That January had brought the second irruption of Boers into Cape
Colony. In reality, they were near Calvinia; but, by the middle of
the month, rumor had so far out-stripped fact that certain refugee
Uitlanders were ready to affirm that Table Mountain was held by an
invading army who patrolled the summit, coffee pot in one hand and
Bible in the other. Under these conditions, the little Dutch church
at Piquetberg Road had become, in all truth, the abiding-place of
the Church Militant.
In deference to tradition, the altar had been promptly pulled down
and its ornaments stowed away to be safe from possible desecration.
The altar rail was left, however, and Weldon sat leaning against it,
his eyes vaguely turned upwards to the organ in the farther end of
the church. From the open floor between, the buzz of many voices and
the smoke of many pipes rose to the roof; from the vestry room
behind him, he heard the cleaner-cut accent of the officers.
Outside, above the light spatter of rain on the windows, he could
hear the horses stamping contentedly in the leafy avenue without the
churchyard wall, and the brawl of the stream beyond. The twilight
lay heavy over the church, heaviest of all over the distant organ
gallery, where Weldon could barely make out a single figure moving
towards the bench. There was a rattle of stops, a tentative chord or
two and then a few notes of this or that melody, as if the player,
albeit a musician, found himself continually thwarted by the
darkness and the absence of any printed notes.
"Who is up there, Weldon?" Carew asked, as he peered up into the
dimness.
"Shut up; can't you?" Weldon ordered him abruptly.
And Carew subsided, just as the unseen organist, apparently
abandoning his more ambitious efforts, with sure touch swept into
the familiar harmonies of the Eventide Hymn, and then, still with
his hymnal in mind, jerked out the dozen stops and set the air
rocking to the steady beat of Onward, Christian Soldiers.
As he listened, Weldon's mind went backward to his last Sunday
evening in the cathedral at home. He had known why the old rector
had chosen that time-worn hymn for a recessional; he could still
feel the stir of the congregation as he passed them, still see the
scarlet blot of color made by his own hymnal against his stiffly
starched cotta, still see his mother, erect and pale, staring at him
with a resolute bravery which matched his own. Since then, he had
been inside no church until to-day. It was a far cry from
worshipping in the Gothic cathedral to camping in the simple little
Dutch church; but in each the air was vibrating to the same martial
hymn.
Little by little, the groups scattered over the floor fell into
silence. Here and there, one took up the refrain, now humming it
softly, now singing it with full voice. Then the refrain died away;
there was an instant's hush, an instant's modulation; and, as a man,
the crowd beneath rose to their feet and stood, pipe in hand, while
slowly, steadily from the organ came rolling down the familiar notes
of God Save the Queen.
The organ was closed with a muffled clatter, the organist rose and
slowly came down to the floor. With a friendly word here and there,
he passed among the troopers who saluted him and then settled
themselves again for comfort and their pipes. Last of all, he paused
beside Weldon.
"It is good to put my fingers on the keys again," he said, as he sat
down for a moment on the low rail. "We had an organ at home, and I
miss it. I builded better than I knew, when I chose this place for
our barracks. One rarely finds an organ out here."
Just then an orderly lighted the chancel where they stood. The
organist gave a slight exclamation of surprise.
"Isn't this Trooper Weldon?"
The speaker's face was in shadow. Only the starred shoulder straps
gave Weldon any clue to the rank of his companion.
"It is," he answered briefly.
"Miss Dent has spoken of you. In fact, we were together at Maitland
Camp, last week, when you tried issues with the little gray
broncho."
As he spoke, he moved slightly, and the light fell full upon his
yellow hair and on his blue eyes, dark and fringed with long black
lashes. Weldon looked up at him with a smile of recognition.
"It is Captain Frazer, then?"
"Yes. I am congratulating you on having won your way into Miss
Dent's good graces. She tells me you were most thoughtful for her,
all the way out."
"You have known Miss Dent for a long time?" Weldon queried.
Captain Frazer answered the question as frankly as it was asked. For
the moment, they were man and man. In a moment more, they could
resume their formal relations of captain and soldier.
"I knew her well in England. We met at one or two house parties, a
year ago last fall. I was at her coming-out function, too." Then he
rose. "I shall see you again," he added formally. "Now I wish to
make my round of the guards." And, turning, he went striding away
towards his own quarters in the vestry.
Weldon looked after him thoughtfully. Then he uttered terse
judgment.
"Carew, that's a man," he said.
"Quite likely," Carew assented. "Women don't usually wear khaki.
Shall we go in search of Paddy?"
They found him smoking tranquilly by the churchyard gate. The old
stone wall towering above his head made good shelter from the
drizzle; and Paddy, his day's labor done, was leaning back at his
ease, exchanging adverse compliments with the half-dozen sentries
who patrolled the wall. He hailed Weldon with cordiality.
"Come along here, little Canuck," he called. "There's room for the
two of us and fine smoking. Mr. Carew can stay out in the rain. It's
worth his while, even then, for the sake of watching that pigeon-toed
cockney in the oilskins, him as is stubbing his toes in the
sand, this blessed minute."
"Shut up, Paddy," his victim retorted hotly.
"It's you that should shut up and teach the toes of you to walk
hushlike. If you go on like this, you living watchman's rattle, the
Boers can hear you, clear up in the Transvaal. Tell me, little one,
have you seen your captain yet?"
"Captain Frazer?"
"Yes, Captain Leo Frazer, sure as you're a trooper of C. Squadron.
You're in luck, boy. There's not a better soldier nor a finer
Christian, this side the line. Neptune must have give him an extry
scrubbing, when he come over, for he's white he is, all white.
Boys!" Paddy spoke in a portentous whisper.
"Let her go," Weldon advised him calmly.
"It goes without letting. Once let Paddy get free of his skillets,
once let him have a rifle in place of his spoon, and you'll see war.
The Kingdom of Heaven is a spot of everlasting peace. All I ask of
Saint Peter is a place in front of a line of Boers and Captain
Frazer beside me to give the orders."
"Here he is, Paddy." The low-pitched voice was full of mirth. "He
orders you inside your tent to plan up an extra good breakfast. Some
of these fellows must volunteer for a night guard out in the open,
and they will need a feast, when they come in."
Weldon rose hastily.
"At your service, Captain," he said, just as Paddy, in nowise
daunted by the unexpected presence of his superior, responded,--
"Sure, Captain, I put a condition on the tail of it. If you'll
remember back a little, you'll see that I merely said, 'when I get a
rifle instead of a spoon.' It's a sorry day for an able-bodied man
to be tied to a frying pan all his days. Now and then he longs to
leap out and get into the fire."
Meanwhile, half of the men inside the church were volunteering for
the party of twenty guards demanded by the Captain. It was a surly
night, cold and raw with a drizzling rain. Nevertheless, this was
their first approach to anything even remotely resembling active
service, and the men sought it eagerly.
By dint of attaching himself to the Captain's elbow and assuming
that his going was an understood thing, Weldon accomplished his aim.
Eleven o'clock found him, wet to his skin, sneaking on the points of
his toes through the thick grass beyond the river, with nineteen
other men sneaking at his heels. There had been no especial pretext
of Boers in the neighborhood; tactical thoroughness merely demanded
a guard on the farther side of the river. Nevertheless, the
enthusiastic fellows threw themselves into the game with the same
spirit with which, twenty years before, they had faced the danger of
a runaway by the tandem of rampant hall chairs. A stray Boer or two
would have made an interesting diversion; but, even without the
Boers, a night guard in the open possessed its own interest.
By four in the morning, the interest had waned perceptibly. The
establishment of their force in a convenient hut and the placing of
pickets had served to occupy an hour or so. After that, nothing
happened. The storm was increasing. The rain beat ceaselessly on the
corrugated iron roof of their shelter and made a dreary bass
accompaniment to the strident tenor of the rising wind. Inside the
but the men yawned and whispered together by turns. Carew's best
jokes began to fall a little flat, and Weldon held his watch to his
ear, to assure himself that it was still in active service. Then
hastily he thrust the watch into his pocket, gathered up his
sleeping-bag and removed himself to a remote corner of the hut, with
Carew and a dozen more after him.
Not even the most enthusiastic champion of South African rights can
affirm that the South African citizen is heedful of the condition of
his lesser buildings. The rising wind had proved too much for the
hut. Its joints writhed a little, seesawed up and down a little,
then yawned like a weary old man. From a dozen points above, the
rain came pattering down, seeking with unerring instinct that
precise spot on each man's back where skin and collar meet.
"Whither?" Carew queried, as Weldon made his fifth move.
"Outside, to see what the pickets are about."
"But it rains," Carew protested lazily.
"So I observe. Still, I'd rather take it outside as it comes,
instead of having a gutter empty itself on me, when I am supposed to
be under cover."
"Better stay in," Carew advised him.
"No use. Sleep is out of the question, and I'd rather be moving; it
is less monotonous."
"Go along, then, and look out for Boers. Can I have your bag?"
"You're too wet; you'd soak up all the inside of it. If I am to get
a chill, I'd rather do it from my dampness than your own." Carew
laid hands on the bag.
"What a selfish beast you are, Weldon!" he observed tranquilly.
"This is no sack-race; you can't go out to walk in your bag. In
fact, it takes two to make a navigable pair. Then why not let me
have it?"
"Why didn't you bring your own?"
Already Carew was arranging himself in his new covering.
"I mislaid mine in Cape Town," he replied sleepily. "Now please go
away. I need my beauty nap."
An hour later, he was roused by a sharp reversal of his normal
position. When he became fully awake, he was lying in a pool of
water in the middle of the hut, and Weldon was in possession of the
blankets and bag.
"What's the row?" he asked thickly. "I'm a Canadian, out here
shooting Boers. Oh, I say!" And he was on his feet, saluting the man
at Weldon's side.
"The only bag in the squadron, Captain Frazer," Weldon was
explaining. "The blankets are quite dry. Roll yourself up, and you
will be warm in a few minutes."
Carew surveyed the transfer with merry, impartial eyes.
"Well, I like that," he said, when the Captain's yellow head was all
that was visible above the encircling cocoon. "I thought you said
that you preferred to catch cold from your own wetness, Weldon. I
was merely damp; this man is a sponge."
Before Weldon could answer, the yellow head turned, and the blue
eyes looked up into Carew's eyes laughingly.
"Merely one of the privileges of rank, Carew," the Captain observed
as dryly as if he had not risen from his warm bed to swim the river
and walk a mile in the darkness and the downpour, in order to see
how the new boys were getting on.