WITH THE SECOND DIVISION.
Meanwhile the events of the war were treading thick on each other in
Zululand. A fresh disaster had ensued at the Intombe river, where a
detachment of the 80th Regiment was cut to pieces, and again old
soldiers spoke with sorrow and disgust of the blunders and incapacity
of those at head-quarters, who by their newfangled systems had
reduced our once grand army to chaos.
Such alarms and surprises, like too many of the disasters and
disgraces which befell our arms in these latter wars, were entirely
due to the new formation of our battalions. 'That the destruction of
the regimental system by Lord Cardwell has been the original cause of
all our reverses, surprises, and humiliation, there can be little
hesitation in saying,' to quote Major Ashe. 'The men at Isandhlwana
were not well handled, it must be admitted, but it has since leaked
out that many of them would not rally round their officers, but
attempted safety in flight. Dozens of the men, sergeants, and other
non-commissioned officers, have since disclosed that they did not
know the names of their company officers, or those of their right or
left hand men.'
Hence, by the newfangled system, there could be neither confidence
nor cohesion. Elsewhere he tells us that the once-splendid 91st
Highlanders, 'the envy of all recruiting sergeants, could only muster
200 men when ordered to Zululand,' but was made up by volunteers from
other regiments--men all strangers to each other and to their
officers, and whose facings were all the colours of the rainbow.
Then, after the Intombe, followed the storming of the Inhlobane
Mountain, where fell the gallant Colonel Weatherley, and the no less
gallant old frontier farmer Pict Nys, who was last seen fighting to
his final gasp against a horde of Zulus, across the dead body of his
favourite horse, an empty revolver in his left hand, a blood-dripping
sabre in his right, and more than one assegai, launched from a
distance, quivering in his body.
The cry went to Britain now for more troops; and fresh reinforcements
came, while the army in Zululand was reconstituted by Lord Chelmsford
at Durban.
There, amid a brilliant staff in their new uniforms fresh from home,
was one central figure, the ill-starred Prince Imperial of France,
who had landed two days after the battle of Kambula, and had been
appointed an extra aide-de-camp to the general commanding.
The army was now formed into two divisions: one under Major-General
Crealock, C.B., and another under Major-General Newdigate, while a
flying column under Sir Evelyn Wood was to act independently.
Hammersley's squadron of Mounted Infantry was attached to the Second
Division, with the movements of which our story has necessarily alone
to do.
The 16th of April saw it marching northward of Natal, and on the 4th
of May Lord Chelmsford, who had joined it after church parade--for
the day was Sunday--suggested that a reconnaissance should be made
towards the Valley of the Umvolosi River to select ground for an
entrenched camp, and for this purpose Hammersley's squadron and
Buller's Horse were ordered to the front.
The local troopers under that brilliant officer were now clad in a
uniform manner--in brown cord breeches, mimosa-coloured jackets, long
gaiters laced to the knee, and broad cavalier hats, with long scarlet
or blue puggarees. The open collars of their flannel shirts
displayed their bronzed necks; and picturesque-looking fellows they
were, all armed with sabres and rifles of various patterns, slung
across the back by a broad leather sling. Their horses were rough
but serviceable, and active as mountain deer.
After riding some miles over grassy plateaux and rugged hilly ground,
tufted with cabbage-tree wood, on a bright and pleasant morning, the
local Horse were signalled to retire, as it was discovered that a
great body of Zulus were watching their movements.
Unaware of this, Hammersley, with his Mounted Infantry, rode on for
three miles, till they reached a great plateau near a place called
Zungen Nek, where the pathway, if such it could be styled, was
bordered by mimosa thorns, and where two bullets mysteriously
fired--no one could tell from where, for no enemy was to be
seen--whistled through the little squadron harmlessly, though both
were as close to Florian as they could pass without hitting him, and
one made Tattoo toss his head and lay his quivering little ears
angrily back on his neck.
At this time some officers who had cantered to the front from where
the division was halted, saw the dark figures of many of the enemy
creeping along in the jungle, and watching them so intently that they
were all unaware of their retreat being cut off by twenty of the
Mounted Infantry under a sergeant--Florian.
'Forward, and at them!' cried the latter, as his men slung their
rifles and galloped in loose formation, sabre in hand, to attack the
savages, but suddenly found themselves on the edge of some
precipitous cliffs, some three hundred feet in height, which
compelled them for a moment or two to rein up till a narrow track was
found, down which they descended in single file in a scrambling way,
the hoofs of the rear horses throwing sand, gravel, and stones over
those in front.
When the sounds made by the descent ceased, and the soldiers gained a
turfy plateau, nothing could be seen of the foe, and all was
silence--a silence that could be felt, like the darkness that rested
on the land of Egypt. Then there burst forth a united yell that
seemed to rend the welkin, and a vast horde of black-skinned Zulus,
led by Methagazulu (the son of Sirayo), who had recovered from the
wound he received at Ginghilovo, came rushing on, brandishing their
assegais and rifles.
This ambuscade was more than Florian anticipated, and believing that
all was lost, and that he and his party would be utterly cut off to a
man, he gave the order to retire on the spur, and they splashed,
girdle deep, through a ford of the Umvolosi, on which, as if by the
guidance of Heaven, they chanced to hit.
With yells of baffled rage the savages followed them so closely that
Florian and another trooper named Tom Tyrrell, who covered the rear,
had to face about and fire by turns, till the open ground on the
other side was reached.
'A close shave that business,' said Tom breathlessly. 'I thought
that in three minutes' time every man Jack of us would have been
assegaied.'
Galloping out of range, Florian's party now rejoined that of
Hammersley, who congratulated them on their escape, and they all rode
together back to head-quarters. But these movements had alarmed the
whole valley of the White Umvolosi.
On every hand, in quick succession, signal fires, formed of vast
heaps of dried grass, blazed on the hill-tops; vast columns of black
smoke shot upwards to the bright blue sky, and were repeated from
summit to summit, showing that the whole country was actively alive
with armed warriors, who in many places could be seen driving and
goading their herds of cattle into rocky kloofs and all kinds of
places inaccessible to horse and foot alike.
From the summit of the Zungen Nek a full view of the beautiful valley
through which the Umvolosi rolls could be obtained, and near a place
there, called Conference Hill, were seen, like a field of snow, the
white tents of the Second Division shining in the bright, sunny light.
Twenty-three days it remained encamped there, and during that time a
vast amount of useful information regarding the topography of the
country in which the coming campaign would be, was furnished by the
reports and sketches made by Colonel Buller, the Prince Imperial, by
Hammersley, and even by Florian, who was a very clever draughtsman,
and on many occasions was complimented by the staff in such terms as
made his young heart swell in his breast.
But the sketches of none surpassed those of the handsome and
unfortunate Prince, whose passion for information was boundless, and
the questions he was wont to ask of all were searching in the extreme.
One day, when out on a reconnaisance, the Mounted Infantry were
suddenly fired upon from a kraal, and in the conflict that ensued
many were killed and wounded, especially of the enemy, who were
completely routed.
The great and unfathomable mystery of death was close indeed to
Florian on that day, and around him lay hundreds who had discovered
it within an hour or less. He had narrowly escaped it by skilfully
dodging a ponderous knobkerie flung at his head as the last dying
effort of a warrior whose black and naked breast had been pierced by
a bullet from Tom Tyrrell's rifle, and from which the crimson blood
was welling as if from a squirt; and so close was the weapon to doing
Florian a mortal mischief that it took the gilt spike close off the
top of his helmet.
And now, on the very evening before the division broke up its camp
and marched, occurred an event which proved to Florian, and to his
favourite captain too, the chief one of the campaign.
How little those who live at home at ease can know of the delight it
gives an exile to have tidings, by letter or otherwise, from those
who are dear to them in the old country when far, far away from it!
No matter how short the sentences, how few the facts, or how clumsy
the expressions, they all seem to show that we are not forgotten by
the old fireside; for even amid the keen and fierce excitement of war
the soldier has often time for much thought of friends and home,
especially in the lonely watches of the night, and a pang goes to his
heart with the fear that, as he is absent, he may be forgotten.
Florian had often envied the delight with which his comrades, Tom
Tyrrell or poor Bob Edgehill, who perished at Isandhlwana, and others
received letters from distant friends and relatives; but month after
month had passed, and none ever came to him, nor did he expect any.
In all the world there was no one to think of him save Dulcie
Carlyon. How he longed to write to her, but knew not where she was.
At last there came an evening--he never forgot it--when the sergeant
who acted as regimental postman brought him a letter--a letter
addressed to himself, and in the handwriting of Dulcie!
His fingers trembled as he carefully but hastily cut open the
envelope. It was dated from Craigengowan, a place of which he
scarcely knew the name, but thought he had heard it mentioned by Mr.
Kenneth Kippilaw on the eventful day when he and Shafto visited that
gentleman at his office.
After many prettily expressed protestations of regard for
himself--every word of which stirred his heart deeply--of joy that he
was winning distinction, and of fear for the awful risks he ran in
war, she informed him that the situation obtained for her had been
that of companion to Lady Fettercairn, 'and who do you think I found
installed here as master of the whole situation, as heir to the title
and a truly magnificent property--Shafto! Perhaps I am wrong to tell
you, lest it may worry you, but he has resumed his persecution of me.
He often taunts me about you, and fills me with terror lest he may do
me a mischief with Lady Fettercairn, as he has already contrived to
do with his cousin, Miss Finella (a dear darling girl) and Captain
Hammersley, the officer whose life you so bravely saved at
Ginghilovo, and who, I now learn, is in your regiment. It was an
infamous trick, but it succeeded in separating them and nearly
breaking Finella's heart.'
The letter then proceeded to detail how Finella, to her extreme
dismay and discomfiture, had dropped Hammersley's pencilled note; how
Shafto had found it, and intercepted her in the shrubbery on her way
to the place of rendezvous, and would only restore it on receiving,
as a bribe, a cousinly kiss, which she was compelled to accord, when
he rudely seized her and snatched several before she could repulse
him; how Hammersley had passed at that fatal moment, and misconceived
the whole situation, since when, language could not express the
loathing Finella had of Shafto. That was the whole affair.
'You know Shafto and all of which he is capable,' continued Dulcie;
'so poor Finella is heartbroken in contemplating the horrid view her
lover must take of her, but is without the means of explaining it
away, nor will her great pride permit her to do so.'
Dulcie under the same roof with Shafto, and apparently the bosom
friend of Hammersley's love! Florian had now a clue to some of the
bitter remarks that, in moments of unintentional confidence, his
superior had uttered from time to time.
That Shafto and Dulcie were in such close proximity to each
other--meeting daily and hourly--filled Florian's mind with no small
anxiety. He had no doubt of Dulcie's faith, trust, and purity; but
neither had he any doubt of Shafto's subtle character and the
mischief of which he was capable, and which he might work the
helpless and unfortunate girl if he pursued, as she admitted he did,
the odious and unwelcome love-making he had begun at Revelstoke.
As he read and re-read her letter in that hot, burning, and far-away
land, how vividly every expression of her perfect face, every
inflection of her soft and sympathetic voice, came back to memory,
till his heart swelled and his eyes grew dim. How self-possessed she
was, with all her gentleness; how self-reliant, with all her timidity.
'Should I show this letter to Hammersley?' thought Florian. 'The
communication in it must concern him very closely--very dearly, and
my darling, impulsive little Dulcie has evidently written it with a
purpose.'
Then Florian remembered that though suave and condescendingly kind to
him, especially since the episode at Ginghilovo, Hammersley was
naturally a man of a proud and haughty spirit, and might resent one
in Florian's junior position interfering in the most tender secrets
of his life.
Florian was keenly desirous of fulfilling what was evidently the wish
of Dulcie--of befriending her friend, and perhaps, by achieving a
reconciliation, conferring an unexampled favour upon his officer; yet
he shrank from the delicate task, while giving it long and anxious
thought.
He tossed up a florin.
'If it is a head, I'll do it. Head it is!' he exclaimed, and went
straight to the tent of Hammersley, whom he found lounging on his
camp-bed, with a cigar in his mouth and his patrol-jacket open.
'What is up?' he demanded abruptly, as if disturbed in a reverie.
'Only, sir, that I have just had a letter,' began Florian, colouring
deeply, and pausing.
'From home?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I hope it contains pleasant news.'
'It is from one who is very dear to me.'
'Oh, the old story--a girl, no doubt?'
'Yes, sir.'
'The more fool you: the faith of the sex is writ in water, as the
poet has it.'
'I hope not, in my case and in some others, Captain Hammersley; but
if you will pardon me I cannot help stating that in my letter there
is something that concerns yourself and your happiness very nearly
indeed.'
Hammersley stared at this information.
'Concerns me?' he asked.
'Yes, and Miss Finella Melfort: permit me to mention her name.'
The red blood suffused Hammersley's bronzed face from temples to
chin, and he sprang to his feet.
'What the devil _do_ you mean, MacIan?' he exclaimed sharply; his
supreme astonishment, however, exceeding any indignation to hear that
name on a stranger's lips. 'I know well that you are not what you
seem by your present position in life; but how came you to know the
name of that young lady?'
'She is mentioned in this letter, sir--the letter of the only being
in all the world who cares for me,' replied Florian, with a palpable
break in his voice.
'Mentioned in what fashion?' asked Hammersley curtly and with knitted
brows.
'Please to read this paragraph for yourself, sir.'
'Thanks.'
Hammersley took the letter, and saw that it was written in a most
lady-like hand.
'Dulcie?' said he, just glancing at the signature; 'is she your
sister?'
'I have no sister. I think I have told you that I am alone in the
world.'
'I have a delicacy in reading a young lady's letter,' said
Hammersley, whose hand shook on perceiving by the next glance that it
was dated from 'Craigengowan.'
Florian indicated the long paragraph with a finger; and as Hammersley
read it his face became again deeply suffused.
'Permit me again, my good fellow,' said he as he read it twice, as if
to impress its contents on his mind; and then, returning the letter
with unsteady hand to Florian, he seated himself on the edge of the
camp-bed and passed a hand across his forehead.
'Thank you for showing me this! You can understand what I felt and
thought on seeing the episode this young lady explains so kindly in
her letter--God bless the girl! It seems all too good to be true.'
'You do not know the vile trickery of which this fellow Shafto is
capable,' said Florian.
'I do,' replied Hammersley, remembering the affair of the cards.
'Finella!' said he, as if to himself, 'how her memory haunts me! By
Jove, she is a witch, a sorceress!--like that other Finella after
whom she told me she is named, and who lived--I don't know when--in
the year of the Flood, I think. I thank you from my soul, MacIan,
for the sight of this letter, and it will be a further incitement to
me to further your interests in every way within my power. Heaven
knows how gladly I would betake me to my pen; but this is no time for
letter-writing. By daybreak we shall be in our saddles, and on the
spur to the front.'
Florian saluted his officer and withdrew, leaving him to the full
tide of his new thoughts.
So she was true to him after all! The whole affair, so black
apparently, seemed to be so simply and truthfully explained away by
Dulcie's letter that he could not doubt the terrible misconception
under which he had laboured, nor did he wish to do so. The tables
were completely turned.
It was he--himself--who had cruelly wronged, doubted, upbraided, and
quitted Finella, and now from him must the reparation come. His mind
was full of the repentant, glowing, and gushing letter he would write
her, renewing his protestations of love and faith, and imploring her
to forgive him; but when could that letter be written and sent to the
rear?--for the division advanced by dawn on the morrow, and there
would scarcely be a halt, he supposed, till it reached Ulundi.
And how could a letter reach her from the Cape at Craigengowan
unknown to Lady Fettercairn?--who, he knew but too well, was bitterly
opposed to his love for Finella, and for many cogent reasons the
adherent of Shafto.
How would it all end with them both now?
In a runaway marriage too probably, unless he got knocked on the head
in Zululand, a process he rather shrank from now, as life seemed to
be invested with new attributes, greater hopes, and greater value.
Finella's _mignonne_ face came before him; the small, straight nose,
with thin, arched nostrils; the proud yet soft hazel eyes, with thin,
long lashes; the firm coral lips; the abundant hair of richest brown;
and with all these came, too, the memory of her favourite perfume,
the faint odour of jasmine that clung to her draperies and laces.
In a similar mood to some extent, but without the sense of having
aught to explain or a reparation to make, Florian lay in another tent
at some little distance, contemplating the contents of a pretty white
leather toy, lined with pale blue satin--a case containing a
photo--altogether an unsuitable thing for the pocket of a soldier's
tunic, or to place in his haversack, it may be among cooked rations,
shoe-brushes, and a sponge for pipeclay; but it contained a poor
reflection, though delicately tinted, of Dulcie's own sweet face.
He continued by turns to re-read her letter and contemplate her photo
till the daylight faded and the moon, golden not silver coloured,
shone amid a sky wherein dark blue seemed to blend with apple green
at the horizon, lighting up all the lonely landscape, and making the
blue gum trees and euphorbiæ stand out in opaque _silhouette_, while
the--to him--new constellations of that southern hemisphere seemed to
play hide-and-seek, as they sparkled in and out in the cloudless dome
of heaven.
As there he lay, full of his own thoughts and tender memories, he was
all unaware of two evil spirits that hovered near, and were actually
watching him. Both were evil-visaged personages, and though clad in
the ordinary costume of Cape Colonists belonged to the Natal
Volunteer Force.
One had two hideous bullet wounds but lately healed--one on each
cheek--and his jaws were almost destitute of teeth, as Florian's
pistol had left them; for this personage was no other than Josh
Jarrett, the ex-landlord of the so-called hotel at Elandsbergen; and
the other was Dick of the Droogveldt--one of the two ruffians that
had pursued Florian on horseback till his fall into the bushy donga
concealed him from them.
On the destruction of the town of Elandsbergen by the Zulus these two
worthies, for the sake of the ample pay given to the Colonial troops,
and being incapable of obtaining any other means of livelihood, had
joined the Volunteer Horse, and while serving in that capacity had
discovered and recognised Florian.
'He's a boss now in the Mounted Infantry; but I'll be cursed if I
don't put a lead plug into him on the first opportunity--kill him as
I would a puff-adder!' said Josh Jarrett fiercely, as he mumbled the
last words into the mouth of a metal flask filled with that
villainous compound known as Cape Smoke, while they grinned, but
without fun, and winked to each other portentously.
'Hopportunities we'll 'ave in plenty, with the work as goes on here,'
responded Dick of the Droogveldt (which means a dry district), 'and
that cursed fellow shall never quit Zululand alive, all the more so
that they say he is to be made an officer soon.'
For Dick, like Josh, was one of 'Cardwell's recruits,' as they are
named, and had been a deserter from a line regiment. So their
appearance in camp probably accounted for the two mysterious shots
that Florian had so recently escaped.[*]
[*] For many interesting details of the Zulu War, I am indebted to
the narrative of Major Ashe; but more particularly to the Private
Journal of the Chief of the Staff.