"Look what came of bagging those other two, Vunisa and Pahlandhle.
Their Reserve has been fairly well behaved ever since. We can't hang
_them_ because the Gcalekas are an independent nation, but their people
don't know we can't, and so are behaving themselves for fear we should.
But the Colonial tribes are British subjects, and therefore rebels if
they begin the row, so there'd be no `prisoner of war' treatment for
them. By the way, what has become of that hair-brained young dare-devil
who helped us to grab them? I don't seem to have seen him about
lately."
"Dick Selmes? Oh, he's being taken care of," answered Greenoak, drily.
"He's over at Waybridge's farm. He's got an attraction there."
"H'm. Well, but if you start on this undertaking you'll have to leave
him to himself for a while. And you're his bear-leader."
"He won't object to that," laughed Greenoak. "And he seems by this time
to be uncommonly well able to take care of himself."
"So I should think. And I always thought you kept him quite enough in
leading-strings. No, it's no good. I can't satisfactorily locate this
beast even now," bringing to the light a small wooden box from which he
had just removed the lid, and which contained the identical specimen of
the lizard tribe which we saw him puzzling over in the small hours of
the morning which had witnessed the attack on the Kangala camp. "I
didn't bring the right book. I shall have to wait until I get back to
my library."
King Williamstown was the official headquarters of the F.A.M. Police,
and there the Commandant owned a roomy and commodious bungalow, which
contained a varied library, well stocked with standard works dealing
with his favourite science.
Now he replaced the box and went over to the window. It was open, but
the blind was down. This he pulled up and stood gazing meditatively out
into the night, as though to penetrate darkness and space to where the
plotting chiefs were even then arranging for the wave of steel and torch
which should presently sweep the land. In good sooth he might well feel
anxious. He was a singularly observant and keen-minded man, with a
cool, matter-of-course courage that would stick at nothing once his
judgment had commended any given line of action as necessary. He had
consistently maintained that, given a free hand, he would have
guaranteed there should have been no outbreak at all in the first
instance; when such had befallen, he was confident of his power to stem
it, but again he was hampered by official orders and counter orders.
And now, when the most dangerous outbreak of all was imminent, once
again Red Tape wriggled its way in.
Greenoak, seated back in his armchair, refilled and lit his pipe in
silence. He too was busy with his own thoughts, and forebore to
interrupt those of his friend. These two men, who understood each other
so well, were both of the concentrative order of mind, and when there
was anything of importance to be thought out, they thought it out
thoroughly, and round and round. Here there was something very
important indeed, an enterprise which held out to Harley Greenoak quite
as big a chance of losing his life as any he had ever taken. But that
was not what engaged his attention for the most part. It was the chance
of failure, and all that such would involve. The Commandant's favourite
dogs, two beautiful black spaniels, which had just leaped in through the
open window, came frisking up to him, wagging their tails, and whining
for notice. Mechanically his hand passed over each glossy head, and
still there was silence between the two men. Then the Commandant shut
down the window and turned into the room again.
"Well, Greenoak, if any other man was bound on this errand, I should say
it would be useless. But yourself--"
"I shall feel the pulse of the locations anyway, and can gauge pretty
accurately whether the farmers who are still sticking to their places
ought to leave. I'll have a good talk with Matanzima."
"Not Sandili?"
"Sheer waste of time. He'd be too drunk."
"You may find a difficulty in getting away. In any case, you'll be
shadowed at every step."
Greenoak laughed drily as he toyed with the spaniels' ears.
"I don't want to brag," he said, "but we've known each other a long
time. Did you ever know me `shadowed' to any purpose by any one I
didn't intend should shadow me?"
"No, I can't say I did. I don't believe any one ever did."
"Well, it happened once--not long ago either. And who the dickens do
you think succeeded in doing it?"
"Who?"
"Our young friend, Dick Selmes. No more, no less." And he told the
other, briefly, of his enterprise in Slaang Kloof.
"Well, that doesn't count, for of course he guessed where you were bound
for, and the distance and surroundings were so trifling that there was
no opportunity of throwing him off the scent. Here, of course, it's
different. You're a wonderful fellow, Greenoak, but I don't know why
your glass has been standing empty so long. Here. Fill up."
Several glasses already used, and a large but more than half-emptied
decanter on the table--item a good deal of tobacco ash, pointed to the
fact that some of the Police officers and an outside friend or two had
been spending the evening with the Commandant. The latter now charged
his glass, and pushed the excellent Boer brandy--whisky was hardly known
on the frontier in those days--over to Greenoak.
"We'll drink success, at any rate," he said, "to the `secret service'
department." Then, after a pause, "Upon my word, Greenoak, I wish you'd
throw up this undertaking."
Greenoak, for him, looked somewhat surprised. In all the years of their
acquaintance he had never known the Commandant in an expostulatory vein.
He was habitually the most matter-of-fact and laconic of men. Could it
be that he was ageing?
"Oh, I'm getting rusty here, and spoiling for the chance of putting
something or somebody to rights," was the answer.
By this time it was well known that the Gaika locations were in a frame
of mind that may best be described as smouldering. So far the
grog-sodden mind of Sandili was incapable of deciding anything. Whoever
got the old chief's ear last spoke the "word" that was "good." But his
warrior son, Matanzima, and the young men of the tribe, were spoiling
for a chance to distinguish themselves. The spirit of Donnybrook was
dangerously abroad.
But their kinsmen, the Gcalekas, across the Kei, had been badly defeated
and their country cleared--this, then, was no time for a rising on the
Colonial side. So one would have thought, but a short-sighted policy
had allowed one by one of the burgher forces in the Transkei to evacuate
that territory without supplying their place. The war was over, it was
pronounced. Was it? Back came the defeated paramount tribe, swarming
into its old country again; the Paramount Chief, Kreli, as paramount as
ever, and laughing at the "softness" of the white man. These were now
plotting to stir up the intra-Colonial tribes, and by a simultaneous
rising on the part of these to drive the said white man "into the sea,"
as their expressive way of putting it ran.
This plot was, of course, suspected by many, and known by few, but it
was reserved for Harley Greenoak to find out through one of those
mysterious sources of information that seemed closed to others, that the
time for its execution was imminent. An accredited body of Gcaleka
fighting men was to cross the Kei into Sandili's location, and their
arrival was to be the signal that the moment for rising had come.
Thousands upon thousands of armed savages would thus hold the frontier
at their mercy. It was too late to prevent this. The only course was
to neutralise it, by being prepared. And the bulk of the armed force
upon the border had been withdrawn.
Harley Greenoak got up and went to his room. He took down his guns and
drew them from their holsters. The double .500 Express was deadly with
big game, but he was not sure he did not prefer the rifle and
smooth-bore for man. A charge of Treble A. buckshot was so deadly at
anything like close quarters. Yes, he would take the one with the shot
barrel. It, with his ordinary and very businesslike revolver,
constituted a most formidable armament, in the hands of one who so
thoroughly knew how to use it as himself. Returning to the other room,
he proceeded to load up a saddle-bag with a supply of the most
concentrated and therefore portable provisions, sufficient to last him
several days; but, to all appearances, hardly enough to last him for
one.
"You'll find Mantisa at the place arranged, all right," said the
Commandant, naming one of the native detectives. "He's a good runner,
and will bring the news straight and quick--directly you get any to
send. John Voss had better be sent round to warn the farms."
The other nodded, and the two men shook hands. The lights were then
extinguished, for it was just as well that possible watching eyes should
not see Harley Greenoak as he stepped forth into the darkness. And
having saddled up his horse, he started upon his dangerous and
self-sacrificing undertaking alone.
As he rode on through the night, keeping his horse at a walk, his
thoughts were still busy with his plan. He had not told the Commandant
of the expected crossing, and this for more than one reason. First, he
wanted to verify, his information, and this he felt confident of his
ability to do, by going in person among the disaffected Gaikas. His
consummate knowledge of natives and their language, above all of the
_ways_ of their language, would enable him to do this. He could read
them like a book, however much they strove to conceal from him their
real mind. Then he was not altogether without hope that he might be
able, even at the eleventh hour, to persuade them to "sit still." His
personal prestige with them, and influence, were enormous, and while
they would secretly be laughing at any accredited Government official,
to his own words they would listen with unfeigned respect. Again, were
a strong patrol of Police despatched to watch the drifts, it would
defeat its own object. It would be powerless to prevent the projected
incursion, for the Gcaleka emissaries, being aware of its presence, as,
of course, they could not fail to be, would simply melt into twos and
threes, and cross the river at many different points instead of at one.
Further and more important still, it would precipitate the outbreak he
was striving to delay, even if he could not prevent; and such of the
settlers who still remained on their farms would be massacred without
warning. And this was just what he had set himself out to avert, this
strong, brave, experienced man--he alone--single-handed.
But what of himself--of his own life? Did he not value it that he was
going to place himself alone in the power of these sullen plotting
savages? Well, this was not the first situation of the kind in which he
had played the leading and only part. It was by just such cool and
calculated intrepidity, by just such well-nigh superhuman confidence in
his own personality and resource, that Harley Greenoak had come forth,
not merely with his life, but triumphant and successful where
ninety-nine men out of a hundred would never have come forth at all.
The settlement, largely augmented by tents and waggons of refugees, was
in darkness, as he left it behind. Down by the outspan quite a number
of waggons had formed a laager, but from this came no challenge as he
passed it near by. Either its inmates were asleep, or the sound of a
horse travelling at a foot's pace conveyed no suggestion of danger. The
open veldt lay in front, the great table-topped cone of Moordenaar's Kop
towering on high against the myriad stars.
But--what was this? Behind, not too near, but just near enough to keep
the horseman within sight, within hearing, a stealthy form was flitting.
Seen in the darkness, it was that of an evil-looking, thick-set savage,
with a forbidding countenance dotted unevenly with scrabbly wisps of
beard. In his hand was a pair of hard iron-wood sticks, and one
assegai, with a broad, keen, fluted blade.
The rider held carelessly on. His horse, purposely kept unshod, gave
little sound from its footfalls; himself, perfect in his self-restraint,
foregoing even the comfort of a harmless pipe. Harmless, yes--under
most conditions; under existing ones, the mere faint spark of light
required for its ignition was a thing to be avoided, lest it should
reach the wrong eyes, small as might be the chance of it doing so. But
his habit was to take no chances in a matter of life and death.
Hour after hour--then a short off-saddle, then on again, and still the
stealthy form moved silently, cautiously behind, always keeping its
distance lest the horse should neigh, or otherwise show signs of
uneasiness. Harley Greenoak was being shadowed.