“Give us a revolver, some one,” he said. “I can still draw a bead lying here.”
“No, you can’t. Just lie quiet, old chap, and leave the fun to us this time. The Dutchmen are sure to come up soon, and then we’ll turn the tables, as we did that other time.”
It was their only chance. Not for ever could that brave handful hope to hold their own against such desperate odds. They could hear the firing of their comrades on the hillside far away; but these had enough to do to act on the defensive; no relief was to be looked for from them. And now the savages began to call to each other, and scores of dark shapes could be seen flitting amid the semi-gloom of the forest—now running a few yards, now sinking down, as it were, into the very earth, as the well-directed fire of the defenders began to tell, but each time springing up again, and more of them crowding on behind, and advancing nearer—nearer—nearer.
“Now, then, you six, blaze a volley into that low bush there, at the foot of the tree. At least three niggers are lying there,” said Claverton.
They obeyed, and upon the detonation came a loud yell and groans from more than one throat, notifying that the move had been effective. Two bodies rolled out into the open, and two more, badly hit, staggered behind the huge trunk.
“That’s it, boys! Hurrah! We’ll give them pepper! They won’t come to close quarters, not they!” And catching their leader’s spirit, the men, all young fellows brimful of pluck, cheered wildly and gazed eagerly round in search of more targets.
There was silence for a moment, and then a crowd of Kafirs could be seen gliding like spectres among the trees.
“Here they come, by Jingo!” muttered several of the group, but the savages hardly seemed to see them. They passed on, running, as for dear life, many of them turning their heads to look back. And the reason of this soon became evident, as a strong, harsh voice was heard exclaiming: “Nouw kerels, skiet maar! Skiet em doed, die verdomde schepsels,” (“Now, boys, shoot away! Shoot them dead, the damned rascals.”) and immediately a tremendous volley was poured into the retreating foe.
Never was any sound more welcome to mortal ear than the harsh, familiar dialect to the ears of the beleaguered group to whom it brought deliverance, and a ringing cheer went up from their midst as they recognised the voice of the old Dutch commandant, who with his men had thus arrived timely to the rescue. Spread out in a long line through the bush the Boers advanced, cautiously but rapidly, shooting down the flying foe in every direction. And another wild cheer went up in reply, as Jim Brathwaite, at the head of his mounted men, charged up the path in the hope of cutting off the enemy’s retreat, or at any rate of thinning his numbers while crossing the open ground some two miles beyond.
“Hallo, Claverton!” he cried as he rode past. “Better fall back, as you’re dismounted. The ground’s quite clear behind.” And the battle, which had now become a rout, swept on, farther and farther up the pass.