Hard, weather-beaten men these—tough as nails from the life they have been leading since the beginning of the campaign. They have been tested again and again, and have passed the ordeal well: not only under fire, but the more nerve-straining duties of scouting and reconnoitring and nocturnal guard. Hilary Blachland is attached to the scouting section, and is somewhat of an important personality in the command, by reason of his complete knowledge of the country to be traversed, and his acquaintance with its inhabitants, now the enemy.
“No more bad country you say?” went on the commanding officer, making some notes in a pocket-book.
“No. It’s all pretty much as we see it, open, undulating and moderately bushed. Yonder is the Intaba-’Zinduna, and we hold to the left of its further end by about a couple of miles. We are certain to be attacked between this and Bulawayo, and that’s barely twenty miles, why any minute may settle it.”
“Why what’s this?” muttered the commanding officer hurriedly, bringing his glass to his eyes.
“Ah, I thought so,” said Blachland with a smile. “We shall get it here, Major.”
Dark masses of the enemy were now appearing, away in front—still about a mile off. No sooner had the shells begun to drop among these than the alarm was raised much nearer home, and, as with the celerity of perfect discipline every man was at his place within the laager, the battle line of the savages could be seen sweeping forward through the thorns on the northern side. Then the rattle of volleys, and the knock-like thud of the machine guns playing upon them, mingles for a time with the deep, humming war-hiss of the Matabele and the defiant whoops of individual excited warriors, leaping in bravado as though challenging the marksmanship of the defenders.
The line of battle soon wavers, halts, then drops down, only to glide on again. More and more press on from behind, and soon the line is seen to be extending, as though for a surround. There are firearms too, within the savage host, and the bullets begin to whizz and “ping” around the ears of the defenders.
“They have got another kick in them after all, eh, Grantham?” remarks Blachland to the officer who had uttered the above disparaging remark. For a piece of sharp splinter, chipped from the side of a waggon, had struck the latter, causing his ear to bleed profusely, while the speaker himself gives an involuntary duck, as another Martini bullet hums right over his head, and near enough for him to feel its draught.
“Oh damn them, yes!” answers the man apostrophised, grinding his teeth with the sharp pain, and discharging his rifle—aiming low—into the enemy’s line.
For a while matters are lively. Massing at this and that point the swarming Matabele will essay a charge, but the deadly machine guns are turned on with telling precision, breaking up every attempt at organised movement, and the veldt is strewn with dark bodies, dead, motionless, or writhing in death—and shields flung around in all directions, for which their owners will never more have use. But within the laager the organisation is complete. Every man has his own duty to do and does it, and has no time or attention to spare for what is going on elsewhere.