THE BATTLE.
"Then he heard a roaring sound, quite terrible enough to frighten the
bravest man."--_The Brave Tin Soldier_.
Numbed with the cold, and stiff from lying so long in a cramped
position, Jack and many of his comrades rose as the daylight
strengthened, to stretch their legs and stamp some feeling into their
feet. As they did so, however, the dropping shots of the enemy rapidly
increased to a sharp fusilade; bullets whizzed overhead, or knocked up
little spurts of sand and dust within the zareba; and the defenders
were glad enough to once more seek the shelter of the low wall and
parapet of earth. Several men were wounded, and the surgeons commenced
their arduous duties--services which so often demand the exercise of
the highest courage and devotion, and yet seldom meet with their due
share of recognition in the records of the battlefield. Ever and anon
the screw-guns thundered a reply to the popping of the distant rifle
fire, and men raised their heads to watch the effect of the shrapnel,
as each shot sped away on its deadly errand.
Even amid such surroundings, hunger asserted itself; and breakfast was
served out, a good draught of hot tea being specially acceptable after
the long exposure to the cold night air.
"When you're on active service, eat and sleep whenever you can," said
Sergeant Sparks, munching away at his bully beef and biscuit. "There's
never no telling when you'll get another chance."
Bands of the enemy kept appearing and disappearing in the distance;
spear-heads and sword-blades flashed and glittered in the rosy morning
sunlight, and the tom-toms kept up a continual thunder; but still there
was no sign of an attack.
Jack longed to be doing something. He lay on the ground nervously
digging pits with his fingers in the soft sand, listening to the
monotonous murmur of conversation going on around him, and the constant
z--st! z--st! of bullets flying over and into the zareba. Now and
again he exchanged a few remarks with "Swabs" or Joe Crouch; and when
at length he was told off to join a party of skirmishers, he sprang up
and seized his rifle with a sigh of relief.
Moving out in extended order to the right front of the zareba, they
marched forward a short distance, then halted, and lay down to fire a
volley.
"Ready, at eleven hundred yards. Now, men, be steady, and take your
time."
"Swabs" was in his element. He sprawled his legs wide apart, rooted
his left elbow into the sand, and settled down as though he were firing
for the battalion badge on the range at Melchester. Our hero was not
quite so cool; his heart thumped and his fingers twitched as he
adjusted the sliding bar of his back-sight.
"Aim low--present--fire!"
The rifles were discharged with a simultaneous crash.
"Good volley," said Mr. Lawson, who was kneeling, peering through his
field-glass; "a bit short, I'm afraid; put your sights up to
eleven-fifty."
Jack opened the breach of his rifle with a sharp jerk, and drew a long
breath. For the life of him he could not have told whether his aim had
been good or bad, but this much he knew, that he had fired his first
shot in actual conflict.
The skirmishers retired; but still the enemy hung back, too wary to
attempt a charge. At length the order was given for an advance, and
preparations were accordingly made for forming a moving square. The
various detachments marched out of the zareba and lay down as they took
up their positions. Camels for carrying the wounded, and conveying
water and reserve ammunition, were drawn up in the centre; the two guns
and the Gardiner with its crew of sailors taking positions respectively
within the front and rear faces of the formation.
Jack raised himself and looked round, anxious, if possible, to make out
the whereabouts of his cousin. He could distinguish "Heavies,"
Blue-jackets, and the Guards, but Valentine and the ----sex men were
stationed somewhere out of sight on the other side of the central mass
of baggagers and their drivers. A short wait, and then came the
order,--
"Rise up! The square will advance!"
Two deep, as in the days of the "thin red line," the men marched
forward, stumbling over rocky hillocks and deep water-ruts, vainly
attempting to keep unbroken their solid formation, and delayed by the
slow movement of the guns and camels. The Arabs, swarming on either
flank, opened a heavy fire. The flight of the bullets filled the air
with a continual buzz. Men dropped right and left, and a halt was made
while the wounded were placed on the cacolets. The sides of the square
turned outwards, the Mounted Infantry formed its left-front corner, and
Jack and his comrades were in the left face.
"Why can't we give 'em a volley?" murmured "Swabs," gazing at the
feathery puffs of smoke on the distant hillside, which looked so
innocent, but each of which might mean death to the spectator. No
order, however, was given to fire, and the command, "Right
turn--forward!" put the marksman and his comrades once more in motion.
To walk along and be shot at was not exactly the ideal warfare of his
boyhood: but Jack had been "blooded" by this time, and trudged along
with a set face, paying little attention to the leaden hail which swept
overhead, and only wishing that something would happen to bring matters
to a crisis.
A few minutes later his attention was turned to the line of
skirmishers, who were moving, some little distance away, in a direction
parallel to the march of the square. Suddenly, close to two of these,
a couple of Arabs sprang up from behind some bushes. One rushed upon
the nearest Englishman; but the latter parried the spear-thrust, and
without a pause drove his bayonet through his adversary's chest. The
other native turned and ran.
"Bang! bang!" went a couple of rifle shots; but the fugitive escaped
untouched, and disappeared behind the brow of an adjacent knoll.
"See that, Lawson?" inquired a voice from the supernumerary rank.
"Yes," answered the subaltern, "like potting rabbits. I think I could
have wiped that fellow's eye if I'd been there. The bayonet _versus_
lance was done better."
Jack glanced round, and saw the speaker smoking a pipe, while Sergeant
Sparks tramped along close behind with an approving smile upon his
face, as though, if questioned, he would have made exactly the same
observation himself. It was no time to be fastidious or sentimental;
the callous indifference to life and death, whether real or assumed,
was the thing wanted. Here, at least, were two superiors who did not
seem to consider the situation very serious. The young soldier shifted
his rifle to the other shoulder, and grasped the butt with a firmer
grip.
For an hour, which might have been a lifetime, the square toiled on,
every now and again changing direction to gain more open ground; the
stretchers and cacolets constantly receiving fresh burdens. A man, two
files in front of our hero, went down with a bullet through the head,
and those in rear stumbled over him.
"Close up! close up, and keep that corner blocked in!"
With mouth parched with the stifling heat and dust, Jack sucked at the
lukewarm dregs of his water-bottle, and wondered if the river itself
would ever quench his thirst. "Swabs," his rear-rank man, kept
fingering the loose cartridges in his pouch. At length the marksman's
patience and _sang froid_ seemed exhausted.
"Is this going on for ever?" he blurted out, "Ain't we ever going to
give it 'em back?"
Hardly had the question been asked, when the answer was made evident in
a most unmistakable manner.
Away in the grass to the left front a number of white and green flags,
mounted on long poles, had been for some time visible; and at this
point, as though they sprang out of the ground, swarms of Arabs
suddenly made their appearance, and with headlong speed and reckless
devotion charged down upon the left-front corner of the square. The
scattered line of skirmishers turned and fled for their lives; while
behind them, like a devouring tidal wave, the vast black mass rushed
forward, their fierce shouts filling the air with a hollow roar like
that of a ground sea.
Like many another young soldier, with nothing but a few hundred yards
of desert between himself and death, Jack's first impulse was to raise
his rifle and blaze away at random as fast as he could load; but the
clear, calm voices in the supernumerary rank, and the old habit of
discipline, held him in check.
"Steady, men:--Aim low--Fire a volley!"
Another moment, and the black mass with its waving banners and
glittering weapons disappeared in a burst of fire and smoke, as the
rifles spoke with a simultaneous crash. Again, and yet again, the
vivid sheet of flame flashed from the side of the square; then, through
the drifting fog, it was seen that the enemy were apparently changing
the direction of their attack. Falling in scores before the terrible,
scythe-like sweep of the volley firing, they swerved round the flank of
the square and burst furiously upon the rear.
[Illustration: "The enemy swerved round the flank of the square, and
burst furiously upon the rear."]
Rapid independent firing had succeeded the regular volleys, and Jack
was in the act of using his rifle, when he became conscious of a shock
and swaying movement, like the commencement of a Rugby scrimmage. He
turned, and saw in a moment what had happened: by sheer weight of
numbers, the overpowering rush of Arabs had forced back the thin line
of "Heavies," and a fierce hand-to-hand fight was in progress. What
had been the interior of the square was now covered with a confused
mass of struggling combatants, dimly seen through clouds of dust and
smoke. Desperate fanatics hacked and stabbed with their heavy swords
and long spears, while burly giants of the Guards returned equally
deadly strokes with butt and sword-bayonet. Shouts, cries, and words
of command mingled in a general uproar, half-drowned in the incessant
din of the firing.
How long this awful contest lasted, or exactly what happened, Jack
could never clearly remember. He was conscious that the rear rank had
turned about, and of a vision of "Swabs" standing like a man shooting
rabbits in a cover, with his rifle at his shoulder, waiting for a
chance of a clear shot. Turning again to his front, he noticed the
fellow on his right working frantically at his lever, and sobbing with
rage and excitement over a jammed cartridge-case. "Knock it out with
your cleaning-rod!" he yelled, and thrust another round into the breach
of his own weapon, determined, if this were the end, to make a hard
fight of the finish.
At length the pressure seemed to grow less, and then ceased; the enemy
wavered, then turned and began to slowly retreat, hesitating every now
and again, even in face of the withering rifle fire, as though
half-minded to renew their attack. Some turned and shook their fists,
while others, with the fanatic's unconquerable spirit and reckless
valour, rushed back singly, only to fall long before they reached the
hated foe.
Once the threatening attitude of the retiring masses raised the cry of
"Close up! they're coming again!" But a well-directed volley settled
the question, and the last stragglers soon disappeared behind the
distant sandhills.
Cheer on cheer rose from the square, and Jack, grounding the butt of
his heated weapon, joined in with a right good will, for he had fought
his first battle, and his heart throbbed with the triumph of victory.
But even now the conflict was not quite over. Arab marksmen were still
lurking in the broken ground, and one of them suddenly rose into view
from behind a rock. Levelling his piece he fired, and Mr. Lawson, who,
revolver in hand, had stepped into a gap in the ranks, fell forward on
his face, the blood gushing in a crimson torrent from his mouth. At
the same moment "Greek met Greek;" for "Swabs," throwing his rifle into
his shoulder fired, and the Arab sharpshooter tossed up his arms and
dropped out of sight behind a rock.
Our hero fell upon his knees with something like a sob, and attempted
to raise the fallen man. There was no lack of assistance. Mr. Lawson
was one of those officers for whose sake men are always ready and glad
to risk their lives; but the boldest among them could do nothing for
him now, and a moment or so later he died in Jack's arms.
"He's gone, right enough, poor fellow!" said Captain Hamling, the
commander of the company, who had hurried to the spot. "See what's in
his pockets, Fenleigh. It there's anything of value, it must be taken
care of, and sent to his people."
Jack did as he was ordered. A pipe, tobacco-pouch, jack-knife, and
rolled bandage were the chief things he found; and he handed them to
the captain. There was still the breast-pocket of the tunic, and this
on examination was found to contain a small letter-case and a handsome
gold watch. Jack glanced at the timepiece, and very nearly let it drop
from his fingers to the ground; he knew it in a moment--the lost
treasure which years ago had been stolen from Queen Mab's cupboard.
This then was the thing which Raymond Fosberton had parted with for
five pounds.
* * * * *
The square moved on a short distance to ground less encumbered with the
slain, and then halted. The carnage was awful; dead and dying of the
enemy lay in heaps where they had fallen, mown down by the deadly fire
of the Martinis; while among them on the knoll where the square had
been broken, and in many cases hardly recognizable from the blood and
dust which covered their forms and faces, were the bodies of the
Englishmen who had perished in the fray.
Orders were now given for burying the dead, collecting the arms and
ammunition, and destroying the useless weapons that lay scattered about
in all directions; and it was while engaged in this latter duty that
Jack encountered his cousin.
"I've just been inquiring for you. Thank God, you're safe!"
In spite of all that he had just passed through, Jack's thoughts were
not fixed upon the fighting or dearly-won victory.
"O Val!" he blurted out, "I've found that watch--the one that was
stolen at Brenlands!"
In a few hurried sentences he described the conversation he had
overheard, and the discovery of the timepiece in the dead lieutenant's
pocket. The dread scene around him was for the moment forgotten in his
anxiety to clear his character from the doubts which he imagined must
still be entertained to a certain extent by his former friend.
"So you see, sir," he concluded, "I can now prove that I'm no thief.
Raymond Fosberton stole it. I wish you'd ask Captain Hamling to show
it to you, sir, and then you'd know I'm speaking the truth."
Valentine listened to this extraordinary revelation in open-eyed
astonishment.
"There's no need for that," he answered--"I'll ask to see it if it's
your particular wish--but, Jack, I wish you would believe that what I
say is true, and that neither I nor Queen Mab ever for a moment
imagined that you were the thief. You may doubt us, but we have never
lost faith in you."