They buried poor Jack Armitage in the afternoon, and all turned out to
render the last honours to their departed comrade. Brathwaite's Horse,
with arms reversed, formed the principal guard of honour, the improvised
bier being borne by the dead man's most intimate friends. All the Dutch
burghers followed in the _cortege_, and, hovering around in dark groups,
the men of the Fingo Levies gazed curiously but respectfully upon the
white man's burial. No surpliced priest stood to hallow this newly-made
grave in the wilderness, or speak the commendatory words; but all the
solemnity which real feeling could impart was supplied in the demeanour
of these rough bands of armed horsemen, pacing along so silent, and
orderly, and mournful.
The grave had been dug beneath a couple of euphorbia trees, upon a green
knoll commanding a lovely view of hill and dale, and sweeping grassland
and distant mountain, all blending into one soft picture in the golden
lustre of the afternoon sun. The steady tramp of hoof-strokes ceased as
the horsemen ranged themselves in a semicircle around the grave, and
there was dead silence. All uncovered as Jim Brathwaite, who, as senior
commander and the dead man's intimate friend, had been unanimously voted
to the duty, began to read--in the subdued and serious voice of one
wholly unaccustomed to the performance of such offices--the Anglican
burial service. At its close a firing party stepped forward, and a
threefold volley sounded forth upon the hushened air, rolling its echoes
afar, till the Amaxosa warriors, listening from their tangled fastnesses
to its distant thunder, told each other, with grim satisfaction, that
the English must be burying one of their principal captains.
So poor Jack Armitage was laid to rest there in his lonely grave amid
the sunny wilds of Kaffraria, and a gloom hung over the camp because of
the cheerful spirit taken from its midst.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
That evening they were joined by the other column, forming part of which
was Claverton's old corps. It happened that Lumley, who had been given
the provisional command on the transfer of his chief, was in hot water.
An excellent subordinate, he was quite unfit for a wholly responsible
position, and, as was disgustedly said by those on whom his mistakes had
nearly entailed serious disaster, he had made an utter mess of it.
Consequently he had been superseded, and was daily expecting the arrival
of the man appointed to take his place. "Quite a new hand," as he said,
in an injured tone; "a fellow only just out from England." All this he
told Claverton, seated that evening in the latter's tent, where he had
come to pour out his grievances. He would clear out, he vowed, and let
the beastly war go to the deuce. Naylor was also present.
"Don't do anything rash, Lumley. Wait and see who the new fellow is,"
was Claverton's advice. "You and I had very good fun together, and so
may you and he. It isn't all walnuts and Madeira being in command, I
can tell you. Anyhow, I found it quite within my conscience to throw
over mine in favour of subordinacy--and am not sorry. No, believe me,
responsibility's a mistake except for the gifted few; and you and I can
have a much better time of it playing second fiddle."
With such arguments he soothed the other's wounded spirit, and at length
persuaded him that so far from feeling ill-used he ought to rejoice.
"'Pon my soul, I believe you're right," was poor Lumley's parting
remark, made in a tone of intense relief, partly owing to his former
chief's friendliness and encouragement, partly--it may be--the result of
a couple of glasses of grog warming the cockles of his heart. "But I
wish it was you they were going to put back again, Claverton. It would
be all right then. Good-night--good-night," and he went out.
"Poor Lumley," remarked Claverton, after he had left. "I'm sorry for
him; but he's no more fit to be at the head of a body of men than I am
to command the Channel Fleet."
"H'm, isn't he?" said Naylor. "At any rate you have sent him away in
quite a contented frame of mind. I was watching the process leading up
to it, somewhat narrowly."
Claverton laughed. "Oh, I can always talk over a fool, that is, an
ordinary one, when it's worth while taking the trouble, which in this
case it is, for Lumley's a good fellow in most ways. But I can't talk
over the fool blatant, for he is too overwhelmed with a sense of his own
infallibility to give the slightest attention to any one else's
suggestions. By the way, I must go across and see Jim Brathwaite. Will
you come, or would you rather stay here? Our `business' won't take a
minute."
"I may as well walk across," and they went out. On arrival at Jim's
tent, however, that redoubted warrior was not there.
"Probably making a night of it with some of the fellows who have just
come," was Claverton's remark. "Ah, here's what I want," pouncing upon
a bit of blue paper which lay ostentatiously upon an old packing-case,
and was directed to himself. "Now we'll go back."
The night was moonless and rather dark, for a curtain of cloud had
drifted across the sky; here and there one or two stars twinkled through
its rifts, and the outline of the sombre ridge beyond was scarcely
visible. All was quiet in the camp, the voices of the men made a kind
of monotonous hum, and now and then a laugh arose from some centre of
jollity for the time being.
A light burned in Claverton's tent as they were about to enter, and,
pausing for a moment, the figures of the two men were thrown out into
full relief.
Crack!
A bright jet shoots out of the gloom just beneath the shadowy outline of
the ridge overlooking the camp, and the sharp report rolls away in dull
echo upon the night. Then another flash, and, amid the roar that
follows, Claverton and his companion both experience a strange, jarring
sensation, for a bullet has passed, with a shrill whiz, between them,
narrowly missing the head of either.
"Good shot that, whoever it is," remarked Naylor, coolly, while his
companion, who had quickly extinguished the light, was by his side
again. "There'll be tall cannonading for the next half-hour, and
tolerably wild shooting, too."
And there was. The effect of the double shot upon that camp--which
fancied itself so secure--was marvellous. In a moment every man had
seized his piece, and was standing eagerly peering into the gloom in the
direction of the shot--and not merely that, for many discharged their
weapons haphazard--and presently, as Naylor had said, the cannonading
waxed alarming. The frontier corps, beyond a few shots fired on the
impulse of the moment, had remained cool; they knew the futility of
blazing at random into the darkness, and had too much respect for
themselves and their reputation to be made the subject of a practical
joke played by one or two skulking Kafirs. But the camps of the Fingo
and Hottentot levies were like a disturbed ants' nest; and heeding the
voices of their officers no more than the wind, those startled and
panic-stricken auxiliaries poured a terrific fire into the darkness, and
the air was aflame with the flash of their wild, reckless volleys as
they blazed away--round after round--as fast as ever they could reload.
It was in vain that their officers strove to restrain them--their voices
were lost in the constant bellow of musketry. Now and then they would
knock down a refractory nigger or two within reach, but it had no effect
upon the others, and confusion reigned supreme.
"Well, Lumley, here's a lively kettle of fish."
He addressed, turned, perspiring and despairing in his frantic attempts
to restore order.
"Good God! Claverton, is that you? Now just look at these damned
fools. Drop that, will you?" he roared, bestowing a violent kick on one
of his men who was blazing away without even bringing his piece to his
shoulder. The fellow gave a yell of pain and made off.
At length the confusion began to abate. Seeing no further sign of an
attack upon the camp, and their ammunition having decreased alarmingly,
the native auxiliaries ceased firing by degrees, each man, as he did so,
sneaking off looking very much ashamed of himself.
"Damned fools, in sooth," assented Claverton, when the uproar had calmed
down. "But, Lumley, I wish you'd just turn up that fellow Smith--Vargas
Smith. There's something I want to see him about at once."
"Certainly. Here, pass the word there for Corporal Smith," he called
out.
"Oh, he's promoted, then?"
"Well, yes. A sharp fellow, you know; helps me no end."
But Corporal Smith was not forthcoming. He was nowhere to be found, in
fact. He was not on guard, for he had been in the camp not long before
the alarm, they said, but now there was no trace of him.
"How long before?"
Well, it might have been half an hour since he was seen, certainly not
much more.
"Not less?"
No, not less. On that point they were all ready to swear.
"Even as I suspected," thought Claverton to himself. And he waited some
time longer talking to Lumley, and ironically bantering some of his
former men for their contribution to the recent chaos.
"A set of smart fellows you are, eh, old Cobus?" he said, addressing one
of the sergeants. "Blazing away all night at the stars and bushes."
"Nay what, kaptyn," rejoined the old Hottentot, shamefacedly. "You see
a lot of us shooting like that must hit somebody. We shall find many of
the _schelms_ lying there in the morning."
"Many of the _schelms_? Devil a bit. One or two of your own sentries,
perhaps."
"No--Kafirs, kaptyn."
"Bah. There won't be a leaf or a twig left on the bushes within a
circle of two miles, perhaps, but if you find a single Kafir lying
within it, I'll engage to eat him."
There was a roar of laughter, half deprecatory, half of intense
amusement, from the group of listeners who had drawn near, at this
sarcastic hit. But just then a diversion occurred in the shape of the
reappearance of the missing Corporal Smith.
"Hallo, Smith; where the devil have you been?" cried Lumley.
"Been on guard, sir," was the reply, in a tone which seemed to add, "and
now shut up."
"You weren't told off."
"I went because they said Gert Flinders was ill, and I took his place,"
he said, with a touch of defiance.
Claverton, meanwhile, eyed him narrowly. Two impressions were present
to his mind--one, the extremely loose state of discipline into which
Lumley had let the corps drift; the other, which more nearly concerned
himself, the evident anxiety of the Cuban mulatto to avoid further
questioning. He noticed also, with one keen, swift glance, that that
worthy wore a pair of new veldtschoens.
"By the way, on second thoughts it doesn't matter to-night," he said,
carelessly. "To-morrow will do just as well, Smith. It's late now, and
it's best to get things ship-shape after the row. Good-night, Lumley,"
he added. "Come round and feed to-morrow night if we are still here,"
and he went away.
By the time Claverton reached his tent all was quiet again. His
companion had turned in, and was sleeping as unconcernedly as if beneath
the roof of an English dwelling instead of having narrowly escaped being
shot through the head by a nocturnal foe in the wilds of Kafirland. He
hastened to turn in likewise, but not to sleep. Instinct led him to
connect this last attempt upon his life with some evil hovering over
himself and Lilian. For that he was the intended mark of the assassin's
bullet he had known the moment it was fired.
While it was yet dark Claverton left the camp quietly, and the first
glimmer of dawn saw him narrowly searching for the spot whence the shot
had been fired. It took him nearly an hour, but he found it at last.
And he found something more: he found three distinct footmarks--the
print of a pair of new veldtschoens--in the damp soil, for a heavy dew
had fallen in the night; and furthermore, sticking among the thorns, the
tiny fragment of a flannel shirt of peculiar pattern. And a vindictive
light came into the blue-grey eyes as he walked straight back to camp,
murmuring to himself complacently:
"Just so--just as I suspected! Mr Corporal Vargas Smith--_alias_
Sharkey--you have chosen to throw away your life again, and now, if you
are above ground in six weeks at the outside from to-day, may I be
beneath it!"
For a moment the resolve seized him to have the ruffian arrested. There
was abundant evidence to convict him before a drum-head court-martial,
but then the heads of the field forces would inevitably shrink from
administering the extreme penalty; and besides, the question of motive
must arise, which would be an inconvenient thing to be ventilated in
public just then. No; the safest and best plan would be to pay the
assassin in his own coin; and, strong-headed and unscrupulous in such a
case as this, Claverton doubted not his ability to discharge the debt
with interest.
He reached his tent in time to find a trooper dismounting there. The
man looked hot, dusty, and tired, having ridden express from Cathcart
with letters and despatches for the camp. Saluting, he handed a
telegram to Claverton and withdrew. The latter held the ominous missive
for a moment, regarding it with a blank stare, then, with a jerk, tore
it open, and, at the first glimpse of its purport, his face became ashy.
This is what he saw:
From _Payne, Grahamstown_.
To _Claverton, Brathwaite's Horse, Colonial Forces in Gaika Location,
via Cathcart_.
_Come at once, and at all risks. No cause for alarm, but come_.
He looked at the date. The message had been handed in two days before,
and had been lying at Cathcart for lack of an opportunity of transport.
The words swam before his eyes, and his blood ran cold with a chill
fear. This brooding presentiment, then, had not come upon him for
nothing. Handing his companion the telegram, he strode to the door and
called for Sam.
"'Nkos?" and the native came running up with alacrity.
"Saddle-up Fleck and the young horse, Sam, and be ready to start in half
an hour at the outside."
"Yeh bo, 'Nkos," replied Sam, too well accustomed to his master's ways
to be astonished at anything; and he retired to carry out his orders.
Quickly Claverton went over to arrange with Jim Brathwaite for his
absence, and long before the appointed time he was ready to start. He
fidgeted about, looking at his watch every moment; and lo, just three
minutes short of the half-hour his retainer appeared with the two
horses.
"My dear fellow, don't give a thought to me," said Naylor, warmly, in
response to his explanations of this sudden departure. "I shall make
myself comfortable while you are away, never fear. Now, don't delay any
longer. Your duty shall be looked after all right," he added, and with
a close hand grip he bade his friend farewell.
Claverton, with his trusty follower, sped on across the hostile ground,
every yard of which might conceal a foe; but of this he took less than
no heed. All his thoughts were ahead of him by the hundred and odd
miles or so which he had to traverse. His plan was to change horses
half-way, leaving Sam to follow at leisure, once they were well out of
the localities where they might fall in with roving bands of the enemy;
and to push on, even if he killed his steed in the undertaking. Away in
the blue heavens clouds of vultures, the ubiquitous scavengers of
Southern Africa, were visible, poised above the scene of the late
conflict; and these grew fainter and fainter, till they were lost to
view in the far distance, and the sun began to decline in the west as
the travellers kept steadily on over hill and dale, carefully eschewing
short cuts and keeping to the beaten track. Once they were descried by
a group of Kafir scouts, who, from their position on a hill-top, opened
fire at long range, and of course ineffectually.
"Sam," exclaimed Claverton, as they were saddling up to continue their
road, after a short halt, "there's a devil of a storm coming up. Look
there."
The native glanced upwards. "There is, Inkos," he replied; "but we may
just ride through it and escape."
Great inky clouds were gathering with alarming rapidity, and hastening
to unite themselves to the dense black pall which drew on, silent,
spectral, and gigantic, over the mountain-tops, and a dull, muffled roar
boomed nearer and nearer between the fitful puffs of hot wind which
fanned the travellers' faces. And now the scene was a weird one indeed.
They were just entering a long defile--for they had reached the
mountains--and along the rugged crags of the lonely heights towering
above on either side, the red flashes were playing. Higher and higher
piled the solid cloud-masses, and a few large drops of rain began to
patter upon the stones. The gloom deepened, and all Nature was hushed
as if in preparation for the coming battle of the elements.
Hark! Was that the ring of a horse's hoof far down the pass? No. Not
a human creature is abroad in this awesome place to-night, with the
black, brooding storm overhead, and the clans of the savage enemy
besetting every step of the road with peril. A huge bird of prey soars
away from one of the desolate crags, uttering a hoarse, long-drawn cry
like the wailing of a lost soul. It is pitch dark. Then a flash lights
up the road, and Claverton, profiting by it, peers anxiously ahead.
"Come along, Sam. There's a smooth bit here, anyhow, and we can get
over a good stride of ground," and, spurring up his horse, away he goes
at a long, even canter, with the Natal boy close behind him striving to
keep up; and the sparks fly from beneath the horses' hoofs as they dash
on through the night. A roll of thunder--long, heavy, and appalling--
peals through the pass, a vivid flash of plum-coloured flame, and
Claverton suddenly reins in his steed--who, with a snort of terror,
rears and shies--just in time to avoid charging headlong into another
horseman advancing at an equally rapid pace from the contrary direction,
and who also reins in with a jerk. A powerfully-built, dark-featured
man who stifles a half-spoken ejaculation; but beyond that neither
speak.
What is the spell thrown over these two as they sit their horses gazing
at each other in the lightning's horrible, scathing gleam in that gloomy
pass? Is it an instinct? It is more. In that one vivid flash
occupying not a second of time, Claverton has recognised in this sudden
apparition the man whom he had seen and heard in the deserted hut,
deliberately instigating his assassination. He recognises something
more. As, with a muttered "good-night," the other passes on into the
gloom, the lightning flashes again, revealing upon his bridle-hand a
curious ring. It is an exact facsimile of the lost ring which glittered
in the moonbeams beneath the old pear-tree on that last night at Seringa
Vale.