It is night. Night, that is to say, for all practical purposes, though
strict chronological accuracy might compel us to define it as morning;
for nearly three hours have elapsed since midnight. But, be that as it
may, at present it is as dark as the nethermost shades, as one of that
long, silent file of horsemen, wending its way through the gloom,
remarks to a comrade.
A chill breeze stirs the raw atmosphere, and sweeps before it puffs of
misty vapour which have been resting thickly alike upon hill-top and
low-lying bottom. Overhead a few sickly stars shine forth through the
flying scud, to be quickly veiled again, and replaced by another
spangled patch. And, advancing at a foot-pace, comes line upon line of
mounted men, moving through the darkness like the phantom horsemen of
some eerie legend. Very little talking is there in the ranks. Muffled
in their overcoats and with hats slouched over their faces the men ride
on, stolid, and meditative, and little inclined for conversation in the
damp, raw air which has a corresponding effect upon their spirits, even
if orders had not been issued for quiet and caution; for it is a night
march in the heart of the enemy's country.
It is difficult to distinguish face or feature of any description in the
profundity of the gloom; but now and again the dull silence and the dead
monotonous tramp of hoofs is relieved by the clank of arms and the
jingle of a bit; or the smothered imprecation of some one whose horse
has stumbled in the darkness, as he holds up the careless animal, who
gives a snort of alarm. And the march continues on through the night,
till at last the gloom shows signs of lightening, and we begin to make
out the aspect of this bellicose-looking cavalcade advancing over the
hills and dales of savage Gcalekaland. We see a number of roughly-clad,
bearded men, mostly attired in serviceable corduroy and with a
gaily-coloured handkerchief twined round their slouch hats, mounted on
tough, wiry steeds. On their saddles are strapped blankets or
mackintoshes and for arms each man carries a rifle of some sort--from
the Government Snider, to the double-barrelled weapon in ordinary
frontier use, rifled and smooth-barrel for varying distance or quarry.
Not a few have revolvers also; and broad, heavy belts, holding at least
two hundred rounds of cartridge, are buckled round them or slung over
their shoulders. Many of which bullets will, I trow, find their mark in
the dusky bodies of the savage enemy before the day is very far
advanced. This is a corps of Irregular Horse, frontiersmen all of them.
Another side of the column we see, in the gathering dawn, is composed
of mounted volunteers--townsmen--whose gay uniforms, cavalry sabres, and
glittering accoutrements, show out in contrast to the more sombre
trappings of the corps first noticed. Yet of the two it is not
difficult to predict which the enemy would rather meet in battle.
Another ingredient in this martial array is the Frontier Armed and
Mounted Police, two or three troops of which useful force, looking ready
and soldier-like in their helmets and sober uniforms, flank the march--
these are armed with short carbine and revolver. And lo, moving along,
drawn by several stout horses, black and rakish-looking in the uncertain
light, are the field-pieces, with their attendant gunners--a smart and
efficient selection of men.
The object of the expedition may be divulged by a scrap of the
conversation of one of its members.
"So we shall smoke the old fox out of his own earth at last," is saying
a sturdy young fellow in the ranks of the Irregular Horse.
"Ha, ha! Shall we? You don't suppose old Kreli is sitting at home
waiting for us, do you?" is his comrade's reply. "Why, he's miles off,
I expect."
"Bet you he isn't," cut in a third. "Bet you one to five in half-crowns
we nobble old Kreli to-day."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the first speaker. "Jack's so sure of his bet that he
wants all the odds in his favour."
"Well, well, yes," rejoined the other, briskly. "We must have a bet on,
you know, just as a matter of form. But you'll have to hand over,
Hicks, my boy. You laid me long odds when we started that we shouldn't
burn Kreli's Great Place before Christmas, and--"
"And we haven't," interrupted Hicks. "There's many a slip, you know,
and we are not there yet; and the commander may take it into his head
to--"
"Ssh-h! Silence there forward, please?"
The two disputants subsided. They were very near the scene of
operations now, and almost immediately a halt was called. Beneath, in a
hollow, lay the "Great Place," a large collection of huts--well placed
for convenience and comfort, but extremely badly for purposes of
defence--on a bend of the Xora River, whose clear waters flowed gurgling
past. Overshadowing the village on the one side was a great krantz, and
around lay pleasant slopes of rolling pasture, relieved here and there
by patches of mimosa thorns. All was wrapped in the most profound
silence as the day broke. The inhabitants of the village slumbered
unsuspectingly; and if the old chief was there it was extremely likely
that the attacking column, drawing a cordon round the place, would have
him fast shut within the trap. Meanwhile the said column rested upon
its oars, and grumbled.
"What the devil _are_ we waiting for?" fumed Hicks. "The niggers'll all
get away before we get so much as a long shot at them. And a fellow
mayn't even have a pipe while he's waiting."
"Keep cool, old man," replied Armitage. "Or ask Captain Jim."
"Captain Jim," being none other than our old friend Jim Brathwaite, who,
with characteristic energy, the moment war was fairly declared, had set
to work to raise a select corps of his own--not a difficult proceeding,
for men flocked from all parts to take service under a leader so popular
and so well known for dash and daring--and in three days he had enrolled
nearly a hundred picked men. This corps comprised all of our old
Seringa Vale friends, and, being mainly of local origin, its members
knew and trusted thoroughly each other and their leaders.
"Ah, now we shall hear something," went on Hicks, as a Police orderly
was seen to ride up and confer with their leader. "The advance, I
expect."
"Or the retreat," suggested another, cynically. "Just as likely the one
as the other, from all accounts."
"Hallo. There's the enemy, by Jupiter!" cried another young fellow.
All turned. A dark column was seen rapidly advancing up the hill in
their rear, and more than one heart beat quicker as its owner watched
the approach of this new factor in the state of affairs.
"Not it," said Naylor, quietly. "It's the Fingoes for whom we've been
waiting all this time. Now we shall be able to go forward."
An exclamation of wrath went along the line.
"Lazy brutes!"
"Waiting for _them_, indeed!" and so on.
"Now, men," said Naylor, who was second in command, "here's the
programme. We are to attack on the right with the Kaffrarian fellows.
At the sound of the bugle we advance, in skirmishing order, according to
the number of Kafirs in the kraal, and the fight they show. If
possible, we are to surround them. Now--mount!"
The last order had not to be given twice, and in a moment the whole
troop was moving round behind the hills, to take up their allotted
position--where they waited, each man, rifle in hand, burning with
impatience to begin. Scarce a sound was audible in that quiet vale; now
and then a small bird fluttered up from the grass with a piping twitter,
once a great black ringhals rustled away, half inflating his hood in
surprised wrath at the unwonted disturbance, but even of this abhorred
foe the men took no notice. They were after heavier game to-day--the
heaviest of all--human game. And the mist rolled back over the bills.
Suddenly a shot rings out on the morning air, then another and another.
And now, on every face is an expression of the most eager expectancy,
and every one grips his rifle. The hands of some of the younger men,
who have never been in action before, begin to shake; but not with fear.
There is something intensely exciting in this silent waiting, and they
are only longing to begin. Then a volume of white-blue smoke spouts
forth from a point above, a heavy boom, a hurtling rush through the air,
and the shrapnel bursts with a screech and a detonation right over the
nearest cluster of huts. At the same time the bugle-notes peal out from
the hill-top loud and clear--the signal for the attack to begin.
And the kraal wears the appearance of a disturbed ants' nest. From
everywhere and nowhere, apparently, dark forms are starting up, and the
whole place is alive with fierce warriors, and shining gun-barrels, and
bristling assegais; and puffs of smoke among the thatch huts, and many
an ugly "whiz" in the ears of the attacking force, show that the Kafirs
have opened a tolerably smart fire in return.
Crack--crack--crack! echo the rifles of the assailants, as the jets of
flame, which in an advancing line play upon the doomed village, draw
nearer and nearer--the sharpshooters taking advantage of every bit of
cover during their approach. And over and above the rattle of
small-arms booms out the thunderous roar of cannon, losing itself in a
hundred echoes on the wall of the great cliff opposite, and again and
again bursts the screeching shell over that swarm of human beings, and
very soon the groans of the stricken and the maimed and the dying begin
to mingle with the fierce war-shouts of the Gcaleka warriors. These,
indeed, are beginning to fall thick and fast, but still their bullets
and bits of potleg [Note 1] whistle about the ears of the attacking
party.
"Now, men!" cries Jim Brathwaite. "One more volley and then at them.
Ready!"
A rattling crash as every rifle is emptied, and then with a wild cheer
the men, revolver in hand, are riding at a gallop upon the kraal; but
first and foremost throughout is their undaunted leader. And the
Kafirs, their ranks already sadly thinned out, unable to withstand the
onslaught of this mad charge, turn and fly for dear life.
"Hurrah! At them, boys!" yells Jim, discharging his revolver at the
foremost of two stalwart Gcalekas, who have sprung like lightning out of
the very ground, as it were. The savage, however, dives to avoid the
shot, which hits one of his fellow-countrymen fair in the back, and,
gathering himself like a panther, leaps at his assailant, assegai in
hand, aiming a furious stab at his side--but too late. The impetus of
his pace carries Jim past, and the Kafir, missing his blow and his
footing, falls forward on his face, to be trampled into a lifeless pulp
beneath the hoofs of the horses, as the whole troop pours through the
village, pistolling the fleeing or opposing enemy, and the ground is
strewn with human forms, dead and dying.
And now the fight has become a stampede and a rout. Shut in on three
sides by the horsemen bearing down upon them, the fleeing Kafirs run
like bucks along the river bank, to make good their escape ere yon dark
cloud of advancing Fingoes, sweeping steadily down to cut them off,
shall get in front of them. Can they do this, they may yet hope to
count up their scattered remnant in the welcome shelter of that dark
forest line a few miles off. At any rate, they will cut their way
through the Fingo dogs, and many a fierce warrior, grinding his teeth as
he grips his assegai, starts off with renewed vigour, to pour out the
heart's blood of at any rate one of his despised foes before he dies.
Suddenly the flight stops, and with a rallying cry a body of the Kafirs
make a stand. They are beyond the reach of the shells, and by this time
the rout has scattered far over the plain; and the nearest Fingoes, who
have been slowly overtaking their enemies, waver and hesitate, quailing
before their former masters, who throw out at them threats and fierce
taunts. The fugitives have nothing but empty guns, which being mostly
muzzle-loaders, they have no time to reload. Assegais are thrown, and
more than one whooping and hitherto exultant Fingo wallows in the dust,
transfixed by the deadly javelin. In another minute these cowardly
auxiliaries will turn and fly, as the Gcalekas, with clubbed guns and
gripping their large stabbing assegais, furiously charge them, uttering
their war-cry--when behold, a body of horsemen comes sweeping up, Jim
Brathwaite's troop leading, and the tide is turned. The Fingoes,
inspired with fresh courage, stand, and sneak behind the whites, waiting
for these to disperse the enemy, and then go quietly after them and
assegai the wounded lying upon the ground.
"Hallo!" cried Armitage. "Hold on; Gough's down."
"Oh, it's nothing, I'm not hurt," is the plucky reply, as the young
fellow leaps clear of his horse, which, stabbed to the heart by a
wounded Kafir who lay on the ground, had fallen with a crash.
"Bight you are. Better fall in with the dismounted men," and away rides
the speaker.
Suddenly one of the Kafirs, watching his opportunity, springs like a cat
on to the saddle of a trooper, and gripping him round the neck with one
arm, stabs him to the heart with the other; then loosing his murderous
embrace as he and his victim slide to the earth together, he runs like
the wind, casting his glance from side to side in search of another
possible victim, when he falls, pierced by a couple of revolver bullets.
Another savage is suddenly descried by Hicks and Armitage, who are
riding together, rushing at a man, who with his bridle over his arm
stands coolly awaiting his approach. This man both of them have noticed
during the pursuit. Working apparently alone, he has kept himself
entirely free from flurry and excitement, reining in every now and then
and taking a deliberate shot at long range, almost invariably bringing
down one of the foe. And now they watch him, as a great sinewy Kafir
rushes at him like a wild beast, now leaping high in the air, now
dropping into the grass, then zig-zagging as if to get round the white
man, who stands perfectly calm through it all, with a slightly sneering
smile upon his face, but covering this dancing, leaping assailant with
his gun-barrels.
Crack! The savage falls. Then, as suddenly, he picks himself up, and
with a wild shout rushes at his cool antagonist.
"He's got him, by God!" cries Hicks, as in a tension of excitement he
marks the artful feint of the barbarian and, as he thinks, the turning
of the tables. But the other never moves, nor does the expression of
his countenance alter by a single hair's breadth.
Crack! Another report, and the fierce warrior falls, this time
stone-dead, leaping nearly against the barrel which at point-blank had
sent a full charge of "loopers" straight through his heart.
"Whoop! Hooray!" yelled Hicks, wild with excitement. "Grand old shot,
that! Thought you were a gone coon, by Jove!"
The other quickly slipped a couple of cartridges into the smoking breech
of his gun, and looked up with a slight smile at this remark; and what
he saw soon changed the smile into an outright laugh. For Hicks was
staring at him, speechless and open-mouthed, while even Armitage looked
somewhat dumbfoundered.
"The devil!" ejaculated Hicks, and relapsed into staring again.
"That's uncivil," remarked the stranger, drily.
"Why, hang it, it is--Claverton, no one else! Arthur, old boy, where on
earth _have_ you dropped from? I vow this is the best thing that's
happened for years. We thought you must be dead and buried, hearing
nothing about you," and leaping to the ground, honest Hicks wrung his
former comrade's hand as if he would crush that remarkably useful
member.
Something in the last phrase jarred upon Claverton. Lilian had said
much the same thing when they had met.
"Well, here I am at any rate. Turned up again like the proverbial
`shise' coin," he replied. "How's yourself? Flourishing apparently.
You look as if `the holy estate' agreed with you. And Jack? I say,
Jack; bet you two to one in anything you like you don't drop that chap
scuttling away over there."
"Done for you!" cried Armitage, sighting his rifle and drawing a bead on
one of the retreating enemy, distant some seven hundred yards.
"No. Hand over!" cried Claverton. "Missed him clean. Give you another
shot, though."
But the other shot was likewise a failure; and the Gcaleka got off
scot-free to rejoin, if he listed, the bosom of his family.
"Never mind, Jack. I won't dun you for the stakes, I only wanted to see
if you had left off that villainous sporting habit of yours."
"But, Arthur--how the deuce did you come here?" went on Hicks. "You're
not a Volunteer--those fellows are all jingling with chains and
whistles."
"Yes, I am. Kaffrarian Rangers, full private. And then?"
"And then? Why, you must join us without any further _indaba_. We'll
have a high old time of it. Do you mean to say you can cut all your old
friends and go and fight among strangers? Bosh!"
Claverton whistled meditatively as he surveyed the field of battle and
of flight. Here and there lay a dark object in a heap amid the grass,
just as it had fallen--the slain body of a Gcaleka warrior--and
scattered afar rode the pursuing horsemen.
"Well, I don't know," he said. "I should rather like to cut in with you
fellows. I'll see if it can be managed."
"Of course you will," said Hicks, light-heartedly. "By Jove, if that
isn't `the retire.'"
For the clear notes of the bugle were ringing afar, and in obedience to
the summons the straggling horsemen began to collect from all parts of
the field, and to retrace their steps, marvelling not a little at this
sudden and unlooked-for mandate. And from the chief's village, the
"Great Place," went up a great cloud of smoke, as, having hunted out its
fleeing inhabitants, the last of the attacking force had flung a torch
into the thatch tenements, setting the whole in a blaze; and above the
bursting flames great rolling pillars of smoke mounted to the sky.
Slowly the pursuers straggled back, their horses and themselves wet with
perspiration and grimy with dust and powder; many hatless, having lost
their "roofing," they said, in the hurry-scurry of the charge or of the
pursuit; while a darker stain showed upon others, whether on their
clothes or accoutrements--the stain of blood. The horses were panting
after their long gallop, and the riders commenting freely on the events
of the morning in a loud, excited tone. Many carried assegais, whole or
broken, which they had taken as trophies, also bead-work, and other
articles of native apparel or adornment. And in the rear marched the
Fingo contingent, howling their war-song and looking intensely valiant
now that the danger was over.
"_Manzi! Ndipe manzi_!" ["Water. Give me water."] besought a faint
voice.
Our party stopped, looking searchingly around. Several bodies of the
enemy lay about, all apparently lifeless.
"Let the skunk die," said a rough-looking fellow, who, with several
others, had joined them when the rally was sounded. "Or give him his
quietus in the shape of a leaden pill. A pretty dance they've led us
all this time, and now to be calling on us to do hospital nurse for
them. Damned if I do."
"Well, a pretty dance we've led them to-day, at any rate. Poor devil!
It won't do any one any harm to give him a drink," rejoined Claverton,
dismounting and scrutinising the only one who showed sign of life. A
tall, finely-made young Kafir lay with eyes half unclosed, and breathing
heavily, apparently in great pain. Claverton bent over him as he
repeated his fevered entreaty.
"Well, you may do nurse, I shan't, so good day to you," jeered the first
speaker, riding on, while Hicks and Armitage reined in a moment, looking
from their newly-found chum to the wounded man as if wondering what was
coming next. But Claverton, without heeding anybody, took a large flask
from his pocket, and poured a little of its contents between the Kafir's
teeth. Then filling the cup with water from the river, which ran hard
by, he raised the wounded man's head, and let him drain off the desired
fluid.
"More," whispered the Kafir; and having filled the little vessel again,
Claverton watched his _protege_ drink the contents greedily. Then, with
a deep sigh of relief, the sufferer lay back with closed eyes.
"That'll do, Arthur. Come on, now, and leave the beggar alone," cried
Hicks, impatiently. "Or are you going to set up an `ambulance' all over
the field?"
"Don't know," replied the other, imperturbably. "It's not much trouble,
and we've been shooting such a lot of the poor devils that one may as
well give one of them the consolation of a drink _in extremis_." And he
stood contemplating his _protege_, who he had ascertained was not
dangerously though badly wounded by a ball in the side. Then it
occurred to him that the face of the stricken savage was not altogether
unfamiliar to him; but where he had seen it he could not remember.
And now the war-song of the Fingoes drew nearer, and hearing it, the
wounded man once more unclosed his eyes, with a mingled expression of
despair and resignation and contempt. There was not a chance for him,
he thought. The "dogs" would come up, and the white man would stand by
and tell them to kill him. Well, what did it matter? They were dogs,
and he was a warrior of the Amaxosa--nothing could get rid of that fact.
Then, just as he thought his hour had come, the white man remarked in
his own tongue: "Lie perfectly still and shut your eyes. If the Fingoes
see that you're alive, even though I may save you now, they will surely
come back and kill you before you can get away." And the other obeyed.
Claverton slowly proceeded to fill and light his pipe, as if he had
dismounted with that object and that alone, and the Fingoes, their
assegais red and blood-stained, marched past, looking about as though in
search of any of the dreaded foe still living. They saluted the white
man with servile acclamation, and passed on.
"Now," continued he, when the savage auxiliaries were well out of the
way, "wait until the coast's clear, and then hook it. Go and tell Kreli
that if he's wise he'll shut up fighting and come and sing small, and
acknowledge that he's made an ass of himself. You see, we don't want to
kill you fellows unless we are obliged, and then we'll do for the lot of
you. Now be off as soon as you can."
The young Kafir, who was by no means a bad-looking fellow, smiled as he
softly murmured assent, and, with a grateful look in his eyes, he laid
hold of his benefactor's foot and drew it to his lips in token of
gratitude.
"All right," said the latter; "now look to yourself," and mounting his
horse he overtook the rest, who had been making merry over their
friend's eccentricity.
"Now you've done the wet-nurse trick, old chap, we'll get back to camp
and have a glass of grog," said Armitage.
"That's a good idea," assented Claverton. He did not mind their chaff,
and would not have even if it were more ill-natured. A passing impulse
had moved him to befriend this wounded savage, and he had obeyed it.
And it may be that an even yet more humanising influence was at work,
and that on that fierce battle-field, reeking with blood and carnage,
the image of Lilian stood, viewing him with a sweet, approving smile as
he listened to the agonised prayer of the stricken barbarian, who might
be the first, if ever opportunity offered, to repay his charity with an
assegai thrust. But having done this thing he was glad, and a softer
feeling centred round his heart as if he actually heard Lilian's
approving voice in his ear.
Much growling was indulged in as the burghers and volunteers, returning
to camp, learned that the pursuit was to be discontinued. They had
struck a decisive blow, and now were not to be allowed to follow it up.
Public discontent found its expression freely and in forcible language.
"Infernal nonsense?" repeated one big fellow in reply to a comrade's
observation. "I believe you. Why, what we've done to-day is no good at
all--not one blessed ha'porth. We've shot a few of these fellers and
chevied a few more; but what o' that? They're thick as bees over
yonder," and the speaker jerked one hand in the direction of the flight,
while with the other he viciously crammed his short, wooden pipe.
"Ay, that's so," assented a small, wiry-looking man. "If we had only
gone straight on we could have cleared out the Manubi Bush right down to
the coast, and driven the whole lot into the sea."
"Where they were going to drive us," chimed in another.
"And it's there we should have nobbled old Kreli," went on the former
speaker. "He's in there, mark my words--in there waiting for news--he,
and Sicgau, and Botmane, and the whole bilin' of 'em. Now we've burnt
his old beehives here; but that's no good, they're built again in a day.
No, sir; what we want is the old fox himself."
"And don't we wish we may get 'im? No; it's nurses we want to look
after us," put in another.
There was a reluctant guffaw at this; but the gloom had deepened on
their warlike souls.
"Well, we may as well go back, streak it straight home again, if we're
going to be commanded by a set of old women," growled the first speaker.
"We didn't come out here to _play_ with the niggers, did we?"
"Looks like it, anyhow, mate."
Thus amid much growling, which, however, was not directed at our friend
Jim, but at the power behind that gallant leader, the camps were
pitched. A portion of the Police force started off back to their
headquarters at Ibeka; but here, close to the scene of their late
victory, the volunteers and burgher forces remained; and at nightfall
the horses were driven in and "rung," that is to say, tethered in
circles; while additional sentries were posted, and every precaution
taken, the recent success notwithstanding, for they were in the enemy's
country.
Jim Brathwaite was mightily glad, and no less surprised at the
unexpected meeting, and warmly seconded Hicks' suggestion that Claverton
should join his corps.
"Twice I noticed a fellow to-day, Arthur," he said, "who reminded me of
your straight riding; and, by George, it must have been you yourself.
Well, well; we are all bound to meet again some day, however we may
scatter. But what do you think that fellow Hicks has done?"
"What?"
"Committed matrimony. And so has Jack."
"Has he? Jack, I mean. I knew about the other. Who, and when, and
where?"
"Oh, that's a very old story, Jim," said Armitage, trying to look quite
at his ease. "Claverton heard it ages ago. Give us some baccy."
They were sitting round the camp-fire. The afternoon had merged into
night, and now the circle was discussing old times.
"Who?--Gertie Wray--you remember her--now Mrs Jack Armitage, promoted.
When?--last year. Where?--in Grahamstown," replied Jim.
And then, as others joined them, the conversation turned from things
personal and retrospective, to things political and present; and the
state of affairs was discussed in all its bearings.
"Well, we've a big enough force in the field to thrash out the Gcaleka
country," Jim was saying; "but then we shall have to be constantly
playing hide-and-seek with the Kafirs until we catch old Kreli. If the
Gaikas don't break out, all that the people on the border will have to
do will be to guard their line so that none of these chaps can cross.
If the Gaikas rise, why, then our friends there will be between two
fires."
"And the Gaikas will rise," put in Garnier--Jim's second lieutenant--a
quiet-looking, brown-bearded man of about five-and-forty. "You may take
my word for that. It isn't for nothing that they've been going through
all the war-dancing and farrago. It isn't for nothing they've been
sending all their cattle away to the thickest parts of the Amatola
forest. And it isn't likely they'd sit still--they, the warrior race of
all others--and let Kreli do all the fighting. And to hear 'em talk,
too! Why, they've been coming round my place in shoals, and they don't
care what they say. Mind, they mean mischief."
"But, then, how is it they haven't broken out already?" ventured Hicks.
Garnier looked pityingly at him. "For several reasons. There's a
strong peace party among them, for one thing. For another, they heard,
or rather saw--for there were lots of them present--what a hammering the
Gcalekas got the other day when they attacked Ibeka; and they're not
ready. But if any of these chaps of Kreli's get through and join them--
then look out."
"Well, we can put a tremendous force into the field," went on Jim.
"Why, in the Eastern Province alone we could raise enough to finish the
war in a couple of months, if they're only put to it and not kept
fooling about doing nothing."
"Yes; and if they're properly looked after in the field," said another.
"No one can fight unless he's fed; and with the commissariat always two
days behind, no body of men will remain long contented."
"And, while they are fooling about, all their property's going to wrack
and ruin, as ours is at this damned moment," growled Thorman, who was
one of the party.
"Never mind. All the more reason why we should make a thorough good
thing of it while we are about it," said another, of more cheerful
disposition. "We'll teach Jack Kafir a lesson this time, that he'll
remember."
Thus talking, they sat round that red camp-fire, which threw a fitful
glow upon bronzed faces and attire, fantastic-looking in the
semi-darkness and in its wild picturesqueness, until at length the bugle
sounded, "lights out," and gradually all subsided to silence. Now and
again the yelp and snarl of a jackal came up from beneath, where lay the
unburied corpses of the slain foe, and where a number of heaps of black
smouldering ashes were all that remained of what in the morning had been
the Kraal of the Paramount Chief of Kafirland.
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Note 1. In war-time, when lead is scarce, Kafirs manufacture tolerably
efficient slugs by cutting up the legs of their iron cooking-pots.