THE RESCUE
We must now return to Trooper Morton, whom we left bound in a cave in
Diamond Valley. His wound was a painful one, and having lost a
quantity of blood, he naturally felt somewhat weak.
The Boers had taken good care to secure his ankles. The hide with
which they were bound was tied and knotted while wet, and, quickly
drying, caused great pain by its contraction.
He raised himself into a sitting posture and began fumbling with the
hide rope. He might as well have tried to snap bands of wrought
iron. He was hungry as well, so he turned to the strip of biltong
which the Boers had thrown to him when they departed.
"I suppose they take me for a cannibal," he muttered, looking at the
dried ox-flesh. "However, I'll see what it is made of. I daresay I
shall need all the strength I can muster before I reach my troop--if
ever I do. I really don't want to make another acquaintance, while
alone, with these beggars."
The biltong proved palatable, and Morton, possessing a healthy
digestion and not being fastidious, made a satisfying meal of the
unaccustomed food.
His next action was to crawl out of the cave, and with some
difficulty he made his way to a little rivulet that ran along the
base of one of the sides of the donga. In the bed of the stream were
pebbles of various sizes, and after assuaging his thirst, he began to
search for a sharp-edged stone.
For some minutes he was unsuccessful, but at last perseverance
brought its reward, and he discovered a triangular-shaped piece of
quartz. With this he began sawing at the rope, but he found the hide
tougher than he had bargained for.
He hacked at his fetters until darkness set in, and by that time had
only succeeded in severing a single strand. Two more must be cut
before he could regain his freedom.
He resolved to snatch a few hours' sleep, so he crawled to a
depression, a couple of hundred yards distant from the cave, and lay
down. The night was bitterly cold, and the Southern Cross gleamed
brightly above him. At last he fell asleep, and when he awoke
streaks of yellow light were shooting upwards into the sky from the
eastern horizon.
He again set to work on the hide rope, and before the sun had reached
the point midway between the zenith and horizon was a free man. His
ankles were sore and swollen, and taking off his stockings, he bathed
his feet in the clear water of the stream, after which he felt better.
Then his mind turned to the pebble hidden within the recesses of his
breast pocket. He took it out and examined it with interest and more
than ordinary care.
"A few more like this," he muttered, "and I shall be able to open the
finest shop in Auckland."
His knowledge of precious stones, and more especially diamonds, told
him that he had secured a magnificent specimen of crystallised
carbon. He retraced his steps to the place where he had found the
diamond, passing on his way the dead body of poor Pete, and although
his only implement was the three-edged piece of quartz, he was
fortunate enough to find four additional stones, not so large as his
first discovery, but still of great value.
Sounds of distant rifle-firing fell upon his ears, desultory at
first, then in volleys. Like Jack Lovat, Morton had a pair of keen
eyes and ears, and was well able to find his way about, so he soon
located the scene of fighting.
He knew that the firing proceeded from an opposite direction to that
of the Kopje Farm, and came to the conclusion that warfare was going
on in that particular quarter. He would make the best of his way to
Mr. Lovat's farmstead, where, if his comrades had departed, he could
obtain a mount, and possibly a pair of boots. After that, he would
try to rejoin his troop.
Quick locomotion was out of the question, for his feet were already
blistered and bleeding, from contact with camel-thorns and pieces of
jagged rock.
He was making for the summit of the kopje overlooking the farm, when
a couple of Kaffirs suddenly appeared, and came running towards him.
The natives halted, but Morton beckoned to them, and after some
display of hesitancy, they came up.
The trooper was instantly recognised by the Kaffirs. They proved to
be two of Mr. Lovat's "boys," Simon and Daniel.
Simon, who was a little fellow of singularly grotesque appearance,
called out, "Baas, don't go to de Kopje Farm. It is in de hands ob
bad Boers. Dey hab killed all de oder 'boys' 'cept Dan'l an' myself."
"What!" exclaimed Morton, "have our men left the farm?"
"Dey went dis mornin', baas," answered Simon. "Dere be hundreds ob
de Boers. Dan'l ah' me got away through de bush, or we would hab
been murdered as well. If only Baas Jack had been at home, dis would
not hab happened; but de old baas no show fight, and de Boers are now
up at de Kopje, eatin' an' drinkin' eberyding in the place."
"Hold hard, my dear fellow! Not quite so fast," said Morton; "you
talk too quickly. I want you to tell me what has happened."
"Well, baas," replied the Kaffir, "Moses an' Pete and Baas Jack hab
been missin' sin' yesterday, an' the missis and little missis hab
been crying all de night an' day too. I know your face, baas. I saw
you yesterday before Baas Jack an' Pete went away, an' den Moses
sneaked away; an' oh, baas, dings are in a bad way at de Kopje Farm.
De Boers hab taken Bessie, an' Juno, an' Jess, an'----"
"Look here, Simon Peter, or whatever your name is, you are spinning
too long a yarn for me. Just answer me one or two questions. First,
when did the Boers arrive at Mr. Lovat's?"
With the peculiarity habitual to Kaffirs, Simon began counting his
fingers in a rapid manner, after which he replied, "Dey came two
hours after de captain an' his men saddled up an' went away."
"How many Boers are at the Kopje Farm?" queried Morton. "Try and
tell me exactly."
Again the native's fingers began the counting process.
"Well?" demanded Morton.
"I should say one hundred an' half dat number, all men wid some led
horses. Dey killed all de 'boys' 'cept Pete, Moses, Dan'l, an'
myself. It was horrible; but de baas would not fight, an' we got
away. But where are your boots, baas? Your feet dey are bleedin',
too, an' you look bad. Wounded?"
"Yes, a trifle, 'boy'--not much," replied Morton. "Have you any arms
with you--knives or anything of that kind?"
Daniel, who was a forbidding-looking Kaffir considerably over six
feet in height, pulled out a revolver from his trousers' pocket, and
handing it to the New Zealander, said, "Dis belongs to Baas Jack, but
I spec he is dead."
Morton took the weapon in his hand and examined it carefully. The
pistol was branded with the mark of the British Small Arms Company,
and was new and of heavy calibre.
"Any cartridges?" queried Morton.
"Plenty ob dem, baas," answered Daniel, producing a box which the
trooper found contained fifty rounds. The Kaffir took the cartridges
from a shooting coat that had evidently belonged to Mr. Lovat.
"You keep dat, baas," said Daniel, "if you will let us go wid you.
We dare not go back to de Kopje Farm. I will now make you a pair ob
boots dat will be all right."
Before Morton could say a word, the Kaffir plucked a number of large
leaves from a shrub of the plantain species, and within a very short
time, with the aid of a little string, had manufactured a pair of
presentable sandals--if somewhat unshapely, at least comfortable.
"Now, baas," said Daniel, after he had fitted on the foot-gear, "do
de boots suit? Dey will not last long, but better dan nothin'."
The New Zealander burst into a loud laugh, despite the seriousness of
his position, and assured the Kaffir that he was delighted with the
boots.
"Will you 'boys' go with me to the Kopje Farm?" asked he, as he rose
to his feet.
The eyes of both Kaffirs rolled in their sockets, showing an unusual
proportion of white, and Simon, the loquacious one, said with a
splutter, "No, baas, a thousand times, no. Dan'l an' me likes a good
fight, but a sjambokking first, and shootin' de next minute, don't
suit dese two boys at all."
The strangely assorted trio, after Morton had rested a few minutes,
set off in the direction of Orangefontein; Daniel, who knew the
country well, leading the way, while the trooper and Simon followed
in the rear.
Again Morton tackled his Kaffir companion about the commando of Boers
who had so unexpectedly arrived at the Kopje Farm soon after the
departure of the New Zealanders.
"Do you mean to say there was not the slightest attempt to show fight
when the Boers arrived, Moses?"
"Dat is not my name, baas," replied the Kaffir, with some heat. "My
name Simon. Moses no good at all--always up at Van Donnop's over de
veldt; worse dan a Boer."
"Never mind what your name is, my good fellow," observed the trooper.
"The Boers could not come from the Kopje?"
"No, baas; no road dat way. Dere be three paths up to de farm--one
straight from de valley, an' de oders on what you call de right an'
left flanks. De Boers came up on de left flank, while your boys went
away by de right. We first saw de Boers when dey were a long way
off."
"But you said that the 'boys' with the exception of yourselves had
been killed. What makes you think that, Simon?"
"I dink nothin' at all about it, baas; I am sure." Here the Kaffir's
eyes dilated widely. "From our hiding-place in de bush, Dan'l an' me
saw one ob de 'boys' run into de ostrich kraal. A Boer ran after him
an' shot him down. Den several oder shots were fired, and we knows
what dat means. Den we see de missis and de little missie wiping
dere eyes wid aprons. Dis is a bad mornin' for us, baas."
"All right, 'boys,'" said Morton; "you go along with me. Have you
any knives?"
Daniel produced an ugly-looking bowie knife from a sheath which he
had concealed inside his somewhat scanty shirt, and held it up for
the white man's inspection.
"That will do," said the New Zealander. "And now heigho! for
Orangefontein and my comrades of the Auckland Rangers!"
"Baas, can you tell me where young Baas Jack is?" asked Daniel.
"He is a prisoner in the hands of the Boers, my lad," answered
Morton; "but I trust that before long we shall come across him. I
think I----"
The New Zealander halted, for the sound of heavy rifle-fire could
again be heard proceeding from some place a few miles distant in the
right front.
"Fighting is going on," muttered Morton. "Hang my ill-luck! I am
always out of the show,"--a statement which was by no means a correct
one, seeing that Major Salkeld's favourite scout had been in more
skirmishes probably than any other Irregular in the army.
Morton directed the two Kaffirs to look in the direction whence the
reports came; but the keen vision of Simon and Daniel could detect no
flashes of flame, and in these days of smokeless powder no haze hangs
over scenes of fight.
The country was wild in the extreme--granite-peaked kopjes interlaced
with innumerable little dongas met the vision, gaze where you would.
The kopjes, whose sides and bases were clad with geraniums and heath
of various kinds, formed a glorious mosaic against the steel-tinted
blue of the African sky. Everything in Nature was sublime, and stood
out in relief against the awful passions of men, who were striving
might and main to imbrue their hands in their fellow-creatures'
blood. War has its romance, its temporary glitter, but also its
awful, black shadows in the shape of untold physical and mental
suffering, endured by those who are compelled to serve under its
sombre flag.
The firing continued, and Trooper Morton, irresistibly impelled by
the sheer love of fighting innate within him, veered out of the track
which Simon vehemently declared led to Orangefontein.
The New Zealander's temporary foot-gear had given way, and the two
Kaffirs, while the Irregular rested, went in search of fresh leaves,
taken from a bush of the plantain species, in order to patch up the
old or manufacture a new pair of shoes.
The Kaffirs as a race are endowed with an extraordinary range and
quickness of vision, and before Simon and Daniel had completed their
self-imposed task, the latter's keen eye noted something on the
horizon away to the right, which for the moment disturbed his peace
of mind.
"Aasvogel, baas; dead people somewhere near!" said the
unsophisticated Kaffir, as he advanced towards Morton, who was
examining his still swollen ankles.
The vulture of South Africa, like the steed mentioned in Holy Writ,
can smell the battle from afar, and little did Morton imagine that
the hideous birds of prey were even now hovering above the bodies of
his late comrades, proved friends in many a fight.
Farther away to the right still edged Morton. His adventurous spirit
was yearning to be in the middle of the fray, but his Kaffir
companions were not imbued with the same enthusiasm.
Presently the trio struck the Orangefontein road leading from Land
Drift, and Morton called a halt. The biltong had given out, and the
Kaffirs were empty-handed. Daniel, however, was equal to the
emergency. His keen eyes detected some white flowers growing on the
veldt, and his bowie knife was out in an instant.
"Somethin' good to eat, baas," he said, as he knelt down and began
digging the ground round the flower roots. Presently he unearthed
what appeared to be ground nuts. These he handed to Morton, saying,
"You try dese, baas; dey are not bad eatin', an' you neber get tired
after you hab made a meal ob dem."
The trooper responded to Daniel's invitation, and although the roots
possessed a stronger pungent odour than he liked, he assuaged his
hunger with them, and felt decidedly better after his meal.
Simon and Daniel squatted themselves down a few paces distant, for a
Kaffir never partakes of food with a white man, and Morton threw
himself on the veldt, on which at this part heath grew very
plentifully, and stretched himself out.
Like the long continued rolling of thunder, rifle-firing had been
heard by the three refugees, but all at once there was a fierce
crackle, followed by a few intermittent shots--then silence.
"Baas!" cried Simon, running towards Morton, "some horsemen are
comin' dis way. Dey be five." The Kaffir held up his hand, and
continued, "Dey belong to you, baas. Kaffirs can see a long way."
Morton's heart seemed to leap into his mouth as he listened to Simon.
The news seemed too good to be true.
"I can see nothing, Simon," said the trooper, shading his eyes and
looking down the valley, in the direction pointed out by the Kaffir.
"Dere, baas, dere!" exclaimed Simon excitedly. "Dey be comin'
straight for us;" and at last the New Zealander was able to
distinguish five moving figures, advancing at a rapid trot towards
them.
Morton was not exactly a religious man, but he felt devoutly thankful
when five minutes later he found himself shaking hands with men
belonging to his regiment whom he had not seen for a week.
They were scouts belonging to the B Troop of the Rangers. Rumours of
a disaster to Major Salkeld's troop had reached headquarters, and
instead of proceeding to Springbokfontein, Colonel Malcolmson, the
commandant of the Rangers, with two Maxim guns and four hundred men,
was even now in search of the missing troop.
Luckily the scouts had with them two led horses, so that Morton was
enabled to obtain a mount. Simon and Daniel declined the offer made
to them by Morton and backed up by the scouts. They would take their
chance on the veldt. Morton knew that the blacks could fight well
when in laager, but they had very little stomach for warfare when
waged in the open field.
Before parting with the Kaffirs, the horsemen gave the two "boys" a
supply of biscuit, after which they left them.
The six New Zealanders proceeded towards the spot where the firing
had been heard. Everything was now quiet, and as they proceeded
Morton detailed in a few words his experiences since Major Salkeld
had left the main body.
"We are encamped in a valley about two miles from here," said the
sergeant of the scouts, in answer to an interrogation by Morton.
"Everything is in light order, and we got word an hour ago that Major
Salkeld is in a tight corner, so we have been sent round here to find
out what we can, and report at once. I never in all my life saw such
country for manoeuvring in. A fight may be taking place not half a
mile away, and you can see nothing. After what you have told us, I'm
afraid the major has not only lost the number of his mess, but also
that of his troop. Hullo! here comes a fellow. What does it mean?"
A few seconds later, a New Zealander, whose horse was foam-flecked
and panting with exertion, rode up.
"Retire at once!" cried the new-comer. "Ah, Morton! is it really
you? Glad to see you, I'm sure."
The speaker was a young lieutenant temporarily attached to the New
Zealanders from the South African Light Horse.
"We have located the enemy, Sergeant," said the officer. "Now, right
about!" and omitting the red tape, "trot! canter!" the seven
Britishers rode hard for the Colonials' camp.
Morton, handicapped though he was with his plantain-leaf slipper--for
by this time he had only one left--was not the last man to reach the
camp of the New Zealanders.
The baggage and Maxims were left behind under a strong guard, and
Morton, who had no difficulty in securing a pair of boots many sizes
too large for him, which of course was a necessity, and a Lee-Enfield
with its accompanying complement in a fully loaded bandolier, found
himself once more on the warpath.
The scouts, who undiscovered, had located the Boers, led the way, and
the force, nearly three hundred strong, approached the valley where
Major Salkeld and his little band of heroes for hours had fought
against an infuriated and stubborn foe.
An ominous silence reigned, but ahead on the several kopjes, isolated
bodies of horsemen, few in number, could be seen retreating westward.
"Is this to be a repetition of the Gordon case?" asked Colonel
Malcolmson of Captain Bryan, a young Irish soldier of fortune, who
had served in Ladysmith during the early stages of the war. "Are we
always to be too late? I pray that we may not be so now. Major
Salkeld and his men are worth a king's ransom."
"I hope the present tense will hold good, sir," said the Irishman
grimly. "The enemy have evacuated their positions, which looks bad."
Things did look dark, for when the colonel and his men arrived at the
mouth of the donga where Major Salkeld had been trapped, thousands of
empty cartridge-cases were found strewing the ground. The cases took
the form of five-chambered Mauser clips.
In the middle of the donga, the relieving force found the remnant of
Major Salkeld's troop, and tears came into the eyes of the bronzed
warriors as they gazed upon the inanimate forms of the gallant lads
from Maoriland, stretched behind the little breastworks formed by
nature.
Some of the men still clutched their rifles, fingers on triggers,
with foreheads wrinkled and savage-set lips. These lay on their
stomachs, and had been hit while in the act of taking aim.
Others had rolled over in their last dying agony, and in their hands
were clutched pieces of veldt grass and gravel.
Were there any survivors? Yes! A boyish form struggled to its feet
and saluted the colonel, as he stood gazing in awe and wonderment at
the little field of carnage. The form belonged to Jack Lovat, who
merely said, "I'm pleased you have come, sir. We have done the best
we could."
With the exception of the solitary wound he had received on the
previous day, Jack Lovat amidst the continuous whistling storms of
bullets, had not received a scratch. Major Salkeld was not killed,
but had received a severe wound in the leg which floored him.
Sergeant Oliphant had succumbed to a bullet through the brain not
long after the commencement of the fight.
Nineteen troopers had been slain outright, four wounded mortally,
while six more had been incapacitated. Jack Lovat was the only
fighting survivor of the so-called little affair at Langeman's Drift.
The wounds of the living were at once attended to, and the dead
reverently buried, Colonel Malcolmson officiating as chaplain and
chief mourner.
In a consultation with Major Salkeld, the colonel said, "And you
think, Major, that this commando will concentrate at the Kopje Farm?"
"I have no doubt about it, sir. I believe that even now the farm may
be occupied by rebels," answered the major. "You have a splendid
guide in young Lovut, the son of the owner. He is a young hero, and
deserves a thousand Victoria Crosses. Take him with you, sir, and
attack at once."
"Your advice is good, Major," said Colonel Malcolmson. "I am so
sorry you can't come with us."
That was a physical impossibility, and no one felt more chagrined
than the gallant Major Salkeld.
In our next chapter we shall describe the attack on Kopje Farm, and
its results.