"But before doing that, I want to apologise to him--yes, to apologise,
and I don't know how to do it quite low enough. The day of the race
meeting I insulted you, captain. I called you a coward. A coward I
think of that, boys, after what we've seen to-day. Well, now I want to
say you may kick me--now, in front of everyone here, and I won't move.
So, go ahead."
"Oh, stow that, Jim Steele," interrupted Lamont, "and don't make a silly
ass of yourself. You were a little bit screwed, you know, and didn't
know what the devil you were saying." Here the listeners roared.
"Don't you imagine I've given that another thought, because I haven't.
And calling a man anything doesn't make him so. We'll rub out that
little disagreement right here."
He put out his hand, and the next moment almost wished he hadn't, when
Jim Steele was doing his best to wring it off. The cheering was wildly
renewed.
"Boys," went on the latter, raising his glass. "Here's Captain Lamont,
and his jolly good health. And if he'll raise a corps to take the veldt
and help straighten out this racket, I'm going to be the first man to
join. I don't suppose there's a man jack in this room that won't join.
Is there?"
"No--no."
The answer was an enthusiastic roar. And as they drank his health they
struck up the usual chorus under the circumstances--`For he's a jolly
good fellow'--until the room rang again. And if the watchful savage was
crawling about the dark veldt outside, in a scouting capacity--and who
shall say he was not--he must have decided that Makiwa was singing
war-songs with extraordinary go and zest--not to say indulging in a
_Tyay'igama_ dance [see note], by way of celebrating his victory.
Then Lamont made a little speech. He thanked them for responding so
readily to his call for volunteers, but he knew that they would thank
themselves for the rest of their lives that it had been given to them to
be the means of averting the horrible tragedy they _had_ been the means
of averting. The whole country now was up in arms. These savages
spared neither age nor sex, he had already seen enough--and Peters would
bear him out there--to prove that. Probably they would hear of more and
similar massacres elsewhere before long, but at any rate he, for one,
was going to help the country in which he had lived since its opening
up--to help it to the best of his ability; and whether they served with
him or not he hoped and believed every man jack in that room was going
to do the same.
As for himself, Jim Steele had been good enough to emphasise anything he
might have done, but exactly the same and more might be said of every
man who had fought that day in defence of their two fellow-countrywomen,
and of none more than of Wyndham, who although he had had no opportunity
of firing a shot at the would-be woman-slayers, had none the less by his
coolness and skill contributed to the safety of the party as thoroughly
as though he had shot a score of Matabele with his own hand.
Wyndham had just come in, and a shout of cheering greeted his appearance
at these words. When this had abated Lamont went on.
They were not out of the wood yet, he said. They had either got to wait
here until relieved or take the ladies back to Gandela themselves, and
he himself favoured the first plan. Were they alone they would reckon
it part of the day's work to fight their way, if necessary, to whatever
point at which their services were most required. But the events of the
afternoon had shown they were an inadequate force for escort purposes,
though providentially they had been brought through that time. Again,
he repeated, he could not claim to have done more than any other man who
was with him, where all did so well; and to the end of his days, be they
many or few, one of the proudest recollections of his life would be that
of the couple of dozen or so of men who fought side by side with him,
against tremendous odds, to save their fellow-countrywomen from falling
into the barbarous hands of murderous and treacherous savages.
Roars of cheers greeted the closing of this speech; and then they fell
to the discussion of Jim Steele's notion. For the idea had caught on.
It was determined that those who had fought that day should form the
nucleus of a corps to take the field under Lamont and Peters, and that
the said corps should be known as Lamont's Tigers.
"Dat is a goot name," said Grunberger, nodding his head approvingly.
"We will now drink de health of Lamont's Tigers. Chentlemen, name your
drinks."
This announcement was received with great applause. Then, paper and pen
having been requisitioned, every man there put down his name, pledging
himself to serve in the corps and also to do all he could to induce
desirable men to join it too.
Lamont had left them after his address, and was now examining the
defences of the place. As he stood in the gathering darkness it was
with a strange tingle of the pulses that he reflected upon the scene he
had just left. This popularity to which he had thus suddenly sprung was
not a little strange, in fact it was a little aweing. In what light
would Clare Vidal view it? And then, at the thought of Clare, he felt
more than devoutly grateful that he had been the means of saving her
from a horrible death--and with it there intruded for the first time
another thought. Had he thus saved her for himself?
Yes. The frozen horror with which he had received the announcement that
morning, that she was advancing deeper and deeper into certain peril,
and causing him to lose sight of his own fatigue and recent hardships,
to start off then and there to her aid, had opened his eyes; but--was it
for good or for ill?
"There you are at last, Mr Lamont," said Clare, as he entered the
living-room of the place. "We have been wondering what had become of
you."
She was alone. There was a something in her tone, even in her look,
which he had not noticed before--a sort of gravity, as though the old
fun and brightness had taken to itself wings.
"I've been going around seeing to things. Where's Mrs Fullerton?"
"Gone to bed. She's got a splitting headache, and seems to have got a
kind of frightened shock. Dick is with her now, but I'm going
directly."
"I'm sorry to hear that. It has been a trying enough day for any woman,
Heaven knows. But you, Miss Vidal. There isn't a man in the whole
outfit that isn't talking of your splendid pluck."
She smiled, rather wanly he thought, and shook her head.
"I wish they'd forget it then. I wish I could. Oh, Mr Lamont--I have
killed--men."
She uttered the words slowly, and in a tone of mingled horror and
sadness. This, then, accounted for the changed expression of her face.
"Strictly and in absolute self-defence. Not only in _self_-defence but
in defence of your helpless sister too. There is no room for one atom
of self-reproach in that," he went on, speaking rapidly, vehemently.
"Not only that, but your courage and readiness were important factors in
saving the situation until we arrived. Wyndham has been telling me all
about it."
She smiled, but it was a hollow sort of smile, and shook her head.
"It is good of you to try and comfort me. But do you mean it really?"
"Every word, really and entirely. `Men' you said just now. Beasts in
the shape of men you ought to have said, and would have if you had seen
what Peters and I saw only yesterday morning, only I don't want to shock
you any further. Yes, on second thoughts I will though, if only to set
those qualms of a too-sensitive conscience at rest. Well, we found the
mutilated remains of poor Tewson, and his womenkind and children--little
children, mind--whom these devils had murdered in their own home. I
could tell you even more that would bring it home to you, but I won't.
Now, have you any further scruples of conscience?"
"No, I haven't," she answered, both face and tone hardening as she
realised the atrocity in its full horror. "Thank you for telling me.
It has made a difference already. And now, Mr Lamont, I must go to my
sister. You have saved us from a horrible death, and I don't know how
to find words to thank you."
"Oh, as to that, you can incidentally count in about three dozen other
men. Not a man jack of them but did just as much as I did--some even
more."
She looked at him with such a sweet light glowing in her eyes, as
well-nigh to unsteady him.
"I'll believe that," she said, "when you've answered one question."
"And it--?"
"Who got together these men the moment he knew we were in danger? Who,
forgetting his own fatigue, started at a moment's notice, and, inspiring
the others with the same energy and bravery, rescued us from a ghastly
death? Who was it?"
"It was only what any man would have done. Oh, Clare, you can never
realise what that moment meant to me when I heard that that blighting
idiot Fullerton had started this morning--literally to hurl you on to
the assegais of these devils. You!"
In his vehemence he hardly noticed that he had used her Christian name.
She did, however, and smiled, and the smile was very soft and sweet.
"Me!" she echoed. "Didn't you think of poor Lucy too? Why only me?"
"Because I love you."
It was out now. His secret had been surprised from him. What would she
say? They stood facing each other, in that rough room with its cheap
oleographs of the Queen, the Kaiser, and Cecil Rhodes staring down upon
them from the walls in the dingy light of an unfragrant oil-lamp, any
moment liable to interruption. The smile upon her face became a shade
sweeter.
"Say that again," she said.
"I love you."
She was now in his embrace, but she sought not to release herself from
it. Bending down his head she put her lips to his ear and whispered,
"Consider the compliment returned."
They said more than that, these two, who had thus so unpremeditatedly
come together, but we do not feel under the necessity of divulging what
they said. Perchance also they--_did_.
"I must really go now," she said at last, as footsteps were heard
approaching. "Good-night--my darling."
And she disappeared with a happy laugh, leaving the other standing there
in a condition little short of dazed, and sticking a pin into himself to
make sure that he was actually awake and not merely dreaming.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note. Literally `flogging the name.' When a Zulu regiment returned
from battle, those who had specially distinguished themselves were
pointed at by the commanding induna and _named_ to the King. Each thus
named came forward separately and danced before the King, recapitulating
his deeds. The while his comrades in arms signalled his distinction by
striking their shields with their knob-sticks and roaring out his name.