It was Morkel who brought the news. Their deliberations on Frank's fate
had lasted for some hours, being interspersed with a sort of impromptu
prayer-meeting or two--and in the result he had been brought before the
Commandant again, and being asked if he had any thing to say in excuse
for having repeatedly insulted the President, blasphemed Almighty God,
and taken up arms against the Republic, part of whose territory this had
now been proclaimed by annexation, replied simply by a savage renewal of
all the abuse he had already been foolish enough to heap upon those in
whose power he was. So he was condemned to be shot at daybreak on the
following morning.
Not all had been in favour of that extreme measure, said Morkel. Swaart
Jan Grobbelaar for one, and old Sarel Van der Vyver for another, had
spoken on the side of mercy; possibly with an uneasy eye to
eventualities. But Commandant Schoeman, who was a Free State Boer, and
whose own position as a mere belligerent was secure in any event, had
overruled them, and by that time to-morrow poor Frank Wenlock would no
longer exist. "What can be done, Morkel?" said Colvin, very much moved.
"Do you think they really intend to do it?"
"Dead certain," was the gloomy reply. "You know the poor devil simply
brought it upon himself. You saw how he behaved this morning, Kershaw.
Why he was simply committing suicide."
"Would it be any use if I were to try and talk over Schoeman? Might
persuade him to let the chap off with a bit of a fright. I am in with
some of the big bugs up at Pretoria, you know."
"Not an atom of use," said Morkel decidedly. "You are in fairly bad
odour yourself, you see, Kershaw."
"It's ghastly. I can't believe they really intend to shoot the poor
chap. But, by-the-by, Morkel, how is it you are up here among them? I
thought you were so rigidly--er--Imperialist?"
Morkel looked embarrassed.
"So I am--er--was, I mean," he answered, speaking low. "But it's all
Jelf's fault. He took on a fad to collect the state of feeling among
the farmers, and was always wanting me to go round and find it out. I
went once too often; for when Olivier and Schoeman crossed from the Free
State, and the whole of the Wildschutsberg and the Rooi-Ruggensberg rose
as one man, why they simply commandeered me."
"But as a Government servant--"
"_Ja_--a fat lot they cared about the Government servant part of it. A
man of my name could not be on the English side, they said. So they
just gave me my choice--to join them or be shot as a spy. I was a spy,
of course, they swore. They knew I had been sent out by the Civil
Commissioner to find out things. So there it was."
"But it'll come rather awkward for you when all this is over, Morkel?"
"I'll have to chance that. It, at any rate, is a chance, but the other
was a dead cert. _Maagtig_! Kershaw, when you see half a dozen fellows
with rifles step out, all ready to let daylight through you in ten
minutes' time, why you prefer the chances of the remote future to the
certainty of the immediate present. If you don't think so--why, you
just find yourself in my shoes, and see."
This was undeniable--and then the _ci-devant_ Civil Commissioner's clerk
went on to explain that he was by no means certain that things were
going to turn out so favourably for the English as had at first seemed
probable. The Republics might get the better of it practically, in
which event he would likely drop in for something worth having--anyway,
he couldn't help himself. Besides, it would have happened in any case,
for the burghers had jumped Schalkburg and commandeered every man there
who bore a Dutch name, as well as all the stores. But with regard to
the De la Rey household Morkel could give no reliable information. He
had heard that Stephanus and his wife were away in the Free State, but
even that he did not know for certain, nor whether the girls were at
home or not.
"But how did Frank manage to get captured, Morkel? Was he fighting?"
"No. They went to his place, and started in to commandeer all his
stuff. You know what a violent beggar he is when his monkey is up--and
he started punching heads by the half-dozen. What could he do against a
crowd? The wonder to me is they didn't shoot him then and there. But
they broke up everything in the house, and turned the old lady out of
doors and locked her own doors on her. Good job that pretty sister of
his was away from home, for they were the lowest down type of Boer--of
the Mani Delport sample."
Both men puffed gloomily at their pipes for some minutes in silence.
Then Colvin said:
"Look here, Morkel. I am going to have another try at old Schoeman.
You must persuade him to see me. So cut along, old chap, and do so. By
the way, if the worst comes to the worst, he must let me see Frank."
"I'll try, Kershaw," said Morkel. "I'll try my darnedest, but I'm not
over sanguine."
Nor was Colvin, and his despondency was fully justified when, after
nearly an hour, Morkel returned. Commandant Schoeman flatly refused to
see him that night, nor would he authorise him to hold an interview with
the prisoner, or any communication whatever, on peril of the utmost
penalty.
"The infernal old brute!" was the only comment Colvin could make.
"Yes, he is," rejoined Morkel gloomily. "And now I must clear out--for
he has a lot of `secretarial' work for me to-night, he says. Well, we
have done all we could, and if we can't help the poor chap we can't.
It's the fortune of war. Good-night."
Left to himself Colvin sat for a while thinking hard, and as he did so
his despondency deepened. Poor Frank! Was there no way out of it? His
memory went back over the period of their acquaintance--over the old
days when they had campaigned together as comrades--over the times they
had spent together since, under more peaceful auspices--by what a mere
chance it had come about that they were not much more nearly related.
With all his weaknesses, Frank was far too good a fellow to come to such
pitiable grief as this. What could be done? And still the inexorable
answer--Nothing.
Rising in the sheer restlessness of desperation, he went outside the
tent. It was nearly dark now, and the cooking fires of the camp were
ablaze in all directions, and the deep-toned voices of the burghers
buzzed forth on all sides. As he stepped outside, a figure looming out
of the dusk barred his way.
"Stand! Go no further."
"What is the meaning of this? You hardly seem to know me," said Colvin.
"I know you, Mynheer Kershaw," was the reply. "But the Commandant's
orders are that you do not wander about the camp to-night."
"The Commandant's orders?"
"_Ja_, the Commandant's orders," repeated the Boer. "Go in again, if
you please."
There was nothing for it but compliance. As he re-entered the tent,
Colvin realised that he was indeed a prisoner, and guarded by an armed
sentry. What did it mean? Why, simply that for any power he might have
to help Frank Wenlock that night--by fair means or foul--he might as
well have been in Patagonia or Pekin. More, a very uneasy feeling had
come over him that he might ere long stand sorely in need of aid
himself.
These precautions seemed to point that way too. Here he was as much a
prisoner as the man to whom death would come with the morning light. It
struck him in a passing way as singular that the men who shared this
tent with him were not here to-night, and he was alone. Hour after hour
wore on, and still he racked his brains. Once before he had saved Frank
Wenlock's life in the heat and excitement of warfare. He could not save
it now. That wily old fox Schoeman had seen to that.
Colvin was very tired. The strain of the previous day had told upon
him--the strain of those long night hours too. He could not have told
approximately at what hour his eyes had closed, and a whirling round of
confused dreams were chasing each other through his slumbering brain.
Now he was back again in peace and quietness at Piet Plessis' with
Aletta, radiant and happy. Now he was at Ratels Hoek, but Aletta was
not there. A cold blank void seemed to take her place, and then into it
floated the form of May Wenlock, her face turned from him in horror and
loathing, as though requiring her brother's blood at his hands. Then he
awoke with a cold start, wondering confusedly whether all that had
happened the day before were but a dream--awoke to the light of another
day, with the beams of a newly risen sun pouring into the tent--awoke to
behold three armed burghers standing over him. Even then he noticed
that the expression of their faces was grim and ominous, and that they
replied to his morning salutation as curtly as possible.
"So! You are awake at last," said one. "We were about to awaken you.
You must come before the Commandant at once."
"Before the Commandant?" echoed Colvin, still hardly awake. "By the
way--the prisoner? What about the prisoner? The Commandant has
pardoned him, has he?"
The men exchanged a very strange look with each other at the words.
"It is about the prisoner that the Commandant needs you, Mynheer," said
the spokesman. And Colvin's heart sank. He was wanted to receive the
doomed man's last wishes, he supposed, being the latter's
fellow-countryman. Poor Frank--poor Frank!
"I am ready," he said, springing up. "But--tell me. Are they really
going to shoot him after all? Surely--surely not!"
The men looked more strangely than ever.
"You ought to know best whether that can now be done or not, Mynheer,"
was the enigmatical reply. "Come!"
Colvin went forth with his guards--one of whom walked on each side of
him, and the third behind. This was being under arrest with a
vengeance, he thought. As they passed through the camp he noticed that
the burghers were gathered in groups, conversing in very subdued tones,
which at sight of him would become suddenly hushed. There was something
solemn and cold-blooded about these preliminaries to the execution he
was about to witness that got upon his nerves. As we have pointed out,
he had witnessed many a ghastly and horrifying sight during the last few
weeks. But this, he felt, was going to be more trying than any.
Commandant Schoeman was seated in his tent, surrounded by his handful of
subordinate officers, exactly the same as on the day before. To-day,
however, in addition, a few burghers were grouped outside the tent, the
butts of their rifles grounded, as they watched the proceedings. But
where was the prisoner? Where was Frank Wenlock?
A dire sinking gripped Colvin's mind. Had they done it already? Surely
the volley would have awakened him, or had he slept too soundly?
Involuntarily he gazed from side to side.
"Stand there," said his guard, halting him in front of the Commandant's
table.
The latter looked up at Colvin's greeting, barely returning it; then he
said:
"What have you to say?" Colvin looked fairly puzzled.
"To say?" he echoed. "I do not understand, Mynheer Commandant."
"The prisoner Wenlock has escaped."
Colvin started, and his whole face lit up with satisfaction.
"Escaped, has he? Well then, Mynheer, all I can say is, I think you are
well rid of him. Frank is a good fellow ordinarily, but he can make
himself most infernally objectionable at times--as yesterday, for
instance."
He thought it politic to make no allusion to the death sentence. But at
heart he was overjoyed.
"_You_ it was who helped him to escape," said Schoeman, and the tone,
and the look of fell menace on his face, suddenly revealed to Colvin
that he was standing on the brink of a yawning abyss. It behoved him to
keep his head.
"Look now, Mynheer," he said, "I would ask how I could have helped him
to escape when I never left my tent the whole night."
"That we shall see," rejoined Schoeman.
"But how could I have left it, when I was kept in it by an armed guard
placed there by your own orders?" retorted Colvin.
"I know nothing of such a guard, and I gave no such orders. It is now
time for prayers, also for breakfast. There are those here who are
ready to prove that you helped the prisoner to escape. In an hour's
time I shall require you here again. I warn you, Mynheer, that unless
you can disprove the statements of these, things will be very serious
for you. Retire now to your tent."
Escorted, as before, Colvin went; and as he went he reflected. The
extreme gravity of his position became plain in all its peril. It
occurred to him that somebody or other desired to be rid of him. Yet,
why? He had no enemies in the camp that he knew of. True, he had
somewhat wounded the Commandant's self-esteem at first, but surely
Schoeman's vindictiveness would not be carried to such a length. Well,
there was no telling. Either Frank Wenlock had been allowed to escape,
in order that the charge of aiding and abetting might be fastened upon
himself, or he had been quietly made away with--always with the same
object. And looking at it in this light, Colvin realised the trap he
was in, and that his own life was in very considerable danger.