“I think you’ve done exceedingly well, Mr Claverton,” said the Commandant of Colonial Forces—a tall, quiet-looking, middle-aged man—as he listened to the narrative of the attack upon the Hottentot levy. He was a frontier farmer, and something of a politician, clever and prompt in the field, and of good administrative capacity, by virtue of which qualities he had been elected to, and subsequently confirmed in his present post. “In fact, we hardly expected you so soon. I’m very glad to find that your fellows are made of such good fighting stuff; and, by the way, you may hardly like to leave them now. I mean,” he went on, seeing the other’s look of surprise, “when I say, you may not like to leave them, that I think we can find you something better. The fact is, Brathwaite wants to get you into his troop—Garnier, his third man, was invalided on the way up, fever, result of bad water or something; and he wants to pitchfork you into his place. I told him I didn’t think you’d care to give up a regular command of your own to put yourself under another fellow, and, now, while I think of it, you have managed those Hottentot chaps so well, that I don’t much like your leaving them just as you’ve got them ship-shape. Still, you’d probably rather be among your friends, and if you care about taking the post, I’ll get you appointed at once.”
“It’s very kind of you,” replied Claverton. “If I might, I should like to think it over. Would it do if I let you know in an hour’s time?” It was even as the other had said; he was not quite prepared to throw up an absolute command of his own to serve in a subordinate capacity, even among his old comrades.
“Oh, yes. Let me know to-morrow morning, that will be time enough,” was the good-natured answer. “Why, there is Brathwaite,” and, gaining the door of the tent with a couple of strides, he called out: “Here, Brathwaite. Tumble in here for a minute, will you.”
“What’s up?” cried Jim, turning. “Why, Arthur! You here? When did you turn up?”
“He’s had a scrimmage, and a good one,” pat in the Commandant before he could answer. “But look here, Brathwaite. I’ve been telling Claverton about your idea, and he’ll let us know in the morning. If you can talk him over meanwhile so much the better—for you,” he added, with a smile.
“Oh! Well, look here, Arthur. Fetch up at my tent as soon as you’ve got your camp fixed, and we’ll talk things over and make an evening of it. I can’t stop now—got to see about that ammunition that’s just come. So long!” and he wae gone.
From head-quarters Claverton betook himself to the commissariat department to arrange for the rationing of his men. He was well pleased with his reception, and might have been more so had he heard the remark of the chief authority to a volunteer officer who had dropped in just after he left.
“A smart fellow, that—a fine, smart fellow. Wish we had a few more like him! A cool hand, too. I could see it in his eye.” And as the officer turned to gaze curiously after the receding form, he told him about the action which Claverton had reported; and the listener, brimming over with such a piece of veritable “news”—gleaned, too, at first hand, on the very best authority—was not long in delivering himself of the same, first to one auditor, then another, till the story, gathering sundry additions and exaggerations as it went, soon spread throughout the camp.
The daylight waned, and hundreds of red fires shone out in the gloaming as the cooking of the evening meal went merrily forward. Here and there might be seen a rough, bearded fellow in shirt and trousers, seated on a log or an upturned biscuit tin, stirring the contents of a three-legged pot with a long wooden spoon, while his comrades lay or sat around, smoking their pipes and chaffing the elective cook—on duty by rotation—suggesting that, as long as he watched the old pot with that hungry and particularly wolfish stare, it would never boil; or that he needn’t think to keep them all waiting long enough to send them to sleep, and enable him to polish off half the rations—and so on. Here and there, too, through the open door of a tent, a man might be seen, by the light of a lantern, writing on a box turned bottom upwards; or others, needle in hand, busily stitching at some article of saddlery, or haply of more personal accoutrement; but for the most part they were taking it easy. And now and again a buzz of voices suddenly raised or a burst of laughter was heard, telling of discussion or argument, or jest, or successful chaff. Prompt at “spotting” a new arrival, not a few were the glances of inquiry turned upon Claverton as he made his way back to his quarters. “Who is he?”
“Where’s he from?” would be the half-whispered inquiries as each group, sinking its occupation for the moment, turned to gaze after the stranger. “Looks fit, anyhow!”