"Do we think Victory great? And so it is.
But now it seems to me, when it cannot be helped,
That Defeat is great, and Death and Dismay are great!"
At twelve o'clock Colonel Blow and Maurice Stair and a number of men who
had not been able to get away any earlier arrived, and the children went
off to hail them and help get them some refreshment.
Mrs Marriott and I sat down under one of the great rocks on a lounge of
cool moss, glad to get out of the grilling sunshine for a while. It was
not long before we began to speak of what was uppermost in our minds--
our men at the front. I said:
"I don't know what your husband will say to you looking so fragile. I
shall have to feed you up and make you plump before he arrives."
Impulsively she leaned towards me and took hold of my hands. Her face
was suffused with colour.
"Deirdre, you have been so good to me, and I must tell you, though I
meant to keep it a secret. This looking fragile doesn't really matter--
it is natural." She paused, then added softly, "It is part of the state
of my coming motherhood."
"Oh!" I cried at last. "How beautiful and wonderful for you, dear!
And how glad I am!"
She looked at me shyly and gravely.
"Yes: it _is_ beautiful, Deirdre. But I did not always think so. I
knew it long ago, before Rupert went, and it seemed to me then like the
last bitter drop in a most bitter cup. Now everything is altered. You
and Anthony Kinsella have changed the face of life for him and for me."
"No, no! You have done it yourselves, dear. Your husband's fine effort
had to be made by himself; no one but one's self can do these things.
One must fight for one's own soul. You know:
"`Ye have no friend but Resolution!'"
"Yes, but if Anthony Kinsella had not given him his chance he would
never have broken away from--Don't I know? Oh, God! Did not I pray and
watch and fight for him?--and afterwards _watch him drop back_? Oh,
Deirdre, no one can ever know the awful things that passed before hope
died in me--that frightful drug rearing its hideous head between us like
a great beast! You cannot imagine what it means to a woman to see not
only the body but the soul of the man she loves being devoured before
her eyes, while she stands looking on--helpless! And then after a
time--it is all part of the hideous enslavement--he began to hate me for
looking on at his degradation!"
Her face became anguished even at the recollection. I held her hands
tightly, but I looked away from her eyes, and we were silent for a
while, but presently she went on:
"And your share in it has been great, Deirdre. Without your help I
could never have pulled myself out of the pit of despair and desolation
into which I had fallen. My spirit was in fetters: but you have helped
me to break them--and now I feel strong enough and brave enough for
whatever comes. I have a heart for any fate. We have a big fight
before us still, I know. Rupert has gone back in his profession all
this time that he has done nothing, thought nothing. It will be uphill
work getting back to where he was before--and we've only a tiny income--
and he may be tempted again. But, oh! how I mean to fight for my
happiness, Deirdre. And I _know_ that I shall win."
I could only press her hand tightly, and keep back my own tears. She
looked such a delicate little thing to put up such a big fight. It
seemed to me at that moment that the battle-field of life was a cruel
and hard place for women, and their reward for battles won, all too
pitiful. We sat a long time in silence.
At last we were aroused by a great hooting and tooting and banging of
pans and tin plates from the direction of the camp. The significance of
these sounds and also the odours of baked meats that were beginning to
suffuse the veldt, could not be misunderstood. We returned to camp and
dinner.
Mrs Burney had her best damask table-cloths spread in line on the level
grass, and Mrs Rookwood had decorated the snowy expanse with trails of
wild smilax and jasmine, and jam-jars full of scarlet lilies and
maidenhair fern. We sat down to a banquet of unparalleled splendour, of
which I cannot now remember all the details, but only that they were
opulent and luxurious and kingly. Afterwards every one had a glass of
some delightful champagne that had been unearthed from the cellars of
Hunloke and Dennison, and Colonel Blow ceremoniously arose and asked us
to drink the health of the Queen, and we drank, standing.
Then Captain Clinton jumped up again with his glass in the air and
called for toasts to Mr Rhodes and Dr Jim, and those we drank
uproariously. Afterwards we sat very quiet for a moment, and only the
children's voices were heard. Colonel Blow got up again and a hush fell
upon us all. Some of the women began to bite their lips, to keep
themselves from crying, and Mrs Shand, who had been one of the
brightest and gayest of the party all day, suddenly leaned against Saba
Rookwood's shoulder and began to sob.
"I ask you to drink to those who cannot be with us here to-day--because
they are attending to our business elsewhere--our fellows at the front!"
Across the table-cloth Annabel Cleeve and I stared at each other
dry-eyed.
"Here's to their speedy and safe return!" cried Captain Clinton, holding
his glass aloft so that the wine shone and sparkled in the sunshine like
liquid topaz. "Now you kids give three tremendous cheers for them, and
maybe they'll hear the echoes in Buluwayo."
That saved the situation. The men's strong "Hurrahs!" mingling with the
children's cheery voices, rang and echoed among the rocks and hills.
Emotion was pushed out of sight once more, and faces became calm. It
appeared too that Colonel Blow had not finished the giving of toasts.
He got up once again, his face wreathed in smiles.
"And I want you all to drink the health," he began, "of some one here
who has been the sunshine of our darkest days, and the brightest star of
many a weary night; who has minded the babies and made coffee for the
patrol boys, and generally kept us all from dying of sheer boredom and
hatred of life just by her lovely presence amongst us. I am sure you
all know who I mean."
I'm sure _I_ didn't. I stared round the table in astonishment, and to
see what the others were thinking of this unlooked-for enthusiasm on the
part of the usually sedate and sensible Commandant. Was he dreaming, or
was he infatuated with one of the women, and simply drivelling about
her? I had never noticed him paying any special attention to any one--
he always seemed to be so busy. Anyway, I felt quite annoyed about it,
and especially cross about the babies, whom I had looked upon as my own
particular loves. He raised his glass on high.
"I drink to Miss Deirdre Saurin!"
"And drink it on the table!" someone shouted, and every one got up once
more and put a dirty boot on Mrs Burney's nice table-cloth and made a
tremendous noise, while I stared at them. When I realised what they
were saying I went hot with vexation and embarrassment, for I felt sure
they were making fun of me.
"Respond! Respond!" they cried all round me.
"I never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life," I said crossly.
"And utterly uncalled for." I threw Colonel Blow a glance of the utmost
indignation. "I think you want to make every one hate me!" I said.
He merely shouted with laughter.
"Oh, I know I'm a wonder, but I couldn't do that," he said, and to my
amazement the women all rushed at me and hugged me and made me feel as
hot and stuffy and cross as possible.
When I say all, I don't of course mean that the Salisbury women did
anything of the kind. Miracles do not happen in modern times. But I
was not surprised that they got up in a group and strolled off sniffing
disdainfully. The whole thing was ridiculous and absurd.
"You've quite spoiled my day," I said to Colonel Blow afterwards. He
insisted upon taking me to see some wonderful drawings on a rode which
he said only he and one other man knew about; and when we got there they
were the same old drawings Mrs Marriott and I had been looking at in
the morning. So we sat on top of the rock and I continued my
upbraidings.
"Of course it was very kind of you and all that, and I dare say you
meant well--but I never felt more uncomfortable in my life, and I cannot
say I feel the least bit grateful to you. I made sure you were talking
about some woman you had fallen in love with and expected every one else
to do the same," I continued in my most unpleasant voice.
"Well, so I was," he had the effrontery to say. "But of course I know
there is no hope for me."
I stared at him coldly. I really did not feel disposed for any more
jesting. But his face had not the ghost of a smile on it, and he
continued quite gravely:
"I saw you kiss Kinsella the night he went, and of course I understood
that a girl like you would not have done that except for one reason. So
it can be of no use my telling you that I love you. Yet I want to tell
you if you don't mind, and to call you Deirdre once. May I, Deirdre?"
I really don't remember what I said, but I was frightfully surprised and
sorry. I don't believe I said anything. Perhaps I sat and stared at
him with my mouth open. I only know that we came out of it sworn
friends.
Afterwards we climbed to the top of the highest of the rocks to get a
view of the whole wide veldt lying shimmering in the sunshine with
far-off hazes and veils of purple and amethyst, draped about the horizon
like the robes of a god.
As we stood looking a cloud of dust appeared upon the road, and
presently we made out the figure of a man on a light horse approaching
the camp. He was coming from the west and, therefore, towards Fort
George, and when we realised this we knew that he was not from the town,
but from the front--some one with news.
Colonel Blow jumped up, and forgetting good manners and me ran for the
edge of the rock and began to climb down as fast as he could. But I as
swiftly followed him, and when he reached level ground I was there too.
Then we took hands and frankly ran for the camp, stumbling over ruts and
stones, and tripping in ant-bear holes, but covering the ground at a
speed I had never achieved before except in an express train. But in
spite of our haste the newcomer had arrived first, and we found him
dismounted, standing at the head of a pale-coloured drooping horse, with
every one in the camp clustered round him. I remember thinking that it
was the first time I had ever seen a horse that looked so exactly like
the pale-coloured horse Death is supposed to ride when he goes abroad.
I wondered what made me think of it at that moment.
I did not recognise the man's face as one I had ever seen; but when Mrs
Burney rushed forward and flung her arms round his neck I realised that
this was her husband, whom I had often seen before. Yes: it was Robert
Burney the scout! Yet why should dust and fatigue and a stubbly beard
so terribly alter a man as he was altered? It is true that his coat
hung in tatters, we could see his bare feet through his ragged boots,
and his cheek-bones seemed almost piercing through his cheeks. But as
he stood there looking at us I realised that it was in his eyes that the
change lay. I never saw a man with such hard, calm eyes. If it had
been a woman who stood there with those eyes I should have believed that
she had wept until she had no more tears, and could never weep again.
But this man's iron face, haggard and weary though it seemed, was not
one that could be associated with tears. Yet it is true that when I
looked into the fearless, still eyes of Robert Burney I thought of
tears--tears that were frozen in the heart and would never be shed.
Neither were they dumb, those eyes of his that were so calm. When we
had looked at him in silence for a moment, some knowledge leaped out to
us from them and entered into our very hearts, paling our faces and
chilling our blood so that we stood there shivering in the warm sunshine
while we waited for him to speak. Fear had us by the throat, and in the
heart of every one "terror was lying still!"
Some name trembled on every lip, and each one of us longed to shout a
question: but tongue clave to palate, lips were too dry to open. It was
revealed to us in some strange way that Robert Burney had more to tell
than the mere fate of one man.
At last he moistened with his tongue his cracked and dust-thickened
lips, and spoke quietly:
"A lot of our fellows have been surrounded and cut up."
No one cried out. No one fainted. We just stood there quietly round
him, staring into his eyes and listening. No one wept, except Mrs
Burney, who had her man safe back in her arms.
"Wilson from Victoria--Alan Wilson, with eighteen men, went across the
Shangani River on the King's spoor. We understood that the King was
deserted all but a few hundred men, and Major Wilson was to see how the
land lay. His idea was to get the King that night if possible and bring
him in; but when he reached the scherms it was too late and too dark to
do anything; only, he saw that the numbers round Lobengula had been
underrated, and that the natives were threatening and hostile. He sent
Napier back with information to Major Forbes for reinforcements, but
Major Forbes did not think it safe to move that night and sent Captain
Borrow instead with twenty men. Ingram and I had already gone on ahead
and joined Wilson, and when Borrow reached us we were camped out in the
bush about half a mile away from the King's scherms. We lay there all
night under arms, in pitch darkness and drenching rain; we could hear
the voices of the natives in the bush round us. Several hours of the
night Major Wilson and I spent in trying to find three men who were
lost. They had got separated from the rest of us, and Wilson wouldn't
rest till he knew they were all right. It was so dark that I had to
feel for the spoor with my hands, and eventually we found them by
calling out their names continually but very softly, and we got back to
camp together.
"With the first glint of dawn we saddled up and rode down to the King's
waggon again, and Major Wilson called in a loud voice to Lobengula to
come out and surrender. Immediately we were answered by the rattle of
guns, and a heavy fire! They had evidently been `laying' for us. We
dismounted and returned the fire, but as soon as the natives began
trying to get round us we mounted and retreated about six hundred yards,
when we again dismounted and returned the fire from behind our horses.
Then as they began to take to the bush round us we rode off again. Two
of our horses had been shot, so two horses had to carry double.
"We rode slowly down the spoor made by the King's waggons the night
before, Major Wilson and Captain Borrow behind us consulting as to what
to do. Major Wilson then called me and asked me to ride back and get
the main column to come on at once with the Maxims. I rode off with two
other men, and we hadn't gone a hundred yards when hordes of Matabele
rushed out on us from the bush ahead, waving their assegais and yelling.
We galloped to the left where the river lay, and by hard riding got
away through a shower of bullets.
"When we got to the river we found it in flood, and we had to swim over.
Of course, it was too late then for the main column to cross.
"Immediately after we got away from the last lot of natives we heard
Wilson and his party come up to them, and heavy firing commenced. I
looked back just before we got out of sight and saw that our fellows
were surrounded.
"There must have been thousands... our men in an open space without
cover of any kind... surrounded by those shouting, ferocious devils mad
for revenge!
"They were the pick of our forces--the very flower--thirty-four of the
finest fellows in the country--in the world!"
He paused a little while, and his throat moved in a curious way that
fascinated my eyes, so that I could not think about his news, but only
about what was choking him.
"It is still hoped that some of them escaped. But I don't think so...
It is true that some of them might possibly have got away--_if they had
tried_. By hard riding those with the best mounts might, _but they were
not the kind of men to leave their chums_. No: you can take it from me
they fought it out there--side by side--to the bitter end.
"But before that end came you can believe that they put up a fight that
the natives of this country will never forget. I guess they showed
those devils how brave men can die."
After a long time some one spoke. Some one had the fearful courage to
stammer from twisted lips a question:
"Who were they? Tell us the names." Robert Burney's steady glance
passed from face to face, and he gave us the names.
"Alan Wilson," he repeated lingeringly, as though he loved the sound of
those two words; and there is indeed something gallant-sounding,
something intrepid and chivalrous, in the rhythm of that man's name whom
other men so much loved--that dauntless leader who instilled the spirit
of courageous adventure and loyal comradeship into every one with whom
he came in contact; whose comrades so loved him that it is certain they
followed him to death as gaily as they would have ridden by his side to
victory.
"Alan Wilson--Borrow--Kirton--Judd--Greenfield--" Sometimes he paused
for a moment, but he never repeated a name twice and he gave us every
one of the thirty-four. Some one checked them off, slowly and
relentlessly, like a clock ticking and bringing us at each tick nearer
to some dreadful doom. When he had finished a sigh passed over us like
a ghostly wind.
Some of them were names we knew well; some we had never heard before;
all were names to be thereafter written in our memories, and in letters
of scarlet and gold across the deathless page of Fame. In other places
many a woman's head would be bowed to the dust, many a bereaved heart
torn and broken, while yet it thrilled with pride for the glorious "Last
Stand" of those thirty-four dauntless men.
But for most of us standing there, hanging upon the words of Robert
Burney, breathing heavily after every name as from a deathblow escaped,
all that it seemed possible to feel at that moment was a savage joy; a
joy so painful that it seemed as if it must burst the heart that felt
it.
God knows we grudged Fame to none for their noble dead. We mourned with
them, and would weep for them. But at first, just at first, in that
great pain of relief, we could not help that little ghostly sighing wind
of relief and thanks that escaped from our dry lips--thanks to God for
the omission of the special name we loved from that terrible roll-call
of Honour.
Alas! for one among us who could not so thank God--for the wife of one
of the only two married men who fell with that heroic band. When we
realised what had befallen her we gathered round her. We could do
nothing to comfort her. No one tried to beguile her from her grief with
words. But it seemed a kind thing to do to shelter her stricken eyes
from the gay and flaunting sunshine.
All was not yet told. There had been other engagements. After the loss
of the Wilson patrol the main column had retreated down the Shangani
River to Umhlangeni, and all the way were continuously attacked.
Moreover, they had run short of food and been forced to eat some of
their horses; their boots had given out; many of them were obliged to
march with their broken feet thrust into the regulation leather wallets;
fever also had attacked them. Another list of casualties was
necessarily attached to this retreat. One of the nice cheeky boys had
been killed; Mrs Shand's husband wounded; Dr Marriott--
When Burney came to this name his eyes rested for a moment on Mrs
Marriott's listening face, and by something that came into his
expression I knew that his news for her was of the worst. God knows if
she too read his look aright, but she was the first to speak:
"What news of my husband, Mr Burney?" For a moment Robert Burney's
voice stuck in his throat; then he spoke out clearly, looking at the
fragile, ashen-faced woman with actually the glint of a smile on his
face, for as a brave man he had a kind of joy in saying what he did.
"He died a splendid death, Mrs Marriott, saving Dick Saurin's life."
Elizabeth Marriott showed that she was made of the material of which
heroes' wives should be made. She smiled too--a proud, bright, almost a
gay smile. Then she turned to me and said softly so that no one heard
but I:
"That is my gift to you, Deirdre Saurin." I kissed her, and my tears
streamed down my face, falling upon hers; but suddenly they were dried
in my eyes, and I could weep no more. Some fateful words, spoken almost
brokenly by Robert Burney, had fallen upon my ears: "Tony Kinsella is
missing." It was as though some one had thrust a sword into my heart
and I could feel the life-blood ebbing away from me, leaving me cold--
cold as some frozen thing in the Arctic Sea. Though the sun shone so
gaily upon us there I shivered with bitter cold.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a desolate home-coming. As soon as the sun went down a mass of
slate-coloured clouds that had been crouching in the south-west like
some stealthy winged monster waiting to pounce, spread itself out
swiftly and enshrouded us in grey, misty rain.
The men hurriedly _inspanned_ and urged us into the shelter of the
waggons, then started to walk ahead in silent, gloomy groups. No woman
walked, except Mrs Burney; we could see her far behind, clinging to her
husband's arm, gazing into his face, caring nothing for rain--why should
she? Mrs Rookwood, proud to have been asked to do so, minded the
Burney baby and tried to hide the gladness of her eyes from those who
had little enough cause to rejoice. Her news had been good; George
Rookwood had done well and was returning on some special errand in a day
or two.
The children were bunched together in a little scarlet cluster at the
end of the waggon, watching silent and wide-eyed two of their number who
were weeping huddled against their mother. She sat between them with a
white, thoughtful face on which there was no sign of tears, though her
news had been bad enough to wipe all hope and joy from her life.
"Hush, children," she kept gently repeating. "_We don't know for
certain_... Mr Burney said there might be... that some thought there
was still hope... we can't be sure... but if it is--if he should be--he
would like us to take it bravely--not to--not to make a fuss... but I
don't think it _can_ be true... surely it can't be true." Her afflicted
eyes searched our faces for some gleam of hope. But we had none to
give. We were fighting each our own devils of despair.
The mental exaltation that had sustained Mrs Marriott had given place
to physical exhaustion and she lay against my shoulder with a strange
heaviness, still as a stone, her eyes closed. Annabel Cleeve fainted
quietly, twice, before we reached home, and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe and
Mrs Valetta did what they could for her. But the latter's pale,
haunted face was not one in which to seek comfort. Once her glance
crossed mine like a rapier flash, but I was sick and cold with pain, and
had neither pity nor disdain in my heart for her. My mind was busy with
its own misery. I was striving to "rear the changeling Hope in the
black cave of Despair." My thoughts set me in torment, and I could
remember nothing but the words of Robert Burney:
"He was last heard of out scouting with two other men near the Shangani
River. They were surrounded and attacked by a party of twelve natives
armed with rifles and assegais. One of them, Britton, managed to get
away and ride to the main column for help, and when he got back with a
patrol an hour later the other fellow, Vincent, was lying there wounded,
surrounded by the bodies of dead natives, but Kinsella was nowhere to be
found--and has never been heard of or seen since. Vincent could tell
nothing but that just before he became unconscious Kinsella was still
standing over his body shooting--"
Not to know! Not to know! Torturing visions stole upon me; visions of
men lying wounded to death; parched with bitter thirst; waiting, waiting
for reinforcements that never came; for help that would never come!
Then the terrible yet merciful remembrance that it was all so long ago!
Many, many days had passed since it happened. If those splendid, heroic
men lay there still they must be of the great, noble company of the
dead. I looked up at the grey arch above me, blurred and dim with rain,
and thinking of the unsheltered dead, lying with eyes wide open to the
skies, was thankful that it fell so gently and pityingly down.
"O loved ones lying far away,
What word of love can dead lips send?
O wasted dust! O senseless clay!
Is this the end? Is this the end?
"Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead
To vex their solemn slumber so.
Though childless and with thorn-crowned head
Up the steep path must England go--"
I could not remember at that moment who wrote those great lines. I only
know that I thought there was strange healing in them for mourning
hearts. There seemed suddenly something peaceful in the thought of
Death; something that lulled and dulled the active burning pain of
uncertainty.
There seemed even a kind of mercy in Elizabeth Marriott's definite
tidings, terrible as they were. She knew at least that her man was at
rest from torment; suffering was done with him; pain had been defeated.
But--_Not to know_! _Not to know_!
Before twelve o'clock that night Maurice Stair came to me and told me
that he had determined to leave at once with two good colonial boys,
Jacob and Jonas, to find Anthony Kinsella if possible, or at least get
definite tidings of his fate.
"If he is alive I'll bring him back," he said, in the quiet, modest way
I had always found so attractive in him, and kissing the hand I gave him
he went on his way.