“Claverton—it was downright good of you to bring a fellow up here to die among his old friends,” went on Armitage, suddenly catching sight of the other. “Better fun than pegging out with only the sooty-faced niggers prodding away at you,” he added, with an attempt at his old light-heartedness. “After all, what does it matter? I say, though, you fellows, don’t go bothering to drag me off to ‘King.’ Just slip me in somewhere here. I’d rather, you see. Best sort of grave for a fellow campaigning—and it’s all God’s earth.”
His voice grew somewhat fainter as he ceased. There was silence for a few minutes, and he lay with closed eyes. The watchers stole a look at each other, and just then three more figures slipped softly into the tent. They were Hicks, and Allen, and Naylor. The dying man’s lips began to move, but Claverton, bending over him, could not catch his words, though he thought he could just detect the name of his wife.
“Where’s Hicks?” he suddenly exclaimed, opening his eyes. “And Naylor, and all of them? I should just like to say good-bye to them. Oh, hang it all—it’s too soon to give way. One more shot and the beggars’ll run. Ah-h-h! That chap’s down.” His mind was wandering, and he fancied himself in the conflict again, “N-no. Where am I? It’s awfully dark. Open those shutters, somebody. A fellow can’t see.”
Again the watchers look at each other. This was the beginning of the end. Hicks had knelt down beside his dying comrade, and, grasping his hand, something very like a sob is heard to proceed from his broad chest. The candle in the lantern burns low, flickers, and goes out. They put back the flaps of the tent door, and just then the first red flush of dawn glows in the east. Then they bend down to look at their comrade; but it is all over. The spirit has fled, only the clay remains—cold and tenantless.
Thus died, in his full manhood, the joyous, mischief-loving, sunny-tempered Jack Armitage—light-hearted to the very last; fearless, for he had never done anything to be ashamed of, or contrary to his simple, straightforward code. Never a dishonest or malicious action could he blame himself with, and now he was at peace with all mankind. And if any one is tempted to ask: “Was the man a Pagan? Was he utterly Godless?” I reply, not necessarily. He died as he had lived, among his old comrades, careless and unthinking, perhaps, and with his thoughts apparently all for those he left behind; but genuinely regretted by all, and without an enemy in the world. And, O pious reader, when your time comes and the grim monarch lays his icy grasp upon you, will they be able to say of you even thus much?
Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.
Face to Face.
They buried poor Jack Armitage in the afternoon, and all turned out to render the last honours to their departed comrade. Brathwaite’s Horse, with arms reversed, formed the principal guard of honour, the improvised bier being borne by the dead man’s most intimate friends. All the Dutch burghers followed in the cortège, and, hovering around in dark groups, the men of the Fingo Levies gazed curiously but respectfully upon the white man’s burial. No surpliced priest stood to hallow this newly-made grave in the wilderness, or speak the commendatory words; but all the solemnity which real feeling could impart was supplied in the demeanour of these rough bands of armed horsemen, pacing along so silent, and orderly, and mournful.