"THE TALE OF THE SPEAR."
"_Whau_!" ejaculated Ziboza, one of the fighting indunas of the Ingubu
Regiment. "These two first."
The two men constituting the picket are seated under a bush in blissful
unconsciousness; their horses, saddled and bridled, grazing close at
hand. Away over the veldt, nearly half a mile distant, the column is
laagered.
In obedience to their leader's mandate a line of dark savages darts
forth, like a tongue, from the main body. Worming noiselessly through
the bush and grass, yet moving with incredible rapidity, these are
advancing swiftly and surely upon the two white men, their objective the
point where they can get between the latter and their horses.
These men are there to watch over the safety of the column laagered up
yonder, but who shall watch over their own safety? Nearer--nearer! and
now the muscles start from each bronze frame, and the fell, murderous
assegai is grasped in sinewy grip. Straining eyeballs stare forth in
bloodthirsty exultation. The prey is secure.
No. Not quite. The horses, whose keener faculties can discern the
approach of a crowd of musky-smelling barbarians, while the denser
perceptions of the two obtuse humans cannot, now cease grazing and throw
up their heads and snort. Even the men can hardly close their eyes to
such a danger signal as this. Starting to their feet they gaze eagerly
forth, and--make for the horses as fast as they can.
Too late, however, in the case of one of them. The enemy is upon them,
and one of the horses, scared by the terrible Matabele battle-hiss, and
the waving of shields and the leaping of dark, fantastically arrayed
forms, refuses to be caught. The owner starts to run, but what chance
has he against these? He is soon overtaken, and blades rise and fall,
and the ferocity of the exultant death-hiss of the barbarians mingles
with the dropping rifle. Are they are keeping up on his fleeing
companion, and the sputter and roll of volleys from the laager. For
this is what has been happening there.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Steadily, ever with the most perfect discipline and organisation, the
column had advanced, and now after upwards of a month of care and
vigilance, and difficulties met and surmounted, was drawing very near
its goal.
The enemy had hovered, upon its flanks since the last pitched battle,
now nearly a week ago, as though making up his mind to do something
towards redeeming his defeat upon that occasion; but unremitting
vigilance together with a few timely and long range shells had seemed to
damp his aspirations that way.
"I wonder if they'll try conclusions with us once more, before we get
there," observed the commanding officer, scanning the country, front and
flank, with his field glasses. "What do you think, Blachland?"
"I think they will, Major," was the confident reply.
"No such luck," growled one of the group. "After the hammering we gave
them at Shangani. I tell you what it is, Blachland. These wonderful
Matabele of yours are miserable devils after all. I don't believe
they've another kick in them," added this cocksure Briton.
Hard, weather-beaten men these--tough as nails from the life they have
been leading since the beginning of the campaign. They have been tested
again and again, and have passed the ordeal well: not only under fire,
but the more nerve-straining duties of scouting and reconnoitring and
nocturnal guard. Hilary Blachland is attached to the scouting section,
and is somewhat of an important personality in the command, by reason of
his complete knowledge of the country to be traversed, and his
acquaintance with its inhabitants, now the enemy.
"No more bad country you say?" went on the commanding officer, making
some notes in a pocket-book.
"No. It's all pretty much as we see it, open, undulating and moderately
bushed. Yonder is the Intaba-'Zinduna, and we hold to the left of its
further end by about a couple of miles. We are certain to be attacked
between this and Bulawayo, and that's barely twenty miles, why any
minute may settle it."
"Why what's this?" muttered the commanding officer hurriedly, bringing
his glass to his eyes.
"Ah, I thought so," said Blachland with a smile. "We shall get it here,
Major."
Dark masses of the enemy were now appearing, away in front--still about
a mile off. No sooner had the shells begun to drop among these than the
alarm was raised much nearer home, and, as with the celerity of perfect
discipline every man was at his place within the laager, the battle line
of the savages could be seen sweeping forward through the thorns on the
northern side. Then the rattle of volleys, and the knock-like thud of
the machine guns playing upon them, mingles for a time with the deep,
humming war-hiss of the Matabele and the defiant whoops of individual
excited warriors, leaping in bravado as though challenging the
marksmanship of the defenders.
The line of battle soon wavers, halts, then drops down, only to glide on
again. More and more press on from behind, and soon the line is seen to
be extending, as though for a surround. There are firearms too, within
the savage host, and the bullets begin to whizz and "ping" around the
ears of the defenders.
"They have got another kick in them after all, eh, Grantham?" remarks
Blachland to the officer who had uttered the above disparaging remark.
For a piece of sharp splinter, chipped from the side of a waggon, had
struck the latter, causing his ear to bleed profusely, while the speaker
himself gives an involuntary duck, as another Martini bullet hums right
over his head, and near enough for him to feel its draught.
"Oh damn them, yes!" answers the man apostrophised, grinding his teeth
with the sharp pain, and discharging his rifle--aiming low--into the
enemy's line.
For a while matters are lively. Massing at this and that point the
swarming Matabele will essay a charge, but the deadly machine guns are
turned on with telling precision, breaking up every attempt at organised
movement, and the veldt is strewn with dark bodies, dead, motionless, or
writhing in death--and shields flung around in all directions, for which
their owners will never more have use. But within the laager the
organisation is complete. Every man has his own duty to do and does it,
and has no time or attention to spare for what is going on elsewhere.
"Come along, Blachland!" shouted another member of the scouting section,
in a state of the wildest excitement. "Jump on your gee, man! We've
got to go and turn back those horses, or we'll lose every hoof of them."
He addressed, looked round and took in the situation at a glance, and a
thrilling one it was. A large troop of horses, which had been grazing
outside, by some blundering on the part of the herders, had been headed
off while being driven into the laager, and now were making straight in
the direction of the enemy's lines.
There was little organisation among the handful of mounted men who
dashed forth to turn them back, but there was plenty of coolness,
commonsense, and unflinching courage. Away streamed the panic-stricken
horses, but soon at a hard hand gallop, and keeping well off them, the
pursuers were forging up even with the leaders of the stampede.
"Hold to the right! More to the right!" cried Blachland, edging further
in the direction indicated, even though it took him perilously near the
swarming lines of the Matabele, whom he could now make out, pouring down
in a black torrent to cut off himself and his comrades as well as the
runaway steeds. But an intense wild exhilaration was upon him now,
during this mad gallop: buoyant, devil-may-care, utterly scorning the
slightest suspicion of fear. On, on! The sharp "crack--crack" of the
rifles of the advancing savages, the "whigge" and hum of missiles
overhead--in front--around--all was as nothing. Then he realised that
they had headed the wild stampede, had turned it away from the enemy's
line. And then--
"Help, help! For God's sake, don't leave me!"
A rumble and a heavy fall immediately behind him. Even before he turned
his head, he realised what had happened. As he did so he saw it all,
the sprawling horse, the rider dragging himself up from the ground. He
saw, too, that the fallen man and himself were the last on the outside
of the chase, and that the others were receding fast, as, closing
further and further in, they were turning the runaway horses back to the
camp. He saw, too, that the Matabele had noted their brief success, and
were rushing forward with redoubled energy and shouts of exultation to
secure at any rate this one victim.
"For God's sake, don't leave me!" again yelled the unfortunate man, the
terror of certain death in his voice, and stamped upon his countenance.
And that countenance, in the quick resourceful glance, taking in every
chance, every possibility, Hilary recognised as that of Justin Spence.
To return was almost certain death. The momentum of the speed of his
own horse had carried him some distance onward, even while the agonised
cry of the despairing man was sounding in his ears. Why should he help
him, why throw his own life away for the sake of this cur who had so
grossly abused his friendship, requiting it in such mean and despicable
fashion? Anybody else--but this one--no, he would not.
Yet what was it that rose before his mental light in that crucial
moment. Not the face of her for whom yonder man now about to meet a
bloody death had betrayed him--but another and a purer vision swept his
brain, and it was as the face of an angel from Heaven, for it was that
of Lyn. Hilary Blachland triumphed.
Turning his steed with a mighty wrench, he rode straight back to the
unhorsed trooper. From the ranks of the charging savages, now near
enough to recognise him, there arose a mighty roar.
"Isipau! Ha! Isipau!"
"Quick, Spence! Get up behind me. Quick!"
The other needed no second bidding. As the horse with its double
burden--either of these, singly, would have been a sufficient one for
the poor brute, blown as he was--started once more, the foremost line of
the savages was barely two hundred yards distant. Leaping, bounding,
uttering their blood-curdling war-hiss, they reckoned their prey secure.
The horse, weighted like that could never distance them. They would
overtake it long before camp should be reached. Already they gripped
their assegais.
"Sit tight, Spence, or you'll pull us both to the ground," said Hilary,
with a sardonic suspicion that if the other saw a chance of throwing him
off without risking a similar fate himself, he was quite mean enough to
seize it. "Sit light too, if you can, and spare the horse as much as
possible."
Down into a hollow, and here, in the bed of a dry watercourse, the game
steed stumbled heavily, but just saved his footing, and thereby the
lives of his two riders. Bullets flew humming past now, but it seemed
that the din of their pursuers was further behind, and indeed such was
the case, for they arrived at the laager at the same time as the rescued
troop horses.
"Good God! Blachland! You are a splendid fellow, and I owe you my
life," gasped the rescued man. "But what must you think of me?" he
added shamefacedly.
"No more no less than I did before," was the curt reply. "Get off now.
You're quite safe."
"You ought to get the V.C. for this," went on Spence.
But the other replied by coupling that ardently coveted decoration with
a word of a condemnatory character. "I believe I've nearly killed my
horse," he added crustily.
There were those in the laager who witnessed this, and to whom the
circumstances of the former acquaintanceship between the two men were
known--but they tactfully refrained from making any comment. Percival
West, however, was not so reticent.
"Why, Hilary, you splendid old chap, what have you done?" he cried,
fairly dancing with delight. "Why didn't you take me with you though--"
"Oh go away, Percy. You are such a silly young ass," was the very
ill-humoured reception wherewith his transports were greeted by his
kinsman.
The fight was over now and the enemy in retreat. Yet not routed, for he
still hung about at a safe distance, in sufficient force to make things
warm for any pursuing troop who should venture after him into the
thicker bush, until a few deftly planted shells taught him that he had
not yet achieved a safe distance. Then he drew off altogether.