Chapter Seventeen.
Victory, Triumph, and—the End.
This grave news created the utmost consternation and dismay among the Elders and nobles of Bethalia; for they had, almost with one accord, persisted in believing that at the last moment the savages had shrunk from the contest. There was, however, one solitary crumb of comfort in the news that now came almost hourly from the front, which was that, severely as the Izreelites had suffered, the enemy had suffered ten times more severely, having been kept completely at arm’s length, so long as the defenders’ stock of arrows had lasted, and that it was only when these had become exhausted that the savages had succeeded in storming the blockhouses and driving out the defenders. This contained a lesson that Grosvenor and Dick were quick to profit by, and no sooner did the news come to hand than every available person was set to work manufacturing arrows, thousands of which were daily dispatched to the front.
Thus far the two Englishmen had remained at Bethalia, receiving news and directing operations from there, at the urgent request of the Elders; but as intelligence continued to arrive from the front reporting the presence of the enemy in overwhelming numbers, and the retirement of garrison after garrison, with details of terrific fighting in every direction, it was not to be supposed that Dick and Grosvenor would consent to remain tamely pent up in the city, while the chance of their lives was beckoning them from a distance that could now be covered on horseback in a couple of days’ smart riding. They consequently induced the armourers of the town to knock them out a couple of makeshift sabres, which they intended to take with them in addition to their revolvers and magazine rifles, and announced their intention of proceeding forthwith to the front.
But had a bombshell exploded and blown to pieces the temple that formed the top story of the House of Legislature, or unroofed the palace, it could scarcely have produced a more tremendous effect, or created greater consternation, than did this simple announcement. The Elders were convinced that if the guiding spirits of the campaign were ever permitted to take the field they would inevitably be slain and the end of all things would come. The nobles were animated by pretty much the same uncomfortable conviction; and as for the Queen, when, despite the remonstrances and entreaties of the Elders and nobles, Dick and Grosvenor presented themselves at the palace to bid Her Majesty farewell, she promptly ordered the arrest of the pair, and gave them their choice of being confined close prisoners, or pledging their word of honour to abandon their intention! It was in vain that the culprits pleaded, argued, and drew the most harrowing pictures of what must inevitably happen if they were not allowed to proceed to the front and personally supervise operations. The Queen turned a deaf ear to all that they said; positively refused to give her consent; entreated and upbraided in her turn; and, finally, bursting into a passion of tears, declared that if anything were to happen to Phil she would die! At which statement Grosvenor incontinently took the young lady in his arms, kissed her, soothed her back into self-possession again, and vowed with ardour that if that was how she felt about it he was more than content to remain behind and look after her, provided that she would allow Dick to go. To which compromise she at once smilingly assented. For such is the selfishness of lovers!
The murder was out at last, and the precise thing had happened which Dick had foreseen, and had vowed to prevent, if possible, because of the terrible complications which, as he believed, must inevitably ensue. These two had fallen in love with each other, and the chances were that, as soon as the news reached the ears of the already jealous nobles, Grosvenor and Dick would be “removed”, either openly or privately, while the Queen would at once be ruthlessly forced into the kind of marriage that she had all along regarded with such utter dread and detestation.
Here was a pretty kettle of fish! and occurring, too, at such a terribly inopportune moment. Yet, as Dick moodily reflected, while being ferried across to the mainland in one of Grosvenor’s new, fast-sailing cutters, perhaps the moment might not be so very inopportune after all. It was a fact that, under the able leadership of Mokatto, the savages were pressing Izreel as it had never before been pressed within its recorded history. Izreel was now literally fighting for its life, its very existence; and if, through the help of the two Englishmen, the country should by any chance win out and achieve a decisive victory over her combined enemies, it was just possible that gratitude, that rarest of human sentiments, might take the form of forgiveness, if nothing more; in which case there was perhaps a bare possibility that Grosvenor and Dick might be released from their oath and permitted to return to their own country. But it was doubtful, Dick decided, very doubtful; and his meditations assumed a distinctly gloomy tone as, having arrived on the mainland, he hunted up Mafuta and explained to that jubilant savage that they were about to proceed to the front and take part in the fighting.
To attempt anything even remotely resembling a detailed account of Dick Maitland’s adventures during the ensuing three weeks would be impossible, for they were numerous and exciting enough to demand an entire volume to do justice to them. It must suffice to say that during that eventful period the youngster saw enough fighting to satisfy him for the remainder of his life—desperate, ferocious, hand-to-hand fighting, in which neither side ever dreamed of asking or giving quarter, in which a disabling wound was immediately followed by death upon the spear-points of the enemy, and the salient characteristics of which were continuous ear-splitting yells, the shrill whistling of the savages, the rumbling thunder of thousands of fiercely rushing feet, blinding clouds of dust through which there appeared a phantasmagoria of ferocious countenances, gnashing teeth, glaring eyeballs, the ruddy flash of ensanguined spear-points, hurtling knobkerries and whirling war-clubs, upthrown arms, clenched fists, reeling bodies, the shout of triumph and the short, quick gasp that followed the home-thrust of the stabbing spear. This was the kind of thing that marked the end of each day’s fight when, the stock of the Izreelites, arrows being exhausted, it became necessary at last to evacuate a stubbornly held position and to retire before the overwhelming hordes of savages that, despite the frightful losses sustained by them in the course of each day’s fighting, seemed daily to increase in numbers as the encircling cloud of them contracted with the daily retirement of the defenders towards the lake.
As for Dick, he seemed to bear a charmed life; for although he fearlessly exposed himself, day after day, wherever the fighting happened to be fiercest and most stubborn, he had thus far received no hurt more serious than a mere scratch or two, and a rather severe contusion from the blow of a knobkerrie that had all but unhorsed him; but this immunity may have been due, at least in part, to the fact that Mafuta was always unobtrusively close at hand, ready to guard his beloved young master, ay, and even to lay down his life for him, if necessary.