The only answer was a moan of exhaustion as the sufferer sank back on the ground. Claverton sent one of his men for some water, of which the wounded man drank copiously. Then he washed his face, and, placing the poor wretch in a more comfortable position, left him and passed on his round of the field of slaughter. Many a sickening sight met his gaze—a sight to curdle the heart’s blood and make the brain grow sad, but none to equal that, and never in after years would he quite forget the spectacle of the stricken savage all covered with blood, rearing himself up in the agony of his sightlessness, guided by his hearing alone, to strike one last blow at his hated foes.
No time was there to do more than hurriedly bury their dead. They must get on, and the sooner the better. So the five slain Hottentots were buried in a common grave, one wizened little old fellow, by virtue of his office as “elder” of a native chapel in one of the settlements, making a rambling, incoherent prayer, and leading off, in a nasal twang, a cracked, doleful Dutch psalm. Scarcely was this impromptu dirge brought to a close when a group was descried advancing towards the camp, waving something white.
“Three Kafirs with a white flag, by Jove!” said Lumley, scanning the approaching group through his field-glass. “Ah! Lucky for him,” he went on, as on further investigation he made out the sentry, with his piece at “present,” walking distrustfully some twenty yards behind.
All present were disposed so as to be in readiness should this last move prove to be a mere ruse—it would not be the first instance in savage warfare of the abuse of the white flag—and the Kafirs were suffered to approach. All three were good-looking men of about middle age, shrewd of countenance, and lithe and well-made of figure. They halted just outside the camp, and saluted Claverton gravely as he went forth to meet them. He nodded in reply, looked them rapidly up and down and asked shortly:
“What do you want?”
“We have come to ask the white chief to let us carry away our wounded. Many of our brethren have fallen, and are lying about in the bushes. They will die if we do not attend to them.”
For a few moments Claverton made no reply, but stood meditatively flicking his boot with a small switch he held in his hand, the savage delegates, the while, eyeing him narrowly. He was turning over the situation in his mind. Why were they in such a hurry to look after their wounded—it was not in accordance with their usual practice? Could it be with the object of keeping his attention employed, of disarming watchfulness while a large force stole up to surprise them? Or were they merely enacting the part of spies? At length he replied—and his suspicion and deliberateness, so far from offending, caused him to rise in their estimation; for anything like hastiness either of speech or decision does not find favour in the eyes of these people:
“How is it you were not afraid to trust yourselves in our hands? It is not the time of peace.”
“Aow! The white captain is brave. He will not hurt three men alone in his camp,” replied the spokesman. “We are not afraid. See—we have the white flag.”
The insidious flattery conveyed in this speech was quite thrown away. For all the change that came over Claverton’s face he might not have heard it.