CHAPTER TWO.
"THE TALE OF THE SPEAR."
"_Whau_!" ejaculated Ziboza, one of the fighting indunas of the IngubuRegiment. "These two first."
The two men constituting the picket are seated under a bush in blissfulunconsciousness; their horses, saddled and bridled, grazing close athand. Away over the veldt, nearly half a mile distant, the column islaagered.
In obedience to their leader's mandate a line of dark savages dartsforth, like a tongue, from the main body. Worming noiselessly throughthe bush and grass, yet moving with incredible rapidity, these areadvancing swiftly and surely upon the two white men, their objective thepoint where they can get between the latter and their horses.
These men are there to watch over the safety of the column laagered upyonder, but who shall watch over their own safety? Nearer--nearer! andnow the muscles start from each bronze frame, and the fell, murderousassegai is grasped in sinewy grip. Straining eyeballs stare forth inbloodthirsty exultation. The prey is secure.
No. Not quite. The horses, whose keener faculties can discern theapproach of a crowd of musky-smelling barbarians, while the denserperceptions of the two obtuse humans cannot, now cease grazing and throwup their heads and snort. Even the men can hardly close their eyes tosuch a danger signal as this. Starting to their feet they gaze eagerlyforth, and--make for the horses as fast as they can.
Too late, however, in the case of one of them. The enemy is upon them,and one of the horses, scared by the terrible Matabele battle-hiss, andthe waving of shields and the leaping of dark, fantastically arrayedforms, refuses to be caught. The owner starts to run, but what chancehas he against these? He is soon overtaken, and blades rise and fall,and the ferocity of the exultant death-hiss of the barbarians mingleswith the dropping rifle. Are they are keeping up on his fleeingcompanion, and the sputter and roll of volleys from the laager. Forthis is what has been happening there.
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Steadily, ever with the most perfect discipline and organisation, thecolumn had advanced, and now after upwards of a month of care andvigilance, and difficulties met and surmounted, was drawing very nearits goal.
The enemy had hovered, upon its flanks since the last pitched battle,now nearly a week ago, as though making up his mind to do somethingtowards redeeming his defeat upon that occasion; but unremittingvigilance together with a few timely and long range shells had seemed todamp his aspirations that way.
"I wonder if they'll try conclusions with us once more, before we getthere," observed the commanding officer, scanning the country, front andflank, with his field glasses. "What do you think, Blachland?"
"I think they will, Major," was the confident reply.
"No such luck," growled one of the group. "After the hammering we gavethem at Shangani. I tell you what it is, Blachland. These wonderfulMatabele of yours are miserable devils after all. I don't believethey've another kick in them," added this cocksure Briton.
Hard, weather-beaten men these--tough as nails from the life they havebeen leading since the beginning of the campaign. They have been testedagain and again, and have passed the ordeal well: not only under fire,but the more nerve-straining duties of scouting and reconnoitring andnocturnal guard. Hilary Blachland is attached to the scouting section,and is somewhat of an important personality in the command, by reason ofhis complete knowledge of the country to be traversed, and hisacquaintance with its inhabitants, now the enemy.
"No more bad country you say?" went on the commanding officer, makingsome notes in a pocket-book.
"No. It's all pretty much as we see it, open, undulating and moderatelybushed. Yonder is the Intaba-'Zinduna, and we hold to the left of itsfurther end by about a couple of miles. We are certain to be attackedbetween this and Bulawayo, and that's barely twenty miles, why anyminute may settle it."
"Why what's this?" muttered the commanding officer hurriedly, bringinghis glass to his eyes.
"Ah, I thought so," said Blachland with a smile. "We shall get it here,Major."
Dark masses of the enemy were now appearing, away in front--still abouta mile off. No sooner had the shells begun to drop among these than thealarm was raised much nearer home, and, as with the celerity of perfectdiscipline every man was at his place within the laager, the battle lineof the savages could be seen sweeping forward through the thorns on thenorthern side. Then the rattle of volleys, and the knock-like thud ofthe machine guns playing upon them, mingles for a time with the deep,humming war-hiss of the Matabele and the defiant whoops of individualexcited warriors, leaping in bravado as though challenging themarksmanship of the defenders.
The line of battle soon wavers, halts, then drops down, only to glide onagain. More and more press on from behind, and soon the line is seen tobe extending, as though for a surround. There are firearms too, withinthe savage host, and the bullets begin to whizz and "ping" around theears of the defenders.
"They have got another kick in them after all, eh, Grantham?" remarksBlachland to the officer who had uttered the above disparaging remark.For a piece of sharp splinter, chipped from the side of a waggon, hadstruck the latter, causing his ear to bleed profusely, while the speakerhimself gives an involuntary duck, as another Martini bullet hums rightover his head, and near enough for him to feel its draught.
"Oh damn them, yes!" answers the man apostrophised, grinding his teethwith the sharp pain, and discharging his rifle--aiming low--into theenemy's line.
For a while matters are lively. Massing at this and that point theswarming Matabele will essay a charge, but the deadly machine guns areturned on with telling precision, breaking up every attempt at organisedmovement, and the veldt is strewn with dark bodies, dead, motionless, orwrithing in death--and shields flung around in all directions, for whichtheir owners will never more have use. But within the laager theorganisation is complete. Every man has his own duty to do and does it,and has no time or attention to spare for what is going on elsewhere.
"Come along, Blachland!" shouted another member of the scouting section,in a state of the wildest excitement. "Jump on your gee, man! We'vegot to go and turn back those horses, or we'll lose every hoof of them."
He addressed, looked round and took in the situation at a glance, and athrilling one it was. A large troop of horses, which had been grazingoutside, by some blundering on the part of the herders, had been headedoff while being driven into the laager, and now were making straight inthe direction of the enemy's lines.
There was little organisation among the handful of mounted men whodashed forth to turn them back, but there was plenty of coolness,commonsense, and unflinching courage. Away streamed the panic-strickenhorses, but soon at a hard hand gallop, and keeping well off them, thepursuers were forging up even with the leaders of the stampede.
"Hold to the right! More to the right!" cried Blachland, edging furtherin the direction indicated, even though it took him perilously near theswarming lines of the Matabele, whom he could now make out, pouring downin a black torrent to cut off himself and his comrades as well as therunaway steeds. But an intense wild exhilaration was upon him now,during this mad gallop: buoyant, devil-may-care, utterly scorning theslightest suspicion of fear. On, on! The sharp "crack--crack" of therifles of the advancing savages, the "whigge" and hum of missilesoverhead--in front--around--all was as nothing. Then he realised thatthey had headed the wild stampede, had turned it away from the enemy'sline. And then--
"Help, help! For God's sake, don't leave me!"
A rumble and a heavy fall immediately behind him. Even before he turnedhis head, he realised what had happened. As he did so he saw it all,the sprawling horse, the rider dragging himself up from the ground. Hesaw, too, that the fallen man and himself were the last on the outsideof the chase, and that the others were receding fast, as, closingfurther and further in, they were turning the runaway horses back to thecamp. He saw, too, that the Matabele had noted their brief succes
s, andwere rushing forward with redoubled energy and shouts of exultation tosecure at any rate this one victim.
"For God's sake, don't leave me!" again yelled the unfortunate man, theterror of certain death in his voice, and stamped upon his countenance.And that countenance, in the quick resourceful glance, taking in everychance, every possibility, Hilary recognised as that of Justin Spence.
To return was almost certain death. The momentum of the speed of hisown horse had carried him some distance onward, even while the agonisedcry of the despairing man was sounding in his ears. Why should he helphim, why throw his own life away for the sake of this cur who had sogrossly abused his friendship, requiting it in such mean and despicablefashion? Anybody else--but this one--no, he would not.
Yet what was it that rose before his mental light in that crucialmoment. Not the face of her for whom yonder man now about to meet abloody death had betrayed him--but another and a purer vision swept hisbrain, and it was as the face of an angel from Heaven, for it was thatof Lyn. Hilary Blachland triumphed.
Turning his steed with a mighty wrench, he rode straight back to theunhorsed trooper. From the ranks of the charging savages, now nearenough to recognise him, there arose a mighty roar.
"Isipau! Ha! Isipau!"
"Quick, Spence! Get up behind me. Quick!"
The other needed no second bidding. As the horse with its doubleburden--either of these, singly, would have been a sufficient one forthe poor brute, blown as he was--started once more, the foremost line ofthe savages was barely two hundred yards distant. Leaping, bounding,uttering their blood-curdling war-hiss, they reckoned their prey secure.The horse, weighted like that could never distance them. They wouldovertake it long before camp should be reached. Already they grippedtheir assegais.
"Sit tight, Spence, or you'll pull us both to the ground," said Hilary,with a sardonic suspicion that if the other saw a chance of throwing himoff without risking a similar fate himself, he was quite mean enough toseize it. "Sit light too, if you can, and spare the horse as much aspossible."
Down into a hollow, and here, in the bed of a dry watercourse, the gamesteed stumbled heavily, but just saved his footing, and thereby thelives of his two riders. Bullets flew humming past now, but it seemedthat the din of their pursuers was further behind, and indeed such wasthe case, for they arrived at the laager at the same time as the rescuedtroop horses.
"Good God! Blachland! You are a splendid fellow, and I owe you mylife," gasped the rescued man. "But what must you think of me?" headded shamefacedly.
"No more no less than I did before," was the curt reply. "Get off now.You're quite safe."
"You ought to get the V.C. for this," went on Spence.
But the other replied by coupling that ardently coveted decoration witha word of a condemnatory character. "I believe I've nearly killed myhorse," he added crustily.
There were those in the laager who witnessed this, and to whom thecircumstances of the former acquaintanceship between the two men wereknown--but they tactfully refrained from making any comment. PercivalWest, however, was not so reticent.
"Why, Hilary, you splendid old chap, what have you done?" he cried,fairly dancing with delight. "Why didn't you take me with you though--"
"Oh go away, Percy. You are such a silly young ass," was the veryill-humoured reception wherewith his transports were greeted by hiskinsman.
The fight was over now and the enemy in retreat. Yet not routed, for hestill hung about at a safe distance, in sufficient force to make thingswarm for any pursuing troop who should venture after him into thethicker bush, until a few deftly planted shells taught him that he hadnot yet achieved a safe distance. Then he drew off altogether.
The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Page 25
