Both armies bivouacked that night on the battlefield, and the wounded were attended to. These, however, owing to the brutal customs of African warfare, were very few, for ’Ngaloo’s men in the moonlight ran a-muck all across the blood-stained field, and ruthlessly slew all those who showed the slightest signs of life.
Next morning was a sad one for Harry, for his faithful Somali Jack, who had served him so long and so faithfully, who had nursed him in sickness, and more than once saved his life, breathed his last in his arms shortly after sunrise.
He had been terribly wounded in the battle, and nothing could save the poor fellow.
Quite conscious he was to the last, and conscious, too, that his end was drawing near, though neither he nor Harry knew it was so very nigh.
Some duty or other demanded Harry’s presence in another part of the field, but Jack said—
“Do not go and leave me now, dear master; stay with me a little time.”
“I will stay; I will not go—poor Jack,” replied Harry. And he sat down beside the dying Indian, and took his head in his lap.
Harry often thought of this last interview with his Somali servant afterwards, and how thankful he always felt, when he did so, that he had not gone away and left Jack. Had he done that he would not have seen the last of him, or heard his dying words.
These, however, were few, for Jack was weak and his voice feeble, and his breath coming in gasps. He lay some time quiet, then—
“I have so much to say,” he almost whispered; “but I forget, and I am cold—so cold.”