"Good reason they call them kopjes," Carew grumbled scornfully, as
he swept his arm about the encircling landscape. "Every flat-top
hill is an exact copy of every other flat-top hill, and they all are
more or less hideous to behold. My one source of rejoicement lies in
the fact that the pattern was worn out down here, instead of being
sent up to make our mountains by. I hate a bobtail horse; but it's
nothing so bad as these everlasting bobtail hills. And, by Jove,
there comes another dust devil!"
Far away across the veldt, a tiny spurt of dust twirled up into the
air and came spinning towards them like a huge, translucent top.
Gaining momentum as it spun along and picking up more dust as it
advanced, it came whirling onward, rising high and higher until it
swept down on them, a huge, khaki-colored, balloon-like mass. It
caught them in its whirl, ground its stinging, sifting particles
into their clothing, their skin and even into their shut eyes. Then
it passed them by, and went spinning away in its course. Carew swore
softly, as he wiped the dust from his lashes.
"Beastly things! There really ought to be a society formed for the
suppression of dust devils in their infancy. What do you suppose
becomes of the things, Weldon? There's no stopping them, once they
get under way; and, at their rate of growth, they could bury a
township in their old age."
"Granted they could find one to bury," Weldon returned. "Meanwhile,
observe your bath tub."
Carew glanced down at the dust-filled buckets at his feet.
"Oh, hang!" he said concisely. "And I was about to prink."
"One would think you needed it now more than ever," Weldon answered,
as he shook himself free from the thickest of the dust. "What's the
use of trying to keep clean, Carew?"
"Precious little. I used to talk about I 'the un-tubbed.' Now I
mean, merely for the sake of example, to shave twice in the month,
and swab myself off between whiles. It's not for comfort, I assure
you. It's my belief that an occasional bath is worse than none. It
merely stirs up memories of the buried past, and aspirations that
can't be fulfilled. However--" And Carew, the quondam exquisite,
pulled off his socks and shirt, punched them down into one of the
buckets and then did his British best to wash himself in the other.
His lamentations rose again, however, when he put on his
time-stained uniform once more.
"I now understand why Brother Boer sleeps in his clothes," he
observed grimly. "Cleanliness, may be next to godliness; but it is
mighty near the edge of the diabolical to put yourself back into
clothes that are only fit for the dust bin. When I am field marshal
of a long campaign, my first act will be to establish swimming tanks
and laundries as a branch of the Army Service Corps. Meanwhile, see
here!" His open hand came down on his dust-colored coat. Ten minutes
later, the print of every finger was still distinctly visible.
Weldon watched him sympathetically. Thanks to the efforts of Kruger
Bobs, his own clothing was slightly less filled with dust, and his
abandoned socks came back to him in a state of comparative
cleanliness. Satisfied with the fact, he made no effort to inquire
into the method of its achievement.
Carew, meanwhile, his coat off, his sleeves rolled to his elbows,
was grappling with his efforts to produce laundry effect from a
wooden bucket and a few quarts of dingy water. Beyond splashing his
putties and giving himself a pain in the hinges of his back, he
accomplished little. The garments were very wet; but their griminess
was increased, rather than diminished. Carew's face fell, as he
lifted them one by one. Then he shook his head.
"They certainly aren't cleaner; but they may be a bit fresher for
being irrigated," he observed hopefully. "Look out!"
Weldon dodged out of range, as a sock, squeezed from the ankle
downward, yielded up its irrigation in a sudden spurt through the
toe.
"Hold on, Carew; I'm no candidate for baptism," he adjured his
friend. "Let your things soak for a while, and I'll send Kruger Bobs
over to take them in hand, as soon as he gets through polishing off
The Nig."
Carew straightened his aching back.
"I'll change work with him," he suggested promptly. "A horse is on
your own level; it's degrading to run a Chinese laundry."
Weldon glanced from the wooden bucket to the soaked wrists and
splashed putties of his companion.
"I wish Miss Mellen could see you now, Carew," he remarked unkindly.
With unexpected suddenness, Carew mounted his dignity.
"Unfortunately Miss Mellen is at Johannesburg. Moreover, Miss Mellen
has probably seen men in this mess before now," he answered a little
shortly.
"Doubtless. She may have been in a similar fix, herself. If she
were, I suspect she would put it through and come out on top,"
Weldon replied, with an accent of hearty and respectful admiration
which mollified his companion. "There's my call. I must go to
inspect my day nursery." And, leaving Carew beside his amateur
wash-tub, he went striding away to the farther side of the camp where a
hollow between the hills had been converted into a monstrous kraal.
Involuntarily he smiled, as he walked off to his duty. Carew had
been an edifying spectacle, as he had sacrificed himself upon the
altar of cleanliness. He had been neither deft, dignified nor
devout; and, in all truth, Alice Mellen would have found it hard to
recognize her finical patient in the dusty, unshaven man whose hair
bore unmistakable signs of having been pruned with a pair of pocket
scissors. Little of Carew's past month had been spent in the base
camp at Springfontein. With hundreds of other men, he had gone
galloping up and down the Free State on the slippery heels of De
Wet, now being shot at by prowling Boers, now engaged in a lively
skirmish from which he never made his exit totally unscathed, now
riding for weary, dusty miles upon a scent which ultimately proved
to be a false one. And, meanwhile, not a postbag came into camp
without a letter for Carew, bearing the mark of Johannesburg. It was
not altogether resultless that Carew's foot had been obstinately
slow in its healing.
To Weldon, a fixture in camp, fell the care of receiving Carew's
mail. At last, when one day the bag brought in two letters addressed
in the same dashing, angular handwriting, he forsook his principles
and made open comment.
"There is a slight monotony about your mail, in these latter days,
Carew," he observed dispassionately. And Carew had answered, with
perfect composure,--
"Yes, in view of my chronic trick of being potted at, I find it wise
to keep on good terms with my nurse. It may prove handy in case of
accident, like an insurance policy, you know. Is that all?" And,
cramming the letters into his pocket, he walked away to his tent.
And Weldon, as he watched him, nodded contentedly to himself. He
liked Carew; he also liked Alice Mellen. Beyond that, he made no
effort to go. Just now, he cared to penetrate the thoughts of but
one woman. The others he was willing to take on trust. Nevertheless,
it would have caused him some surprise, could he have reviewed all
the mental processes of Alice Mellen, during the past ten months.
For Weldon, the days at Springfontein differed not one whit, one
from another, yet each day was full of an excitement which sent his
blood stinging through his veins. Every man in the regiment could
ride a broken horse; but, for many of them their attainments stopped
there, and broken horses were few and far between. With the
increasing need of troopers for the guerrilla raiding into which the
war was degenerating, with the inevitable losses of a long campaign,
mounts of any kind were scarce. Nevertheless, consternation had
descended upon the camp, one day, when three hundred kicking,
squealing American bronchos had been detrained and placed at their
service. The next day, casualties were frequent; on the day after
that, there was made announcement that mounted parade would be
omitted. Weldon read the notice, smiled and went in search of his
captain. He was tired of inaction, and he felt his muscles growing
soft. They hardened speedily, however.
Day after day, he went striding into the kraal whence, after a
skirmish which was more or less prolonged, he emerged astride a
mount which, with shrieking voice and rampant hoofs, gave notice to
all that such a liberty could not be permitted. Nevertheless, it was
permitted. Sometimes, the final contest took place miles away from
the point of its beginning. Sometimes horse and rider settled the
matter in the course of a few concentric circles of an hundred-yard
radius; sometimes it bucked; sometimes it rolled, and sometimes it
merely sat down upon its haunches, dog-wise, and refused to budge.
Almost invariably, it came out from the contest, unscarred save for
its dignity and its temper. Weldon's lips shut tight; but his eyes
rarely blazed. These wild, frightened creatures taxed his patience
and his resource; but they hardly touched his temper in the least.
"What's the use of thrashing a beast that's mad with terror?" he
answered one critical amateur who had watched the game from a safe
distance. "The creature is in a funk, as it is; there's no use in
adding to it. All I'm after is to teach 'em that saddles and bridles
don't bite. Treat 'em decently and sit tight, and they'll come right
and learn to trust you in the end."
And, as mount after mount was delivered over to the waiting
authorities, it came to be a matter of general belief that the
regimental rough-rider knew his business, albeit he accomplished it
more by dint of urging than by many blows. Six weeks of this work
had told upon him, told in the right direction. Under the brown
skin, the muscles stood out like knotted cords; his nerves were
steady; he ate like a wolf and slept the dreamless sleep of a
healthy child. To the outward eye, his face changed but little. Its
outlines were more rugged, the curves of his lips a bit more
resolute; but that was all.
Now and then, amid the merry group at the camp fire, he sat silent,
while he let his mind range away to the southward. Somewhere there,
in the green-ringed town in the mountain's shelter, was a tall girl
with yellow hair and eyes which matched the zenith when it darkens
after the dropping of the sun. His fancy painted her in every
conceivable situation: walking, riding, resting at noonday in the
shaded western end of the veranda, or pouring tea for relays of
thirsty guests. As a rule, the Captain's figure was in the
background of these pictures, and Weldon was content to have it so.
In all South Africa, these were his two best friends; it was good
that they could be together. And the Captain was an older man, much
older. When one lives in the open air during twenty-four hours of
every day, jealousy has scant place in his mind. The smaller vices
are for the cramped town, not for the limitless, unbroken veldt.
And now and then a day brought with it a letter, frank, friendly and
full of news. Those days Weldon marked with a white stone; but his
sleep, on those nights, was as quiet and dreamless as ever. Facts
were facts. Theories and hopes were for the future; and no man looks
much to the future in a time of war.
Besides the letters, there were minor events, too, events which went
to fill up the letters of reply. Now it was a hospital train which
halted at the camp on the way southward, and each red-taped nurse
had reminded him of Alice Mellen, and of those last days in
Johannesburg. Now it was a two-day trek, as escort for a convoy
train whose long lines of bullock-drawn wagons marked the brown
veldt with a wavering stripe of duller brown. Again a wounded picket
came straying back to camp, bleeding and dazed, to report the
inevitable sniping which furnished the running accompaniment to most
other events; or an angry squad came riding in, to tell of the shots
which had followed close upon the raising of the white flag, or of
the score of armed men who had suddenly leaped out from the safe
shelter of a Red-Cross ambulance. And, on one occasion, he had been
in the thick of a similar fray. Hand to hand, he had fought on the
doorsteps of a farmhouse to which he and his five comrades had been
bidden by a sprightly Boer in gown and sunbonnet. At the door, the
bonnet had been cast from the cropped head, and the gown had been
pushed back to give access to the bandolier beneath, while a dozen
shots from an upper window had driven them from the dooryard into
the comparative shelter of the lower rooms. The skirmish had ended
with a charge up the stairway. Weldon, that same night, had written
to Ethel a wholly humorous account of the whole affair, and it was
not until long afterwards that she had learned from Carew, who had
been of the party, which was the trooper who had mounted guard over
the room where the aged grandmother had tucked herself away under
her bed. The old Dutch vrouw had bidden him to share her shelter;
but he had taken note of her dimensions, and had declined her
hospitality. Later on, when the fight was over and she had painfully
wriggled her way out from her trap, he had also declined certain of
her manifestations of gratitude. Even chivalry to the aged possesses
its humorous side.
Then, one November night, Weldon came into his tent with alert step
and glowing eyes. He found Carew going through his camp outfit in
detail, and, squatting on the floor in the corner, Kruger Bobs was
cleaning accoutrements as if his life depended on it.
"You look as if events were about to happen," he observed, from the
dispassionate distance of the doorway.
"They are."
"Ask them to include me, then."
"What do you need of events, you regimental broncho-buster?"
"One gets sick of even the best horseflesh in time," he answered
nonchalantly.
"Sorry, for you are doomed to more of it."
"Another herd of bronchos?" Weldon's voice showed that the idea
displeased him.
"No; but a two-hundred-mile trek across country."
"Good. I am tired of being cooped up, and a spin of that kind will
be a boon."
Carew settled back on his heels and looked up at him.
"Spin is it! Your only spin will be on your own axis. We are to act
as escort for a convoy train of fifty wagons and ten times fifty
mules. We shall make six miles a day, and our tongues will be wholly
corrupted by the language of the mule-drivers. And, in the end, we
shall get to--"
"A glorious fight, I trust," Weldon supplemented.
Gloomily Carew shook his head. "No; merely to Winburg. We are going
to provision Weppener and Ladybrand, and then make for the railroad
again. We'll strike it at Winburg most likely. It is an unholy sort
of hole, and I hear that the hotel serves watered ink and currant
jelly under the name of claret. We shall sit there and sip it, until
the train arrives, and then we shall entrain and come back again.
And this," he emphasized his words by plumping forward on his knees
once more; "and this is war!"
"Yes; but it lets us out on a longer leash than I have had for some
time," Weldon said serenely. "Anyway, it is well for you that it is
not likely to be a bloody campaign, for you'll be headed straight
away from Johannesburg, and I misdoubt me if Winburg holds a
hospital."
"Judging from my past records, it will have to found one, then,"
Carew answered composedly. "If I have to go through two hundred
miles of the enemy's country, they might as well open up, in
readiness for my coming. But what is the letter, old man?"
"News. Yours had knocked it out of my mind, though. Mine comes off
later. Captain Frazer has been transferred to the South African
Light Horse, and will come up here as adjutant, on the first."
Carew's face brightened.
"That's good hearing. He will be higher still, before De Wet is
taken." "I hope so. Anyway, he is coming to us. Think of having him
about again!"
"Much good will it do us! An adjutant doesn't mess with the
trooper."
"Frazer will stick to his friends."
"Mayhap. Still, better men than he have gone dizzy, as they went up
the ladder, and dizziness makes people look at what's above them,
rather than at what is below," Carew answered oracularly. "Frazer's
influence will be sound, and we shall feel it from one end of things
to the other. Aside From that, we aren't likely to be much affected
by his coming. Did Miss Dent tell any other news?"
"As it happens, Miss Dent didn't tell me this."
"Who, then?"
"Captain Frazer, himself," Weldon answered, with a quiet relish of
his own victory. "He sends messages and all that to you." Then he
added, "And who else do you think is coming?"
"With him?"
"Yes."
Carew shook his head.
"I've no idea, unless Lord Kitchener is about to pay us a visit.
There were rumors of it, a week or so ago."
"Guess again. It's a mightier than Lord Kitchener, this time."
"Can't be."
Weldon laughed. "It is, for it is a man trained to two weapons, who
has beaten his kettles into a helmet and his pepper-pot into a
cartridge-box."
"Paddy?"
"Yes, Paddy. The Captain writes that he is thirsting for gore and
glory, and that he has learned to ride anything from a clotheshorse
to a nightmare."
Carew laughed.
"Paddy all over. He never could take things as they came."
"Except Parrott's horse," Weldon suggested.
"How did he get out of that scrape?"
"Went out. There was talk of official vengeance; but Paddy vanished,
that same night. A week later, he turned up at the Captain's room in
Cape Town, with a bundle of clothes and a story that was as leaky as
a sieve. The Captain sent him out to Maitland to be licked into
shape, and this is the result."
"No," Carew objected in a sudden burst of prophecy. "Mind my words,
Paddy has not resulted yet. That will come, later on in the game."