Chapter Seventeen.
Vae Victis!
For the rest of the night Grenville lay racked with mental agony. Before another dawn came stealing over the Eastern Mountains he was to die a violent death; still, the thought of that did not trouble him nearly so much as the loss of his faithful Zulu friend. The fact that he himself had been unable to lift one finger to assist Myzukulwa against the common foe was gall and wormwood to Grenville. Again and again he pictured to himself the anguish of those at the plateau when they learned not only of the entire failure of the plot for his own release, and the consequent necessity of abandoning him to his fate, but also of the death of one of their trusty defenders. Had the Mormons been now aware that Winfield was dead, Grenville felt sure they would have delivered an immediate and probably overwhelming attack upon the spot occupied by the little band of invaders; and he could find it in his heart to wish that a few more explosive shells had fallen into the hands of his party, whose position would then have been impregnable.
Soon after dawn the prisoner fell into a troubled sleep, from which he soon awoke to find himself crying and moaning bitterly. Directly after this, however, nature re-asserted her claims, and he slept long and peacefully, dreaming that all had ended quite satisfactorily, and that he, poor fellow, was at liberty. When aroused to eat his breakfast, this impression was strong upon him, and he astounded the guards by asking if the order for his release had come down.
They first smiled, and then said significantly that he must not expect that before sundown.
Grenville then asked where he was to be executed, and was told about a dozen miles from East Utah, near to the western bridge.
“Why there?” he inquired.
“Oh! only because our graveyard is there, and we first bury the Holy Three,” was the answer, which certainly appeared the reverse of reassuring.
“Will you bury me when dead?” asked the prisoner, who seemed to take a gruesome interest in all the details of his own fate.
“Of course we shall,” replied a guard; “what did you think we’d do?”
“I was afraid you’d crucify me like those poor devils near the great stairway; and I didn’t enjoy the idea,” was the reply.
The men looked wonderingly at one another, and, as Grenville thought, with awed faces, as if asking what new and unknown horror this was; but not one of them had a word to say.
The prisoner now inquiring who in East Utah was at the head of affairs, was soon apprised of the fact that it was Ishmael Warden’s own brother, a man as much feared and hated for his cruel villainies as that worthy himself had been. Clearly there was no mercy to be looked for from him, and one of the guards, who appeared well disposed to Grenville, told him as much.
“I see,” replied he. “Well, if he is such a scoundrel as it’s easy to see you think him, I hope my friends will wipe him out for you at an early opportunity. I’d make another attack on the plateau if I were you, and get Brother Warden to take a front place and try the quality of those excellent bomb-shells of ours. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, my friend; I should never have tried on such an unsportsmanlike game, unless you had first treated me to it, and the result just serves you right.”
In the afternoon Grenville was led out; his fetters, much to his delight, were taken off; and, escorted by a guard of a hundred men, he was marched away to the place of execution.
Arrived there, the prisoner found it to be a perfectly level forest glade about half a mile across—open sward in the centre, with the forest fringing it on all sides but one. The one remaining side was, however, guarded by the dreadful River of Death, which at this point flowed with a slow hoarse murmur between rugged cliffs which, nearly three hundred feet above, seemed to brood over the stream as it glided beneath. If it be an accepted fact that still waters run deep, then the depth of the River (the chasm being some thirty feet across) must at this point have been considerable; whilst, to add to the dreary solemnity of the place, the dark shadows of the trees in the background seemed to keep friendly and untiring watch over the graves of the Mormon dead.
On looking round him, Grenville came to the conclusion that positively the entire community of both sexes had assembled in this forest glade, partly to swell the funeral cortege of the Holy Three, and partly, no doubt, drawn by curiosity, or by vengeful feelings, to see the very last of himself personally.
Of the burial rites our friend saw but little, as his guards kept the unbelieving Gentile at a respectful distance from the remains of the holy dead; but the moment the funeral was over, there arose from the whole of that vast crowd one mighty earth-shaking yell for vengeance on the common foe. Men, women, and children alike lent their voices to this fearful cry; and well, in sooth, they might, for there were few families in the comparatively small community of the latter day Saints which had not recently been rendered houses of mourning by one action or another of the prisoner or his friends.
On hearing the cry of the people thirsting for his blood, Grenville started; then, drawing himself up proudly, he took a long farewell glance at the setting sun, the distant mountains, the dense dark forest, and the green and rolling veldt, and then, walking to the spot indicated by his guards, the prisoner folded his arms across his breast and faced his executioners with haughty contempt in every line of his expressive and handsome countenance.
Just as the last few rifles which alone remained loaded in East Utah were about to be discharged at him, at one dozen paces, he suddenly held up his hand, and his clear voice went ringing across the veldt and into the silent forest glades.
“I, a subject of her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria, hereby protest against this murderous outrage committed against the English flag, under which I and my friends have fought since our entry into this country.”
Again there was a death-like silence, almost instantly broken by the incisive words of command—
“Ready! Present!”
Grenville now gazed unflinchingly right into the muzzles of the rifles; an unearthly calm had come over him, and briefly, yet earnestly, commending his soul to God, he waited the fatal word, blind and deaf to all else but the rifles, which seemed to exercise a curious fascination upon him.
Then, just as he heard the final word of command, “Fire!” he was conscious of a shriek, and someone seized him round the neck, threw their person upon his breast, and endeavoured to drag him down.
Too late! Ah, God, too late! The fatal tubes vomited a sheet of angry flame; the deadly messengers sped forth upon their cruel errand; and a body, lately instinct with life and health, lay writhing on the greensward, gasping in the death agony.
But whose body? Bewildered and confused, called back to life when he believed himself already dead, Grenville bent over the person who had so nobly and uselessly given a precious life for him, and uttered a wild and bitter cry of anguish as he recognised the lovely Rose of Sharon. Dropping on his knees, he raised the apparently inanimate corpse in his arms, crying—
“Rose! Rose! speak to me, my darling.”
And instantly her eyes opened, and a sweet and radiantly lovely smile seemed to break up the stony countenance before him—to chase away the very shadows of death and leave her face even as that of an angel.
“Dick, dear Dick,” she panted, “I have saved you. Kiss me, my own dear love, and—good-bye.”
And even as poor Grenville bent over her the sweet young girl’s face stiffened; there was one brief spasm, and all was over.
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, and the spirit to God who gave it. Weep on, brave heart, thou shalt go to her, but she shall not come back to thee. Yet, even so it is well, and hereafter thou shalt know that for thee and for her all roads lead alike to peace and rest.
Reverently Grenville kissed the marble forehead of this loveliest flower of East Utah, and then drew himself up, facing his judge and executioners; and dashing the scalding tears from his eyes, he threw back his head, and his face became as the face of an angry lion, whilst his voice rang over the darkening plain and echoed amongst the forest’s secret aisles.
“Cowards and traitors,” he cried, “villains who shoot and crucify their womenkind, Richard Grenville is not dead yet—nor will he die until every craven soul in East Utah has died miserably. Ay! for every drop of blood shed by yonder innocent girl ye shall die a thousand horrid and fearful deaths. I swear it, by the Eternal God above us.”
Then, dashing from the spot, he threw himself upon the quagga, which Rose had left close by, and, riding up to Brother Warden, struck him a heavy blow across the face with his open hand, and next, as the whole Mormon nation went at him, sent his strange mount flying down the veldt, and headed directly for the yawning chasm.
A wild astonished cry broke from the crowd behind the escaped prisoner as they saw him urge the quagga to speed, and put it fairly at the awful leap before it. The gallant little brute seemed to know what was expected of it, and went at the chasm with the most unflinching pluck. In the rays of the setting sun man and horse could for one moment be seen outlined against the sky, and for a brief instant there was a dead silence, broken by one tremendous shout, “Over—he’s over!”
No! one more struggle, gallant brute—one more effort, brave Grenville! Alas! it was not to be.
The quagga reached the further bank with its fore hoofs, sank gradually back, and, in spite of all its rider could do, was sliding down, down into the yawning gulf, when Grenville flung himself from its back, grasping at a bush which overhung the edge of the precipice, and in another second the sure-footed, nimble little animal was trotting away over the veldt, unharmed.
But Grenville? Alas! it was hopeless; he felt the bush tearing out by its roots, and realised in one bitter instant that Rose’s sublime sacrifice had been all in vain. At this moment he swung face outwards, and in the gathering gloom confronted his enemies on the opposite side of the chasm. Unrelenting to the last, he shook his fist at them in grim defiance, and the next instant the Mormons saw his body cutting the air feet downwards as it passed with the speed of lightning the three hundred feet which lay between it and the awful horror of destruction below. Just then the sun went out, and plunged everything into utter tangible darkness.