The Matabele it was, sure enough; there could be no doubt of it, for
soon three other men joined the sentry and began to talk with him,
pointing with their great spears at the side of the hill. Evidently they
were arranging a surprise when there was sufficient light to carry it
out.
“They have seen our fire,” whispered her father to Benita; “now, if
we wish to save our lives, there is only one thing to do--ride for it
before they muster. The impi will be camped upon the other side of the
hill, so we must take the road we came by.”
“That runs back to Bambatse,” faltered Benita.
“Bambatse is better than the grave,” said her father. “Pray Heaven that
we may get there.”
To this argument there was no answer, so having drunk a sup of water,
and swallowing a few mouthfuls of food as they went, they crept to the
horses, mounted them, and as silently as possible began to ride down the
hill.
The sentry was alone again, the other three men having departed. He
stood with his back towards them. Presently when they were quite close
on to him, he heard their horses’ hoofs upon the grass, wheeled round at
the sound, and saw them. Then with a great shout he lifted his spear and
charged.
Mr. Clifford, who was leading, held out his rifle at arm’s length--to
raise it to his shoulder he had no time--and pulled the trigger. Benita
heard the bullet clap upon the hide shield, and next instant saw the
Matabele warrior lying on his back, beating the air with his hands and
feet. Also, she saw beyond the shoulder of the kopje, which they were
rounding, hundreds of men marching, and behind them a herd of cattle,
the dim light gleaming upon the stabbing spears and on the horns of the
oxen. She glanced to the right, and there were more men. The two wings
of the impi were closing upon them. Only a little lane was left in the
middle. They must get through before it shut.
“Come,” she gasped, striking the horse with her heel and the butt of her
gun, and jerking at its mouth.
Her father saw also, and did likewise, so that the beasts broke into a
gallop. Now from the point of each wing sprang out thin lines of men,
looking like great horns, or nippers, whose business it was to meet and
cut them off. Could they pass between them before they did meet? That
was the question, and upon its answer it depended whether or no they had
another three minutes to live. To think of mercy at the hands of these
bloodthirsty brutes, after they had just killed one of their number
before their eyes, was absurd. It was true he had been shot in
self-defence; but what count would savages take of that, or of the
fact that they were but harmless travellers? White people were not very
popular with the Matabele just then, as they knew well; also, their
murder in this remote place, with not another of their race within a
couple of hundred miles, would never even be reported, and much less
avenged. It was as safe as any crime could possibly be.
All this passed through their minds as they galloped towards those
closing points. Oh! the horror of it! But two hundred yards to cover,
and their fate would be decided. Either they would have escaped at least
for a while, or time would be done with them; or, a third alternative,
they might be taken prisoners, in all probability a yet more dreadful
doom. Even then Benita determined that if she could help it this should
not befall her. She had the rifle and the revolver that Jacob Meyer had
given her. Surely she would be able to find a moment to use one or the
other upon herself. She clenched her teeth, and struck the horse again
and again, so that now they flew along. The Matabele soldiers were
running their best to catch them, and if these had been given but
five seconds of start, caught they must have been. But that short five
seconds saved their lives.
When they rushed through them the foremost men of the nippers were not
more than twenty yards apart. Seeing that they had passed, these halted
and hurled a shower of spears after them. One flashed by Benita’s cheek,
a line of light; she felt the wind of it. Another cut her dress, and
a third struck her father’s horse in the near hind leg just above the
knee-joint, remaining fast there for a stride or two, and then falling
to the ground. At first the beast did not seem to be incommoded by this
wound; indeed, it only caused it to gallop quicker, and Benita rejoiced,
thinking that it was but a scratch. Then she forgot about it, for some
of the Matabele, who had guns, began to shoot them, and although their
marksmanship was vile, one or two of the bullets went nearer than was
pleasant. Lastly a man, the swiftest runner of them all, shouted after
them in Zulu:
“The horse is wounded. We will catch you both before the sun sets.”
Then they passed over the crest of a rise and lost sight of them for a
while.
“Thank God!” gasped Benita when they were alone again in the silent
veld; but Mr. Clifford shook his head.
“Do you think they will follow us?” she asked.
“You heard what the fellow said,” he answered evasively. “Doubtless they
are on their way to attack Bambatse, and have been round to destroy some
other wretched tribe, and steal the cattle which we saw. Yes, I fear
that they will follow. The question is, which of us can get to Bambatse
first.”
“Surely we ought to on the horses, father.”
“Yes, if nothing happens to them,” and as he spoke the words the mare
which he was riding dropped sharply upon her hind leg, the same that had
been struck with the spear; then recovered herself and galloped on.
“Did you see that?” he asked.
She nodded; then said:
“Shall we get off and look at the cut?”
“Certainly not,” he answered. “Our only chance is to keep her moving;
if once the wound stiffens, there’s an end. The sinew cannot have been
severed, or it would have come before now.”
So they pushed on.
All that morning did they canter forward wherever the ground was smooth
enough to allow them to do so, and notwithstanding the increasing
lameness of Mr. Clifford’s mare, made such good progress that by midday
they reached the place where they had passed the first night after
leaving Bambatse. Here sheer fatigue and want of water forced them to
stop a little while. They dismounted and drank greedily from the
spring, after which they allowed the horses to drink also; indeed it was
impossible to keep them away from the water. Then they ate a little, not
because they desired food, but to keep up their strength, and while
they did so examined the mare. By now her hind leg was much swollen, and
blood still ran from the gash made by the assegai. Moreover, the limb
was drawn up so that the point of the hoof only rested on the ground.
“We must get on before it sets fast,” said Mr. Clifford, and they
mounted again.
Great heavens! what was this? The mare would not stir. In his despair
Mr. Clifford beat it cruelly, whereupon the poor brute hobbled forward
a few paces on three legs, and again came to a standstill. Either an
injured sinew had given or the inflammation was now so intense that it
could not bend its knee. Understanding what this meant to them, Benita’s
nerve gave out at last, and she burst into weeping.
“Don’t cry, love,” he said. “God’s will be done. Perhaps they have given
up the hunt by now; at any rate, my legs are left, and Bambatse is
not more than sixteen miles away. Forward now,” and holding to her
saddle-strap they went up the long, long slope which led to the poort in
the hills around Bambatse.
They would have liked to shoot the mare, but being afraid to fire a
rifle, could not do so. So they left the unhappy beast to its fate, and
with it everything it carried, except a few of the cartridges. Before
they went, however, at Benita’s prayer, her father devoted a few seconds
to unbuckling the girths and pulling off the bridle, so that it might
have a chance of life. For a little way it hobbled after them on three
legs, then, the saddle still upon its back, stood whinnying piteously,
till at last, to Benita’s intense relief, a turn in their path hid it
from their sight.
Half a mile further on she looked round in the faint hope that it
might have recovered itself and followed. But no mare was to be seen.
Something else was to be seen, however, for there, three or four miles
away upon the plain behind them, easy to be distinguished in that
dazzling air, were a number of black spots that occasionally seemed to
sparkle.
“What are they?” she asked faintly, as one who feared the answer.
“The Matabele who follow us,” answered her father, “or rather a company
of their swiftest runners. It is their spears that glitter so. Now,
my love, this is the position,” he went on, as they struggled forward:
“those men will catch us before ever we can get to Bambatse; they are
trained to run like that, for fifty miles, if need be. But with this
start they cannot catch your horse, you must go on and leave me to look
after myself.”
“Never, never!” she exclaimed.
“But you shall, and you must. I am your father and I order you. As for
me, what does it matter? I may hide from them and escape, or--at least I
am old, my life is done, whereas yours is before you. Now, good-bye, and
go on,” and he let go of the saddle-strap.
By way of answer Benita pulled up the horse.
“Not one yard,” she said, setting her mouth.
Then he began to storm at her, calling her disobedient, and undutiful,
and when this means failed to move her, to implore her almost with
tears.
“Father, dear,” she said, leaning down towards him as he walked, for
now they were going on again, “I told you why I wanted to run away from
Bambatse, didn’t I?--because I would rather risk my life than stay.
Well, do you think that I wish to return there and live in that place
alone with Jacob Meyer? Also, I will tell you another thing. You
remember about Mr. Seymour? Well, I can’t get over that; I can’t get
over it at all, and therefore, although of course I am afraid, it is all
one to me. No, we will escape together, or die together; the first if we
can.”
Then with a groan he gave up the argument, and as he found breath they
discussed their chances. Their first idea was to hide, but save for a
few trees all the country was open; there was no place to cover them.
They thought of the banks of the Zambesi, but between them and the river
rose a bare, rock-strewn hill with several miles of slope. Long before
they could reach its crest, even if a horse were able to travel there,
they must be overtaken. In short, there was nothing to do except to push
for the nek, and if they were fortunate enough to reach it before the
Matabele, to abandon the horse there and try to conceal themselves among
the ruins of the houses beyond. This, perhaps, they might do when once
the sun was down.
But they did not deceive themselves; the chances were at least fifty to
one against them, unless indeed their pursuers grew weary and let them
go.
At present, however, they were by no means weary, for having perceived
them from far away, the long-legged runners put on the pace, and the
distance between them and their quarry was lessening.
“Father,” said Benita, “please understand one thing. I do not mean to be
taken alive by those savages.”
“Oh! how can I----” he faltered.
“I don’t ask you,” she answered. “I will see to that myself. Only, if I
should make any mistake----” and she looked at him.
The old man was getting very tired. He panted up the steep hillside,
and stumbled against the stones. Benita noted it, and slipping from the
horse, made him mount while she ran alongside. Then when he was a
little rested they changed places again, and so covered several miles
of country. Subsequently, when both of them were nearly exhausted, they
tried riding together--she in front and he behind, for their baggage had
long since been thrown away. But the weary beast could not carry this
double burden, and after a few hundred yards of it, stumbled, fell,
struggled to its feet again, and stopped.
So once more they were obliged to ride and walk alternately.
Now there was not much more than an hour of daylight left, and the
narrow pass lay about three miles ahead of them. That dreadful three
miles; ever thereafter it was Benita’s favourite nightmare! At the
beginning of it the leading Matabele were about two thousand yards
behind them; half-way, about a thousand; and at the commencement of the
last mile, say five hundred.
Nature is a wonderful thing, and great are its resources in extremity.
As the actual crisis approached, the weariness of these two seemed to
depart, or at any rate it was forgotten. They no longer felt exhausted,
nor, had they been fresh from their beds, could they have climbed or run
better. Even the horse seemed to find new energy, and when it lagged
Mr. Clifford dug the point of his hunting knife into its flank. Gasping,
panting, now one mounted and now the other, they struggled on towards
that crest of rock, while behind them came death in the shape of those
sleuth-hounds of Matabele. The sun was going down, and against its
flaming ball, when they glanced back they could see their dark forms
outlined; the broad spears also looked red as though they had been
dipped in blood. They could even hear their taunting shouts as they
called to them to sit down and be killed, and save trouble.
Now they were not three hundred yards away, and the crest of the pass
was still half a mile ahead. Five minutes passed, and here, where the
track was very rough, the horse blundered upwards slowly. Mr. Clifford
was riding at the time, and Benita running at his side, holding to the
stirrup leather. She looked behind her. The savages, fearing that their
victims might find shelter over the hill, were making a rush, and
the horse could go no faster. One man, a great tall fellow, quite
out-distanced his companions. Two minutes more and he was not over a
hundred paces from them, a little nearer than they were to the top of
the pass. Then the horse stopped and refused to stir any more.
Mr. Clifford jumped from the saddle, and Benita, who could not speak,
pointed to the pursuing Matabele. He sat down upon a rock, cocked his
rifle, took a deep breath, and aimed and fired at the soldier who was
coming on carelessly in the open. Mr. Clifford was a good shot, and
shaken though he was, at this supreme moment his skill did not fail
him. The man was struck somewhere, for he staggered about and fell;
then slowly picked himself up, and began to hobble back towards his
companions, who, when they met him, stopped a minute to give him some
kind of assistance.
That halt proved their salvation, for it gave them time to make one last
despairing rush, and gain the brow of the poort. Not that this would
have saved them, however, since where they could go the Matabele could
follow, and there was still light by which the pursuers would have been
able to see to catch them. Indeed, the savages, having laid down the
wounded man, came on with a yell of rage, fifty or more of them.
Over the pass father and daughter struggled, Benita riding; after them,
perhaps sixty yards away, ran the Matabele, gathered in a knot now upon
the narrow, ancient road, bordered by steep hillsides.
Then suddenly from all about them, as it appeared to Benita, broke
out the blaze and roar of rifles, rapid and continuous. Down went the
Matabele by twos and threes, till at last it seemed as though but quite
a few of them were left upon their feet, and those came on no more;
they turned and fled from the neck of the narrow pass to the open slope
beyond.
Benita sank to the ground, and the next thing that she could remember
was hearing the soft voice of Jacob Meyer, who said:
“So you have returned from your ride, Miss Clifford, and perhaps it was
as well that the thought came from you to me that you wished me to meet
you here in this very place.”