its owner watched the approach of this new factor in the state of affairs.
“Not it,” said Naylor, quietly. “It’s the Fingoes for whom we’ve been waiting all this time. Now we shall be able to go forward.”
An exclamation of wrath went along the line.
“Lazy brutes!”
“Waiting for them, indeed!” and so on.
“Now, men,” said Naylor, who was second in command, “here’s the programme. We are to attack on the right with the Kaffrarian fellows. At the sound of the bugle we advance, in skirmishing order, according to the number of Kafirs in the kraal, and the fight they show. If possible, we are to surround them. Now—mount!”
The last order had not to be given twice, and in a moment the whole troop was moving round behind the hills, to take up their allotted position—where they waited, each man, rifle in hand, burning with impatience to begin. Scarce a sound was audible in that quiet vale; now and then a small bird fluttered up from the grass with a piping twitter, once a great black ringhals rustled away, half inflating his hood in surprised wrath at the unwonted disturbance, but even of this abhorred foe the men took no notice. They were after heavier game to-day—the heaviest of all—human game. And the mist rolled back over the bills.
Suddenly a shot rings out on the morning air, then another and another. And now, on every face is an expression of the most eager expectancy, and every one grips his rifle. The hands of some of the younger men, who have never been in action before, begin to shake; but not with fear. There is something intensely exciting in this silent waiting, and they are only longing to begin. Then a volume of white-blue smoke spouts forth from a point above, a heavy boom, a hurtling rush through the air, and the shrapnel bursts with a screech and a detonation right over the nearest cluster of huts. At the same time the bugle-notes peal out from the hill-top loud and clear—the signal for the attack to begin.
And the kraal wears the appearance of a disturbed ants’ nest. From everywhere and nowhere, apparently, dark forms are starting up, and the whole place is alive with fierce warriors, and shining gun-barrels, and bristling assegais; and puffs of smoke among the thatch huts, and many an ugly “whiz” in the ears of the attacking force, show that the Kafirs have opened a tolerably smart fire in return.
Crack—crack—crack! echo the rifles of the assailants, as the jets of flame, which in an advancing line play upon the doomed village, draw nearer and nearer—the sharpshooters taking advantage of every bit of cover during their approach. And over and above the rattle of small-arms booms out the thunderous roar of cannon, losing itself in a hundred echoes on the wall of the great cliff opposite, and again and again bursts the screeching shell over that swarm of human beings, and very soon the groans of the stricken and the maimed and the dying begin to mingle with the fierce war-shouts of the Gcaleka warriors. These, indeed, are beginning to fall thick and fast, but still their bullets and bits of potleg (Note 1) whistle about the ears of the attacking party.
“Now, men!” cries Jim Brathwaite. “One more volley and then at them. Ready!”
A rattling crash as every rifle is emptied, and then with a wild cheer the men, revolver in hand, are riding at a gallop upon the kraal; but first and foremost throughout is their undaunted leader. And the Kafirs, their ranks already sadly thinned out, unable to withstand the onslaught of this mad charge, turn and fly for dear life.
“Hurrah! At them, boys!” yells Jim, discharging his revolver at the foremost of two stalwart Gcalekas, who have sprung like lightning out of the very ground, as it were. The savage, however, dives to avoid the shot, which hits one of his fellow-countrymen fair in the back, and, gathering himself like a panther, leaps at his assailant, assegai in hand, aiming a furious stab at his side—but too late. The impetus of his pace carries Jim past, and the Kafir, missing his blow and his footing, falls forward on his face, to be trampled into a lifeless pulp beneath the hoofs of the horses, as the whole troop pours through the village, pistolling the fleeing or opposing enemy, and the ground is strewn with human forms, dead and dying.
And now the fight has become a stampede and a rout. Shut in on three sides by the horsemen bearing down upon them, the fleeing Kafirs run like bucks along the river bank, to make good their escape ere yon dark cloud of advancing Fingoes, sweeping steadily down to cut them off, shall get in front of them. Can they do this, they may yet hope to count up their scattered remnant in the welcome shelter of that dark forest line a few miles off. At any rate, they will cut their way through the Fingo dogs, and many a fierce warrior, grinding his teeth as he grips his assegai, starts off with renewed vigour, to pour out the heart’s blood of at any rate one of his despised foes before he dies.
Suddenly the flight stops, and with a rallying cry a body of the Kafirs make a stand. They are beyond the reach of the shells, and by this time the rout has scattered far over the plain; and the nearest Fingoes, who have been slowly overtaking their enemies, waver and hesitate, quailing before their former masters, who throw out at them threats and fierce taunts. The fugitives have nothing but empty guns, which being mostly muzzle-loaders, they have no time to reload. Assegais are thrown, and more than one whooping and hitherto exultant Fingo wallows in the dust, transfixed by the deadly javelin. In another minute these cowardly auxiliaries will turn and fly, as the Gcalekas, with clubbed guns and gripping their large stabbing assegais, furiously charge them, uttering their war-cry—when behold, a body of horsemen comes sweeping up, Jim Brathwaite’s troop leading, and the tide is turned. The Fingoes, inspired with fresh courage, stand, and sneak behind the whites, waiting for these to disperse the enemy, and then go quietly after them and assegai the wounded lying upon the ground.
“Hallo!” cried Armitage. “Hold on; Gough’s down.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, I’m not hurt,” is the plucky reply, as the young fellow leaps clear of his horse, which, stabbed to the heart by a wounded Kafir who lay on the ground, had fallen with a crash.
“Bight you are. Better fall in with the dismounted men,” and away rides the speaker.
Suddenly one of the Kafirs, watching his opportunity, springs like a cat on to the saddle of a trooper, and gripping him round the neck with one arm, stabs him to the heart with the other; then loosing his murderous embrace as he and his victim slide to the earth together, he runs like the wind, casting his glance from side to side in search of another possible victim, when he falls, pierced by a couple of revolver bullets. Another savage is suddenly descried by Hicks and Armitage, who are riding together, rushing at a man, who with his bridle over his arm stands coolly awaiting his approach. This man both of them have noticed during the pursuit. Working apparently alone, he has kept himself entirely free from flurry and excitement, reining in every now and then and taking a deliberate shot at long range, almost invariably bringing down one of the foe. And now they watch him, as a great sinewy Kafir rushes at him like a wild beast, now leaping high in the air, now dropping into the grass, then zig-zagging as if to get round the white man, who stands perfectly calm through it all, with a slightly sneering smile upon his face, but covering this dancing, leaping assailant with his gun-barrels.
Crack! The savage falls. Then, as suddenly, he picks himself up, and with a wild shout rushes at his cool antagonist.
“He’s got him, by God!” cries Hicks, as in a tension of excitement he marks the artful feint of the barbarian and, as he thinks, the turning of the tables. But the other never moves, nor does the expression of his countenance alter by a single hair’s breadth.
Crack! Another report, and the fierce warrior falls, this time stone-dead, leaping nearly against the barrel which at point-blank had sent a full charge of “loopers” straight through his heart.
“Whoop! Hooray!” yelled Hicks, wild with excitement. “Grand old shot, that! Thought you were a gone coon, by Jove!”
The other quickly slipped a couple of cartridges into the smoking breech of his gun, and looked up with a slight smile at this remark; and what he saw soon changed the smile into an outright laugh. For Hicks was staring at him, speechless and open-mouthed, while even Armitage looked somewhat dumbfoundered.
“The devil!” ejaculated Hicks, and relapsed into staring again.
“That’s uncivil,” remarked the stranger, drily.
“Why, hang it, it is—Claverton, no one else! Arthur, old boy, where on earth have you dropped from? I vow this is the best thing that’s happened for years. We thought you must be dead and buried, hearing nothing about you,” and leaping to the ground, honest Hicks wrung his former comrade’s hand as if he would crush that remarkably useful member.
Something in the last phrase jarred upon Claverton. Lilian had said much the same thing when they had met.
“Well, here I am at any rate. Turned up again like the proverbial ‘shise’ coin,” he replied. “How’s yourself? Flourishing apparently. You look as if ‘the holy estate’ agreed with you. And Jack? I say, Jack; bet you two to one in anything you like you don’t drop that chap scuttling away over there.”
“Done for you!” cried Armitage, sighting his rifle and drawing a bead on one of the retreating enemy, distant some seven hundred yards.
“No. Hand over!” cried Claverton. “Missed him clean. Give you another shot, though.”
But the other shot was likewise a failure; and the Gcaleka got off scot-free to rejoin, if he listed, the bosom of his family.
“Never mind, Jack. I won’t dun you for the stakes, I only wanted to see if you had left off that villainous sporting habit of yours.”
“But, Arthur—how the deuce did you come here?” went on Hicks. “You’re not a Volunteer—those fellows are all jingling with chains and whistles.”
“Yes, I am. Kaffrarian Rangers, full private. And then?”
“And then? Why, you must join us without any further indaba. We’ll have a high old time of it. Do you mean to say you can cut all your old friends and go and fight among strangers? Bosh!”
Claverton whistled meditatively as he surveyed the field of battle and of flight. Here and there lay a dark object in a heap amid the grass, just as it had fallen—the slain body of a Gcaleka warrior—and scattered afar rode the pursuing horsemen.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I should rather like to cut in with you fellows. I’ll see if it can be managed.”
“Of course you will,” said Hicks, light-heartedly. “By Jove, if that isn’t ‘the retire.’”
For the clear notes of the bugle were ringing afar, and in obedience to the summons the straggling horsemen began to collect from all parts of the field, and to retrace their steps, marvelling not a little at this sudden and unlooked-for mandate. And from the chief’s village, the “Great Place,” went up a great cloud of smoke, as, having hunted out its fleeing inhabitants, the last of the attacking force had flung a torch into the thatch tenements, setting the whole in a blaze; and above the bursting flames great rolling pillars of smoke mounted to the sky.
Slowly the pursuers straggled back, their horses and themselves wet with perspiration and grimy with dust and powder; many hatless, having lost their “roofing,” they said, in the hurry-scurry of the charge or of the pursuit; while a darker stain showed upon others, whether on their clothes or accoutrements—the stain of blood. The horses were panting after their long gallop, and the riders commenting freely on the events of the morning in a loud, excited tone. Many carried assegais, whole or broken, which they had taken as trophies, also bead-work, and other articles of native apparel or adornment. And in the rear marched the Fingo contingent, howling their war-song and looking intensely valiant now that the danger was over.
“Manzi! Ndipé manzi!” (“Water. Give me water.”) besought a faint voice.
Our party stopped, looking searchingly around. Several bodies of the enemy lay about, all apparently lifeless.
“Let the skunk die,” said a rough-looking fellow, who, with several others, had joined them when the rally was sounded. “Or give him his quietus in the shape of a leaden pill. A pretty dance they’ve led us all this time, and now to be calling on us to do hospital nurse for them. Damned if I do.”
“Well, a pretty dance we’ve led them to-day, at any rate. Poor devil! It won’t do any one any harm to give him a drink,” rejoined Claverton, dismounting and scrutinising the only one who showed sign of life. A tall, finely-made young Kafir lay with eyes half unclosed, and breathing heavily, apparently in great pain. Claverton bent over him as he repeated his fevered entreaty.
“Well, you may do nurse, I shan’t, so good day to you,” jeered the first speaker, riding on, while Hicks and Armitage reined in a moment, looking from their newly-found chum to the wounded man as if wondering what was coming next. But Claverton, without heeding anybody, took a large flask from his pocket, and poured a little of its contents between the Kafir’s teeth. Then filling the cup with water from the river, which ran hard by, he raised the wounded man’s head, and let him drain off the desired fluid.
“More,” whispered the Kafir; and having filled the little vessel again, Claverton watched his protégé drink the contents greedily. Then, with a deep sigh of relief, the sufferer lay back with closed eyes.
“That’ll do, Arthur. Come on, now, and leave the beggar alone,” cried Hicks, impatiently. “Or are you going to set up an ‘ambulance’ all over the field?”
“Don’t know,” replied the other, imperturbably. “It’s not much trouble, and we’ve been shooting such a lot of the poor devils that one may as well give one of them the consolation of a drink in extremis.” And he stood contemplating his protégé, who he had ascertained was not dangerously though badly wounded by a ball in the side. Then it occurred to him that the face of the stricken savage was not altogether unfamiliar to him; but where he had seen it he could not remember.
And now the war-song of the Fingoes drew nearer, and hearing it, the wounded man once more unclosed his eyes, with a mingled expression of despair and resignation and contempt. There was not a chance for him, he thought. The “dogs” would come up, and the white man would stand by and tell them to kill him. Well, what did it matter? They were dogs, and he was a warrior of the Amaxosa—nothing could get rid of that fact. Then, just as he thought his hour had come, the white man remarked in his own tongue: “Lie perfectly still and shut your eyes. If the Fingoes see that you’re alive, even though I may save you now, they will surely come back and kill you before you can get away.” And the other obeyed.
Claverton slowly proceeded to fill and light his pipe, as if he had dismounted with that object and that alone, and the Fingoes, their assegais red and blood-stained, marched past, looking about as though in search of any of the dreaded foe still living. They saluted the white man with servile acclamation, and passed on.
“Now,” continued he, when the savage auxiliaries were well out of the way, “wait until the coast’s clear, and then hook it. Go and tell Kreli that if he’s wise he’ll shut up fighting and come and sing small, and acknowledge that he’s made an ass of himself. You see, we don’t want to kill you fellows unless we are obliged, and then we’ll do for the lot of you. Now be off as soon as you can.”
The young Kafir, who was by no means a bad-looking fellow, smiled as he softly murmured assent, and, with a grateful look in his eyes, he laid hold of his benefactor’s foot and drew it to his lips in token of gratitude.
“All right,” said the latter; “now look to yourself,” and mounting his horse he overtook the rest, who had been making merry over their friend’s eccentricity.
“Now you’ve done the wet-nurse trick, old chap, we’ll get back to camp and have a glass of grog,” said Armitage.
“That’s a good idea,” assented Claverton. He did not mind their chaff, and would not have even if it were more ill-natured. A passing impulse had moved him to befriend this wounded savage, and he had obeyed it. And it may be that an even yet more humanising influence was at work, and that on that fierce battle-field, reeking with blood and carnage, the image of Lilian stood, viewing him with a sweet, approving smile as he listened to the agonised prayer of the stricken barbarian, who might be the first, if ever opportunity offered, to repay his charity with an assegai thrust. But having done this thing he was glad, and a softer feeling centred round his heart as if he actually heard Lilian’s approving voice in his ear.
Much growling was indulged in as the burghers and volunteers, returning to camp, learned that the pursuit was to be discontinued. They had struck a decisive blow, and now were not to be allowed to follow it up. Public discontent found its expression freely and in forcible language.
“Infernal nonsense?” repeated one big fellow in reply to a comrade’s observation. “I believe you. Why, what we’ve done to-day is no good at all—not one blessed ha’porth. We’ve shot a few of these fellers and chevied a few more; but what o’ that? They’re thick as bees over yonder,” and the speaker jerked one hand in the direction of the flight, while with the other he viciously crammed his short, wooden pipe.
“Ay, that’s so,” assented a small, wiry-looking man. “If we had only gone straight on we could have cleared out the Manubi Bush right down to the coast, and driven the whole lot into the sea.”
“Where they were going to drive us,” chimed in another.
“And it’s there we should have nobbled old Kreli,” went on the former speaker. “He’s in there, mark my words—in there waiting for news—he, and Sicgau, and Botmane, and the whole bilin’ of ’em. Now we’ve burnt his old beehives here; but that’s no good, they’re built again in a day. No, sir; what we want is the old fox himself.”
“And don’t we wish we may get ’im? No; it’s nurses we want to look after us,” put in another.
There was a reluctant guffaw at this; but the gloom had deepened on their warlike souls.
“Well, we may as well go back, streak it straight home again, if we’re going to be commanded by a set of old women,” growled the first speaker. “We didn’t come out here to play with the niggers, did we?”
“Looks like it, anyhow, mate.”
Thus amid much growling, which, however, was not directed at our friend Jim, but at the power behind that gallant leader, the camps were pitched. A portion of the Police force started off back to their headquarters at Ibeka; but here, close to the scene of their late victory, the volunteers and burgher forces remained; and at nightfall the horses were driven in and “rung,” that is to say, tethered in circles; while additional sentries were posted, and every precaution taken, the recent success notwithstanding, for they were in the enemy’s country.
Jim Brathwaite was mightily glad, and no less surprised at the unexpected meeting, and warmly seconded Hicks’ suggestion that Claverton should join his corps.
“Twice I noticed a fellow to-day, Arthur,” he said, “who reminded me of your straight riding; and, by George, it must have been you yourself. Well, well; we are all bound to meet again some day, however we may scatter. But what do you think that fellow Hicks has done?”
“What?”
“Committed matrimony. And so has Jack.”
“Has he? Jack, I mean. I knew about the other. Who, and when, and where?”
“Oh, that’s a very old story, Jim,” said Armitage, trying to look quite at his ease. “Claverton heard it ages ago. Give us some baccy.”
They were sitting round the camp-fire. The afternoon had merged into night, and now the circle was discussing old times.
“Who?—Gertie Wray—you remember her—now Mrs Jack Armitage, promoted. When?—last year. Where?—in Grahamstown,” replied Jim.
And then, as others joined them, the conversation turned from things personal and retrospective, to things political and present; and the state of affairs was discussed in all its bearings.
“Well, we’ve a big enough force in the field to thrash out the Gcaleka country,” Jim was saying; “but then we shall have to be constantly playing hide-and-seek with the Kafirs until we catch old Kreli. If the Gaikas don’t break out, all that the people on the border will have to do will be to guard their line so that none of these chaps can cross. If the Gaikas rise, why, then our friends there will be between two fires.”
“And the Gaikas will rise,” put in Garnier—Jim’s second lieutenant—a quiet-looking, brown-bearded man of about five-and-forty. “You may take my word for that. It isn’t for nothing that they’ve been going through all the war-dancing and farrago. It isn’t for nothing they’ve been sending all their cattle away to the thickest parts of the Amatola forest. And it isn’t likely they’d sit still—they, the warrior race of all others—and let Kreli do all the fighting. And to hear ’em talk, too! Why, they’ve been coming round my place in shoals, and they don’t care what they say. Mind, they mean mischief.”
“But, then, how is it they haven’t broken out already?” ventured Hicks.
Garnier looked pityingly at him. “For several reasons. There’s a strong peace party among them, for one thing. For another, they heard, or rather saw—for there were lots of them present—what a hammering the Gcalekas got the other day when they attacked Ibeka; and they’re not ready. But if any of these chaps of Kreli’s get through and join them—then look out.”
“Well, we can put a tremendous force into the field,” went on Jim. “Why, in the Eastern Province alone we could raise enough to finish the war in a couple of months, if they’re only put to it and not kept fooling about doing nothing.”
“Yes; and if they’re properly looked after in the field,” said another. “No one can fight unless he’s fed; and with the commissariat always two days behind, no body of men will remain long contented.”
“And, while they are fooling about, all their property’s going to wrack and ruin, as ours is at this damned moment,” growled Thorman, who was one of the party.
“Never mind. All the more reason why we should make a thorough good thing of it while we are about it,” said another, of more cheerful disposition. “We’ll teach Jack Kafir a lesson this time, that he’ll remember.”
Thus talking, they sat round that red camp-fire, which threw a fitful glow upon bronzed faces and attire, fantastic-looking in the semi-darkness and in its wild picturesqueness, until at length the bugle sounded, “lights out,” and gradually all subsided to silence. Now and again the yelp and snarl of a jackal came up from beneath, where lay the unburied corpses of the slain foe, and where a number of heaps of black smouldering ashes were all that remained of what in the morning had been the Kraal of the Paramount Chief of Kafirland.
Note 1. In war-time, when lead is scarce, Kafirs manufacture tolerably efficient slugs by cutting up the legs of their iron cooking-pots.