CHAPTER EIGHT.
A FEARSOME VOYAGE.
On rushed the mighty stream, roaring its swollen course down to theZambesi, rolling with it the body of dead Ziboza, hacked and ripped, thegrand frame of the athletic savage a mere chip when tossed about by thehissing waves of the turbid flood. On, too, rolled the body of hisslayer, as yet uninjured and still containing life. And in thenoon-tide night, darkened by the black rain-burst which beat down intorrents, and, well-nigh ceaseless, the blue lightning sheeted over thefurious boil of brown water and tree trunks and driftwood: and with theawful roar above, even the baffled savages were cowed, for it seemed asthough the elements themselves were wrath over the death of a mightychief.
Strange are the trifles which turn the scale of momentous happenings.Strange, too, and ironical withal, that the body of dead Ziboza shouldbe the means of restoring to life its very nearly dead slayer. For thecurrent, bringing the corpse of the chief against a large uprooted tree,upset the balance of this, causing it to rise half out of the water andturn right over. This in its turn impeded a quantity of driftwood, andthe whole mass, coming in violent contact with the bank, threw back agreat wave, the swirl of which, catching the body of the still-livingman, heaved it into a lateral cleft, then poured forth again to rejointhe momentarily impeded current.
A glimmer of returning consciousness moved Hilary Blachland to grasp atrailing bough which swept down into the cleft, a clearer instinct movedhim to hold on to it with all his might and main. Thus he saved himselffrom being sucked back into the stream again.
For a few minutes thus he crouched, collecting his returning faculties--and the first thing that came home to him was that he was in one ofthose cavernlike inlets on the river bank similar to that in which hisstruggle with Ziboza had taken place. Stay! Was it the same? He had aconfused recollection of being swept out into stream, but that mighthave been an illusion. He peered around. The place was very dark butit was not a cave. The overhanging of one side of the cleft, and theinterlacing of bushes and trees above, however, rendered it very likeone. But this fissure was much smaller than the one he had fallen intowith the Matabele chief, nor was it anything like as deep.
Had he been swept far down the river, he wondered? Then he decided suchcould not have been the case, or he would have been drowned or knockedto pieces among the driftwood, whereas here he was, practicallyunharmed, only very exhausted. A thrill of exultation ran through hisdripping frame as he realised that he was uninjured. But it did notlast, for--he realised something further.
He realised that he was weaponless. His rifle had been shot from hishand. He had lost his revolver in his fall, and even the sheath knife,wherewith he had slain Ziboza, he had relaxed his grasp of at the momentof being swept away. He was that most helpless animal of all--anunarmed man.
He realised further that he was in the remotest and most unknown part oflittle known Matabeleland, that he had formed one of a _retreating_column, which was fighting its own way out, and which would have givenhim up as dead long ago: that no further advance was likely to be madein this direction for some time to come, and that meanwhile every humanbeing in the country was simply a ruthless and uncompromising foe. Herealised, too, that save for a few scraps of grimy biscuit, now soakedto pulp in his jacket pocket, and plentifully spiced with tobacco dust,he was without food--and entirely without means of procuring any--andthat he dared not leave his present shelter until nightfall, if then.In sum he realised that at last, even he, Hilary Blachland, was in veryhard and desperate case indeed.
Were his enemies still searching for him, he wondered, or had theyconcluded he had met his death in the raging waters of the floodedriver, as indeed it seemed to him little short of a miracle that he hadnot? The rain was still pouring down, and the lightning flashes lit upthe slippery sides of his hiding-place with a steely glare: however, thefury of the storm seemed to have spent itself, or passed over, but thebellowing, vomiting voice of the flood as it surged past the retreat,was sufficient to drown all other sounds. Then it occurred to him thathe could be seen from above by any one peering over. He must getfurther in.
He was more than knee deep in water. Towards its head, however, thecleft was dry. It terminated in a cavity just large enough for him tocrouch within--overhung too, with thorn bush from above. An idealhiding-place.
The situation reminded him of something. Once he had shot a guinea-fowlon a river bank, and the bird had dropped into just such a cleft asthis. After a long and careful search, he had discovered it, crouching,just as he was now crouching. It was only winged, however, and fledfurther into the cleft. He remembered the fierce eagerness with whichhe had pursued the wounded bird, fearing to lose it, how he had pouncedupon and seized it when it came to the end of the cleft and could get nofurther. Well, events had a knack of repeating themselves. He was thehunted one now.
Wet through now, he shivered to the very bones. The pangs of hungerwere gnawing him. He dived a hand into his pocket. The pulpy biscuitwas well-nigh uneatable, and black with tobacco dust. There was no helpfor it. He swallowed the stuff greedily, and it produced a horriblenausea. Soaked, chilled through and through, he crouched throughoutthat long terrible day, and a sort of lightheadedness came over him.Once more he was within Umzilikazi's sepulchre, and the awful coils ofthe black _mamba_ were waving, over yonder in the gloom, then, with aprolonged hiss, the terror plunged into the flood which was bearing himalong. It had seized his legs beneath the surface and was dragging himdown--and then it changed to Hermia. She was in the stream with him,and he was striving to save her, and yet fiercely combating a longing tolet her drown, but ever around his heart was one yearning, aching pain,an awful, unsatisfied longing for a presence, a glimpse of a face--hehardly realised whose--and it would not come. Had he gone mad--hewondered dully, or was this delirium, the beginning of the end, or theterrible unsatisfied longings of another world? Then even that amountof brain consciousness faded, and he slept. Chilled, soaked, starred--his case desperate--down there in that clay-girt hole, he slept.
When he awoke it was quite dark, and the roar of the flood seemed tohave decreased considerably in intensity. Clearly the river had randown. How long he had been asleep he could form no approximate idea,but the thought moved him to hold his watch to his ear even though hecould not see it. But it did not tick. The water had stopped it ofcourse.
Yes, the river had gone down, for no water was left in the cranny now.Moreover, the entrance to his hiding-place was several feet above thesurface. The next thing was to get out. Simple it sounds, doesn't it?But the sides of the cleft, wet and slimy from the rain, offered nofoothold. There were boughs hanging from above--but on clambering upthese, lo, the lip of the cleft was overhung with a complete_chevaux-de-frise_ of _haakdoorn_, a mass of terrible fishhooks, turnedevery way, as their manner is, so as to be absolutely impenetrable, saveto him who should be armed with a sharp cane knife with abundant roomand purchase for plying it. To an enfeebled and exhausted man, obligedto use one if not both hands for holding on to his support and armedwith nothing at all, the obstacle was simply unnegotiable. He was atthe bottom of a gigantic natural beetle trap--with this difference thatthere remained one way out: the way by which he had got in--the river towit.
From this alternative he shrank. The flood had very considerablydecreased; yet there was abundance of water still running down, quiteenough to tax the full resources of an average strong swimmer--moreover,he knew that the banks were clayey and overhanging for a considerabledistance down--and over and above that, the rains would have borderedthe said banks, even where shelving, with dangerous quicksands. Yetanother peril lay in the fact that the stream was inhabited by theevil-minded, carnivorous crocodile. It was one thing to choose theriver as a means to avoid an even surer peril still, it was quiteanother to take to it in cold blood, for it might mean all thedifference between getting in and getting out again. But a furthercareful investigation of his prison decided him that it was the o
nlyway.
Letting himself cautiously down, so as to drop with as little splash aspossible, he was in the river once more, but somehow the water seemedwarmer than the atmosphere in his chilled state, as, partly swimming,partly holding on to a log of driftwood, he allowed the stream to carryhim down. It was a weird experience, whirled along by the current inthe darkness, the high banks bounding a broad riband of stars overhead,but it was one to be got through as quickly as possible, for have we notsaid that the river was inhabited by crocodiles? Carefully selecting alikely place, the fugitive succeeded in landing.
Many a man in his position, alone, unarmed, and without food, in theheart of a trackless wilderness whose every inhabitant wasuncompromisingly hostile, would have lost his head and got turned roundindeed. But Hilary Blachland was made of different stuff. He was fartoo experienced and resourceful an up-country man to lose his head inthe smallest degree. He understood how to shape his bearings by thestars, and fortunately the sky was unclouded; and in the daytime by thesun and the trend of the watercourses whether dry or not. So he beganhis retreat, facing almost due south.
Fortune favoured him, for in the early morning light he espied a largehare sitting up on its haunches, stupidly looking about it. A deft,quick, stone throw, and the too confiding animal lay kicking. Here wasa food supply which at a pinch would last him a couple of days.Selecting as shut in a spot as he could find, he built a fire, beingcareful to avoid unnecessary smoke, and cooked the hare--his matches hadbeen soaked in the river, but he was far too experienced to be withoutflint and steel.
For four days thus he wandered, without seeing an enemy. A smalldeserted kraal furnished him with more food, for he knew where to findthe grain pits, and then, just as he was beginning to congratulatehimself that safety was nearly within his grasp, he ran right into aparty of armed Matabele.
There was only one thing to be done and he did it. Advancing with anapparent fearlessness he was far from feeling, he greeted the leader ofthe party, whom he knew. The demeanour of the savages was sullen ratherthan overtly hostile, and this was a good sign, still Blachland knewthat his life hung upon a hair. There was yet another thing he knew,and it was well he did. This petty chief, Ngeleza, was abnormallyimbued with a characteristic common to all savages--acquisitiveness towit. This was the string upon which to play. So he represented howanxious he was to return to Bulawayo, as soon as possible, ignoring thefact that the war was not over, or indeed that there was any war at all,and that they could not do better than guide him thither. He gaveNgeleza to understand that he would pay well for such a service, and notonly that, but that all who had the smallest share in its rendering,should receive a good reward--this for the enlightenment of the rest ofthe band, which numbered a round dozen men. It was well, too, thatNgeleza knew him--knew him for a man of substance, and a man of hisword.
CHAPTER NINE.
CONCLUSION.
The New Year is very young now, and Lannercost is well-nigh hidden inits wealth of leafiness, and very different is the rich languorousmidsummer air to the bracing crispness under which we last saw it.Other things are different too, as we, perchance, shall see, but what isnot different is the warmth of welcome accorded to Hilary Blachland tothat which he expected it to be--for the war in far-away Matabeleland ispractically over, and this man who has borne so full a part in it, isenjoying a much-needed and well-earned rest.
The news of his first deed of self-sacrificing daring had hardly hadtime to cool before it was followed by that of the second, more heroicbecause more hopeless still, but the fact of him being given up for deadby those who witnessed it, did not transpire until after his return tosafety, for, as it happened, he reached Bulawayo at about the same timeas the returning patrol.
Of the bare mention of these two deeds, however, he most concerned inthem is heartily sick and tired. Skelsey and Spence between them hadstarted the ball and kept it rolling, being enthusiastically aided andabetted therein by Percival West. Here at Lannercost he had stipulatedthat the subject be absolutely taboo, an understanding however, notalways strictly carried out, the greatest offender being small Fred.
"Quite sure you're not making a mistake in putting off going to England,Blachland?" Bayfield was saying, as the two men, seated together undera tree in front of the stoep, were talking over a transaction justeffected.
"Dead cert. I've earned a rest, and bucketing off on an infernal seavoyage is anything but that. I'll go later. Percy can make my peacefor me so long, and he'll do it too, for he's about as effective atrumpeter as--well, all the rest of you, Bayfield. No. Now I've takenon that farm, I'm going to try my hobby, and see how many kinds ofup-country animals I can keep there. Shall have to go to England someday, and then I think we'd better all go together."
"Don't know. We might. Did you hear that, Lyn? We are all to go toEngland together."
The girl had just appeared on the stoep. She was looking exquisitelyfair and sweet. There were times when Hilary Blachland could hardlybelieve that he was wide awake, and not merely dreaming, that thepresence which had been with him in spirit throughout his wanderings, inhardship and direst peril, was actually and really with him now, fromday to day, and this was one of them.
"I think it would be rather nice," she answered, coming over to jointhem. "But you don't really mean it, father? When?"
"Ask Blachland," was the quizzical rejoinder. "It's his scheme--Eh--What's up, Jafta?"
For that estimable Hottentot had appeared on the scene with intent tobespeak his master's presence and attention as to some everyday matter.
"Oh, well, I suppose I must go and see about it," said Bayfield, gettingup.
Over the green gold of the hilltops the summer sunlight sweptgloriously--and the valley bottom lay in a hot shimmer, but here in theleafy shade it was only warm enough to convey the idea of restful ease.Bright butterflies flitted amid the flowers, and the hum of bees mingledwith the twittering of noisy finks and the piping of spreuws--not havingthe fear of Fred's air-gun before their eyes--in the bosky recesses ofthe garden.
Hilary Blachland, lounging there in his cane chair--the verypersonification of reposeful ease in his cool white attire--was watchingthe beautiful face opposite, noting every turn of the sweet golden head.There was a difference in Lyn, he decided. It was difficult to defineit exactly, but the difference was there. Was it that something of theold, frank, childlike ingenuousness seemed to have disappeared?
"Do you remember what we were talking about here, Lyn, that evening wegot back from the Earles'?" he said. "You were wishing that I and yourfather were partners."
"Yes. I remember," and the lighting up of her face was not lost uponhim. "And you predicted we should soon find you a most desperate bore.See how well I remember the very words."
"Quite right, little Lyn. Well, both predictions are going to befulfilled."
"But--how?"
"And--I shall be here always, as you were wishing then. Are you stillpleased, little Lyn?"
"Oh, you know I am."
It came out so spontaneously, so whole-heartedly. He went on:
"You see that beacon away yonder on top of the _rand_? Well, that's myboundary. Mine! I'm your next-door neighbour now. Your father and Ispent three mortal hours this morning haggling with five generations ofVan Aardts, and now that eight thousand morgen is mine. So I shallalways be here, as you said then. Now I wonder if you will always be aspleased as you are now."
So do we, reader, but the conditions of life are desperately uncertain,wherefore who can tell? That it is unsafe to prophesy unless you know,is eke a wise saw, which for present purposes we propose to bear inmind. Nevertheless--
The End.
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The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Page 31
