WATER!
In double quick time Wilmshurst's party hurried over the stockade at
the same place where they had clambered out a short time previously.
Setting the tripod of the captured gun upon the raised bank at the rear
of the palisade the Rhodesians fitted a belt of ammunition and promptly
opened fire. Enfilading the attackers the effect of the totally
unexpected hail of bullets was stupendous. The dense masses of Askaris
simply melted. Only those nearest to the garrison escaped the
machine-gun fire, since it was impossible to traverse further to the
right without hitting friend as well as foe. Before the first belt of
ammunition had been expended most of the men who had gained a footing
in the village were _hors de combat_.
The assault was by no means over. Strong reserves were thrown into the
breach, taking advantage of the lull in the firing. Working coolly and
rapidly the machine-gunners fitted a new belt, but the difficulty now
arose that the weapon could not be trained over the palisade, which,
owing to its irregular form, screened the massed assailants.
Lifting the weapon and resting it upon the top of the stockade Bela
Moshi shouted to the corporal to jump on his shoulders. In this
difficult position the machine-gun reopened fire, but before
twenty-five rounds had been fired the weapon jammed.
The gun was served by three men only--the Rhodesian sergeant and
corporal and Bela Moshi. The rest of the party, including Wilmshurst,
had hurried off to reinforce the sorely-tried men engaged hand to hand
with the Askaris in the breach. Of the three only the corporal knew
much about the internal mechanism of a German machine-gun, and in the
ruddy, flickering light his task was greatly complicated.
Again the weapon was hoisted on the Haussa's broad shoulders. This
time the mechanism acted without a hitch. The Askaris broke and fled,
leaving a third of their number on the ground, while those who had
gained a footing within the kraal lost heart and threw down their arms.
Nevertheless the danger was by no means over. At two other points the
kraal had been entered, the defenders being forced back until
two-thirds of the village was in the hands of the foe. The
fiercely-burning huts now formed an effectual defence, the survivors of
the garrison having concentrated in a space in the form of a segment of
a circle, a portion of the palisade comprising the arc and the line of
flaming huts the chord. For the present the barrage of fire was
impassable, but what would happen when the conflagration burnt itself
out remained a matter for anxious speculation.
Rhodesians and blacks worked together to dig a trench and construct a
parapet. It was a strenuous task, for in order to give as much space
as possible to the already congested defenders the new defence work had
been pushed as far forward as the strength of the flames permitted.
The while desultory long-distance firing was indulged in by the
discomfited foe, the bullets pinging against the hard ground or flying
with a sharp "siss" overhead.
While this work was in progress the corporal hurried up and addressed
Wilmshurst.
"Your nigger sergeant's hit, sir," he reported.
The subaltern made his way to the spot where the machine-gun had been
placed out of the line of hostile fire, since a single bullet might put
it out of action. Lying upon the ground with his head propped against
the ammunition box was Bela Moshi.
The Haussa was barely conscious. He recognised his young officer and
gave a determined but ineffective attempt to smile. Already one of the
men had cut away Bela Moshi's tunic, revealing a bullet wound on the
right side of the chest. Even as Dudley placed his water-bottle to the
sergeant's lips the Haussa's eyes closed and he lost consciousness.
"What do you make of it?" asked Dudley, addressing the man attending to
the patient.
"He's as like to snuff it, sir," he replied. "Can't tell exactly--and
it's a tough job to tackle with only a field-service dressing."
"When was he hit?" continued the subaltern.
"That's a mystery, sir," was the answer. "We'd brought the gun under
cover--there wasn't a chance of being hit by direct fire, you'll
understand--and the black seemed to crumple up suddenly. Never said a
word, but just pitched on his face. I'll do my level best for him,
sir."
Leaving his water-bottle--and water was a scarce commodity, as the
supply within the kraal had been overrun by the fire--Dudley made his
way to the gap in the palisade, where other units were hard at work
digging a ditch across the exposed opening. Here he came face to face
with his brother, whose left arm was bandaged and in a sling.
"Copped it, you see, Dudley," remarked Rupert. "If there's any trouble
knocking about I'm bound to stand in. But I guess I did my whack
before I was knocked out," he added grimly. "Managed to work off sixty
rounds, and when we started I found myself wondering if I had the
strength to pick up a rifle."
"What have you got?" asked his brother.
"Bayonet thrust," was the reply. "We were jammed up anyhow, but the
fellow who gave it me won't try the trick on any one else. Have you
any water?"
Dudley shook his head.
"Sorry," he replied.
"Seems a scarcity of it," continued Rupert. "All the men's
water-bottles are bone-dry, and it's hot work tackling a kraal fire.
The niggers, too, are clamouring for water."
"The fire's burning itself out, I fancy," remarked Dudley. "Before
dawn we ought to be able to get to the well. Now I must do my whack."
Taking a spade of native workmanship from the hands of an exhausted
trooper the subaltern set to work with a will, for much had to be done
in a very short space of time. It was a case of excavating under
extreme difficulties, for apart from the smoke and heat from the
blazing huts bullets were dropping frequently and at random upon that
part of the kraal still held by the hard-pressed but as yet
unconquerable garrison.
Throughout the rest of the night the enemy made no attempt to renew the
assault. With the dawn the worst of the task of shortening the line
was accomplished, and the jaded men threw themselves down to rest,
until every available position immune from rifle fire was covered with
khaki and black figures sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.
There was little rest for Dudley Wilmshurst and the patrol-commander.
Having visited the sentries they examined the defences in order to
discover if there were any weak points that had escaped notice during
the hours of darkness.
With the exception of half a dozen huts every building comprising the
kraal was reduced to a heap of charred wood and ashes, from which smoke
was rising sullenly in the still air. The stockade adjoining had
shared the same fate, and had it not been for the earthworks
constructed during the night the rear of the defences would have been
completely open to direct rifle fire. At present the heat of the
smouldering embers was too great to allow any attempt to procure water
from the well that was situated almost in the centre of the kraal,
close to the site of the headman's hut.
The captured machine gun was still under cover, ready to be rushed to
any point where an attack might develop, but the trouble that
confronted the team was the fact that the water in the jacket had
evaporated and no more was at present procurable. The supply of rifle
ammunition, too, was running perilously short. In view of the
liability of the machine gun to jam after a few rounds, Wilmshurst
would have had no hesitation in using the cartridges from the belt had
the gun been a Maxim. But here he was beaten, for the difference in
British and German small-arms ammunition makes an interchange
impossible.
The next best thing was to arrange existing stocks, so that a few
troopers had plenty of .303 ammunition. The others, supplying
themselves with rifles and cartridges taken from the hundreds of German
dead, were then in a position to give a good account of themselves
should the enemy again attack at close quarters.
Having completed his present duties Wilmshurst made his way to the hut
where Bela Moshi had been taken after his wound had been dressed. The
building, consisting of bamboo walls and palm-leaf thatch, had been
converted into a hospital and made bullet proof by piling up earth
against the sides to a height of about six feet. Above that the
bamboos and the roof were riddled with bullets, making it a hazardous
business for any one to stand upright.
In the limited space were two Rhodesians suffering from gunshot wounds.
Almost every other man of the patrol had been hit, but one and all made
light of their injuries, and after receiving attention had resumed
their places in the defence. Over thirty villagers had been badly
wounded, but these were receiving the attention of their fellows,
since, for some unexplained reason, they were reluctant to have their
wounds dressed by their white allies.
"Going on famously, sir," announced the Rhodesian corporal, who, having
played a gallant part in the defence, had returned to his errand of
mercy. "I've extracted the bullet; it had lodged only a quarter of an
inch under the skin and close to the right of his backbone. I don't
fancy the lungs are touched. He'll pull through if any of us do."
"That's great!" exclaimed Wilmshurst, overjoyed that his devoted Haussa
sergeant stood a good chance of recovery. "You ought to have been a
doctor, corporal."
"I was very near it, sir," was the reply. "Had two years at Bart's and
then chucked up the idea and came to Rhodesia. But this is somewhat
remarkable; what do you make of it, sir?"
The corporal held up for inspection the bullet that had narrowly
escaped putting an end to Bela Moshi.
"Automatic pistol bullet, by Jove!" exclaimed the subaltern, handling
the piece of nickel.
"Yes, sir," continued the corporal, "and the Haussa has been muttering
while he was coming to. Putting two and two together, so to speak, I
fancy he stopped the bullet that grazed our sergeant's ear when we were
bringing in the gun."
"Ah, yes; Bela Moshi did fall, but he was quickly on his feet again,"
remarked Wilmshurst.
"With a bullet that had all but just passed completely through his
body," added the Rhodesian. "And after that he acted as a platform--he
had a man standing on his shoulders for nearly a quarter of an
hour--and only collapsed after the attack had been broken. There's
vitality and pluck for you, sir!"
"And if we come out of this business alive I'll see that Bela Moshi's
case is reported to the proper quarter," declared Dudley.
"The only thing against him is the want of water," said the corporal.
"I'd risk getting plugged for the sake of a couple of bottles of water.
How about the well, sir?"
"We're having a shot at it as soon as possible," replied the subaltern,
and picking up his water-bottle, he left the hut.
The urgency of the matter decided Dudley. If humanly possible he meant
to make the attempt forthwith. A glance at the still smouldering
debris told him pretty plainly that it was a dangerous if not
impossible undertaking, but for the sake of his Haussa sergeant the
subaltern determined to procure the precious fluid.
He sought out his brother, but Rupert was sound asleep. Rupert was the
only person he wanted to inform of his projected expedition, but that
course was denied him.
With the bottle slung across his shoulder and a native jar--holding
about a gallon--in each hand, Dudley leapt into the trench and scaled
the parapet before the few men who were in the vicinity were aware of
his intention. Then drawing a deep breath, like a diver about to make
a plunge, he dashed into the belt of smoke-laden air.
At every pace his boots kicked up showers of white ashes. The heat
penetrated the thick soles, it singed his hair and scorched his face
and hands. He felt himself wondering why he was such a fool as to try
conclusions with a mass of hot embers ... why wasn't he content to wait
another two hours or so, when the heat would have greatly decreased.
Supposing he lost his bearings in the smoke and couldn't find the well
after all?
These and a dozen other deprecatory thoughts flashed across his mind as
he stumbled onwards. He had had but a brief knowledge of the plan of
the kraal previous to the fire. He remembered that the well stood in
the centre of a fairly open space. There, at any rate, would he find a
comparatively safe oasis in the desert of hot embers.
"By Jove, that was a narrow one!" he soliloquised as a bullet--one of
many shot at a venture--whizzed dangerously close to his ears and
knocked up a number of small fougasses as it ricochetted in the embers.
He wanted to breathe. Already the air was on the point of being
exhausted in his lungs, yet he durst not gasp for breath. Another
twenty yards ... or was it forty? He was hardly sure of his
whereabouts.... Mentally he enquired if he had been making a detour
instead of keeping in a straight line. Maintaining direction in a haze
of smoke was far more difficult, he reflected, than in a fog,
especially when there was a time limit fixed for the performance.
Almost before he was aware of it Wilmshurst literally blundered upon an
open expanse where the short grass had been burnt off close to the
ground. Surrounded by a barrage of bluish vapour that rose from
irregular mounds of debris, the subaltern was able to breathe
comparatively fresh air.
Ahead was the well, its windlass of hard teak charred but otherwise
uninjured. It was a different case with the rope. The fibre had
smouldered badly; it would be unwise to attempt to raise the heavy
bucket by it.
Cutting adrift a length of the coir rope the subaltern bent it to the
neck of one of the jars and drew up the vessel full of liquid. The
water was loathsome in appearance, its surface being covered with ash
and fragments of charcoal of various sizes. Prudence, as taught by
long months of practical experience on the Coast, urged the young
officer to resist the desire to slake his burning thirst. No water
unless boiled and filtered can be drunk by Europeans without grave
risks of deadly disease. But Wilmshurst now threw caution to the winds.
With avidity he filled the joined palms of his hands with the brackish
and otherwise unpalatable liquid and raised it to his lips. He drank
deeply, unmindful of millions of unseen germs in his almost frantic
efforts to relieve the pangs of his parched throat.
Then completing his stock of hardly-gained water Wilmshurst turned to
retrace his way, aware that during his stay a steady breeze had
suddenly sprung up. Under its influence the dangers of the passage
through the embers were greatly increased, for, fanned by the wind,
numerous mounds of debris had flared up again, while the volume of
smoke had spread in density, blowing straight into his face.
For some moments Dudley stood irresolute; then seized by a sudden
inspiration he ran down wind, plunging through the charred wreckage.
He was going directly away from that part of the kraal still held by
his comrades. His new direction led towards a part of the hostile
investing lines, but he preferred to run the risk of being sniped at
six hundred yards to fighting his way through the now steadily burning
debris.
As he expected, his passage through this part of the devastated village
was relatively easy. Being the first of the huts to take fire this
section had almost burnt itself out. Occasionally he had to dodge
round a heap of still burning timber. The heat was almost unbearable,
while the smoke penetrating his lungs made him gasp and cough
violently; so much so, that twice he had to place his precious
water-jars on the ground and clutch at his throat in his distress.
At length a line of blackened, calcined posts told him that he had
emerged from the kraal, and that he was on the line formerly occupied
by the stockade. For another fifty or sixty yards he held on, until
the smoke cleared considerably; then changing direction, he began to
circumvent the abandoned line of defence until he came to the still
held position.
It was not long before several bullets, whizzing perilously close,
warned him that the enemy had spotted him through the eddying wreaths
of vapour. Others, striking the earth with a dull thud, ricochetted
within a few inches of his feet.
Bending, until his jars were almost bumping on the ground, the
subaltern summoned his remaining energies in a final spurt and doubled
almost recklessly towards his goal.
Through the smoke he heard the sharp challenge of one of the sentries.
He tried to reply, but no sound came from his parched throat. The man
raised his rifle, when his sergeant, recognising the dishevelled,
swaying form of Second-Lieutenant Wilmshurst, ordered the man to
recover arms. Then a white mist swam before the subaltern's eyes, and,
retaining sufficient presence of mind to place the hardly-won jars of
water upon the ground, he stumbled inertly into the arms of the
Rhodesian sergeant.