"Where did you pick up that man, Jacob Snyman?" said Harley Greenoak.
"He's not been long attached to the Force," answered Sub-Inspector
Ladell.
"Yes, I know, but _where_ did you pick him up?"
"That's more than I can tell you. He's rather a pet of the
Commandant's; helps him to find new sorts of butterflies and creeping
things that the old man is dead nuts on collecting. So he took him on
in the native detective line."
Harley Greenoak did not reply, but his thoughts took this very definite
shape--
"That's all very well, but a taste for entomology on the part of an
untrousered savage isn't going to get this escort safe and sound to the
Kangala Camp. One more occasion for keeping one's eyes wide-open."
The object of this inquiry was a thick-set, very black-hued Kafir, at
the present moment not untrousered, for he wore the F.A.M. Police
uniform of dark cord, and was driving one of the two ammunition waggons,
which, with their escort, were just getting out of sight of the solid
earth bastion of Fort Isiwa. The said escort consisted of sixty men,
under the command of a Sub-Inspector, beside whom Greenoak was riding.
With him was Dick Selmes. The latter now struck in--
"What's the row with Jacob--eh, Greenoak?"
"I don't know that I said anything was."
"No. But you'd got on that suspicious look of yours when you spoke of
him. I believe you're out of it this time. Now, I should say Jacob was
as good a chap as ever lived, even though he is as black as the ace of
spades. I've been yarning with him a heap."
"Have you? I think I'll follow your example then," returned Greenoak,
reining in his horse so as to bring it abreast of the foremost of the
ammunition waggons, ahead of which they had been riding.
The driver saluted. Though, as Dick Selmes had said, he was as black as
the ace of spades, he had an extremely pleasant face and manner.
Greenoak addressed him in the Xosa tongue, being tolerably sure that
none of the Police troopers within earshot possessed anything but the
merest smattering of that language, most of them not even that.
Further, to make assurance doubly sure, he talked "dark." The while,
Dick and Sub-Inspector Ladell also talked.
"Tell you what, Selmes," the latter was saying, "you're a regular Jonah.
You're always getting yourself into some hobble, and Greenoak seems
always to be getting you out of it. Now, I'll trouble you to mind your
P's and Q's while we're on this service, for we can spare neither time
nor men till we're through with it. It's an important one, I can tell
you, a dashed important one."
"Don't I know it?" answered Dick. "Didn't I take my full share of
getting the despatches through? I couldn't help it if that poor unlucky
idiot Stokes got drunk and killed."
"No, you certainly couldn't help that. But you're a Jonah, man. Yes,
decidedly a Jonah."
"A Jonah be hanged!" laughed the other, lightly. "Well, Greenoak, what
have you got out of Jacob Snyman?"
"Oh, nothing," was the casual reply. But though the speaker's face wore
its usual mask-like imperturbability, the speaker's mind was revolving
very grave thoughts indeed.
The escort, and its momentous charge, had effected a prompt and early
start from Fort Isiwa, far earlier than could have been expected; for,
thanks to Harley Greenoak's skilful guidance, the way across country of
the express-riders had been nearly halved. The convoy, proceeding at
something of a forced pace, had covered about three hours of ground
since the said start.
The road lay over gently undulating ground, dotted with mimosa, now over
a rise, only to dip down again into a corresponding depression. Away,
against the blue mountain range in the distance, arose here and there a
column of thick white smoke in the still atmosphere. It wanted an hour
to sundown. Then, suddenly, the lay of the land became steeper. Dark
kloofs, thickly bushed, seemed to shoot forth like tongues, up to within
a hundred yards of the high, switchback-like ridge which formed the line
of march. But no Kafirs were met. It was as if the land were, in their
own idiom for war, "dead." Even the few kraals which lay just off the
road here and there, showed no sign of life.
By the advice of Harley Greenoak scouts had been thrown out ahead of the
convoy. To this, Sub-Inspector Ladell, who, though as plucky as they
make them, was not a particularly experienced officer, had at first
demurred.
"Why, dash it all, there's no war," he had protested. "By putting on
all this show we're making them think we're afraid of them."
"Well, take your own line. You're in command of this racket, not me,"
was the imperturbable rejoinder.
But the scouts _were_ thrown out.
Now, as the convoy ascended a rise, two of these came galloping in.
Several bodies of Kafirs, they reported, were massed in a shallow bushy
kloof which ran up to the road ahead. They themselves had not been
interfered with, but their appearance had been marked by considerable
excitement. Moreover, the savages were all armed, for they had seen the
glint of assegais and gun-barrels.
"Hurrah!" sang out Dick Selmes. "Now we are going to have an almighty
blue fight." But Ladell, alive to the gravity of his charge and his own
responsibility, was not disposed to share his enthusiasm. Had he
already got his convoy safe to the Kangala Camp, he would thoroughly
have enjoyed the prospect of fighting all the ochre-smeared denizens of
Kafirland--come one, come all. Now, the thing wore a different face.
"Well, we are going through," he said grimly. Then he gave orders that
the escort should form up in close order round the two waggons, and thus
they gained the top of the next rise.
"Down there, sir," said one of the men, who had brought in the news.
A bushy kloof fell away on their left front, its upper end nearly
touching the road by about fifty yards. This was alive with wild forms,
their red-ochre showing in contrast to the dark green of the foliage.
They made no pretence at concealment either; commenting in their own
tongue with free outspokenness on the Police troopers, to whom they
referred derisively as a lot of half-grown boys. However, this affected
the latter not at all, for the simple reason that the contemptuous
comments were not understood.
Sub-Inspector Ladell was in a quandary. That the savages meant mischief
he was certain. Yet no war had--officially--broken out. If he ordered
the first shot to be fired, why, he incurred a grave responsibility. On
the other hand, the Kafirs were drawing nearer and nearer, crowding
through the bushes like a swarm of red ants. Even as many another, when
in a quandary, he referred to Harley Greenoak.
The latter nodded, and turning his horse, rode a little way out from the
escort in the direction of the Kafirs, yet taking care to keep himself
between them and the ammunition waggons. Then he lifted up his voice
and hailed the enemy. From the latter a great shout went up.
"_Whau_--Kulondeka!"
Kulondeka--meaning "safe"--was, it will be remembered, the name by which
Harley Greenoak was known among all the tribes by whom the Bantu
dialects were spoken.
"You know me," he went on. "Good. Then come no nearer. The
_Amapolise_ have enough cartridges to keep on shooting you down like
books for an entire day, or even more."
Even as he spoke the order had been given to load and dismount.
Cartridges were slipped into the breeches of carbines, and those told
off to hold the horses had got them in hand. The fighting-line stood,
waiting the word to fire. Harley Greenoak had not dismounted. Now he
galloped quickly out of the firing-line, reining in ahead of the
foremost of the ammunition waggons--that driven by Jacob Snyman.
With a sudden roar--deafening, terrific--the cloud of red savages came
surging up the slope. They had flung off their blankets, and were
whirling and brandishing these as they ran, with the double object of
stampeding the horses, and disturbing their opponents' aim. Then, in a
crackling volley, the Police carbines spoke. More than a dozen leaping
sinuous forms came to earth, clutching wildly at nothing in their
stricken throes. Others halted limpingly, or subsided. The charge was
checked. Though in considerable force the assailants dropped into the
long grass and behind mimosa bushes or ant-heaps, to gather, if might
be, courage for another attempt.
"Great Scott, Ladell, but I bagged a right and left!" cried Dick Selmes,
in tremendous excitement, banging a fresh pair of cartridges into his
smoking gun.
"Get out with those old shooting yarns, Selmes," was the answer. "Why,
the nearest was outside a hundred and fifty yards. You're not going to
tell me your charge of buckshot'll kill at that distance. No. You'll
have to stick to one."
"All right. Wait till they get nearer, and you'll see," retorted Dick.
As he spoke there was a wavy movement in the grass. Like lightning the
Kafirs sprang up, bounding forward again, and uttering deafening yells.
They had discarded the blankets now, and came straight on, each grasping
a short-handled, broad-bladed assegai. It was noteworthy that, although
many had firearms, they forebore to use them. The bulk of the Police
escort noticed this, but only one--and he not of the Police escort--
understood it. That one was Harley Greenoak.
"Aim low, men, aim low," said Ladell, who, as we have said, though not a
very experienced officer, was coolness and pluck itself.
The carbines barked, and again the assault was stayed. But now the
firing and the yelling and the general racket had rendered the
troop-horses restive, so that more men had to be told off to help hold
them. This weakened the firing-line. And more and more Kafirs could be
seen swarming up the kloof, in the rear of the original assailants.
The Police troopers were behaving admirably. Many, if not most of them,
were quite youngsters, not long out from England, but the real fighting
blood was there. True, they had not been literally under fire, but the
spectacle of these swarming savages, and the reinforcements coming on
behind, was nerve-trying enough. Why, their own small force was a mere
mouthful to such as these! The sheer weight of numbers was enough to
crush them; and added to this consciousness was the certainty that they
were opposed to an enemy who gave no quarter, except temporarily, that
those thus spared might be put to death in lingering torment. Yet they
were as cool as though at ordinary musketry practice.
"Here they come again!" sang out Ladell. "Aim low, boys, and steady.
Give them three volleys, as quick as you can load."
The savages surged forward; near enough now to render distinguishable
each broad, cruel face. Their sonorous war-shout had now become a
strident hiss, in the hope of still further terrifying the frantic
horses. A tongue of them darted round as though to outflank the
position, and further confuse the mere handful of Police. The fire of
the latter had now become a continuous roar.
But what of those who led the new manoeuvre?
One by one down they went, each shot fair and square through the head,
and that in regular and precise order. Half a dozen--eight--thus lay.
In wild panic, which was half superstition, they halted, and pressed
back. While thus bunched, a deadlier fire raked them. Utterly
demoralised, they dropped into cover, and incontinently crawled out of
the line of fire. Seeing which, Harley Greenoak said to himself
complacently--
"This old repeating gas-pipe I borrowed from Mainwaring isn't such a bad
practical joke after all."
Then he became alive to two facts; neither of which astonished him, for
he had foreseen both. One was that the enemy had had enough; the other
that the team inspanned to the foremost of the ammunition waggons was in
a state of wild panic--so much so indeed that its driver could no longer
control it. And that driver was the very black, pleasant-mannered
Kafir, Jacob Snyman.
The horses plunged and tugged wildly at the reins. So frantic were
their plunges that it seemed a miracle that the whole thing was not
overturned. Yet no upset took place.
No upset took place, but a bolt. The frantic animals dashed off--at
headlong speed downhill--straight for where, amid the bush, the defeated
Kafirs lay, broken up into sullen knots, but now, animated once more,
eagerly awaiting this most welcome prize. Their driver seemed powerless
to restrain the animals.
"Turn the horses, Manyelo! Turn the horses, or you have looked your
last upon the sun!"
The driver, Jacob Snyman, knew the voice, even as it needed not his real
name to bring home to him that he was known. Harley Greenoak, galloping
abreast of the runaway team, but with his horse well in hand, was
pointing a long-barrelled and very businesslike revolver straight at his
head, and he had only too recently seen what Harley Greenoak could do in
the shooting line. So Jacob Snyman, _alias_ Manyelo, deciding that
however valuable some thousands of rounds of cartridge might be to his
expectant countrymen over yonder, life was a good deal more valuable to
him--with sufficient show of pretence at succeeding--effectually turned
his team, bringing it round to the escort again.
A volley of congratulations awaited.
"Well done, Jacob!" cried Sub-Inspector Ladell. "Why, man, we none of
us expected to see you again with a whole skin, and so many more rounds
of ammunition for John Kafir to blaze away at us with. Well done! By
Jove, you stopped those fools of horses just in time!"
Jacob Snyman grinned softly, deprecatingly, and remarked that Ladell--
and incidentally the Government--was his father. But Harley Greenoak
said nothing.
The escort moved forward again, the savage enemy watching it from his
far cover, and speculating on his chances of doing better next time.
The Police were in high glee. They had beaten off a determined attack,
with heavy odds against them, at considerable loss to the enemy--over
forty dead had been hurriedly counted--and they themselves had come out
without a scratch. To be sure, the said enemy had omitted to use any
firearms, which omission they quite overlooked, or, if they gave it a
thought, it was only as a subject for passing wonder. But Harley
Greenoak did not so overlook it; for he knew the reason. The Kafirs
wanted that ammunition, and so refrained from any act which should
result in blowing it all sky high. This was why he himself, except when
in pursuit of the runaway team, had kept between the waggons and the
enemy.
Night fell, the moon rose, and the convoy held on its way unmolested.
The Police troopers were in high spirits after their first fight. Not
less exultant was Dick Selmes; and during the short halt that was made,
in order to rest the horses and snatch a hurried meal, he was fighting
the battle over again with characteristic exuberance. All had shown
what they could do.
Towards dawn another halt was called, and the tired troopers, flinging
themselves on the ground, were fast asleep in a minute. But for their
officer, tired as he was, there was no rest. His anxiety increased as
they drew nearer to their objective; and, by way of adding to such
anxiety, a heavy mist drew down. Sharing his vigil was Harley Greenoak.
The latter suddenly held up a hand for silence--the two men had been
chatting in a low tone. Listening intently, the faintest sort of
crackle, as of something burning, came to the quick ears of one of them.
Now the striking of a light had been strictly prohibited.
Quick to act as to think, Harley Greenoak made straight for the
ammunition waggons, which were drawn up side by side. As he gained them
a figure dashed out of one, nearly upsetting him, and disappeared into
the mist; so quickly indeed as to render it useless to fire at it. But
a more urgent duty lay to the hand of the investigator.
The latter, without hesitation, and in defiance of orders, struck a
light, as he mounted the nearest of the waggons, and well, indeed, was
it that he did so. One of the ammunition cases had been stealthily
removed, and the cavity thus formed was filled with chips and dry grass,
besprinkled with gunpowder, while leading up to this was a fuse,
cunningly contrived of rope strands and tinder wood. A red glow, like
that of a well-lighted cigar, was creeping along with alarming rapidity.
In less than five minutes the whole escort would be blown to atoms. It
took less than five seconds for Greenoak to remove and extinguish the
deadly fuse, just as Ladell came up, and with much strong language
wanted to know who was striking a light contrary to orders.
The while, the fugitive, who had disappeared into the mist, had the
ill-fortune to stumble over Dick Selmes, fast asleep. The latter,
however, lively through recent experiences, was promptly wide awake, and
grabbed him by the leg, throwing him to the ground.
"Why, it's Jacob Snyman," he exclaimed, recognising the other's voice,
and releasing his hold. Hardly had he done so than Greenoak, hearing
the sound, came up. Too late. The fugitive had disappeared.
"Oh, I'll soon bring him back," cried Dick, after the first dozen words
of explanation, and leaping to his feet, regardless of expostulation,
and at imminent risk of being shot by the sentries, he plunged into the
mist.
In hard training, he was able in a moment to bear the clink of stones as
the fugitive ran. A spurt, and he came up with him. The Kafir seeing
only one, and he almost certainly unarmed, drew a sheath knife, and
stood waiting. And just then, as ill-luck would have it, his pursuer
stumbled and fell headlong.
With an evil snarl the Kafir leapt forward. Where was the
pleasant-faced, soft-mannered, civilised native now? A sheer savage
this, about to shed blood, and that unnecessarily.
But out of the mist leapt two figures, and down went Snyman under the
mighty fist of the Police corporal who was with Harley Greenoak.
Disarmed, and rendered powerless for further mischief, he was brought
back to the escort. When the nature of his misdoing got abroad, it was
all Ladell could do to keep his men from lynching him. But now he was
almost as anxious to get his prisoner safe to camp as he was the
ammunition; and indeed he succeeded in doing both by the following
midday.
"So Jacob's as good a chap as ever lived--eh, Dick?" said Harley
Greenoak, drily, when that consummation had been attained.
"By Jingo! he'd have done for me if you fellows hadn't turned up,"
laughed Dick.