Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.
“There is One amongst us Missing.”
Meanwhile at the seat of war, events were developing. Several weeks had now gone by, during which the rebellion had spread. With the insane fatuity which was luring these people to their destruction, it seemed that to every disaffected tribe hitherto peaceful, the news of a crushing blow sustained by its brethren was the signal for itself to take up arms. There was a lack of cohesion in the enemy’s councils and undertakings that was simply incomprehensible. And now Emigrant Tembuland had broken out into revolt, threatening Queenstown; and the Hlambi section of the Gaikas, under the chiefs Ndimba and Seyolo, were making common cause with Sandili in British Kaffraria, while within the colony, the clans under Tini Macomo, from their rugged fastnesses in the Blinkwater forest—famous battle-ground in days gone by—defied the colonial authorities. Yet as each rose in succession, tribe after tribe, it seemed as though in their very half-heartedness, they were fighting against their will.
For several weeks, then, have the colonial forces been occupied in clearing out the Gaika location from end to end by a series of well-arranged patrols—sometimes meeting the wily foe in pitched battle—or as near approaching it as Jack Kafir deems wise to venture—more often exchanging shots in desultory skirmish, with the result of dispersing the savages after a few of their number had been laid low. Much cattle has been taken, too—thousands of head—which though an effective deterrent to the enemy aforesaid, is by no means an unmixed blessing to the captors; at least, so say more than one of their leaders. For large numbers of captured cattle in the camp can be nothing less than a nuisance of the first magnitude; leading to confusion and worry, the telling off of a considerable body of men as guards or as escort who might be better employed in the field; and conducive to much friction and irritability among the various native levies, each only too anxious to suspect and accuse the other of quiet purloining from the herds under their charge.
It was only yesterday that Jim Brathwaite, with feelings of intense relief, watched the last of a large herd, as it made its way over the hill under a strong escort, en route for Komgha; and now, with an air of semi-disgust, he is pondering over a despatch which has just arrived, bidding him push forward at once, for that a body of rebels, in considerable force, are known to be on their way through at a point some fifteen miles lower down, to join Sandili in the Perie forest. Not that this is the fact which calls an expression of disgust to the brown face of the dashing and fearless commander; on the contrary. But the sting of the document—like that of the scorpion—is in its tail, and is to the effect that an immense number of cattle are with them, which, can they but be taken, by thus cutting off their resources, a heavy blow will be struck at the concealed foe, even if he is not so seriously crippled as to be compelled to surrender.
“Oh, blazes,” growled Jim. “Even the glorious fan of a good old rough-and-tumble—if the beggars stand, that is—is dashed by the certainty of the camp being turned into a cattle-market for the next week or so. Naylor—Claverton, get the men into the saddle at once. No need to take rations. We shall be back to-night or to-morrow at the latest, and, if not, we shall find plenty of beefsteaks down there. Sharp’s the word, or we shall have those lumbering Dutchmen away before us.”
The door of the tent is darkened, and one of “those lumbering Dutchmen” enters—a tall, strong, but awkward-looking man, who, in that way, seems to deserve the slightly contemptuous epithet. It is the Commandant of one of the troops of Dutch Burghers, and he is anxious to confer with Jim anent the despatch he has just received, and of which, by the way, being ignorant of English, he cannot make out one word.
“What have you got to do?” echoes Jim, somewhat impatiently—for he foresees delay. “Why, you’ve got to hang it all, Arthur—you’re good at lingo. Translate the orders to him as sharp as you can.”
Gladly the Boer relinquishes the sheet of blue foolscap which he has been turning over and over in his great hands with a pitiably puzzled expression to Claverton, who translates it for the benefit of him and his four “field-captains,” who stand round eagerly listening.
“This is what it says,” goes on Claverton, having translated the first part, which is in all particulars similar to Jim’s. “Your troop must keep on about four miles ahead of us, so as to cut them off from the pass over yonder. The Fingo levies will also work with it.”
“Ja, kaptyn.”
“We shall keep on this side and drive them into you,” and then followed a few rapid details.
“Ja, kaptyn, ja, ja!”
“Well, then, we will work round to you. And now we must be off. You understand, Mynheer Van Heerden!”
“Ja, kaptyn.”
“That’s all right,” and away goes Claverton, jumps on his horse, which is held ready by the faithful Sam, while the Boer leaders make their way back to get their men under arms; still a little hazy, perhaps, as to the plan of operations; but trusting with characteristic phlegm, that det sal als recht kom.
The camp is placed on an open bit of ground forming the summit of a small eminence, and commanding a good wide sweep all round. It is shut in, however, as to view, save on one side, and it is from this side that they are able to lay their plans. Far away—at least two hours’ ride—is a bold spur, where rises conspicuous a cliff of considerable altitude; its brow, crowned by a row of stiff euphorbia trees, whose straight stems and plumed heads stand out from the soft profusion of the surrounding forest. At the foot of this cliff is the defile by which the enemy is expected to pass; and, to reach it, at least three hours of rough scramble along the bushy valleys branching out in every direction, will be necessary.
In an incredibly short space of time all is ready, and the veldt is alive with horsemen, hastening to make their way to the scene of operations. Opposite—across the ravine—the Dutch troop, about three hundred men, is hurrying forward; while beyond them some eight hundred Fingoes, marching in four columns, advance no less rapidly, chanting their war-song in a deep bass, and the sun gleams upon the gun-barrels and assegai blades; and, now and again, the tinkle of a bit and the neigh of a horse is heard as the expedition moves on.
It is the middle of the forenoon, and not a cloud is in the heavens to break the endless blue, and the heat is to be felt. As yet there is no sign of life. The other column has long been out of sight, and now carefully Jim’s troop moves forward, expecting every moment to get touch of the enemy, while nearer and nearer rises the lofty krantz which is to be the rallying-point. No one speaks; all are on the qui vive; but nothing disturbs the stillness of the deep valley into which they have been constrained to dip down in order to conceal the march as much as possible.
Suddenly, from the bush in front, breaks forth a puff of smoke, followed by another and another, till a regular line of fire bars their progress. The horses start and swerve, terrified by the detonation, as the bullets come whizzing about their riders’ ears with a horribly near and suggestive “sing.” One volley in return—for as yet they can see no one—and the order is given to seek cover, for, crack! crack! crack! on every side now the jets of flame are belching forth from the thick green bush, and it is evident that the enemy is in strong force. But he has caught a Tartar. Cool and self-possessed to a man, Brathwaite’s Horse are but waiting their opportunity, and ere long they begin to catch glimpses of the Kafirs, dodging in and out among the trees. Then the game becomes two-sided, as the experienced frontiersmen, with many a deft snap-shot, begin to “drop” their concealed enemy—so quickly, indeed, that in a quarter of an hour the latter begins to draw off. Still the fire is unusually warm on their front, and the sagacious Jim strongly suspects a deliberate intention to hold him in check there while the main body gets safely off with its spoil, as intimated.
“Claverton,” he says, coming quickly to his lieutenant’s side. “Take about thirty men, and advance upon those fellows in front, while we keep them occupied here. Try and get round them and take them in the flank; knock over as many as ever you can, and drive the rest on.”
Claverton hastens to obey, and, with his contingent, makes his way swiftly and stealthily by a circuit so as, if possible, to take the enemy in the rear. Meanwhile the fusillade goes on, and the smoke hangs in a cloud above the valley as the concealed forces, each under cover, pepper away, but with a caution that, on the part of the Kafirs, is somewhat unwonted.
And now the “special service” band has reached the ridge some five hundred yards above and beyond the main body, and its leader begins to think about doubling upon the wily foe. A smothered chuckle at his elbow makes him turn. Below, not six yards off, lying on his stomach on a rock, is a huge red Kafir. His piece is cocked, and he is worming himself into a good position for a safe and sure shot; and the chuckle proceeds from Hicks, who stands with his revolver aimed well between the greasy shoulders of the recumbent barbarian. But the quick ears of the savage detect the sound. In a twinkling he wriggles round, but, before he has time to spring up, his “Youw!” of consternation is cut short in his throat as Hicks’ revolver cracks, and the ball passing fair through the Kafir’s ribs, the huge carcase rolls from its perch, falling with a crash into the bush below.
“Sold again?” exclaims Hicks, smothering a shout of laughter. “Not this journey, my boy. I never saw anything more comic than that bird’s face when he looked round.”
Three more Kafirs spring up at their very feet, but before they can lift an assegai even, or at any rate use one, they are shot dead, almost point-blank. And now several dark heads may be detected peering in the direction of this new danger, but this is just what our friends have been expecting, and, crack! crack! crack! go their trusty breech-loaders as they advance down through the scrub, driving the enemy before them.
But the said enemy is in full retreat. He has had enough, and yonder over the ridge, dark bodies are running, by twos and threes, while the fire of the victorious whites still tells as it is kept constantly playing upon the discomfited savages. Then Jim gives the order to mount and push forward. No time is to be lost after this delay, or the plan will fall through. His troop has suffered by two men wounded and the loss of three horses, the dismounted riders making their way as best they can by holding on to the stirrup of a comrade. Nothing, indeed, could have been worse than the enemy’s marksmanship.
They make their way out of the hollow without any further opposition and are upon the heights overlooking the pass. Have they been misinformed, or are they too soon? Jim hardly thinks they are too late. It may be that the Kafirs in charge of the cattle, hearing the firing, have driven these off in another direction. Suddenly an exclamation breaks from his lips.
“Oh-h-h! Good Lord! Where on earth are those damned Dutchmen?”
For he has been descending all this time, and is standing looking up the pass. There is the great cliff, towering many hundreds of feet above, and there about two miles off the whole defile is filled with a dense mass of cattle, a cloud of dust arising before them as their drivers urge them along with many a shout which is borne to the ears of the disappointed pursuers. Even the very spoors at their feet were tantalisingly fresh.
“Perhaps they’ve gone round up above,” suggested Naylor.
“Maybe. In the meantime we’ll go down and lie in wait so as to hem the niggers in when they turn. Van Heerden’s sure to have got his men round too far.”
An outpost was left on the rising ground, and the rest descended. They were about to take up a position on either side of the road and wait; when, without any warning, a tremendous volley is poured into them; and all the bush is alive with dark shapes—hundreds and hundreds of them—darting from cover to cover, yelling and brandishing their assegais as they advance nearer and nearer, while a constant fire is kept up by those in front.
So sudden and unlooked-for is this attack, that Jim’s men are for the moment completely taken by surprise. It is, moreover, unparalleled in its fierceness and determination, for the Kafirs press boldly forward, waving their weapons. Some of them even may be seen snapping off their assegais in preparation for a charge.
“Steady, Allen, old boy. That’s a new kind of a tuning-fork,” remarks Claverton, as a bit of pot-leg whistles between his ear and that of him addressed, with a vicious whirr. “No use ducking when it’s past, you know. Hallo!”
His attention is drawn by two men struggling, a white man and a Kafir. The savage, pinned against the very base of the cliff described, is vainly striving to free his right wrist from his antagonist’s grasp, so as to use the assegai which, held flat against the rock, is useless to him; the white man, finding it all he can do to hold on to the other’s throat; and thus the two are struggling, each unable to use his weapon. Then, in response to a half-choked shout from the Kafir, several of his countrymen are seen rushing through the bush to his assistance, when lo, a quick movement, something gleams; the white man throws his adversary off, and with a couple of bounds is at Claverton’s side panting, as, crouching behind a bush to dodge several shots aimed at him, he wipes the blade of his sheath-knife on the ground.
“Ripped—the beggar—up.”
“Deuce you did! Well done, Gough. A smart bit of work that,” rejoins his chief.
And now the great cliff thunders back in tremendous echoes the volley-firing. Two of Brathwaite’s men have fallen, shot dead, another has been overwhelmed in a sudden rush of the fierce foe, who becomes more and more daring, and assegaied in a moment. Several are slightly wounded; and Jim, seeing that no time is to be lost if they are to avoid being surrounded, gives the word to fall back on higher ground, to a point where his practised eye detects better facilities for defence, and for holding out until assistance comes. Suddenly somebody exclaims:
“Any one seen Jack Armitage?” A chill of blank consternation goes through all who hear it.
“Eh, what? Where’s Jack? Where’s Jack?” echo several voices.
“He was close to me when first we began to retire,” says Claverton. “He may be there yet. Come along, boys, we’ll pick him up, wherever he is. Who’ll volunteer? We can’t leave poor Jack to be chopped up by these devils?” Even as he speaks there floats through his brain the echo of those soft, entreating words whispered in the hour of parting: “You will not run any unnecessary risks, even for other people. Your life belongs to me now, love!” And side by side with the tender thought, runs the consciousness that he cannot leave a comrade to a certain and cruel death.
“I will.” “I will.” “The devil’s in it but we’ll find Jack.”
“Come on, straight at ’em,” were some of the cries in answer to his appeal, and among the confusion and smoke—for the firing was pretty brisk—Claverton and a dozen others, gliding rapidly from bush to bush, revolver in hand, made their way to where the missing man was last seen. And in doing so they went further and further into the most deadly peril, and separated themselves more and more from their retreating comrades; but still they went.
A couple of hundred yards further, and it seemed as if they had even got behind the enemy’s lines. Two or three Kafirs had sprung up before them, but these had been immediately shot down, and, amid the confusion and firing on all sides, they succeeded in breaking through almost unobserved.
“Here’s where I saw him last,” said Claverton. “Jack! Jack!” he called in a low, penetrating tone. “Where are you, man?”
No answer.
A double report, and a couple of bullets came singing over their heads.
“Half-a-dozen of you fellows keep an eye on our rear,” said Claverton. “We shall have them down upon us directly. But we won’t give up yet.”
“Hallo?” cried a faint voice some twenty yards off.
“There he is, by all that’s blue!” exclaimed several. “Hooray?”
There he was sure enough. Lying under a huge, overhanging yellow-wood tree—several of which grew along the course of the small stream flowing through the valley—half hidden away in the long grass, whither he had crawled in the hope of escaping notice, lay poor Jack Armitage, his right foot shattered by a ball, while another had penetrated his side. His only hope was to be allowed to die in peace, though more than once as he lay there, alone with the anguish of his wounds, forgotten and left behind in that wild forest, he had thought of calling out to the savages to come and put an end to him. But hope would again reassert itself, and his own natural buoyancy of spirits, combined with the thought of his young wife, whom he would yet live to return to, made him resolve to cling on at all costs, as he put it. Poor Jack!
The rescuers were none too soon, for just then a Kafir, attracted by his faint shout, glided from behind the trunk of a tree, assegai uplifted; but a couple of revolver bullets, well aimed, stretched him beside his intended victim.
“Jack, old man, are you badly hit?” asked Claverton, with a thrill of concern in his voice, bending over him and grasping his hand.
“Infernally,” was the reply in a weak voice; and the poor fellow’s face was bathed in moisture from the agonies he was undergoing.
“Well, cheer up, old chap; we’ll get you out of this, and you’ll live to have the laugh of John Kafir yet.”
“Ping, ping!” A bullet embedded itself in the trunk of the tree, while a second whistled perilously close to the speaker’s ear.
“The devil! There’s some one among those fellows who can shoot. Lie close, every one. There’s fairly good cover here, and we’ll pepper them a few.”
“Hallo, Allen; you there?” said the wounded man. “Shake hands, old chap. You’re a good sort to come down here and look after a fellow.”
Allen looked a little sheepish. He might be a duffer in some respects, but he was not deficient in pluck, and had been one of the first to volunteer in the search.
The place where they stood, or rather crouched, was a ring of bush. Above, rose the great yellow-wood tree, with long, tangled monkey ropes trailing from its boughs. Around, however, all was tolerably open, although the trunks of the large forest trees which overshadowed the spot, shutting out the sunlight, might afford some cover to the foe. And this openness of the surroundings might yet prove the salvation of the devoted group, who stood there hemmed in by relentless and eager foes.
“We’ll hold our own, never fear!” cried Claverton. “We were in a worse fix that day down by the Bashi—you remember, Jack?—when a blast of your old post-horn sent the niggers flying in every direction.”
The wounded man smiled faintly at the reminiscence.
“Give us a revolver, some one,” he said. “I can still draw a bead lying here.”
“No, you can’t. Just lie quiet, old chap, and leave the fun to us this time. The Dutchmen are sure to come up soon, and then we’ll turn the tables, as we did that other time.”
It was their only chance. Not for ever could that brave handful hope to hold their own against such desperate odds. They could hear the firing of their comrades on the hillside far away; but these had enough to do to act on the defensive; no relief was to be looked for from them. And now the savages began to call to each other, and scores of dark shapes could be seen flitting amid the semi-gloom of the forest—now running a few yards, now sinking down, as it were, into the very earth, as the well-directed fire of the defenders began to tell, but each time springing up again, and more of them crowding on behind, and advancing nearer—nearer—nearer.
“Now, then, you six, blaze a volley into that low bush there, at the foot of the tree. At least three niggers are lying there,” said Claverton.
They obeyed, and upon the detonation came a loud yell and groans from more than one throat, notifying that the move had been effective. Two bodies rolled out into the open, and two more, badly hit, staggered behind the huge trunk.
“That’s it, boys! Hurrah! We’ll give them pepper! They won’t come to close quarters, not they!” And catching their leader’s spirit, the men, all young fellows brimful of pluck, cheered wildly and gazed eagerly round in search of more targets.
There was silence for a moment, and then a crowd of Kafirs could be seen gliding like spectres among the trees.
“Here they come, by Jingo!” muttered several of the group, but the savages hardly seemed to see them. They passed on, running, as for dear life, many of them turning their heads to look back. And the reason of this soon became evident, as a strong, harsh voice was heard exclaiming: “Nouw kerels, skiet maar! Skiet em doed, die verdomde schepsels,” (“Now, boys, shoot away! Shoot them dead, the damned rascals.”) and immediately a tremendous volley was poured into the retreating foe.
Never was any sound more welcome to mortal ear than the harsh, familiar dialect to the ears of the beleaguered group to whom it brought deliverance, and a ringing cheer went up from their midst as they recognised the voice of the old Dutch commandant, who with his men had thus arrived timely to the rescue. Spread out in a long line through the bush the Boers advanced, cautiously but rapidly, shooting down the flying foe in every direction. And another wild cheer went up in reply, as Jim Brathwaite, at the head of his mounted men, charged up the path in the hope of cutting off the enemy’s retreat, or at any rate of thinning his numbers while crossing the open ground some two miles beyond.
“Hallo, Claverton!” he cried as he rode past. “Better fall back, as you’re dismounted. The ground’s quite clear behind.” And the battle, which had now become a rout, swept on, farther and farther up the pass.
Indeed our friends had as much as they could, manage in transporting their wounded comrade with all the comfort—rough at best—that they could muster under the circumstances; but it had to be done, and the poor fellow went through agonies. His pluck and cheerfulness never failed him. “I say, Claverton,” he remarked, with an attempt at a smile, “that old humbug McShane will have the laugh of me now. How the old beggar will crow!” But the speaker knew full well that not a soul among the forces now in the field would be more concerned and grieved on his account than the fiery but soft-hearted Irish doctor.
The camp was reached at last; but long before it was reached, the whole force had overtaken them, returning from the pursuit. The bodies of those who had fallen were found, horribly mutilated, and were hastily buried where they fell. But the undertaking had been a failure. The Boer commando had been unable to arrive at the rendezvous in time, owing to the same reason which had delayed Brathwaite’s Horse. It had been engaged by a large body of the enemy evidently thrown out for the purpose, and as soon as it had beaten these off it hastened to the relief of our friends, as we have seen. And the upshot of the whole affair was that nearly two thousand rebels, with an immense number of cattle, had succeeded in breaking through, and had gone to join their countrymen in the fastnesses of the Amatola Mountains.
All through that night the wounded man lay, watched in turns by his old comrades, those among whom he had spent his life. A stupor had succeeded the agony which he had first undergone, and now he lay comparatively free from pain and breathing heavily. It happened that there was no surgeon in the camp, McShane being with the larger column some twenty-five miles off; and though three men were galloping across country to fetch him, it had long since become evident to all, even the sufferer himself, that the whole Faculty of Medicine could not save his life. He was doomed from the very first; that ball in the side had decided his fate. So they watched beside him there, and many times in the course of the night would his companions-in-arms steal to the door of the tent to whisper for news, for poor Jack was a favourite with the whole corps. So still and beautiful was the night that it required some extent of imagination to realise the stirring drama which had been enacted the day before, and an hour after midnight the camp was wrapped in slumber and darkness, save for that one faint light burning in the dying man’s tent, a meet symbol of the life that was flickering within, fainter, and fainter, and fainter. Away on the slopes of the far Amatola the red signal fires of the savages twinkled and glowed, and above rose the eternal peaks in dark outline.
It was towards dawn. Jim Brathwaite and Claverton alone were in the tent when Armitage seemed suddenly to awake from his death-like stupor.
“Who’s there?” he whispered. “That you, Jim?”
In a moment Jim was at his side.
“Well, look here, old chap, I’m off the hooks this time, and no mistake. It wouldn’t much matter—only—” and he paused.
“It wouldn’t much matter,” he continued, as if with an effort; “but—Jim—hang it, it’s Gertie I’m thinking of. Poor little girl, she’ll be left all alone—,” again he seemed to hesitate, and by the light of the dim lantern, it could be seen that the dying man’s eyes were very moist. “You’ll look after her a little, now and then, won’t you, Jim, for the sake of old times? There’ll be enough to keep her comfortably—when everything’s realised—that’s one consolation. And tell the little girl not to fret. It can’t be helped.”
Solemnly Jim promised to carry out his wishes. He was a man of few words, but they were from his heart.
“Claverton—it was downright good of you to bring a fellow up here to die among his old friends,” went on Armitage, suddenly catching sight of the other. “Better fun than pegging out with only the sooty-faced niggers prodding away at you,” he added, with an attempt at his old light-heartedness. “After all, what does it matter? I say, though, you fellows, don’t go bothering to drag me off to ‘King.’ Just slip me in somewhere here. I’d rather, you see. Best sort of grave for a fellow campaigning—and it’s all God’s earth.”
His voice grew somewhat fainter as he ceased. There was silence for a few minutes, and he lay with closed eyes. The watchers stole a look at each other, and just then three more figures slipped softly into the tent. They were Hicks, and Allen, and Naylor. The dying man’s lips began to move, but Claverton, bending over him, could not catch his words, though he thought he could just detect the name of his wife.
“Where’s Hicks?” he suddenly exclaimed, opening his eyes. “And Naylor, and all of them? I should just like to say good-bye to them. Oh, hang it all—it’s too soon to give way. One more shot and the beggars’ll run. Ah-h-h! That chap’s down.” His mind was wandering, and he fancied himself in the conflict again, “N-no. Where am I? It’s awfully dark. Open those shutters, somebody. A fellow can’t see.”
Again the watchers look at each other. This was the beginning of the end. Hicks had knelt down beside his dying comrade, and, grasping his hand, something very like a sob is heard to proceed from his broad chest. The candle in the lantern burns low, flickers, and goes out. They put back the flaps of the tent door, and just then the first red flush of dawn glows in the east. Then they bend down to look at their comrade; but it is all over. The spirit has fled, only the clay remains—cold and tenantless.
Thus died, in his full manhood, the joyous, mischief-loving, sunny-tempered Jack Armitage—light-hearted to the very last; fearless, for he had never done anything to be ashamed of, or contrary to his simple, straightforward code. Never a dishonest or malicious action could he blame himself with, and now he was at peace with all mankind. And if any one is tempted to ask: “Was the man a Pagan? Was he utterly Godless?” I reply, not necessarily. He died as he had lived, among his old comrades, careless and unthinking, perhaps, and with his thoughts apparently all for those he left behind; but genuinely regretted by all, and without an enemy in the world. And, O pious reader, when your time comes and the grim monarch lays his icy grasp upon you, will they be able to say of you even thus much?