There had been a lull in the firing so far, but now the Matabele on the rock ridge began to open on the house from that side. The besieged were between two fires. Chary of throwing away even one shot, they forbore to reply, carefully watching their chance, however. Then it was amusing to see them stealing by twos and threes to the bar, avoiding the line of fire—laughing, as one would dodge to avoid an imaginary bullet. But as the sublime and the ridiculous invariably go hand in hand, so it was in this case. One man, incautiously exposing himself, fell. The heavy, log-like fall told its own tale even before they could spring to his aid. He was stone dead.
An awed silence fell upon the witnesses, broken at length by fierce aspirations for vengeance upon the barbarous foe; not so easy of fulfilment, though, for the latter was not in the least eager to take any of the open chances of war. His game was a waiting one, and he knew it. By keeping up a continuous fire upon the exposed points of the defence, he forced the besieged to remain ever on the alert.
The sun went down, and now the savages began to shout tauntingly.
“Look at it, Amakiwa! You will never see another. Look at it well. Look your last on it. You will not see it rise. There are no whites left in the land.”
“There are enough left to make jackal meat of you all,” shouted back Jekyll in Sindabele. “Au! We shall see many more suns rise, and many shadows against them—the shadows of hung Amandabele.” But a great jeering laugh was all the answer vouchsafed.
With the darkness the firing ceased, but those watching at the windows redoubled their vigilance, every sense on the alert lest the enemy should steal up under its cover and rush the position. Enraged and gloomy at so little opportunity being given them of avenging their comrade’s death, those within almost wished they would. One of the wounded men—the police trooper, to wit—was groaning piteously. Both had been made as comfortable as was practicable, but it was painful to listen to the poor fellow’s pleadings in the darkness, for, of course, they dared not strike a light. Would they not shoot him at once and put him out of his agony, he begged.
“Poor old chap! We’ll see you through all right. You’ll live to talk over all this again and again,” was the pitying reply of a comrade.
“I don’t want to; I want to be dead. Oh, it’s awful—awful!”
His kneebone had been shattered by a bullet, and he was enduring terrible agony. To listen to his pitiful writhings and groans was enough to take the heart out of the most daredevil glutton for fighting.
“Here, have a drink, old man. It’ll buck you up a bit,” said another, groping towards him with a whisky bottle.