"Hi, Hoste, Eustace! Tumble up! We are to start in half an hour."
It is dark as Erebus--dark as it can only be an hour or so before
daybreak. The camp-fires have long since gone out and it is raining
heavily. The speaker, stooping down, puts his head into a patrol tent
wherein two sleepers lie, packed like sardines.
A responsive grunt or two and Hoste replies without moving.
"Bosh! None of your larks, Tom. Why, it's pitch dark, and raining as
if some fellow were bombarding the tent with a battery of garden hoses."
"Tom can't sleep himself, so he won't let us. Mean of him--to put it
mildly," remarks the other occupant of the tent, with a cavernous yawn.
"But it isn't bosh," retorts Carhayes testily. "I tell you we are to
start in half an hour, so now you know," and he withdraws, growling
something about not standing there jawing to them all day.
Orders were orders, and duty was duty. So arousing themselves from
their warm lair the two sleepers rubbed their eyes and promptly began to
look to their preparations.
"By Jove!" remarked Eustace as a big, cold drop hit him on the crown of
the head, while two more fell on the blanket he had just cast off. "Now
one can solve the riddle as to what becomes of all the played out
sieves. They are bought up by Government Contractors for the
manufacture of canvas for patrol tents."
"The _riddle_! Yes. That's about the appropriate term, as witness the
state of the canvas."
"Oh! A dismal jest and worthy the day and the hour," rejoined the
other, lifting a corner of the sail to peer out. It was still pitch
dark and raining as heavily as ever. "We can't make a fire at any
price--that means no coffee. Is there any grog left, Hoste?"
"Not a drop."
"H'm! That's bad. What is there in the way of provender?"
"Nothing."
"That's worse. Gcalekaland, even, is of considerable account in the
world's economy. It is a prime corner of the said orb wherein to learn
the art of `doing without.'"
The two, meanwhile, had been preparing vigorously for their expedition,
which was a three days patrol. By the light of a tiny travelling lamp,
which Eustace always had with him when possible, guns were carefully
examined and rubbed over with an oil-rag; cartridges were unearthed from
cunning waterproof wrappers and stowed away in belts and pockets where
they would be all-ready for use; and a few more simple preparations--
simple because everything was kept in a state of readiness--were made.
Then our two friends emerged from the narrow, kennel-like and withal
leaky structure which had sheltered them the night through.
Except those who were to constitute the patrol, scarcely anybody was
astir in the camp of the Kaffrarian Rangers that dark, rainy morning.
All who could were enjoying a comfortable sleep warmly rolled up in
their blankets, as men who are uncertain of their next night's rest will
do--and the prospect looked cheerless enough as the dawn lightened. A
faint streak in the eastern sky was slowly widening, but elsewhere not a
break in the clouds, and the continual drip, drip, of the rain, mingled
with the subdued tones of the men's voices, as they adjusted bit and
stirrup and strapped their supplies in blanket and holster. Three days'
rations were issued, and with plenty of ammunition, and in high spirits
the prevailing wetness notwithstanding, the men were ready to set forth.
"This won't last. By ten o'clock there won't be a cloud in the sky,"
said the commander of the corps, a grizzled veteran, elected to that
post by the unanimous vote of his men. In keeping with his habitual and
untiring energy, which caused his followers often to wonder when he ever
did sleep, he had been up and astir long before any of them. And now he
bade them good-bye, and, the patrol having mounted, they filed out of
camp, the rain running in streams down the men's waterproofs.
More than three weeks have elapsed since the sacking of Kreli's
principal kraal, and during this time reinforcements, both of colonial
levies and Imperial troops, have been pouring into the Transkei.
Several conflicts of greater or less importance have taken place, and
the Gcaleka country has been effectually cleared, its warlike
inhabitants having either betaken themselves to the dense forest country
along the coast, or fled for refuge across the Bashi to their more
peaceful neighbours, the Bomvanas, who dare not refuse them shelter,
even if desirous to do so. On the whole, the progress of the war has
been anything but satisfactory. A number of the Gcalekas have been
killed, certainly, but the tribe is unsubdued. The Great Chief, Kreli,
is still at large, as are also his sons and principal councillors; and
although the land has been swept, yet its refugee inhabitants are only
awaiting the departure of the colonial forces to swarm back into their
old locations. Meanwhile, a large force is kept in the field, at heavy
expense to the Colony, and in no wise to the advantage of the burghers
and volunteers themselves, whose farms or businesses are likely to
suffer through their prolonged absence. Of late, however, operations
have been mainly confined to hunting down stray groups of the enemy by a
system of patrols--with poor results--perhaps killing a Kafir or two by
a long and lucky shot, for the savages have learnt caution and
invariably show the invaders a clean pair of heels.
But no one imagines the war at an end, and that notwithstanding a
proclamation issuing from the office of the Commissioner of Crown Lands
offering free grants of land in the Gcaleka country conditional upon the
residence of the grantee on his exceedingly perilous holding. This
proclamation, however, is regarded as a little practical joke on the
part of the Honourable the Commissioner. Few, if any, make application,
and certainly none comply with the conditions of the grant. The while
patrolling goes on as vigorously as ever.
Eustace and his travelling companions had reached the camp of the
Kaffrarian Rangers in due course. Hoste, indeed, would have been
elected to a subordinate command in the troop had he taken the field at
first, but now his place was filled up and he must perforce join in a
private capacity; which position he accepted with complete equanimity.
He could have all the fun, he said, and none of the responsibility,
whereas in a post of command he would have been let in for no end of
bother. So he and Eustace chum up together, and share tent and supplies
and danger and duty, like a pair of regulation foster-brothers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our patrol rode steadily on, keeping a sharp look out on all sides. Its
instructions were to ascertain the whereabouts of the enemy and his
cattle, rather than to engage him in actual conflict. Should he,
however, appear in such moderate force as to render an engagement
feasible with a fair chance of success, then by all means let them teach
him a lesson--and ardently did the men hope for such an opportunity.
They numbered but forty all told, all more or less experienced
frontiersmen, who knew how to use their rifles--all well versed in the
ways of bush fighting, and thoroughly understanding how to meet the
savage on his own ground and in his own way. In short, they reckoned
themselves well able to render account of at least six times that number
of the enemy, their only misgiving being lest the wily sons of Xosa
should not afford them the chance.
In spite of his predilection for the dark-skinned barbarians aforesaid
and his preference for the ways of peace, there was something
wonderfully entrancing to Eustace Milne in this adventurous ride through
the hostile country, as they held on over hill and valley, keeping a
careful watch upon the long reaches of dark bush extending from the
forest land which they were skirting, and which might conceal hundreds--
nay thousands--of the savage foe lying in wait in his lurking place for
this mere handful of whites--a something which sent a thrill through his
veins and caused his eye to brighten as he rode along in the fresh
morning air; for the clouds had dispersed now, and the sun, mounting
into his sphere of unbroken blue, caused the wet earth to glisten like
silver as the raindrops hung about the grass and bushes in clusters of
flashing gems.
"So! That's better!" said one of the men, throwing open his waterproof
coat. "More cheerful like!"
"It is," assented another. "We ought to have a brush with Jack Kafir
to-day. It's Sunday."
"Sunday is it?" said a third. "There ain't no Sundays in the Transkei."
"But there are though, and its generally the day on which we have a
fight."
"That's so," said the first speaker, a tall, wiry young fellow from the
Chalumna district. "I suppose the niggers think we're such a bloomin'
pious lot that we shan't hurt 'em on Sunday, so they always hit upon it
to go in at us."
"Or p'r'aps they, think we're having Sunday school, or holdin' a prayer
meeting. Eh, Bill?"
"_Ja_. Most likely."
They were riding along a high grassy ridge falling away steep and sudden
upon one side. Below, on the slope, were a few woebegone looking mealie
fields and a deserted kraal, and beyond, about half a mile distant, was
the dark forest line. Suddenly the leader of the party, who, with three
or four others, was riding a little way ahead, was seen to halt, and
earnestly to scrutinise the slope beneath. Quickly the rest spurred up
to him.
"What is it?"--"What's up, Shelton?" were some of the eager inquiries.
"There's something moving down there in that mealie field, just where
the sod-wall makes a bend--there, about four hundred yards off," replied
Shelton, still looking through his field glasses. "Stay--it's a Kafir.
I saw him half put up his head and bob down again."
Every eye was bent upon the spot, eager and expectant. But nothing
moved. Then the leader took a careful aim and fired. The clods flew
from the sod-wall, heavy and sticky with the recent rain, as the bullet
knocked a great hole in it. Simultaneously two naked Kafirs sprang up
and made for the bush as hard as they could run.
Bang--bang! Bang--bang--bang! A rattling volley greeted their
appearance. But still unscathed they ran like bucks; bounding and
leaping to render themselves more difficult as marks.
Bang--bang! Ping--ping! The bullets showered around the fleeing
savages, throwing up the earth in clods. Each carried a gun and had a
powder horn and ammunition pouch slung round him, besides a bundle of
assegais, and one, as he ran, turned his head to look at his enemies.
Full three hundred yards had they to cover under the fire of a score of
good marksmen. But these were excited.
"Steady, men! No good throwing away ammunition!" cried Shelton, the
leader. "Better let 'em go."
But he might as well have spoken to the wind. As long as those naked,
bounding forms were in sight so long would the more eager spirits of the
party empty their rifles at them. Not all, however. Eustace Milne had
made no attempt to fire a shot. He was not there, as he said
afterwards, to practise at a couple of poor devils running away.
Others, somewhat of the same opinion, confined themselves to looking on.
But to a large section there present no such fastidious notions
commended themselves. The secret of war, they held, was to inflict as
much damage upon the enemy as possible, and under whatever
circumstances. So they tried all they knew to act upon their logic.
"Whoop! Hurrah! They're down!" shouted some one, as the fugitives
suddenly disappeared.
"Nay what!" said a tall Dutchman, shaking his head. "They are only
sneaking," and as he spoke the Kafirs reappeared some fifty yards
further, but were out of sight again in a second. They were taking
advantage of a _sluit_ or furrow--crawling like serpents along in this
precarious shelter.
"Stay where you are--stay where you are," cried Shelton in a tone of
authority, as some of the men made a movement to mount their horses and
dash forward in pursuit. "Just as like as not to be a trap. How many
more do we know are not `voer-ly-ing' [Dutch: `Lying in wait'] in the
bush yonder. The whole thing may be a plant."
The sound wisdom of this order availed to check the more eager spirits.
They still held their pieces in readiness for the next opportunity.
"Hoste--Eustace--watch that point where the pumpkin patch ends. They'll
have a clear run of at least a hundred yards there," said Carhayes, who
was sitting on an ant-heap a little apart from the rest, every now and
then taking a shot as he saw his chance.
"It's a devil of a distance," growled Hoste. "Six hundred yards if it's
an inch--Ah!"
For the Kafirs sprang up just where Carhayes had foretold, and again,
with a crash, many rifles were emptied at them. Fifty--thirty--twenty
yards more and they will be safe. Suddenly one of them falls.
"He's down--fairly down!" yelled someone. "A long shot, too. Oh-h-h!
He's only winged! Look! He's up again?"
It was so. The fallen man was literally hopping on one leg, with the
other tucked up under him. In a moment both Kafirs had reached the
cover and disappeared.
"Well, I never!" cried Hoste; "Heaven knows how many shots we've thrown
away upon those devils and now they've given us the slip after all."
"Anyone would take us for a pack of bloomin' sojers. Can't hit a nigger
in a dozen shots apiece. Pooh!" growled a burly frontiersman, in tones
of ineffable disgust, as he blew into the still smoking breech of his
rifle. "Eh, what's that?" he continued as all eyes were bent on the
spot where the fugitives had disappeared.
For a tall savage had emerged from the bush, and with a howl of derision
began to execute a _pas seul_ in the open. Then with a very
contemptuous gesture, and shaking his assegai at his white enemies, he
sprang into the forest again, laughing loudly. They recognised him as
the man who had escaped unhurt.
"Well, I'm somethinged!" cried Carhayes. "That nigger has got the laugh
of us now."
"He's a plucky dog," said another. "If any fellow deserved to escape he
did. Four hundred yards and a score of us blazing away at him at once!
Well, well!"
"I've known that sort of thing happen more than once," said Shelton, the
leader of the party, an experienced frontiersman who had served in two
previous wars. "Same thing in buck shooting. You'll see a score of
fellows all blazing at the same buck, cutting up the dust all round him
till you can hardly see the poor beast, and yet not touching him.
That's because they're excited, and shooting jealous. Now with one or
two cool shots lying up and taking their time, the buck wouldn't have a
ghost of a show--any more than would those two Kafirs have had. But
we'd better get on, boys. We'll off-saddle further ahead, and then our
horses will be fresh for whatever may turn up. It's my opinion there
are more of those chaps hanging about."