“Very well, then,” said Jack, with a grim chuckle, “I’ll let this fellow know.”
Jumping up on the table he called to the Boer, and as soon as he bad approached near enough told him the decision of the little garrison.
“We are much obliged for your kindness and for the terms you offer,” he called out, “and are only sorry we cannot accept them. We are willing to retire from this house to Kimberley, if you will promise to let us go unmolested, but we will not surrender. Miss Russel, too, refuses to leave us. Now let me advise you again to leave us alone. We have already shown you that we are determined not to be taken, and we mean it more now than we did before. Grant us a free and safe passage into Kimberley and end the matter. If you refuse, then you must take the consequences, for my men are fully prepared to fight till they are killed.”
“How many of you are there?” asked the Boer craftily.
“Ah!” replied Jack with a knowing smile, “there are just as many here as there were last night. Promise us a safe pass into the town and I will give you our numbers.”
“It is impossible,” was the curt answer. “I have done all that man can do. My comrades and I admire your bravery, and therefore have offered you these terms. You refuse for the second time. Very well, I am sorry, my young friend, for you compel us to kill you. It is a pity your wisdom does not match your bravery. I shall return now, and when I reach our lines the guns will commence again.”
The Boer nodded and cantered away, and five minutes later the storm of shell had once more commenced to plunge through the farmhouse.
First plugged shells were used, that is, shells without explosive contents and devoid of fuses; and these for the most part rushed through the walls, merely increasing the havoc already wrought. Then the one-pounder, quick-firing gun, familiarly known as the pom-pom, a terrible weapon against troops exposed in the open, joined in the awful din, and sent murderous projectiles hurtling through the house. But by some lucky chance the majority of the shells failed to explode (probably because the foreign contractors had filled a large proportion of them with saw-dust), and merely burst their way through the shattered house without doing much damage. For an hour the cannonade continued, and just before it finished it was increased by the firing of a Maxim, which had been galloped up to closer quarters.
By this time Frank Russel’s farm was a ruin; doors, windows, and walls were in pieces, and the roof was gashed in all directions. Only the kitchen seemed by some chance to have escaped. And down below it all, in the bomb-proof cellar, Jack and his friends sat waiting for another rush, Eileen quietly boiling a kettle over a spirit-stove and preparing to make some tea, while the men smoked on serenely, laughing and chatting when a momentary lull allowed them to do so, and ready at any moment to hurry upstairs and man their posts again.
“That is the last burst!” exclaimed Frank Russel, with an easy laugh as the distinctive rat, tat, tat, tat of the Maxim reached their ears. “Get ready, lads! they’ll be coming soon. When they find we’re still alive and kicking, they will be wondering whether we are ordinary men or not. It was a splendid idea of yours, Jack, to make use of this cellar. Tim and I, with another of the Kaffir boys, dug it out and bricked it round some years ago. It’s a good storehouse for cartridges, but I never thought it would mean the saving of our lives. Ah, that is the very last!” he added as a one-pounder shell burst overhead and carried away a good portion of the roof.