“Oh, you wretched little worm! Will you go away!”
Thus it was between Porkie Skeffington-Smythe and the gallant Monty, who was at one time thought to be on his way to the Victoria Cross!
Chapter Twelve.
Duty Calls.
“Take up the White Man’s burden
And reap his old reward,
The blame of those ye better
The hate of those ye guard.”
“No news from the front yet!” That was always the answer to our daily inquiries, and there was nothing to do but feed our anxious, hungry hearts with the old supposition that no news is good news. After the forces had once left Sigala there was no way of getting into telegraphic communication with them and the last direct news we had from our men was when they made a junction with the Salisbury and Victoria Columns, becoming merged in them and thereafter proceeding on the march for Buluwayo.
Afterwards there was a long silence. A silence full of foreboding and fear for us, realising that our men were at last in the wild, unbroken, little known country of the Matabele, where a savage and bloodthirsty enemy lay in wait for them—an enemy that mustered twenty thousand fighting men strongly armed with rifles and assegai, while our troops all told mustered only six hundred and seventy (not including colonial boys and friendly natives).
There was reason enough in the little township for pale faces and haggard eyes, and they were plainly in evidence, but hardly ever without the accompaniment of the old gay nil desperandum smile which seems to be a peculiar attribute of British people when they find themselves in tight corners and unsmiling circumstances.