The Triumph of Hilary Blachland

by Bertram Mitford

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  GONE!

  When Hilary Blachland awoke to consciousness, the moon was shining fulldown on his face.

  He was chilled and stiff--but the rest and sleep had done him all thegood in the world, and now as he sat up in the hard damp rock-crevice,he began to collect his scattered thoughts.

  He shivered. Thoughts of fever, that dread bugbear of the up-countryman, took unpleasant hold upon his mind. A sleep in the open,blanketless, inadequately protected from the sudden change whichnightfall brings, in the cool air of those high plateaux--the morepronounced because of the steamy tropical heat of the day--had laid manya good man low, sapping his strength with its insidious venom, injectinginto his system that which should last him throughout the best part ofhis life.

  He peered cautiously out of his hiding-place. Not a sign of life wasastir. He shook himself. Already the stiffness began to leave him. Hedrained his flask, and little as there was, the liquor sent a warmingglow through his veins. The next thing was to find his way back towhere he had left Hlangulu.

  Somehow it all looked different now, as he stepped forth. In theexcitement of the projected search he had not much noticed landmarks.Now for a moment or so he felt lost. But only for a moment. The greatmonolith of the King's grave rose up on his left front, the granitepile, white in the moonlight. Now he had got his bearings.

  Cautiously he stepped forth. There was still a reek of smoke on thenight air, ascending from the spot of sacrifice and wafted far and wideover the veldt. But of those who had occupied it there was no sign.They had gone. Cautiously now he stole through the shade of the bushes:the light of the moon enabling him to step warily and avoid stumbling.He was glad to put all the distance possible between himself and thataccursed spot. His bruised ankle was painful to a degree, and he waswalking lame. That there was no luck in meddling with Umzilikazi's lastresting-place assuredly he had found.

  He travelled but slowly, peering cautiously over every rise prior tosurmounting it, not needlessly either, for once he came upon a Matabelepicket, the glow of whose watch-fire was concealed behind a great rock.The savages were stretched lazily on the ground, their assegais andshields beside them, some asleep, others chatting drowsily. Well forhim that he was cautious and that they were drowsy. But--where wasHlangulu?

  Then a thought stabbed his mind. He had brought back no spoil. TheMatabele, foiled in his cupidity, would have no further motive forguiding him into safety. All his malevolence would be aroused. Hewould at once jump to the conclusion that he had been cheated--thatBlachland had hidden the gold in some place of safety, intending toreturn and possess himself of the whole of it. He would never for amoment believe there was none there, or if there was that it wasinaccessible. A white man could do everything, was the burden of nativereasoning. If this white man had returned without the spoil it wouldnot be that there was no spoil there, but that he had hidden it,intending to keep it all for himself. Acting on this idea Blachlandfilled the pockets of his hunting coat with small stones so as to giveto the appearance of those useful receptacles a considerable bulge.That would deceive his guide until they two were in safety once more--and then--he didn't care.

  A sound struck upon his ear, causing him to stop short. It was that ofone stone against another. Then it was repeated. It was the signalagreed upon between them. But it was far away on the left. He hadtaken a wrong bearing, and was shaping a course which would lead himdeeper and deeper into the heart of the Matopo Hills. He waited amoment, then picking up a good-sized stone, struck it against a rock,right at hand, thus answering the signal.

  Had Hlangulu heard it, he wondered? It was of no use to go in hisdirection. They might miss in the darkness, pass each other within afew yards. So he elected to sit still. The rest was more than welcome.His bruised ankle was stiff and sore and inflamed. Fortunately hewould soon come to where he had left his horse. Much more walking wasout of the question. Time wore on. He longed to smoke, but dared not.He was still within the dangerous limits. He was just about to give thesignal once more, when--a voice raised in song hardly louder than awhisper! It was Hlangulu.

  The eyes of the savage were sparkling with inquiry as he ran them overthe white man. The latter rather ostentatiously displayed his bulgedpockets, but said nothing--signing to the other to proceed. Not a wordwas spoken between the two as they held on through the night--andtowards the small hours came upon the spot where the horse had been leftconcealed.

  A European could hardly have dissembled his curiosity as to what hadhappened. The Matabele, however, asked no questions, and if a quick,fleeting look across his mask-like countenance, as they took their wayonward through the starlight, betrayed his feelings it was all that did.Just before dawn they turned into a secure hiding-place formed by theangle of two great boulders, walled in in front by another accidentalone--to rest throughout the hours of daylight.

  And now a sure and certain instinct had taken hold upon Blachland, andthe burden of it was that under no circumstances whatever dare he go tosleep. Once or twice he had detected a look upon the sinister race ofhis confederate and guide which implanted it more and more firmly withinhis mind. Yet, in spite of the few hours of half-unconscious doze, hewas worn out for lack of rest, and there were two more nights and threewhole days before he could reach home. He was feeling thoroughly doneup. The fiery, gnawing pain of his swelled ankle, the strain which allthat he had gone through had placed upon his nerves--combined to renderhim almost light-headed, yet, with it all, a marvellous instinct ofself-preservation moved him to watchfulness. This could not go on. Hemust put it to the test one way or the other.

  "I think I will try to sleep a little, Hlangulu," he said. "Afterwardswe can talk about what has been."

  "_Nkose_!" replied the Matabele, effusively, striving to quell the darklook of fierce delight which shot across his sinister countenance.

  Blachland lay down, drawing his blanket half over his head. TheMatabele sat against a rock and smoked.

  Blachland watched him through his closed lids, but still Hlangulu satand smoked. He became really sleepy. The squatting form of the savagewas visible now only as through a far-away misty cloud. He dropped off.

  Suddenly he awoke. The same instinct, however, which had warned himagainst going to sleep warned him now against opening his eyes. Throughthe merest crack between their lids he looked forth, and behold, someone was bending over him, but not so much as to conceal the haft of ashort, broad-bladed, stabbing assegai.

  There was not much time to decide. Cool now, as ever, in the face ofordinary and material danger, Blachland realised that his hands wereimprisoned in his blanket, and that before he could free them, the bladeof the savage would transfix his heart. He heaved a sigh that waspartly a snore--and made a movement as though in his sleep, which ifcontinued would still more invitingly present his breast to the deadlystroke. The murderer saw this too and paused.

  But not for long. He spun round wildly, his weapon flying from hisoutstretched hand, then fell, heavily, on his face--and thissimultaneously with the muffled roar of an explosion beneath theblanket. The supposed sleeper had stealthily drawn his hip-pocketrevolver, and, firing through the covering, had shot Hlangulu dead.Then the sleep which was overpowering him came upon him, and with aprofound sense of security he dropped off, slumbering peacefully, where,but a few yards off lay the corpse of his victim and would-be murderer.

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  There is often a sort of an instinct which tells that a place is empty,whether house or room--empty, untenanted by its ordinary occupant. Justsuch a feeling was upon Blachland as he drew near his home. The gate ofthe stockade was shut and no smoke arose--nor was there any sign of lifeabout the place. It had a deserted look.

  The fact depressed him. He was feeling fatigued and ill; in short,thoroughly knocked up. He had even realised that there were times whenit is pleasant to have a hom
e to return to, and this was one of them,and now as he rode up to his own gate there was no sign of a welcomingpresence.

  He raised his voice in a stentorian hail. The two little Mashuna boysshot out of the back kitchen as scared as a couple of rabbits when theferret is threading the winding passages to their burrow. Scared,anxious-looking, they opened the gate.

  "Where is your mistress?" he asked in Sindabele.

  "Gone, _Nkose_," was the reply.

  "Gone!" he echoed mentally.

  So Hermia had taken him at his word, and had decided to retreat to FortSalisbury. Perhaps though, some disquieting news had arrived since hisdeparture, causing her to take that step. His feeling of depressiondeepened as he entered the empty house. Ah! What was this?

  A letter stared at him from a conspicuous place, a sealed enclosure--andit was directed in Hermia's handwriting. That would explain, hethought. And it did with a vengeance.

  "You will not be astonished, Hilary," it began, "because even you must have seen that this life was getting beyond endurance. You will not miss me, because for some time past you have been growing more and more tired of me. So it is best for us to part: and you can now go back to your Matabele wives, or bring them here if you prefer it; for I shall never return to this life we have been leading. I warned you that if you did not appreciate me, others did--and now I am leaving, not only this country but this continent. I am going into the world again, and now, you too, will be able to make a fresh start. We need never meet again and in all probability we never shall. Farewell.

  "Hermia."

  Twice he read over this communication--slowly, carefully, as thoughweighing every word. So she had gone, had deserted him. There wastruth in what she wrote. He had been growing tired of her--very: for hehad long since got to the bottom of the utter shallowness of mind whichunderlay her winning and seductive exterior--winning and seductive, thatis, when laying herself out to attract admiration, a thing she had longsince ceased to do in his own case. The sting too, about his Matabelewives, he never having possessed any, was a not very adroit insinuationdesigned to place him in the wrong, and was all in keeping with acertain latent vulgarity of mind which would every now and then assertitself in her, with the result of setting his teeth on edge.

  He smiled to himself, rather bitterly, rather grimly. He was sorry forSpence. The boy was merely a fool, and little knew the burden he hadloaded up on his asinine and youthful shoulders, and, as for Hermia, hissmile became more saturnine still, as he pictured her roughing it in aprospector's camp: for he looked upon her statement about leaving Africaas mere mendacious bounce, and of course was unaware of any change forthe better in Spence's fortunes. For her he was not sorry, nor forhimself. As she had said, he would now be able to make a fresh start,and this he fully intended to do. Yet, as he stood there, ill and tiredand shaken, looking around on his deserted home, it may be that sometinge of abandonment and desolation crept over him. Hermia had chosenher time well, at any rate, he thought, as he busied himself fomentingand bandaging his throbbing and swollen ankle.

  The sun had gone down, and the shades of evening seemed to set in with astrange, unaccountable chill, as he limped about, looking after hisstock and other possessions. Decidedly there was a lonely feeling,vague, indefinable, which hovered about him. And then those dreadfulchills increased. Lying out in that rock-crevice, in fact lying out forseveral nights insufficiently covered, had sown the seeds. Assuredly noluck had come to him through meddling with the King's grave. And then,before evening had merged for an hour into dark night, Hilary Blachlandlay shivering beneath his piled-up blankets as though they had beenice--shivering in the terrible ague-throes of that deadly malaria--weak,helpless as a child, deserted, alone.

  End of Book I.