CHAPTER XVIII
IM THE ENEMY'S POSITION
It was not long before Wilmshurst regained consciousness, to find that his precious stock of water was being boiled under the direction of the patrol-corporal. With admirable restraint the men, knowing that the subaltern had risked a horrible death for the sake of his black sergeant, had put the whole of the liquid to boil, insisting that a fair distribution would be made when the water was fit for drinking. A little over two gallons was not much among so many, but it would just assuage their thirst until the steadily-declining heat of the smouldering ruins permitted access to the well.
Producing his pump-filter, for Bela Moshi had taken particular pains to leave it in a safe place before the sortie, the subaltern strained the liquid. It was warm and insipid, yet it was now free from contamination, and Bela Moshi drank it with avidity.
A suspicion of his broad smile flitted across his face as he took the life-giving draught.
"You tink me lib for die, sah?" he enquired whimsically.
"No fear!" replied Wilmshurst, knowing that to a remarkable degree a "nigger" can control his ability to live or die. He had known of a black man who, grievously upset in a quarrel, declared that he was going to die, and promptly lying down and turning his face to the ground, the man was a corpse within half an hour. "You get well one time quick, or me berry angry."
The subaltern's reply reminded him of a doting parent talking to a small child in baby language. Bela Moshi was a mere child in certain respects, and the mild threat had its effect. "Den me tink me lib, sah," he said.
With this assurance Wilmshurst left to snatch a few hours' much-needed rest. The bulk of the white men comprising the garrison were behind the earthworks. Occasional sharp bursts of rifle firing came from the bush, but no reply was made by the defenders of the kraal. Ammunition was too scarce and precious to be thrown away at haphazard firing upon an unseen foe. The Germans' remaining machine gun was unaccountably silent. Perhaps it had failed, after the manner of automatic weapons. On the other hand, although the captured machine-gun was liable to jam after a few rounds, owing to its having become overheated, the Huns were ignorant of the fact, and thus the practically useless weapon was a strong moral factor in favour of its captors.
Dudley slept for a solid four hours, to awake considerably refreshed to find that some one had spread a double ground-sheet above him, so as to form a tent, for the sun was now directly overhead.
"Hullo, Rupert!" he exclaimed, upon seeing his brother. "How goes it?"
"Feeling quite my old self," was the reply. "A fellow can buck up even in present circumstances after being penned up by a mob of rascally Huns."
"What happened to you?" asked Dudley.
Rupert shrugged his bent shoulders.
"Don't ask me," he replied. "Some day I'll tell you—if we get out of this scrap."
"Did you hear what became of Robert MacGregor?" persisted Dudley.
"A thundering good old pal!" declared his brother heartily. "If he'd not been obliged to go back to Rhodesia I don't think I would have been landed in a German prison. I'd give a lot to shake old Bob by the hand again."
The subaltern regarded his brother intently. Rupert, he saw, was speaking quite naturally and without any trace of sarcasm. It was clear that he had not the slightest idea of the double, nay multi-dyed treachery of Ulrich von Gobendorff.
"Dash it all!" he soliloquised. "I can't enlighten old Rupert just now. Revelations must come later—if, as he remarked, we do come out of this business alive."
About four o'clock in the afternoon the irritating rifle fire ceased. Fifteen minutes passed without a shot winging its way from the dense scrub; and although one or two of the defenders boldly stood upon the parapet to draw the enemy, their tempting position brought no response.
"Guess we'll hike out and bring in some water," declared one. "No time like the present, and we are as dry as a bone."
"Very good," agreed the patrol-commander. "Only look sharp about it. This lull in the firing may mean that the Boches are up to some of their knavish tricks."
Accordingly five men, each carrying four jars, set off to the well. The dangers that Wilmshurst had encountered were now over, and in a short space of time the five returned. Although they had been in full view of the enemy positions throughout, their progress had not been molested by so much as a single shot.
"The blighters are saving it up for us for to-night," declared a trooper. "Wonder if a couple of us could steal through their lines and make our way to the main column? A few squadrons would make Fritz sit up."
"No use unless we were mounted," objected another; "and a fellow couldn't hope to dash through their lines at full gallop. He'd be chock full of bullets before he got within fifty yards of them."
"I'd risk it, anyway," asserted the first speaker. "Either mounted or dismounted I reckon I'd do it as soon as it gets dark. But I'm hanged if I can understand why Fritz is so horribly quiet and well-behaved."
"That's what we'd all like to know," added the sergeant. "I'm that curious that I fancy taking a stroll that way myself."
Shortly afterwards a party of villagers were collected and set to work to bury the bodies of those who had fallen in the futile assault. The natives, contrary to expectation, performed their tasks without let or hindrance from the enemy, although the men engaged in the work offered a tempting target.
With the fall of darkness the mental attention of the garrison became acute. At every slight or unaccountable sound the men strained eyes and ears and grasped their rifles to meet an imaginary rush. Just before midnight a shot rang out, the flash of the rifle being clearly discernible at a point immediately fronting the scene of the most formidable attack on the previous night.
"They're coming, boys!" exclaimed the patrol-commander. "Ten rounds rapid when I give the word, then independent firing. Don't waste a single shot."
Only the click of the rifle-bolts and the quick breathing of the men broke the stillness. Even the natives, awed by the impending assault, were silent as they handled their bows and long-hafted spears.
"Hear anything?" whispered the patrol-commander, edging close to Wilmshurst.
"Nothing," replied the subaltern.
"They're coming, sir," exclaimed a deep voice.
The subaltern raised his binoculars and swept the intervening space. The powerful night-glasses revealed no sign of the approaching enemy.
Again a flash, followed by the sharp report of a rifle, the bullet knocking splinters from one of the cross-pieces of the stockade—and then utter silence.
"Dashed if I can stick this!" declared Wilmshurst. "I'll go out and see what's doing. With luck I'll be back in an hour."
"Very good," agreed the Rhodesian patrol-commander. "Give the word 'Buluwayo' for the countersign. Good luck!"
Without loss of time the subaltern started on his mission of investigation. Once clear of the kraal he realised a sense of loneliness. He would have given almost all he possessed for the companionship of his trusty Bela Moshi. Then, shaking off the instinctive depression, he devoted his thoughts to the work on hand.
He was taking a different route from the one he had followed on the occasion of the capture of the machine-gun. It was unfamiliar ground, flat and totally devoid of cover. Ahead lay a line of dark shadows that marked the commencement of the encircling bush. It was only slightly over a quarter of a mile away, but the distance seemed interminable as he slowly and cautiously held on.
Once he stood stock still, his heart beating violently. Ten yards ahead a man lay prone on the short grass. The faint starlight glinted on the barrel of a rifle, which was pointed straight at the lone subaltern.
Momentarily Wilmshurst expected to see the blinding flash of the rifle. The fellow was a long time lingering over the sights, he thought. The young officer moved a couple of paces to the right. The sinister muzzle seemed to be following him, tantalisingly menacing.
Acting upon a sudden impulse Wilmshurst flung himself flat on the ground. After a pause he raised his head and looked towards the sniper, for such he took him to be. The man had not stirred. His rifle was cocking upwards at an acute angle to the ground, "I believe a dead Hun has given me cold feet," muttered the subaltern, and creeping stealthily he made a wide detour round the rigidly immovable figure. Then, satisfied up to a certain point, he crawled towards the motionless object.
It was an Askari. The man was one of the first to be shot during the onslaught. He had fallen face downwards, but still grasped his rifle in such a position that there was good reason for mistaking him for a sniper.
From this point Wilmshurst resumed his outward journey, proceeding on hands and knees and halting at frequent intervals to place his ear to the ground. He could detect no audible evidences of the foe. Never before, in the course of two separate campaigns against native troops officered by Germans, had he known such absolute silence amongst the black rank and file.
On and on he crawled, grimly soliloquising that much more of this mode of progression would make him imagine that he was a new type of serpent, for as he approached the outer fringe of scrub he literally moved on his stomach.
Proceeding thus he passed between two large thorn bushes. Beyond was a slight artificial depression in the ground, on the bottom of which were hundreds of metal cartridge cases.
By the peculiar pungent odour he knew that they had been fired within the last twelve hours. Some were trodden into the loose earth, which bore numerous indications of having been trampled both with boots and bare feet.
"By Jove!" he thought. "Fritz has cleared out."
Even as the idea flashed across his mind a rifle-shot rang out on his left.
Promptly Wilmshurst flattened himself to the ground, and waited breathlessly for further developments. The weird silence was maintained save for the distant croaking of bullfrogs in a marsh.
"Booby trap!" he declared, and cautiously groped around to find out if he had incautiously touched a fine wire. At a radius of his extended arm he found nothing of that nature. Perhaps, after all, a sniper was concealed in the bushes on his left, for the bullet had not been directed at him.
Bent upon investigating the mystery Wilmshurst crept round the intervening bushes. Before he had traversed thirty yards his head came in contact with the stock of a rifle. The weapon was lashed to a couple of stout bamboos. Fastened to the trigger was a short piece of wire, to which in turn was tied a length of raw hide. The subaltern gave a chuckle of satisfaction. His discovery confirmed his surmise that the investing force had raised the siege, leaving rifles so arranged that they would fire automatically after various intervals in order to convey the erroneous impression that the bush was still held in force.
The raw hide cords had been placed in position during the heat of the day. After dark the heavy dew moistened the hide and caused it to contract until the tension upon the trigger was sufficient to release the bolt action and detonate the cartridges.
A similar ruse, embodying more ingenuity, had been practised by the British troops during the successful evacuation of the Gallipoli peninsula; but in this case the fixed rifles were fired by means of a small trickle of water dropping from an upper receptacle into a lower one. To the latter was tied a cord, the other end of which was fastened to the trigger. As soon as half a gallon of liquid entered the lower tin can, resulting in a pressure of about seven pounds on the trigger, the rifle was fired.
"And there are plenty of discarded tins lying about," thought Wilmshurst. "It seems strange that methodical Fritz should waste a good raw-hide thong when simpler and more efficacious means are available, unless—ah! I wonder if it was a lack of water that made them clear out?"
Wilmshurst was nothing if not thorough. Before returning with the joyful news to the kraal he meant to satisfy himself that the Huns had abandoned all their positions. It would be a bad business if, on the strength of the young officer's report, the patrol left the village and attempted to rejoin the main body only to find themselves suddenly attacked in the open by vastly numerically superior forces.
Checking his direction from time to time by means of his luminous compass Dudley penetrated nearly a mile into the bush. Everywhere there were evidences that the enemy had retired in the direction of the Karewenda Hills, while the not distant sounds of wild animals showed that the bush was clear of anything of the nature of numerous parties of human beings.
Satisfied on this point the subaltern was about to retrace his way when he heard a stealthy footfall on the dew-soddened ground within a few paces of the spot where he stood.
Softly and deliberately Wilmshurst dropped to the earth, screened by the broad leaves of a cactus. He could hardly believe the evidence of his senses when, almost within arm's length, appeared the foremost of a single file of Haussas—men not only of his own battalion but of his platoon.