Burdened as the little party was with an insensible man, escape by
trusting to the speed of their active little mounts was quite out of the
question; and, young officer though he was, Dickenson was old enough in
experience to know what to do.
About a couple of hundred yards ahead was a scattered patch of the
pleasant form of South African growth known locally, from its catching
qualities, as the Wait-a-bit-thorn, and as rapidly as they could go
Dickenson led his men to that, finding, as he expected, just enough
cover in the midst of a perfectly bare plain, if not to shelter
lying-down men, at least to blur and confuse the enemy's marksmen. Here
he gave the order, "Dismount!" Lennox was laid flat upon his back, to
lie without motion, and each man took the best shelter he could; while
the ponies, not being trained like the modern trooper to lie down, were
left to graze and take care of themselves.
The Boers came galloping on, to find, on a small scale, how much
difference there was between attacking in the open and defending a
well-sheltered position. But they had it yet to learn; and, evidently
anticipating an easy victory, they galloped forward bravely enough,
fully intending to hold the party up and expecting surrender at once.
Dickenson waited till they were well within range before giving the
order to fire, adding sternly the instruction that not a single
cartridge was to be wasted, no shot being fired till the holder of the
rifle felt sure.
The order was succeeded by utter silence, broken only by the thudding of
hoofs, and then _crack_! from the sergeant's piece, a puff of
greyish-white smoke, and one of the enemy's ponies went down upon its
knees, pitching the rider over its head, and rolled over upon one side,
kicking wildly, and trying twice before it was able to rise to its feet,
when it stood, poor beast! with hanging head; while its rider was seen
crawling away, to stop at last and begin firing.
_Crack_! again, and one of the Boers fell forward on the neck of his
mount and dropped his rifle, while his frightened pony galloped on,
swerving off to the right.
_Crack! crack_! two more shots were fired without apparent effect, and
then two more at intervals, each with good, or bad, effect. In one case
the rider threw up his arms and, as his pony tore on, fell over
sidewise, to drop with his foot tight in the stirrup, and was dragged
about a hundred yards before he was freed and his mount galloped away.
The other shot took effect upon a pony, which stopped dead, to stand
shivering, in spite of the way in which the Boer belaboured it with his
rifle, seeming to pound at it with the butt to force it along. But it
was all in vain--the poor brute's war was over, and it slowly subsided,
its rider springing off sidewise, to drop on one knee, as he tried to
shelter himself behind the animal; but he was not quick enough, for
Dickenson's rifle was resting upon a tuft of thorn, perfectly steady, as
he covered his enemy. _Crack_! and another tiny puff of smoke. The
noise and the greyish vapour were nothings out in that vast veldt, but
they meant the exit of a man from the troublous scene.
They meant more; for, as he saw the effect, the leader of the Boers
shouted an order, and his men swerved off right and left, presenting
their ponies' flanks to the British marksmen, who fired rapidly now, and
with so good aim that two more ponies were badly hit, their riders
leaping off to begin running after their comrades as hard as they could,
while a third man fell over to one side, lay still for a few moments,
and then struggled into a sitting position and held up his hands.
"Don't fire at him!" cried Dickenson excitedly, and none too soon, for
one of the men was taking aim.
"Ha!" said the sergeant grimly as the Boers galloped back. "That'll
take some of the bounce out of the gentlemen. One of them told us that
our men didn't know how to shoot. I dare say if we'd had their training
we might be able to bring down springboks as well as they can."
"Yes; capital, capital, my lads!--Well, sergeant, I think we may go on
again."
"No, sir, no!" cried the man excitedly. "They don't know when they're
beaten. Look at that."
For as he spoke the two little parties joined up again into one, sprang
off their ponies, and imitated Dickenson's manoeuvre, lying down and
beginning to shoot at long-range.
"I don't think they'll hurt us at that distance, sergeant," said
Dickenson.
"They'll hurt us if they can hit us, sir," replied the man; "but it's a
long way, and with their hands all of a shake from such a bit as they've
just gone through."
All the same, though, the bullets began to whistle overhead; then one
struck the ground about ten yards in front of the sergeant and
ricocheted, passing so near that the whiz was startling.
"That was well meant," he said coolly; "but I don't believe the chap who
sent it could do it again."
"Look at that poor fellow," said Dickenson suddenly.
"'Fraid of being hit by us or them, sir," replied the sergeant. "Not a
very pleasant place."
For the Boer who had thrown up his hands in token of surrender had begun
to crawl slowly and painfully to their right, evidently to get well out
of the line of fire. The man was evidently hit badly, for he kept on
sinking down flat on his face, and four times over a curious sensation
of regret came over Dickenson, mingled with a desire to go to his help
with such surgical aid as he could supply. But each time, just as he
was going to suggest it to the sergeant, the man rose on all fours again
and crawled farther away.
"I don't think he's much hurt, sir. Going pretty strong now."
The sergeant had hardly spoken before Dickenson uttered an ejaculation,
for the wounded man suddenly dropped down flat again and rolled over,
showing as one hand came into sight that he still grasped his rifle; and
then he was completely hidden, as if he had sunk into some slight
depression.
"Dead!" sighed Dickenson solemnly.
"Looks like it, sir," said the sergeant quietly.
"Or exhausted by his efforts," said Dickenson. "Look here, sergeant, a
man's a man."
"`For a' that, and a' that,' as the song says," muttered the sergeant to
himself.
"Whether he's one of our men or an enemy. I can't lie here, able to
help, without going to his help."
"No, no, sir; you mustn't stir," cried the sergeant excitedly. "If you
begin to move there'll be a shower of bullets cutting up the ground
about you. It's a good hundred and fifty yards to crawl."
"I can't help that," said Dickenson quietly. "I must do it."
"But think of yourself, sir," said the sergeant.
"A man in my position can't think of himself, sergeant."
"Well, think of us, sir."
"I shall, sergeant."
"Ha!" cried the sergeant, in a tone full of exultation. "And think of
your friend, sir. He wants help as bad as that chap, and you ought to
think of him first."
For just then they heard Lennox talking hurriedly, and on Dickenson
looking back over his shoulder he could see his comrade's hands moving
in the air, as if he were preparing to struggle up.
Dickenson began to turn hurriedly to creep back to where Lennox lay,
with one of the ponies grazing calmly enough close by, when the hands
fell again, and the young officer lay perfectly still.
"He has dropped to sleep again, and may be quiet for an hour. Sergeant,
I'm going to crawl out to that wounded Boer."
"Very well, sir; you're my officer, and my duty is to obey. I'm very
sorry, Mr Dickenson. It's a good two hundred yards, sir, and I believe
it's a bit of slimmery. He crawled there to be out of shot."
_Whiz-z-z! crack_! A puff of smoke and then a rush of hoofs, for the
pony which had been grazing so calmly close by where Lennox lay went
tearing over the veldt for about fifty yards, when, with two of its
companions trotting after it as if to see what was the matter, it
pitched suddenly upon its head, rolled over with its legs kicking as if
it were galloping in the air, and then they fell and all was over, the
two others turning and trotting back, to begin grazing once again.
"That's bad," said Dickenson sadly. "We couldn't spare that pony. Why,
sergeant, they can shoot! I didn't think they could have done it at
this range."
"What! not at two hundred yards, sir?"
"Two hundred, man? It's a thousand."
"Why, you don't see it, sir," cried the sergeant excitedly. "It wasn't
the enemy out yonder sent that bullet home."
"Not the enemy out there?" cried Dickenson.
"No, sir. It was your dead man who fired that shot."
"What?"
"Don't feel so sorry for him, sir, do you, now?"
As the sergeant was asking this question, the soldier who lay off to
their left, and who had not discharged his piece for some time, fired
simultaneously with a shot which came from the direction where the
wounded Boer lay.
"Ah!" cried the sergeant excitedly. "Can you see him from there?"
"No," growled the man; "but I saw something move, and let go on the
chance of hitting him, but only cut up the sand."
"Don't take your eye from the spot, my lad," cried Dickenson sharply.
"Never mind a fresh cartridge. Trust to your magazine."
"Yes, sir; that's what I'm doing," was the reply.
"Hadn't we all better do the same, sir?" asked the sergeant.
"Yes," said Dickenson angrily.
"I doubt whether we can keep his fire down, though, sir. He's got us
now."
"Not yet--the brute!" cried Dickenson through his teeth.
"He'll have the other two safe, sir."
"Other two?" cried Dickenson wonderingly.
"What! don't you see, sir? There's another of the ponies hit."
"Good gracious!" cried Dickenson, in such a homely, grandmotherly style
that, in spite of their perilous position, the sergeant could not help
smiling.
But his face was as hard as an iron mask directly, as he saw the look of
anguish in his young officer's face, Dickenson having just seen the
second pony standing with drooping head and all four legs widely
separated, rocking to and fro for a few moments, before dropping
heavily, perfectly dead.
_Crack_! came again from the same place, and another of the grazing
ponies flung up its head, neighing shrilly, before springing forward to
gallop for a couple of hundred yards and then fall.
And _crack_! again, and its following puff of smoke, making the fourth
pony start and begin to limp for a few yards with its off foreleg
broken; and _crack_! once more, and the sound of a sharp rap caused by
another bullet striking the suffering beast right in the middle of the
shoulder-blade, when it dropped dead instantly, pierced through the
heart.
"Best shot yet, sir," said the sergeant grimly; "put the poor beast out
of its misery. Now," he muttered to himself, "we know what we've got to
expect if we don't stop his little game."
"Every man watch below where the smoke rose," said Dickenson slowly and
sternly. "That man can't see without exposing himself in some way.
Yes; be on the alert. Look! he's pressing the sand away to right and
left with the barrel of his rifle. Mind, don't fire till you've got a
thoroughly good chance."
No one spoke, but all lay flat upon their chests, watching the moving
right and left of a gun-barrel which was directed towards them, but
pointing so that if fired a bullet would have gone over their heads. It
was hard to see; but the sun glinted from its polished surface from time
to time, and moment by moment they noted that it was becoming more
horizontal.
Every man's sight was strained to the utmost; every nerve was on the
quiver; so that not one of the four felt that he could trust himself to
shoot when the crucial moment came.
It came more quickly than they expected; for, after a few moments of
intense strain, the barrel was suddenly depressed, till through the
clear air the watchers distinctly saw a tiny hole and nothing more.
Then all at once the sun glinted from something else--a something that
flashed brightly for one instant, and was then obscured by smoke--the
smoke that darted from the little, just perceptible orifice of the
small-bore Mauser and that which shot out from four British rifles, to
combine into one slowly rising cloud; while as the commingled reports of
five rifles, friendly and inimical, died away, to the surprise of
Dickenson and his men they saw the figure of a big swarthy Boer
staggering towards them with both hands pressed to his face. The next
moment he was lying just in front of his hiding-place, stretched out--
dead.