There always seems to be more ardour and vitality in blue-eyed people
than in others, and Diane Heywood and Maryon Hammond were both
blue-eyed--with a difference. His were blue as the inner light of a
glacier, with something of the ice's quality in their steady stare--a
fighter's eyes, hard as a rock that you cannot break with an axe; the
kind of eyes that women forgive anything to. Indeed Hammond had spent
most of his thirty-eight years sinning against women, and they forgave
him even unto seventy times seven; and that was as far as the Holy
Scriptures entered into the matter. Like Napoleon he was a little
fellow when it came to measurements, but so alert, high-headed, and
graceful that no one would have guessed him to be something under
five-foot eight, and he had the swiftest, most silent feet in Africa,
whether for dancing, running, leaping, tracking a lion, or kicking a
nigger. A copper complexion bestowed upon him by the land he loved, and
a small tan-coloured moustache above a somewhat traplike mouth made up
the rest of his equipment. It may be gathered that he was no beauty;
but he was "the captain of his soul," such at it was, and he carried
himself as though the gods had elected him to be one of the eternal
captains of the earth.
Diane Heywood's eyes were long and deep and cool with shadows in them
like the shadows under far hills on a hot day, and that should have been
enough for any woman; but the gods had been good to her and added a slim
little nose that grew straight out of her forehead like a Greek woman's,
dragging her upper lip so high that there seemed nothing of it except a
red curve above another red curve and a short firm chin with a cleft in
it. It was hard to tell what in all these soft curves and dimples
should suggest a pride of spirit almost insolent, a scorn of all things
that were not high and clear and noble. It might have been something in
the tilt of her head, the turn of her mouth, or the unflickering
character of the shadows in her eyes; but whatever or wherever its
origin it was there for all men to read, and not the least of her
attractions when read; for all men, whether they know it or not, love
that quality of pride in women, recognising, dimly or clearly according
to their natures, that on it is based all fine and great things in the
generation to come.
However, if instead of possessing the beauty of a May Day Miss Heywood
had been the dullest and plainest of girls she would still have enjoyed,
for a time at least, the rather enchanting experience of having all the
men in Fort Salisbury buzzing about her like bees round a rose on a June
morning, and every woman hanging on her lips as if she were the Oracle
of Thebes. For she had come straight from England and the charm of
"home" still hung about her even as the colour of "home" stayed in her
cheeks. She had seen fields--little square fields with hedges growing
round them, and buttercups growing in them--plucked blackberries and
cowslips, ridden to hounds in the Black Vale; heard the jingle of hansom
bells, and 'busses rumbling on asphalt, and the boom of Big Ben; tasted
London fog, smelt the Thames; seen Charles the First riding down
Whitehall, and Nelson's cocked hat lost in the mist. She, the latest
comer, had seen and done and heard all or any of these dear and
desirable things later than any of the homesick exiles in Salisbury;
therefore was she most dear and desirable beyond all things that be.
"She was London, she was Torment, she was Town."
There were in Rhodesia women whom men loved or reverenced or tolerated
or disliked or desired as the case might be, but, for the time being,
one and all of these were neglected and forgotten for the society of
"the girl from home."
Five men were on the verge of proposing to her--one of whom by the way
was already engaged--when suddenly Maryon Hammond with his dog Boston at
his heels dropped up from his mining camp out beyond Mazoe. And when
"Marie" Hammond set his gay, bad eyes on a woman's face, and his feet on
the path that led to that woman's heart, the other men were just wise
enough to drop out of the running and pretend they didn't mind.
Like all great passions, it did not take long to come to a head--only a
few afternoon rides across the short springy veld grass, a few moonlit
evenings with music in the house and loungers in the verandahs, a supper
or two up in the old Kopje Fort, and then the ball got up by Hammond and
his cronies at the club.
When, after the fifth waltz, Diane Heywood came into the ballroom from
the dim verandah where she had been sitting-out a dance with Maryon
Hammond, her eyes were like two violets that had been plucked at dawn
with the mists of the night still on them. She had the lovely dewy look
of a girl who has been kissed in the darkness by the man she loves; a
girl whose heart has waked up and found itself beating in a woman's
breast.
They had known each other only a week, but it was plain to see what had
come to them. She wore the news in her parted lips, her tinted cheeks,
and the little rumple of her hair. He walked as one whom the gods had
chosen to honour, pride-of-life written across his face, yet in his eyes
a humility curious in Maryon Hammond. He had met his Waterloo.
Some of the women gave little sighs, not in envy so much as in a kind of
sadness that certain beautiful things only come once in each woman's
life, however much she may try and repeat or give base imitations of
them; and most men felt a sort of warmth in their veins as they looked
at those two radiant beings. But a number of people merely contented
themselves with feeling extremely glad that the career of Maryon Hammond
as a pirate in love was at an end.
For it must here be admitted that the spectacle of a woman holding out
her soul in both hands for Maryon Hammond to play with, or walk over, or
throw into the fires that burn and consume not, was not an altogether
novel one to some at least of those present; it had been witnessed
before in various parts of Africa--and the entertainment, it may be
mentioned, is not a pretty one when the man concerned is not worrying
particularly about souls. People said that Marie Hammond took toll of
women's souls for something a woman had once done to his own, long ago
in his own country America; but none knew the rights of the story.
Then there was his friendship with the beautiful Cara de Rivas. No one
had been quite sure how far, if at all, her soul had entered into that
matter; but it was certain that tongues had been set a-wagging, for
Maryon Hammond's friendship was a dangerous if fascinating thing for a
woman to possess, unless she happened to be the woman he was going to
marry. And Cara de Rivas was already married. That was the trouble.
For Nick de Rivas, a big, handsome, if slightly morose fellow was
plainly something less than sympathetic with his wife's mid-summer
madness; even though, until Hammond called his attention to the matter,
he had appeared to be blind and indifferent to the fact that he had a
pretty and charming wife.
There had been considerable relief felt when de Rivas in spite of his
home and large mining interests being in Mashonaland suddenly decided to
take his wife away on a trip to England.
"And no bones broken," sighed Rhodesians, though they sought in vain for
confirmation of that or any other legend in the stony stare of Maryon
Hammond. They were a romantic people those Rhodesians in the far-off
days of 1896, with no rooted objection to illegal adventure, but though
Hammond was neither good nor beautiful he had endeared himself to the
country in many ways and everyone was glad to think that his stormy
career was likely to come to an end in the peaceful harbour of marriage
instead of in some more tragic fashion. And no one could help rejoicing
that Fate had arranged for the advent of Jack Heywood's sister while the
de Rivas were still away, and that the whole affair was likely to be
fixed up before the de Rivas' return which, by the way, after the lapse
of nearly a year had already been signalled.
The Hammond-Heywood engagement then, was announced about two weeks after
the ball at the Club, though everyone knew perfectly well that it had
been signed and sealed, so to speak, on that night, the extra two weeks
being thrown in as a concession to conventionality and a sort of bonus
to the men who had been about to propose. Besides Miss Heywood had a
family in England whom it was Hammond's business to consult and beguile,
and consultations and beguilements take time as well as money when they
have to be conducted by cable. In the meantime, it was plain to see
that Love had found Maryon Hammond at last, and that he was loved openly
and gladly back. It was for all the world to see--as patent as the
silver stars on a purple African night. He would walk rough-shod over
everybody in a drawing-room or cricket-field or polo-ground to reach her
side, and she would openly and obviously forget everybody else in the
place and in the world when he was there. No matter how big or how
curious the crowd these two were alone in it when they were together.
People said that it must have been a strange, almost piquant, sensation
to Hammond so expert in secret intrigue, so versed in the dissimulation
and duplicity of illegal adventure, to be at last conducting a love
affair in the open, reckless of the eyes of men, and the tongues of
women, because for once the woman in the case had nothing to fear! Be
that as it may, a passion so fine and frank and careless had never
before been seen in a land where great passions are not rare, and
Salisbury genuflected before it in all reverence and admiration.
It was at this propitious juncture that the de Rivas elected to return.
Their home was not in Salisbury but about seventy miles off, out Mazoe
way too, and incidentally not above ten miles from Hammond's own camp,
but they put up at a hotel in town for a week or two to give Mrs de
Rivas time to recover from the fatigue of a long coach journey, and be
welcomed back by old friends. Promptly all the women in the town went
to call, and take the news of the Hammond-Heywood engagement.
The Spanish Inquisition is no more, but the gentle art of putting the
question accompanied by the watching torture has not yet been lost.
Even when malice is absent, who can eradicate curiosity from the
feminine temperament? Cara de Rivas' dearest and most intimate
Inquisitors were tender for her, however. They considered it only human
that they should desire to know how she was "taking it," but they had no
coarse intent of putting questions. Merely they hoped to extract a few
answers--eyes and lips and incidentally clothes tell so much!
And behold! two of the answers were entirely unexpected.
The first was that Cara de Rivas was as deeply in love with her husband
as he was plainly and profoundly in love with her. This was for all the
world to see and all the world proclaimed it instantly; but the other
and charming piece of news was more subtly distributed. Women conveyed
it by means of their eyebrows, with benign little smiles, and cryptic
remarks, such as that--"It was all for the best;" "It would make such a
bond"; "No more dangerous friendships;" "_It_ would help the poor thing
to forget (if there was anything to forget)!"
Afterwards, all wise people let the story of "the dangerous friendship"
die and be buried, as all things that are dead as nails ought to be
buried and put out of sight. And no one but a few scandal-lovers talked
of anything but the speedily approaching marriage. The men of Salisbury
made Bernard Carr's life a torment to him, accusing him of being busier
than a hen with a tin chicken getting Maryon Hammond's trousseau ready,
while they went into the matter of that same trousseau with profane and
particular detail. For Carr was Jonathan to Maryon Hammond's David, and
his love for his friend was outrageous and notorious, passing all
bounds. Like the mother of Asa he had made an idol in a grove; and the
name of the idol was Hammond. The other friend and partner of Maryon
Hammond was Girder, a dry, lean fellow of cynical disposition,
professing affection for neither man, woman, nor dog; but throughout the
long sun-smitten days and rain-soaked nights of that wet, hot January,
he was the only man who refrained from joining in the general ribaldry
at Carr's expense, just because Carr, the perfect friend, neglected his
own affairs to put Hammond's in order, so that the latter might in due
time marry and leave the country. While Hammond, gay of heart and
wonderfully brilliant of face considering he had no looks,
irreproachable always in white duck riding-kit--_grande tenue_ for
Salisbury--idled away the sunlit, starlit hours with the moon of his
desire that knew no wane.
Strange that the affair of Maryon Hammond's trousseau should occupy the
minds and tongues of his friends far more than the threatened rising of
the natives! But that was ever the way of Rhodesians in '96. "Take
care of the affairs of your neighbour," ran their motto, "and the
affairs of the country will take care of themselves." Besides, the
natives had threatened so often; it was absurd to be disturbed about
them.
The growing restlessness and insolence of the Mashona tribes kraaled in
the Salisbury, Mazoe, and Lomagundi districts--that is, within a
sixty-mile radius of the capital was in fact notorious, and many of the
outlying farmers and miners professed uneasiness; but the Native
Commissioners whose business it was to know such things scoffed at their
fears. The notion of a rebellion amongst a tribe of people long
down-trodden and brow-beaten by the fierce Matabele, and now for the
first time enjoying prosperous and unharried life under the white man's
rule found the Commissioners sneering incredulously.
"Makalikas show fight!" scoffed Brebner, Head of the Native Department
and terror of every black face from Vryberg to Blantire. "Great Lord of
War! There is not one `liver' among the whole fifty thousand of them.
But of course they're cheeky--all niggers are when they get fat, and it
takes only one good season with the crops for that. Moreover you must
remember that it is now about six years since the Matabele knocked
annual spots off them, and they are beginning to forget who it was
stopped that by smashing the Matabele. Therefore they are cheeky, also
inclined to think they are great. But you give me ten men and three
Cape `boys' and I'll settle the hash of any ten thousand of them in this
blessed country."
This last to the Administrator for whose permission he was nagging to go
and "remonstrate" with the ringleaders of a tribal fight down Victoria
way. The Administrator smiled at the word. He was aware that Brebner
invariably "remonstrated" with a riding-whip, but being a wise man and
one who had lived a great part of his life amongst natives he was also
aware that Brebner's mode of argument was the best and only one properly
appreciated by "our poor black brothers in South Africa" as they are
fancifully described at Exeter Hall.
So, eventually, Brebner and suite were allowed to depart upon their
hash-settling expedition. They rode out one pink dawn and the veld
swallowed them up; thereafter peace fell upon Salisbury, and all talk of
a native rising was dismissed. The discussion on Hammond's trousseau
was resumed at the Club.
Only Hammond himself did not think it good enough to stay on with his
bride in a country which seemed to him unsettled and breathing of war,
and he did not hesitate to state his intentions in spite of jeers.
"Why, hello, Marie!" they mocked him at the Club, and quoted remarks
from the Gadsbys:
"White hands cling to the bridle rein!"
"You may carve it on his tombstone, you may cut it on his card,
That a young man married is a young man marred," etc.
"_That's_ all right," laughed Hammond serenely. "But I'll take a year
off for my honeymoon just the same, and you fellows can put things
straight with the niggers. Afterwards, I'll come back and congratulate
you and bring up the new machinery for the Carissima."
The Carissima Gold Mine belonged to Hammond and Carr and Girder, and
looked like panning out wealth untold in the near future.
"Oh, you're crazy, Marie," said Billy Blake, Head of the Mounted Police,
striving to be patient with the renegade. "Love has gone to your head.
There isn't going to be any row with the natives. Compose yourself, my
son."
Hammond composed himself as requested in a large lounge chair, his feet
on another. Leisurely, and with obvious enjoyment of his pipe he
explained that in _his_ opinion Love and War were each good and great
and highly desirable things, but he preferred them separate.
"They don't mix," said he; "so we'll divide them this time. You can
have the war all to yourself, Blake, and I'll--" he flushed under his
copper skin and added gravely, for he made and took no jests on the
subject of his amazing happiness, "It's a long time since I've seen
Kentucky--I'll take a trip home."
"Oh, you ought to take medicine, Marie--"
"Take a rest--"
"Take a drink--"
"Man, I tell you--"
"Show me the chief of these tin-pot Makalikas who has got the gall to
fight--"
"Why, you've got nerve to clear out--"
They clamoured and jeered about him, but he remained cool. His personal
courage was too well known for there to be any doubt of it. He had more
than earned his laurels as the most daring of scouts in the Matabele
trouble of '93, and many another "little war," and could afford, if so
inclined, to trim himself from top to toe with white feathers without
likelihood of being misunderstood. So he left them to wrangle it out
among themselves, and it being after dinner and a whole three hours and
a half since he last saw Diane, he went to call on her at the house of
Mrs Tony Greville, and Boston, as usual, slouched beside him.
Now Boston as a dog and a gentleman deserves a few words to himself. He
was a large, dust-coloured bull-terrier whom Hammond had raised from
puppyhood, and in whose muscular carcass the man had by rigid training
developed many of his own physical characteristics--that is to say,
though Boston was of large ungainly build and always appeared to
flounder rather than to walk, he was really as speedy as a greyhound,
brave as a lion, and silent in his movements as Fate herself. He could
track down anything, and scout with the best man in the country (who
happened to be his master), but he spent most of his time tracking that
same master; for it was one of the practical jokes and never-failing
joys of Salisbury to hide Hammond from his dog. Boston would go through
fire and water to regain his love--even the great Ice Barrier wouldn't
have stopped him long--but the moment he had Hammond in sight he would
assume an air of cynical indifference, and with his hands in his
pockets, so to speak, lounge up and sling himself down with a weary air
as though he'd given up all idea of finding what he was searching for,--
certainly not Hammond at all! As for Hammond, he loved his dog as he
loved few men; it is doubtful whether, if asked to choose between Boston
and his best friend for company in exile, he would have chosen the man.
Knowing full well for what destination his master was now bound, Boston
presently went ahead, and before Hammond had reached the house of Tony
Greville, where Miss Heywood was staying because Tony Greville was Jack
Heywood's best friend, Boston had returned to report that Miss Heywood
was not in her usual place in the verandah. Neither was she in the
drawing-room; and search by the servants found her absent also from her
bedroom. It was only when Boston set his blunt nose towards the
Gymkhana Ground that Mrs Greville remembered to have seen Diane
strolling off in that direction directly after dinner.
"She's not quite herself this evening, I think, Marie. There were a lot
of women here when she got in from her ride with you, and I fancy she
overheard something she didn't like. That wretched little gossip Mrs
Skeffington Smythe was here."
Mrs Greville looked a little anxiously into his face, and the hard,
blue eyes looked back unflinchingly, but as he walked swiftly in the
direction of the Gym Ground, alone and with his mask off, his face
showed signs of strain.
The night under a rising moon was clear as crystal, and he had no
difficulty in descrying Diane's figure across the course where he and
she since their engagement was announced (escaping for a little while
from an army of friends) often walked in the evenings. Some of their
dearest moments had been passed sitting where she now sat on the pile of
heavy timber by the Grand Stand.
Boston, arrived before his master, sprawled at Diane's feet, and she was
gazing before her at the moonlight coming up in waves from the horizon,
flooding all the land with cold silver light. Something colder than the
moonlight gripped the man's heart for a moment, but he held out his
hands to her and spoke her name as though he had nothing to fear. She
stood up quickly and put out her hands too--but with a difference; in
her gesture there was a subtle suggestion of defence, of warding off
something--and when he would have taken them in his, she drew back.
"No, Marie--not yet--there is something you must tell me--"
He stared at her. She was deadly pale, but the moon itself was not more
composed, and her eyes had the same steady glance as his own. Her
question was spoken in a very low voice.
"Were you ever in love with--another man's wife?"
His face darkened. Prepared as he was, the unexpected form of her
question took him unawares. He had anticipated something to which he
could give a firm, clear denial--but to this, what could he say, who had
so much on his conscience!
"_You_ ... listening to scandal, Diane!" he said at last, and the
reproach in his voice reached home. She faltered a moment, not
answering at once, and they stood looking at each other, less like
lovers than two duellists measuring each other's strength.
"I will believe anything you tell me, Marie," she said gently, at last;
"I ask nothing better than to hear that it is only scandal."
He could not afford to hesitate any longer.
"If you are referring to my friendship with Mrs de Rivas, I may say
that in _that_ at least I am innocent. Her husband neglected her; I was
sorry for her; our so-called friendship was a concerted plan to bring
him to his senses, and it worked like magic. They are now extremely
happy."
But he had waked something new in Diane Heywood; she looked into his
eyes with the cold curiosity of a child.
"Why should your friendship be so terrible a thing for a woman? Why
should it bring a man to his senses?"
"Oh, dearest! for God's sake, don't ask questions the answers to which
will only hurt you?"
"But I must know, Maryon," she said proudly. "I have never lived
amongst lies and shadows. Everything must be clear and clean about me.
If you are innocent in this matter--of what is it then that you are
guilty?"
The mad longing of the unshriven soul for confession swept over him
then. He too would have all clear and clean about him, for once and
all, cost what it might.
"Oh, just of being a blackguard," he said, and all the pent-up
bitterness, and self-mockery and self-loathing of years came out in the
low-spoken words. "Just of being a scoundrel and a coward as far as
women are concerned--of robbing, looting--taking all and giving nothing
in return--playing pirate and cut-throat in the great game of love,
careless of what anyone suffered."
"_You_!" she whispered. "_You_ whom I have looked upon as a knight of
chivalry--a Galahad--all that was fine and noble!"
"Oh! Diane, I have never pretended to be any of these things--never
wanted you to believe it--I am only common earth--common or garden
earth. But such as I am, I love you--I ask you to take me with all my
sins."
There was a long silence.
"But _why_, Maryon?--What changed you from the man God meant you to be,
to _this_?"
She loved him. For all her wounded pride and anger and horror, for all
his black sins, she loved him, as women will love through everything, in
spite of everything; and she longed for some word of extenuation that
would justify the forgiveness she could not withhold.
"I loved a woman years ago, and she was faithless. She left me for
another man. My wife ran away with my best friend."
"_Your wife_?"
"Yes. Oh, I meant to tell you everything before you married me, Diane--
only, I was putting it off as long as possible. I left America because
of that, and came out to this country. Then, one day, after many years,
I found myself up here living next door to the very man and woman who
had been false to me--for whose sake I had been divorced in America so
that they might marry and be happy."
"_Divorced_?"
"And they weren't happy after all. She loved him but he was neglecting
her, and she turned to me again for help. I found a kind of cynical
amusement in helping her out. So there you have the whole story,
Diane--not a pretty one, God knows, but, in this instance, not a guilty
one so far as I am concerned."
But the girl stood stammering at him, one word on her lips.
"_Divorced_?"
"You must believe that I meant to conceal nothing from you, Diane. I
have already spoken to de Rivas and his wife and told them that you must
know--though no one else need ever suspect. And if you choose it, if
you will still take me in spite of my sins--and, darling, I believe you
will, we'll get out of this country and go back to my own--"
"But, Maryon," she broke in, despairingly, "you do not seem to
understand that this ends everything between us. I am a Catholic--do
you not realise?"
"A Catholic? I don't care what you are--"
"But don't you know that we do not recognise divorce--that in my eyes
you are still her husband--will be her husband until one of you dies?"
It was he who stood now staring and stammering.
"You would let your religion come between us--separate us?"
"Oh, Maryon--my religion is _me_--It is what I feel myself--it is deep
in me. One cannot escape from what one has felt and believed all one's
life."
"But the thing is impossible," he cried wildly, fiercely; "I cannot lose
you. You must leave your religion--What does a good woman want with
religion?--Our Love shall be your religion--_I_ will be your religion--I
will never let you go."
"Hush, Marie, you don't know what you are saying," she said gently. "We
must part. I can never, never marry you."
And despite her gentleness she stood like rock against the battery of
his words, though he reasoned, pleaded, beguiled, even cursed, in his
pain and wrath. Her heart turned to water, she was sick with love and
pity for him, but through all she clung to her faith as a sailor might
cling to a rock in a blinding, wrecking storm. For nothing he could say
could she contemplate treachery to her people, her life-long principles,
her God. Not so does the Catholic Church train its daughter against the
hour of temptation.
When at last in the bitter madness of defeat and loss he caught and
crushed her in his arms, kissing her savagely, she stayed silent, too
proud to struggle in those iron arms, but cold, cold as snow; until at
last the cold purity of her penetrated him like a lance of ice, piercing
his heart.
"Forgive me!--forgive me, Diane--I am a brute--I am mad!" he muttered,
and stumbled away into the night.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After a night of drenching rain, the camp out at the Carissima Mine lay
sparkling in the morning sunshine. It was five a.m. with the promise of
a golden day. Birds were twittering in tree and bush and wet leaves
flickered and twinkled like diamonds, throwing off a myriad points of
light. From the thatched roofs of the half dozen large huts in the
clearing, steam arose, mingling with the blue spirals from newly kindled
fires.
Hammond dressing leisurely in his hut looked out through his open door
and the beauty and promise of the day seemed to take him by the throat,
for he turned away from it with a face darkened and convulsed.
"God! What a day!" he groaned as a man might groan who has had a knife
jabbed into him. For it is thus that Nature hunts and hurts those who
loving her are yet a law unto themselves. Since he had lost Diane, all
beautiful things struck at him with wounding, hurtful hands.
He had a sudden longing to let work go to the deuce for that day, to
take horse and his desolate heart away to some lonely wild place where
he could be absolutely alone, unobliged to speak or be spoken to by any;
but he knew that it was impossible to think of such a thing. Girder and
he were the only white men in the camp, and he could not leave all the
work to Girder. The Mine Manager had been laid low by fever, and the
sub-manager had taken the Cape cart and driven off with him the night
before to Salisbury Hospital. As for Carr, he had been away on business
for some days in the Lomagundi district.
It behoved Hammond to get his breakfast over and start for the native
compound. There was a matter of three hundred boys or so to round up
and hustle to their labours down the shaft. He threw a glance round for
his boots, a special pair he kept for negotiating the wet sloppy clay at
the bottom of the mine, and, seeing them nowhere, whistled for his body
servant.
"My mine boots, Pongo," he jerked in the vernacular at the sleek-eyed
Mashona who answered his signal. It transpired that the boots had been
forgotten and were still in the saddle-hut covered with the dust and mud
of yesterday! After receiving Hammond's comments on the subject, Pongo
disappeared in a hurry to fulfil his neglected task.
"And tell Candle to rustle with my breakfast," roared Pongo's lord like
a lion in pain, and Candle at the sound did not need telling, but
rustled to such good effect that in five minutes breakfast stood
steaming on the rough wooden table that was pitched under a tree in the
middle of the clearing. Girder very spick and span in white moleskins
emerged from another hut, and Hammond, dressed all but his boots, and
impatient of waiting, thrust his feet into a pair of silk slippers sent
him at Christmas by his sister (and brought out by accident to the camp)
and strolled out to join his friend at the table.
The three partners had been in camp for nearly six weeks. After that
night on the Gymkhana Ground, Salisbury had no further hold for Hammond
and he left the next morning, accompanied by Carr, grave and
unquestioning, and followed a day or two later by Girder. He had never
opened his lips on the subject of his changed plans, and he did not need
to. Carr knew that the trouble was deep, and guessed the cause. Later,
Girder brought the news of the broken engagement as briefly announced by
Jack Heywood with whom Hammond had encompassed a short interview before
leaving.
With the exception of a remark or two on the subject of the storm during
the night, the two men took their breakfast in silence. Girder was at
no time a talkative fellow, and, of late, Hammond's mood seldom invited
gaiety. This morning he had not yet recovered from the savage misery
that had smitten him in his hut, and still preoccupied was not his usual
observant self, or he would have noticed something unnatural in the
atmosphere of the camp.
About three hundred yards off from where they were sitting, a
construction of heavy beams forming a rough hauling gear marked the
mine's mouth, with the power-house and a number of small shanties
grouped beside it. Beyond, and almost hidden by this group of buildings
was the _kraal_ or compound occupied by the natives who worked the mine.
It was merely the usual collection of fifty or more rough _dagga_ huts
with thatched roofs drooping almost to the ground and lop-sided like a
lot of old battered straw hats, surrounded by a high dagga wall; and
from it came the usual morning sound peculiar to Kaffir kraals--a low
humming sing-song of voices, with an occasional _tap_ or _boom_ on a
vessel of metal or skin. What Hammond should have noticed and did not,
was that his natives were humming a war-song--one of those monotonous
chants, flat and unmusical, yet full of some hidden power to stir the
blood of a savage to dreams of reeking assegai and the crashing thud of
knobkerry upon skull. The few "boys" loitering among the white men's
huts, all personal servants, cast furtive glances tinged with surprise
at the indifferent faces of the white men. Certainly _Inkos_ Girder was
but a new hand--only a year or two in Africa; but _Inkos_ Hammond was an
_induna_ [Chief; captain] who knew all things, and had fought in many
Kaffir wars! _Clk_! Surely he must hear that song in the kraal and
know its meaning!
Hammond indeed would probably have waked in a moment to a sense of
something wrong, but, as it happened, his attention was suddenly averted
by the sight of a man on horseback tearing full-tilt towards the camp.
"What the--"
"Who the--" They both stood up as the horse came clattering into the
clearing, and its rider gasping and haggard flung himself down. He was
one of de Rivas' assistants out at the Green Carnation Mine--a young
Scotchman called Dent, well known to them both.
"The natives are `up.' They've murdered everyone in our district except
de Rivas and his wife," he burst forth. "You fellows had better get
your horses and scoot for Mazoe before--."
"Steady, Dent," said Hammond in a voice like cold steel. At the first
mention of trouble, he had thrown his eye around and in a flash heard
and seen the danger signals about him--his servants' faces, the timbre
of the song in the kraal, the sudden dead silence which, with the
horseman's coming had fallen on camp and kraal, and--_the rustle of feet
creeping up behind the mine-head shanties_!
"Pull yourself together. My boys are observing you. Get your revolver
from your hut, Girder, and all the ammunition you can lay hands on, but
keep them out of sight." (He had his own revolver on him--too wise a
citizen of Africa ever to be without it.) "Sit down, my dear fellow," he
now added heartily to Dent, and called for fresh coffee, sitting down
himself too, but with his face towards the mine-head. Girder coming
back casually from his hut resumed his chair. Speaking in an ordinary
voice, smoking, and pouring out coffee, Hammond questioned the Scotchman
and elicited facts.
The natives had set to work at four o'clock that morning, and
systematically visiting every farm, hut, and tent within the district
had butchered the surprised and defenceless occupants. Everyone at the
Green Carnation taken unawares had been knobkerried or assegaied to
death--except de Rivas and his wife who got warning in time to barricade
themselves in their ranch. Dent had been with them and the two men had
managed to drive the demons off for a time, but it was certain that they
would return. In the circumstances, de Rivas had ordered Dent to try
and get away by means of an old mine working that came right up close to
the back verandah of the house and bring help to them, for Mrs de Rivas
was a sick woman and could not travel any distance except in comfort,
and well protected.
"They can't last out long," finished Dent dismally. "Half their
ammunition is gone--Mrs de Rivas is in hysterics most of the time--if I
don't get help they'll be done for in a few hours--I must push on to
Mazoe and--"
His sentence was broken off by the smart snap of a revolver. Hammond
was firing across Girder's shoulder, not once but many times.
_Snap--phit! Snap--pht! Snap--pht_! And the grim eyes of the man
behind the revolver snapped and flashed too, as he picked off one after
another of those who led the advancing horde. In less time than it
takes to write it, five of the leaders were groaning in the dust, and
the murderous band behind had fallen back dumbfounded, staring like
fascinated rabbits at the man who now advanced on them still covering
them with that gleaming deadly revolver and his ice-cold deadly glance.
At last, he flung them a few brief words in their own tongue.
"Get down to your work in the mine. Anyone who loiters will be shot--
like these things here."
They gazed at the "things" for a silent moment, then cringing before the
white man like the dogs they were, they dropped assegais and knobkerries
in the dust and retreated sullenly, step by step, to the mine mouth.
Girder close behind Hammond, opened the little gate leading to the
enclosure round the shaft and hustled half a dozen boys into the
power-house to set the cage going. Then, one by one, with downcast
looks and modest mien the boys filed into the cage and were lowered in
little companies down the mine. Hammond stood by silent, dominating,
the sunshine glinting on his revolver barrel, Boston, casual and
indifferent, lounging beside him. The two other men, unobliged even to
draw their guns, contented themselves with speeding up an occasional
loiterer by means of a brisk application of the boot. In the end, every
"boy" of three hundred was at the bottom of the shaft, except those in
the power-house. Hammond approached them.
"You too--get in," he remarked briefly, and they got in, humble and
sleek, with air deprecative of giving so much trouble. Dent and Girder
took possession of the power-house and worked the cage, for as is well
known, two white men can do the work of six natives any day in the week.
Afterwards they cut the steel ropes that held the cage and it fell
crashing to the bottom of the shaft.
"_That's_ all right," said Hammond at last. "They've plenty of water,
and a couple of days with empty stomachs will take the cheek out of
them. At the end of that time, if all goes well, we'll be here to let
'em up again--if not, so much the worse for them."
"The blessed tinkers!" was all that Girder permitted himself to remark.
"Now you fellows," said Hammond briskly, "take your horses and beat it
for Mazoe, hell-for-leather. Get a party together--half a dozen guns
and make for the Green Carnation. I shall go on ahead and help de Rivas
hold out."
"I'm coming with you," said Girder carelessly. Hammond looked at him
coldly.
"You will kindly do as I ask you, Bill. If you meet trouble between
here and Mazoe, as you probably will, and one of you is potted, there is
still a chance of the other getting in to give the alarm."
Girder merely smiled. Hammond knew that obstinate smile, and he also
knew there was no time to lose.
"Don't be a fool, Bill," he said brusquely. "We are not in this for
glory, or fun, or friendship. Just remember there's a woman in the
matter, will you?--a sick woman. What you two fellows have got to do--
or one or other of you--is to get together a big enough party to convey
her in a cart to Mazoe. If you are delayed you will probably find when
you reach us that we have left the ranch and taken to the bush. The
house won't be safe once the ammunition has given out--and I know the
country all round there like the palm of my hand. There are plenty of
places we can lie doggo in until help comes. But you must get help, and
get it quick. Take the fresh horses, you've farther to go than I. I'll
take Dent's. Go on now, Bill. Don't be pig-headed--and take charge of
Boston will you? I don't want him with me. Where is the beggar?"
No one knew. A moment before he had been lounging idly against the
power-house, his tongue lolloping from his mouth, his eye expressing
boredom; a moment later he simply was not. It is hard to say what
instinct had bidden him make himself scarce in a manner as swift and
unobtrusive as possible, and turn into a motionless, sand-coloured
ant-heap about fifty yards from the road down which anyone leaving camp
must pass. No one had time to look for him and no one would have found
him in any case. Hammond let loose a bad word, gave Girder's hand a
parting grip, and skimmed out of camp on Dent's horse.
Within a quarter of a mile of the Green Carnation, he dismounted, and,
leaving the horse in the bush, advanced under cover and with great
caution towards the ranch. It was then that the rough rocky ground and
thorns under foot brought him the realisation that he was still wearing
the pair of silk slippers made and sent him by his sister for a
Christmas present.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a little dell-like place--not more than ten feet by six, hollowed
out by the heavy streams that in bad weather came rushing down the
slopes of the kopje above it, darkened by the thick bush all round, full
of small sharp stones and thorns, and red ants that stung like wasps,
with not a single smooth tree trunk or flat rock to lean against.
Still, it was a hiding-place; and to three people it had been for as
many days, a haven and a home. Three people--to say nothing of the dog!
It was indeed Boston who lay in one of those triangular positions which
only a dog can find reposeful, his head on a stone, his tongue lolling
languorously from his mouth, one eye closed, the other cocked on his
master. For Hammond seated uneasefully upon a small rock, his arms
round his knees, his empty pipe in his mouth, was plainly busy on an
intricate problem, and Boston too was interested in the solution of that
problem.
Close beside them, touching feet with Hammond and the dog, de Rivas
half-lay, half-leaned in the cramped space, painfully shifting his
wounded leg every few minutes. Between his lips was a thick white
mimosa thorn which he bit on when he shifted, as a wounded soldier might
bite on a bullet to keep in his trouble. Mrs de Rivas lay sleeping on
the men's folded coats.
"Well--what next, Hammond?" asked de Rivas in a whisper. They had been
obliged to whisper for days; the natives were all round them in the
bush, searching; but Hammond had chosen his retreat well, and the odds
were against discovery so long as they lit no fires and were not heard
talking. It was characteristic of the man, however, that this business
of whispering annoyed him more than any of the risks and hardships of
the past few days. To have to whisper on account of a lot of murdering
niggers!--When all he wanted was to get out and beat the brains out of a
score of them--and he would too if--
Mrs de Rivas gave a little moan in her sleep. So he whispered, in
spite of his fierce desires.
"I shall start for Salisbury to-night."
"Salisbury!--on foot?"
"It's no use trying Mazoe. Something's gone wrong there or Girder would
have been back by now."
"But Salisbury is seventy miles!"
"Sixty when you know your map."
"Well, sixty!--without food! And you've got no boots!"
It was no use offering his own. He was a big man and his feet were on a
generous scale. As for Hammond, he could not forbear to smile when he
looked at the travesties from which his toes protruded--a few rags and
ribbons of dark blue silk.
"No; but I've got feet."
He had indeed--the most famous feet at Harvard in his time, and in
Africa at any time. All the same, he cursed himself for criminal
carelessness in leaving his camp improperly shod; for he too knew that
sixty miles barefoot through an enemy's country, over krantz and kop and
rough unbroken ground, was not going to be the funniest thing that had
ever happened to him. Still, they couldn't sit whispering here forever,
and Cara de Rivas had got to be saved.
She had stood the strain well up till now, but it was doubtful if she
would last out much longer. _And she must not die_. No woman in the
same case would be allowed to die if he could help it. But only he knew
the stain and disgrace it would be on him to let her of all women die,
whose death would give him his heart's desire.
When de Rivas spoke again, his whisper had grown fainter. His thoughts
appeared to have taken the same direction as Hammond's.
"How am I going to keep her alive, Hammond? She can't go on without
water."
"I shall fill the can before I start, and you must try and make it spin
out for three days. I promise you I shan't be longer than that."
Fortunately they had thought to bring a can with them in their hurried
escape from the ranch, and Hammond stole out every night and filled it
from the river not two hundred yards away. De Rivas' wounded leg
entirely incapacitated him from doing anything; Hammond had been obliged
to carry him more than half the way on the night of their flight.
"Three days!" de Rivas was thinking to himself. "He can never do it
even if he had boots!"
Three days was too short a time in which to walk to Salisbury and bring
back help. Three days was only long when contemplated from the point of
view of a man whose larder is empty, and whose death lurks in the
shadows.
"What am I going to give her to eat?"
"I've thought of that too," said Hammond quietly. The other man looked
up questioningly. The problem of provisions had been a haunting one
ever since they arrived in their refuge. If Hammond had a solution to
it now, why not before? But Hammond was apparently not inclined to be
communicative. He merely sat there staring at Boston; and Boston as
though suddenly aware of something personal in his master's attention
rose suddenly, and in his silent, floundering way came over and laid his
nose on Hammond's knee. Hammond after a moment or so raised the dog's
head in his hands and looked into the golden brown eyes, tender and
trustful as a woman's, far more trustworthy than many women's. Then,
for Maryon Hammond, he did a strange thing; he bent his head and kissed
his dog's nose. De Rivas bit suddenly on the thorn between his lips,
and looked away. He had seen Hammond's eyes, and it is not good to see
the eyes of a strong man in pain. He knew now what Hammond meant to do
to keep him and his wife alive during the next three days.
When Cara de Rivas awoke from her long sleep of exhaustion it was dusk,
and she found herself alone with her husband in the dell. She crept to
his side and kissed him with a whispered inquiry for the pain of his
wound. Then:
"Where is Maryon?"
Unfalteringly, without the flicker of an eyelid, de Rivas repeated the
lesson in which Hammond had instructed him.
"He has gone to get water--and Cara,--he has had a great stroke of
luck--got a buck in a kind of primitive trap he fixed up last night. We
shall have meat for several days."
"Meat--_but no fire_!" she said, a little spasm of horror contracting
her weary face. He put his arm round her.
"Dearest, this isn't the time to be squeamish--for my sake, and for the
sake of our little kid to come--just think of it as sustenance--close
your eyes and get it down. Lots of sick people have to eat raw meat by
order, and think nothing of it. And thank Hammond--don't forget to
thank Hammond before he goes, for--all he has done for us."
"Before he goes?" she cried with frightened eyes. "Where? Why?"
Gently, with more confidence in his words than in his heart, he
explained Hammond's plan to her, and her eyes brightened. She had faith
in Maryon's plans; they always "came off." And it would be only three
days! It was a long time--but Marie would come back with help, and they
would both he saved.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Suddenly, without a sound of his coming, Hammond was with them, carrying
the can of water, and something wrapped in long fresh grass.
Immediately Cara cried:
"Boston? Where is Boston, Marie?"
"I parted with him down by the river," said Hammond, adding after a
moment: "He is busy with part of the buck I got."
He did not speak for a long time after that, seeming very intent on what
he was doing--tearing the sleeves of his coat in strips to bind round
his feet. His shirt had been used up for de Rivas' wound. After he had
finished this, the only preparation for his journey, he sat talking
cheerfully to Cara for awhile, asking for messages for friends in
Salisbury, and inviting her to choose the men she wanted for her "relief
patrol." Hardly in keeping with these gay whispers were his words in de
Rivas' off ear, as he thrust his revolver into de Rivas' off pocket.
"I'll take yours instead. It may serve to smash a skull with, at a
pinch."
Now de Rivas' revolver was empty; it was Hammond's that contained the
one cartridge for a certain emergency--the frightful emergency which all
brave men who take charge of women in a savage country must be willing
to face! But Cara, whom this little incident chiefly concerned, knew
nothing of it. Almost light-heartedly she bade Hammond farewell,
thanking him as her husband had told her for all he had done, far from
knowing how much that was, and how much it might be before the end.
At the last, de Rivas held out his hand and said hoarsely:
"If you don't mind shaking, Marie--and saying you forgive me?"
It was the first time since he stole Maryon Hammond's wife that he had
used the name that once in college days was sweet between them. He
would hardly have dared now, but somehow he felt he owed it to Hammond's
generosity to dare, if only to let the other man smite him with the just
word of wrath. But Hammond took his hand. They were all in the shadow
of death.
"And me too, Marie?" whispered the woman through her tears.
"That's all right, Cara," he said gently, taking hers in turn. A moment
later he had gone upon his way.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the Salisbury laager, which was the Salisbury prison put into a state
of defence, with sand-bags and waggons all round it and machine guns
pitched on every eminence, the air was charged with gloom and rage. It
was not because of war; Rhodesians after '93 were inured to war and had
learned to accept philosophically its bitters with its sweets. What
hurt them now was that this was not war, but black murder. There had
been no decent open fighting--only secret, savage murder of men and
women in far places. Murder--and worse! Men bit their mouths close on
revolting stories that it would do no good for the women to hear; and
women came into laager, night after night, white-faced and sick of
heart. The whole country was "up" in rebellion, but except in
Matabeleland there had been no actual fighting. Overwhelming small
isolated bands of men cannot be called fighting--but it was the nearest
approach to it that the Mashonas had made. That was what they had
attempted in the case of the Mazoe patrol. On hearing that there had
been wholesale slaughter at Mazoe, and that the survivors (mostly women
and children) were huddled in a house waiting for the end, twenty-six
picked men had ridden out from Salisbury to the rescue. They had
reached Mazoe just in time--and getting the women, children, and wounded
men into a waggon protected by sheets of corrugated iron, set out on the
return march to Salisbury. These twenty-six men had had to fight every
inch of the way with thousands of natives, but not one dead or wounded
man of the gallant band was left by the wayside. As they fell, their
comrades picked them up and thrust them into the waggon, and thus in
some wise or another came back one and every man of the famous patrol!
Carr with an arm shot off and his horse shot under him, was one of those
who had to lie helpless and raging amongst the women--raging because he
knew nothing of the fate of his best friend! All that he knew was that
the bodies of Girder and Dent had been found on the outskirts of Mazoe.
One of the Carissima boys was reported to have stated that Hammond had
gone to the help of the de Rivas. But it was now known that de Rivas'
place was burnt to the ground and not a living soul left at the Green
Carnation. Small wonder that the bitterness of Carr's heart was as the
bitterness of the heart of Job in the last stage of his torment!
It was now generally believed that everyone in the mining districts who
had not managed to escape at the first alarm to Salisbury was of the
doomed and dead. Diane Heywood looked into Bernard Carr's eyes and saw
that belief there and her face took a deeper shadow upon it. From the
first entry of wounded refugees, she had offered her services to the
good nursing nuns, and striven in ardent labour and many a weary vigil
to dull her heart's fierce pain. When once she and Carr had read each
other's misery he forgave her for what she had done to Hammond (though
he knew not what it was), and they were friends for ever after. She was
often by his bedside, reading sometimes, or talking a little, but more
often both were silent, thinking of what they dared not speak.
Oh! to see his eyes again! To know that he was still on God's fair
earth!--not cut down, beaten to his knees with knobkerries, assegaied by
foul cowardly brutes whose courage was only in their numbers! Only to
know that he had had a fair chance--out in the open with a gun in his
hand, not trapped in a hut as so many had been! But all that had
happened at the Carissima remained dark and unknown; and the mystery of
its fate lay heavy on the hearts of those in Salisbury laager.
Then late one afternoon shouts on the clear April air! Shouts and
cries, hoots and yells of triumph from afar--nearer, nearer, until right
at the laager gates; then crowds of men rushing in, all thrusting,
heaving, shoving to be near a central figure--someone being borne high
on men's shoulders!
Diane, standing in the verandah of the gaoler's house where Carr lay
sick, shaded her eyes with her hand to see better through the sunset
rays. They were calling Hammond's name--but was _that_ Maryon
Hammond?--that haggard, tattered wreck, brown with dirt, disfigured by
thorn-scratches and dried blood, ragged, shirtless, with bare arms
sticking through a sleeveless coat!
Yes, it was Maryon Hammond; he looked up at her as they carried him
past, and it was as though he saluted her with a sword.
Ah, God! if she could have gone to him and taken his head to her breast.
But how could she?--he was not hers but another woman's! All she might
do was rejoice that a brave man still lived. Blindly, with faltering
feet, she found her way back to Carr's room where she had been sitting
when the noise came. She wanted to share the news with someone--someone
who loved him too. Afterwards they sat silent in the twilight. Carr
with a man's philosophy was content now and could possess his soul in
patience until Hammond came to him. But Diane knew not what power
helped her to sit there so still, listening to the sounds in the gaol
yard. For they had not discontinued for a moment, those sounds. Always
men's voices continued to rise and fall, shouting excitedly, crying
Hammond's name, questioning, even it seemed remonstrating. There was
much jingle of harness too, and the sound of horses being led out. At
last, a wilder hubbub than ever, an uproar of mad hurrahs, cheer upon
cheer ringing on the evening air, then--the thud of horses' hoofs and
the rattle of cart wheels!
Some word he caught in all that wild bedlam of sound made Carr spring
out of bed and tear down the passage that led to the verandah, with
Diane Heywood running after him.
"What is it? What is it? Where is he?"
After the first amazed stare at this madman in pyjamas there were many
to cry him the news.
"He's gone back again!--What do you think of that? After doing sixty
miles in his bare feet!--Gone back to get de Rivas and his wife! Our
fellows, twenty of 'em were ready to go alone--but nothing on earth or
off it could stop him from going too--not the Judge, nor the
Administrator, nor an Archangel from heaven--said they could never find
'em without him--or might find 'em too late! His feet are all to bits--
I tell you, man, he hasn't got feet any more--only some black currant
jelly!--They're so bad he has to ride in a cart!--but he _would_ go--he
_would go_. Whether he'll ever come back again--with those feet--"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
But he did come back. It took longer to bring in the two refugees than
it had taken Maryon Hammond to walk the distance in his bare feet, for
there was fighting to be done on the return journey; but Cara de Rivas
and her husband were safe and sound in Salisbury at last, none the worse
for their three days' vigil.
And once more a man riding on men's shoulders looked up at a girl in the
gaol verandah and saluted her with the blue glance of his eyes; and she
with her hand raised to her forehead saluted him in return, as a soldier
might salute a conqueror, her eyes full of pride. For only she and he
knew how great was this victory in which lay their defeat.
"Do we think Victory great?"
"And so it is."
"But now it seems to me when all is done, that Defeat is great, and
Death and Dismay are great!"
Long before they came to fetch her, she had heard the news--the bitter,
tragic news. It was on all men's lips.
"His feet are gone. Nothing can save Marie Hammond's feet--the fleetest
feet in Africa!--gone!--done for! _Nothing but amputation can save his
life--and he won't have it done_!"
It was true. He refused to have it done. He lay and laughed in the
doctors' faces.
"Take my feet off? Leave me to spend the rest of my days on my back--or
crawling about the earth like a maimed rat? Oh, no, my dear fellows!--
No job for you to-day?--nothing doing! All right, I'll be dead before
morning if you say so. That's not such bad luck either. I think a good
long rest is indicated anyway. I'd like a rest, by Jove! Only I should
like to be left alone now, if you don't mind, with my pal Carr--and--Ah!
yes, if Miss Heywood would stay too--? Leave us three alone, will you,
until the end?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Diane Heywood never left Salisbury. A grave kept her there, and you may
find her there to this day, tending the sick and sad, helping all those
whose burdens seem too heavy for their shoulders.