CHAPTER FOUR.
THE RETREAT OF THE PATROL.
The patrol held on its retreat.
Wearily on, from day to day, nearly a hundred and a half of hungry,ragged, footsore men--their clothing well-nigh in tatters, their feetbursting out of their boots, in several instances strips of clothingwound round their feet, as a sort of tinkered substitute for what hadonce been boots, as sole protection against thorns and stony ground, andthe blades of the long tambuti grass, which cut like knives--depressionat their hearts because of the score and a half of brave staunchcomrades whom they had but the faintest hope of ever beholding again--depression too, in their faces, gaunt, haggard and unkempt, yet with ita set fierce look of determination, a dogged, never-say-die expression,still they held on. And ever upon their flanks hovered the savageenemy, wiser now in his generation, wasting his strength no more infierce rushes, to be mown helplessly down with superior weapons. Undercover of his native bush he could harry the retreating whites from dayto day. And he did.
Very different the appearance of this group of weary, half-starved men,fighting its way with indomitable courage and resource, through thethick bush and over donga-seamed ground, and among rough granitehillocks, to that of the smart, light-hearted fellows, repelling eachfierce rush of the Matabele impis, in the skilfully constructed waggonlaagers. Every rise surmounted revealed but the same heart-breakingstretch of bush and rocks, and dongas through which the precious Maximshad to be hauled at any expenditure of labour and time--to be bornerather, for the carriages of the said guns had been abandoned assuperfluous lumber--and all through the steamy heat of the day the roarof the swollen river on the one hand never far from their ears--and,overhead, that of the thunder-burst, which should condemn them to pass adrenched and shivering night. For this expedition, with the greatover-weening British self-confidence which has set this restless littleisland in the forefront of the nations--has started to effect with somany--or rather so few--men, what might or might not have been effectedwith just four times the number--in a word has started to do theimpossible and--has not done it.
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"Well, Percy, do you still wish this fun wasn't going to be over quiteso quickly?"
"No. Yet I don't know. I suppose it's only right to see some of therougher side, as well as the smooth," answered the young fellowpluckily--though truth to tell his weariness and exhaustion were asgreat as that of anybody else. There was the same hollow, wistful lookin his face, the same hardened and brick-dust bronze too, and his handswere not guiltless of veldt-sores, for he had borne his full share bothof the hardships and the fighting and was as thoroughly seasoned by nowas any of them.
"I was something of a prophet when I told you the toughest part of thecampaign was to come, eh?" said Blachland, filling up his pipe withnearly the last shreds of dust remaining in his pouch.
"Rather. I seem to forget what it feels like not to be shot at everyday of my life," was the answer. "And this beastly horseflesh! Faugh!"
"Man! That's nothing," said Sybrandt, his mouth full of the delicacyalluded to, while he replaced a large slice of the same upon the embersto cook a little more. "What price having to eat snake?"
"No. I'd draw the line at that," answered Percival quickly.
"Would you? Wait until you're stuck on a little island for three dayswith your boat drifted away, and a river swarming with crocodiles allround you. You'd scoff snake fast enough, and be glad to get him."
"Tell us the yarn," said Percival wearily.
But before the other could comply, a message from the officer in commandarrived desiring his presence, and Sybrandt, snatching another greatmouthful of his broiling horseflesh, got up and went.
"Another wet night, I'm afraid?" said Blachland philosophically,reaching for a red-hot stick to light his pipe, which the rain drippingfrom his weather-beaten hat-brim was doing its best to put out. "Here,have a smoke, Spence," becoming alive to the wistful glance wherewith hewhom he had named was regarding the puffs he was emitting.
Spence stretched forth his hand eagerly for the pouch, then thrust itback again.
"No. It's your last pipe," he said. "I won't take it."
"Take it, man. I expect there's a good accumulation of 'bacco dust inmy old coat pockets. I can fall back on that at a pinch."
Spence complied, less out of selfishness than an unwillingness to goagainst the other in any single detail. A curious change had come overhim since his rescue--since the man he had wronged, as he thought, hadridden into the very jaws of death to bring him out. He regarded hisrescuer now with feelings akin to veneration. He had at the time,expressed his sorrow and regret in shamefaced tones, but Blachland hadmet him with the equable reassurance that it didn't matter. And then hehad eagerly volunteered for this expedition because Blachland was in it,and once there, he had watched his rescuer with untiring pertinacity tosee if there was nothing he could do for him, even if he could risk hislife for him. More than once he had striven stealthily to forego hisown scanty rations when they were messing together, pretending heloathed food, so that there might be a little more for this man whom henow regarded in the light of a god; but this and other attempts had beenseen through by their object, and effectually, though tactfully,frustrated. Hunger and exhaustion, however, are somewhat of an antidoteto even the finest of finer feelings, and Justin Spence was destined toexperience the truth of this.
The patrol was resting. Thick bush surrounded the position, with longgrass and boulders. But the ground had been well scouted in advance:and in rear--well, the strength of the command was distributed in thatdirection. There were granite kopjes, too, which could be turned togood account.
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"_Whau_!" grunted Ziboza, the fighting induna of the Ingubu regiment."I think we have them now. They have no more waggons to hide behind,and the _izikwakwa_ are broken down, for did we not find their wheels?These are they who would have captured the Great Great One. We shallsee, ah--ah! Now we shall see."
Squirming like snakes through the long grass and bush, the Matabeleadvance, stopping every now and again to reconnoitre. They can hear thesubdued hum of voices in the sorry camp of the whites--and on each faceraised to peer forward, there is a ferocious grin of anticipation. Inobedience to the signalled orders of their leaders they spread theirranks, so as to be in a position to surround that sorry command with thefirst order issued. More and more are pressing on from behind--and thebush is alive with swarming savages, creeping, crawling onward. Thedreaded _izikwakwa_ are broken now. They have only to fear the ordinaryfire of that handful of whites, to surround them, rush in and make anend.
Of a truth the agency that supplied Lo Bengula with firearms was afar-seeing benefactor to its countrymen. For those warriors now in thefront line of attack who have rifles, no power on earth can restrainfrom using them. They now open fire, hot and heavy but wild. No moresurprise now, no wild rush of overwhelming numbers with the deadlyassegai. The _coup-de-main_ has failed. Like magic the whites are inposition, replying with sparing, but deadly and well-directed fire--asthe plunge and fall of more than one warrior flitting from bush to bush,testifies. But the forward rush has carried some right among theremaining horses of the patrol, and the assegai is plied with deadlyeffect, as the savages slash right and left, burying their reekingblades within the vitals of the poor animals. It is something to killat any rate, and besides, goes for towards crippling the movements oftheir human enemies. "_Jji-jji_! _Jji-jji_!" the ferocious death-hissvibrates amid the trampling and squealing and the fall of theslaughtered animals. And then--what is this? Through and above thedischarge of rifles, the sharp, staccato, barking sound so known tothem, so dreaded by them--as the Maxims speak. Is there no doinganything with these invulnerable whites? They have left the wheelsbehind, even as brave Ziboza has just said, but--they have mounted the_izikwakwa_ on stic
ks, each _on three sticks_, and the deadly muzzlesare sweeping round as usual, pouring in their leaden hail.
"Percy--Spence! Up here, quick!" says Blachland--and in a moment theyare within the sheltering boulders of a kopje. Two other men arealready there.
"_Au_! _Isipau_!" cry some of the Matabele, who have seen andrecognised him. And a sharp discharge follows, at least two of themissiles humming unpleasantly near.
"Watch that point!" says Blachland grimly, designating a spot where abit of bare rock surface, the length of a man, showed out in the bushbeneath. And almost with the words his piece went off. A brown,writhing body rolled forward from the cover, the flung away shield andassegais falling with a rattle.
"That scalp yours, Blachland," observed one of the American scouts whowas up there with them. "Oh, snakes!"
The last ejaculation is evoked by an uncomfortably near missile, whichgrazing the granite slab immediately behind the speaker, hums away at atangent into space. It is followed by another and another: in fact asettled determination to make it hot for the holders of that particularkopje upon the part of the enemy seems to have followed upon therecognition of Blachland.
"Lie close, you fellows!" warns the latter. "Hallo! That's Sybrandtsignalling me. It's an old hunting call of ours," as a peculiarchirping whistle travels over from an adjacent granite pile. "Ah, Ithought so." Quick as thought he has wormed himself behind anotherstone and now peeps forth. Below, a couple of hundred yards distant,dark forms are crawling. The bush is thinner there, and the object ofthe savages is to pass this, with a view to extending the surround.Blachland and the American have both taken in this, and the thud andgurgling groans following on the simultaneous crash of their pieces tellthat they have taken it in to some purpose. At the same time a crossfire from among the boulders where Sybrandt and some others are lying,throws the Matabele into a momentary but demoralising muddle ofconsternation.
The rain has ceased, but in the damp air the smoke hangs heavy over thedark heads of the bushes. Down in the camp, the sullen splutter ofrifles, and ever and anon the angry, knock-like bark of the Maxims.There is a lull, but again and again the firing bursts forth. Withundaunted persistency the savages return to the assault, howling outjeering taunts at those who a short while back they reckoned as sure andeasy prey--but with dogged pertinacity the defence is kept up. One manfalls dead while serving a Maxim, and several more horses are shot.
At length the firing slackens. The enemy seem to have had enough.Quickly the orders are passed round. Those in the kopjes are to remainthere, covering the retreat of the rest of the patrol, until this shallhave gained better ground some little way beyond.
Then the very heavens above took part in the fight, and in a trice thedeafening, stunning thunder crashes rendered the sputter of the volleysas the noise of mere popguns, and the lurid blinding glare of lightning,pouring down in rivers of sheeting flame, put out the flash of man'spuny weapons.
"This is rather more risky than their bullets, eh Hilary?" remarkedPercival West, involuntarily shrinking down from one of these awfulflashes.
"Gun barrels are a good conductor," was the grimly consolatory reply.
So, too, are assegai blades. In the midst of that stunning awful crashthat seems to split open the world, five Matabele warriors are lying,mangled, fused into all shapes--and shapelessness--while nearly twicethat number besides are lying stunned, as though smitten with a blow ofa knob-kerrie.
"_Mamo_!" cries Ziboza, who is just outside the limit of thisdestruction, himself unsteady from the shock. "Lo, the very heavensabove are fighting on the side of these whites!"
The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Page 27
