IM THE ENEMY'S POSITION
It was not long before Wilmshurst regained consciousness, to find that
his precious stock of water was being boiled under the direction of the
patrol-corporal. With admirable restraint the men, knowing that the
subaltern had risked a horrible death for the sake of his black
sergeant, had put the whole of the liquid to boil, insisting that a
fair distribution would be made when the water was fit for drinking. A
little over two gallons was not much among so many, but it would just
assuage their thirst until the steadily-declining heat of the
smouldering ruins permitted access to the well.
Producing his pump-filter, for Bela Moshi had taken particular pains to
leave it in a safe place before the sortie, the subaltern strained the
liquid. It was warm and insipid, yet it was now free from
contamination, and Bela Moshi drank it with avidity.
A suspicion of his broad smile flitted across his face as he took the
life-giving draught.
"You tink me lib for die, sah?" he enquired whimsically.
"No fear!" replied Wilmshurst, knowing that to a remarkable degree a
"nigger" can control his ability to live or die. He had known of a
black man who, grievously upset in a quarrel, declared that he was
going to die, and promptly lying down and turning his face to the
ground, the man was a corpse within half an hour. "You get well one
time quick, or me berry angry."
The subaltern's reply reminded him of a doting parent talking to a
small child in baby language. Bela Moshi was a mere child in certain
respects, and the mild threat had its effect. "Den me tink me lib,
sah," he said.
With this assurance Wilmshurst left to snatch a few hours' much-needed
rest. The bulk of the white men comprising the garrison were behind
the earthworks. Occasional sharp bursts of rifle firing came from the
bush, but no reply was made by the defenders of the kraal. Ammunition
was too scarce and precious to be thrown away at haphazard firing upon
an unseen foe. The Germans' remaining machine gun was unaccountably
silent. Perhaps it had failed, after the manner of automatic weapons.
On the other hand, although the captured machine-gun was liable to jam
after a few rounds, owing to its having become overheated, the Huns
were ignorant of the fact, and thus the practically useless weapon was
a strong moral factor in favour of its captors.
Dudley slept for a solid four hours, to awake considerably refreshed to
find that some one had spread a double ground-sheet above him, so as to
form a tent, for the sun was now directly overhead.
"Hullo, Rupert!" he exclaimed, upon seeing his brother. "How goes it?"
"Feeling quite my old self," was the reply. "A fellow can buck up even
in present circumstances after being penned up by a mob of rascally
Huns."
"What happened to you?" asked Dudley.
Rupert shrugged his bent shoulders.
"Don't ask me," he replied. "Some day I'll tell you--if we get out of
this scrap."
"Did you hear what became of Robert MacGregor?" persisted Dudley.
"A thundering good old pal!" declared his brother heartily. "If he'd
not been obliged to go back to Rhodesia I don't think I would have been
landed in a German prison. I'd give a lot to shake old Bob by the hand
again."
The subaltern regarded his brother intently. Rupert, he saw, was
speaking quite naturally and without any trace of sarcasm. It was
clear that he had not the slightest idea of the double, nay multi-dyed
treachery of Ulrich von Gobendorff.
"Dash it all!" he soliloquised. "I can't enlighten old Rupert just
now. Revelations must come later--if, as he remarked, we do come out
of this business alive."
About four o'clock in the afternoon the irritating rifle fire ceased.
Fifteen minutes passed without a shot winging its way from the dense
scrub; and although one or two of the defenders boldly stood upon the
parapet to draw the enemy, their tempting position brought no response.
"Guess we'll hike out and bring in some water," declared one. "No time
like the present, and we are as dry as a bone."
"Very good," agreed the patrol-commander. "Only look sharp about it.
This lull in the firing may mean that the Boches are up to some of
their knavish tricks."
Accordingly five men, each carrying four jars, set off to the well.
The dangers that Wilmshurst had encountered were now over, and in a
short space of time the five returned. Although they had been in full
view of the enemy positions throughout, their progress had not been
molested by so much as a single shot.
"The blighters are saving it up for us for to-night," declared a
trooper. "Wonder if a couple of us could steal through their lines and
make our way to the main column? A few squadrons would make Fritz sit
up."
"No use unless we were mounted," objected another; "and a fellow
couldn't hope to dash through their lines at full gallop. He'd be
chock full of bullets before he got within fifty yards of them."
"I'd risk it, anyway," asserted the first speaker. "Either mounted or
dismounted I reckon I'd do it as soon as it gets dark. But I'm hanged
if I can understand why Fritz is so horribly quiet and well-behaved."
"That's what we'd all like to know," added the sergeant. "I'm that
curious that I fancy taking a stroll that way myself."
Shortly afterwards a party of villagers were collected and set to work
to bury the bodies of those who had fallen in the futile assault. The
natives, contrary to expectation, performed their tasks without let or
hindrance from the enemy, although the men engaged in the work offered
a tempting target.
With the fall of darkness the mental attention of the garrison became
acute. At every slight or unaccountable sound the men strained eyes
and ears and grasped their rifles to meet an imaginary rush. Just
before midnight a shot rang out, the flash of the rifle being clearly
discernible at a point immediately fronting the scene of the most
formidable attack on the previous night.
"They're coming, boys!" exclaimed the patrol-commander. "Ten rounds
rapid when I give the word, then independent firing. Don't waste a
single shot."
Only the click of the rifle-bolts and the quick breathing of the men
broke the stillness. Even the natives, awed by the impending assault,
were silent as they handled their bows and long-hafted spears.
"Hear anything?" whispered the patrol-commander, edging close to
Wilmshurst.
"Nothing," replied the subaltern.
"They're coming, sir," exclaimed a deep voice.
The subaltern raised his binoculars and swept the intervening space.
The powerful night-glasses revealed no sign of the approaching enemy.
Again a flash, followed by the sharp report of a rifle, the bullet
knocking splinters from one of the cross-pieces of the stockade--and
then utter silence.
"Dashed if I can stick this!" declared Wilmshurst. "I'll go out and
see what's doing. With luck I'll be back in an hour."
"Very good," agreed the Rhodesian patrol-commander. "Give the word
'Buluwayo' for the countersign. Good luck!"
Without loss of time the subaltern started on his mission of
investigation. Once clear of the kraal he realised a sense of
loneliness. He would have given almost all he possessed for the
companionship of his trusty Bela Moshi. Then, shaking off the
instinctive depression, he devoted his thoughts to the work on hand.
He was taking a different route from the one he had followed on the
occasion of the capture of the machine-gun. It was unfamiliar ground,
flat and totally devoid of cover. Ahead lay a line of dark shadows
that marked the commencement of the encircling bush. It was only
slightly over a quarter of a mile away, but the distance seemed
interminable as he slowly and cautiously held on.
Once he stood stock still, his heart beating violently. Ten yards
ahead a man lay prone on the short grass. The faint starlight glinted
on the barrel of a rifle, which was pointed straight at the lone
subaltern.
Momentarily Wilmshurst expected to see the blinding flash of the rifle.
The fellow was a long time lingering over the sights, he thought. The
young officer moved a couple of paces to the right. The sinister
muzzle seemed to be following him, tantalisingly menacing.
Acting upon a sudden impulse Wilmshurst flung himself flat on the
ground. After a pause he raised his head and looked towards the
sniper, for such he took him to be. The man had not stirred. His
rifle was cocking upwards at an acute angle to the ground, "I believe a
dead Hun has given me cold feet," muttered the subaltern, and creeping
stealthily he made a wide detour round the rigidly immovable figure.
Then, satisfied up to a certain point, he crawled towards the
motionless object.
It was an Askari. The man was one of the first to be shot during the
onslaught. He had fallen face downwards, but still grasped his rifle
in such a position that there was good reason for mistaking him for a
sniper.
From this point Wilmshurst resumed his outward journey, proceeding on
hands and knees and halting at frequent intervals to place his ear to
the ground. He could detect no audible evidences of the foe. Never
before, in the course of two separate campaigns against native troops
officered by Germans, had he known such absolute silence amongst the
black rank and file.
On and on he crawled, grimly soliloquising that much more of this mode
of progression would make him imagine that he was a new type of
serpent, for as he approached the outer fringe of scrub he literally
moved on his stomach.
Proceeding thus he passed between two large thorn bushes. Beyond was a
slight artificial depression in the ground, on the bottom of which were
hundreds of metal cartridge cases.
By the peculiar pungent odour he knew that they had been fired within
the last twelve hours. Some were trodden into the loose earth, which
bore numerous indications of having been trampled both with boots and
bare feet.
"By Jove!" he thought. "Fritz has cleared out."
Even as the idea flashed across his mind a rifle-shot rang out on his
left.
Promptly Wilmshurst flattened himself to the ground, and waited
breathlessly for further developments. The weird silence was
maintained save for the distant croaking of bullfrogs in a marsh.
"Booby trap!" he declared, and cautiously groped around to find out if
he had incautiously touched a fine wire. At a radius of his extended
arm he found nothing of that nature. Perhaps, after all, a sniper was
concealed in the bushes on his left, for the bullet had not been
directed at him.
Bent upon investigating the mystery Wilmshurst crept round the
intervening bushes. Before he had traversed thirty yards his head came
in contact with the stock of a rifle. The weapon was lashed to a
couple of stout bamboos. Fastened to the trigger was a short piece of
wire, to which in turn was tied a length of raw hide. The subaltern
gave a chuckle of satisfaction. His discovery confirmed his surmise
that the investing force had raised the siege, leaving rifles so
arranged that they would fire automatically after various intervals in
order to convey the erroneous impression that the bush was still held
in force.
The raw hide cords had been placed in position during the heat of the
day. After dark the heavy dew moistened the hide and caused it to
contract until the tension upon the trigger was sufficient to release
the bolt action and detonate the cartridges.
A similar ruse, embodying more ingenuity, had been practised by the
British troops during the successful evacuation of the Gallipoli
peninsula; but in this case the fixed rifles were fired by means of a
small trickle of water dropping from an upper receptacle into a lower
one. To the latter was tied a cord, the other end of which was
fastened to the trigger. As soon as half a gallon of liquid entered
the lower tin can, resulting in a pressure of about seven pounds on the
trigger, the rifle was fired.
"And there are plenty of discarded tins lying about," thought
Wilmshurst. "It seems strange that methodical Fritz should waste a
good raw-hide thong when simpler and more efficacious means are
available, unless--ah! I wonder if it was a lack of water that made
them clear out?"
Wilmshurst was nothing if not thorough. Before returning with the
joyful news to the kraal he meant to satisfy himself that the Huns had
abandoned all their positions. It would be a bad business if, on the
strength of the young officer's report, the patrol left the village and
attempted to rejoin the main body only to find themselves suddenly
attacked in the open by vastly numerically superior forces.
Checking his direction from time to time by means of his luminous
compass Dudley penetrated nearly a mile into the bush. Everywhere
there were evidences that the enemy had retired in the direction of the
Karewenda Hills, while the not distant sounds of wild animals showed
that the bush was clear of anything of the nature of numerous parties
of human beings.
Satisfied on this point the subaltern was about to retrace his way when
he heard a stealthy footfall on the dew-soddened ground within a few
paces of the spot where he stood.
Softly and deliberately Wilmshurst dropped to the earth, screened by
the broad leaves of a cactus. He could hardly believe the evidence of
his senses when, almost within arm's length, appeared the foremost of a
single file of Haussas--men not only of his own battalion but of his
platoon.