Wilmshurst of the Frontier Force

by Percy F. Westerman

These and a dozen other deprecatory thoughts flashed across his mind as he stumbled onwards. He had had but a brief knowledge of the plan of the kraal previous to the fire. He remembered that the well stood in the centre of a fairly open space. There, at any rate, would he find a comparatively safe oasis in the desert of hot embers.

"By Jove, that was a narrow one!" he soliloquised as a bullet—one of many shot at a venture—whizzed dangerously close to his ears and knocked up a number of small fougasses as it ricochetted in the embers.

He wanted to breathe. Already the air was on the point of being exhausted in his lungs, yet he durst not gasp for breath. Another twenty yards ... or was it forty? He was hardly sure of his whereabouts.... Mentally he enquired if he had been making a detour instead of keeping in a straight line. Maintaining direction in a haze of smoke was far more difficult, he reflected, than in a fog, especially when there was a time limit fixed for the performance.

Almost before he was aware of it Wilmshurst literally blundered upon an open expanse where the short grass had been burnt off close to the ground. Surrounded by a barrage of bluish vapour that rose from irregular mounds of débris, the subaltern was able to breathe comparatively fresh air.

Ahead was the well, its windlass of hard teak charred but otherwise uninjured. It was a different case with the rope. The fibre had smouldered badly; it would be unwise to attempt to raise the heavy bucket by it.

Cutting adrift a length of the coir rope the subaltern bent it to the neck of one of the jars and drew up the vessel full of liquid. The water was loathsome in appearance, its surface being covered with ash and fragments of charcoal of various sizes. Prudence, as taught by long months of practical experience on the Coast, urged the young officer to resist the desire to slake his burning thirst. No water unless boiled and filtered can be drunk by Europeans without grave risks of deadly disease. But Wilmshurst now threw caution to the winds.

With avidity he filled the joined palms of his hands with the brackish and otherwise unpalatable liquid and raised it to his lips. He drank deeply, unmindful of millions of unseen germs in his almost frantic efforts to relieve the pangs of his parched throat.

Then completing his stock of hardly-gained water Wilmshurst turned to retrace his way, aware that during his stay a steady breeze had suddenly sprung up. Under its influence the dangers of the passage through the embers were greatly increased, for, fanned by the wind, numerous mounds of débris had flared up again, while the volume of smoke had spread in density, blowing straight into his face.

For some moments Dudley stood irresolute; then seized by a sudden inspiration he ran down wind, plunging through the charred wreckage. He was going directly away from that part of the kraal still held by his comrades. His new direction led towards a part of the hostile investing lines, but he preferred to run the risk of being sniped at six hundred yards to fighting his way through the now steadily burning débris.

As he expected, his passage through this part of the devastated village was relatively easy. Being the first of the huts to take fire this section had almost burnt itself out. Occasionally he had to dodge round a heap of still burning timber. The heat was almost unbearable, while the smoke penetrating his lungs made him gasp and cough violently; so much so, that twice he had to place his precious water-jars on the ground and clutch at his throat in his distress.