“He must be carried,” I said.
“It can’t be done, sir,” was the reply. “The men can’t be spared. One of us must have him in front of the saddle as we retreat.”
“No, no,” I said. “Here, wait a minute.—Joeboy!” I shouted, and, shield and assagai in hand, the black dashed to my side as if to defend me from some attack.
“Can you carry this officer on your back down the valley, Joeboy?” I said.
“Um!” was the prompt reply. “You take my spears.”
“Yes. Hang them to my saddle,” I said. “Quick!”
The next minute I helped to raise the insensible man carefully on to the black’s broad back as he bent down on one knee, Denham’s arms being placed round Joeboy’s neck; and then, at his request, the wrists were bound together with a sash.
“Now,” I said, “can you do it?”
“Um!” was the reply; and, without a word being uttered by way of order, the man rose softly to his feet and set off at a slow, steady walk down towards the little force of mounted rifles waiting, a couple of miles or so away, to receive our news.
No sooner were we well out of the cover which had sheltered us than the firing increased, showing that our movements were under observation; but the pattering shots, which seemed to strike every spot save where we moved at a pace regulated by Joeboy’s steady walk, had no effect upon the discipline of the little party. The sergeant, a middle-aged man, like a Cornish farmer, now took the command. He ordered half the party to follow close after their wounded