There was rejoicing in many households when it became known in Komgha
that the Kaffrarian Rangers had been ordered home, but in none was it
greater than in that run conjointly by Mrs Hoste and her family and
Eanswyth Carhayes.
The satisfaction of the former took a characteristically exuberant form.
The good soul was loud in her expressions of delight. She never
wearied of talking over the doughty deeds of that useful corps; in fact,
to listen to her it might have been supposed that the whole success of
the campaign, nay the very safety of the Colony itself, had been secured
by the unparalleled gallantry of the said Rangers in general and of the
absent Hoste in particular. That the latter had only effected his
temporary emancipation from domestic thrall in favour of the "tented
field" through a happy combination of resolution and stratagem, she
seemed quite to have forgotten. He was a sort of hero now.
Eanswyth, for her part, received the news quietly enough, as was her
wont. Outwardly, that is. Inwardly she was silently, thankfully happy.
The campaign was over--_he_ was safe. In a few days he would be with
her again--safe. A glow of radiant gladness took possession of her
heart. It showed itself in her face--her eyes--even in her voice. It
did not escape several of their neighbours and daily visitors, who would
remark among themselves what a lucky fellow Tom Carhayes was; at the
same time wondering what there could be in such a rough, self-assertive
specimen of humanity to call forth such an intensity of love in so
refined and beautiful a creature as that sweet wife of his--setting it
down to two unlikes being the best mated. It did not escape Mrs Hoste,
who, in pursuance of her former instinct, was disposed to attribute it
to its real cause. But exuberant as the latter was in matters
non-important, there was an under-vein of caution running through her
disposition, and like a wise woman she held her tongue, even to her
neighbours and intimates.
Eanswyth had suffered during those weeks--had suffered terribly. She
had tried to school herself to calmness--to the philosophy of the
situation. Others had returned safe and sound, why not he? Why, there
were men living around her, old settlers, who had served through three
former wars--campaigns lasting for years, not for months or weeks--their
arms, too, consisting of muzzle-loading weapons, against an enemy more
daring and warlike than the Kafirs of to-day. These had come through
safe and sound, why not he?
Thus philosophising, she had striven not to think too much--to hope for
the best. But there was little enough in that border settlement to
divert her thoughts from the one great subject--apart from the fact that
that one subject was on everybody's tongue, in everybody's thoughts.
She had found an interest in the two young girls, in reading with them
and generally helping to improve their minds, and they, being bright,
well-dispositioned children, had appreciated the process; had responded
warmly to her efforts. But in the silent night, restless and wakeful,
all sorts of grisly pictures would rise before her imagination, or she
would start from frightful dreams of blood-stained assegais and hideous
hordes of ochre-painted barbarians sweeping round a mere handful of
doomed whites standing back to back prepared to sell their lives dearly.
Every scrap of news from the seat of war she had caught at eagerly. She
had shuddered and thrilled over the account of the battle with Shelton's
patrol and its stirring and victorious termination. Every movement of
the Kaffrarian Rangers was known to her as soon as it became public
property, and sometimes before; for there were some in an official
position who were not averse to stretching a point to obtain such a
smile of welcome as would come into the beautiful face of Mrs Carhayes,
if they confidentially hinted to her a piece of intelligence just come
in from the front and not yet made known to the general public. She had
even tried to establish a kind of private intelligence department of her
own among some of the Kafirs who hung around the settlement, but these
were so contradictory in their statements, and moreover she began to
suspect that the rascals were not above drawing pretty freely upon their
imaginations for the sake of the sixpences, or cast-off clothes, or
packets of coffee and sugar, with which their efforts were invariably
rewarded. So this she discontinued, or at any rate ceased to place any
reliance on their stories.
She had heard from her husband once or twice, a mere rough scrawl of
half a dozen lines, and those chiefly devoted to explaining that camp
life--made up as it was of patrols and horse guards and hunting up the
enemy--left no time for any such trivial occupations as mere
letter-writing. She had heard from Eustace oftener, letters of great
length, entertaining withal, but such as all the world might read. But
this in no wise troubled her now, for she understood. Eustace was far
too cautious to intrust anything that the world might _not_ read to so
uncertain a means of transit as was then at his disposal.
Express-riders might be cut off by the enemy in the course of their
precarious and sometimes extremely perilous mission; occasionally were
cut off.
A few days now and she would see him again, would hear his voice, would
live in the delight of his presence daily as before. Ah, but--how was
it to end? The old thought, put far away into the background during the
dull heartache of their separation, came to the fore now. They would go
back to their home, to Anta's Kloof, and things would be as before. Ah,
but would they? There lay the sting. Never--a thousand times never.
Things could never be as they were. For now that her love for the one
had been awakened, what had she left for the other? Not even the kindly
toleration of companionship which she had up till then mistaken for
love. A sentiment perilously akin to aversion had now taken the place
of this. Alas and alas! How was it to end?
The return of the Kaffrarian Rangers became a matter of daily
expectation. Preparations were made for their reception, including a
banquet on a large scale. Still they came not.
Then an ugly report got wind in Komgha--whispered at first. A disaster
had befallen. Several men belonging to the expected corps had been
killed. They had constituted a patrol, report said--then a shooting
party straying from the main body. Anyway, they had been cut off by the
enemy and massacred to a man. It was only the Moordenaar's Kop affair
over again, people said.
Later the rumour began to boil down a little. Only four men had come to
grief as reported. They had left the main body to get up a bushbuck
hunt on the banks of the Bashi. They must have crossed the river for
some reason or other, probably in pursuance of their hunt; anyhow, they
were surprised by the Kafirs and killed. And the missing men were
Hoste, Payne, Carhayes, and Eustace Milne.
The rumour spread like wildfire. The excitement became prodigious. Men
stood in eager knots at the street corners, at the bars, everywhere,
each trying to appear as if he knew more about it than his fellows; each
claiming to be a greater authority upon the probabilities or
improbabilities of the case than all the rest put together. But all
were agreed on one point--that the errand of breaking the news to those
most concerned was the duty of anybody but themselves. And three of the
unfortunate men were married; two of their wives--now widows, alas--
being actually resident in the place, within a stone's throw, in fact.
It was further agreed that, by whoever eventually performed, the longer
this duty could be deferred the better. Further information might
arrive any moment. It would be as well to wait.
For once, public opinion was sound in its judgment. Further information
did arrive, this time authentic, and it had the effect of boiling down
rumour considerably--in fact, by one-half. The four men had set out and
crossed the Bashi into the Bomvana country, as at first stated. They
had been attacked by the Kafirs in overwhelming numbers, and after a
terrible running fight Hoste and Payne had escaped. Their horses had
been mortally wounded and themselves forced to lie hidden among the
thick bush and krantzes along the Bashi River for two nights and a day,
when they were found in a half-starved condition by a strong patrol of
the Rangers, which had turned back to search for them. The other two
men were missing, and from the report of the survivors no hope could be
entertained of their escape. In fact, their fate was placed beyond the
shadow of a doubt, for the Rangers had proceeded straight to the scene
of the conflict, and though they did not discover the bodies--which the
jackals and other wild animals might have accounted for meanwhile--they
found the spots, not very far apart, where both men had been slain, and
in or near the great patches of dried-up blood were fragments of the
unfortunate men's clothing and other articles, including a new and
patent kind of spur known to have belonged to Milne.
This was better. The killed had been reduced from four to two, the
number of widows from three to one. Still, it was sufficiently
terrible. Both men had lived in their midst--one for many years, the
other for a shorter time--and were more or less well-known to all. This
time the news was genuine, for three of the Rangers themselves had
ridden in with all particulars. The sensation created was tremendous.
Everybody had something to say.
"Tell you what it is, boys," a weather-beaten, grizzled old farmer was
saying--haranguing a gathering of idlers on the _stoep_ of the hotel.
"There's always something of that sort happens every war. Fellers get
so darn careless. They think because Jack Kafir funks sixty men he's in
just as big a funk of six. But he ain't. They reckon, too, that
because they can't see no Kafirs that there ain't no Kafirs to see.
Jest as if they weren't bein' watched every blessed step they take. No,
if you go out in a big party to find Jack Kafir you won't find him, but
if you go out in a small one, he'll be dead sure to find you. You may
jest bet drinks all round on that. Hey? Did you say you'd take me,
Bill?" broke off the old fellow with a twinkle in his eye as he caught
that of a crony in the group.
"Haw, haw! No, I didn't, but I will though. Put a name to it, old
_Baas_."
"Well, I'll call it `French.' Three star for choice."
The liquid was duly brought and the old fellow, having disposed of
two-thirds at a gulp, resumed his disquisition.
"It's this way," he went on. "I'm as certain of it as if I'd seen it.
Them oxen were nothin' more or less than a trap. The Kafirs had been
watching the poor devils all along and jest sent the oxen as a bait to
draw them across the river. It's jest what might have been expected,
but I'm surprised they hadn't more sense than to be took so easily.
Hoste and Payne especially--not being a couple of Britishers--"
"Here, I say, governor--stow all that for a yarn," growled one of a
brace of fresh-faced young Police troopers, who were consuming a modest
"split" at a table and resented what they thought was an imputation.
"Well, I don't mean no offence," returned the old fellow testily. "I
only mean that Britishers ain't got the experience us Colonial chaps
has, and 'll go runnin' their heads into a trap where we should know
better."
"All the more credit to their pluck," interrupted another patriotically
disposed individual.
"Oh, shut up, Smith. Who the deuce is saying anything against their
pluck?" cried someone else.
"Well, I'm sure I wasn't," went on the original speaker. "Tom Carhayes,
now, is as plucky a fellow as ever lived--was, rather--and--"
"You don't call Tom Carhayes a Britisher, do you?" objected another man.
"Yes, I do. At least, perhaps not altogether. He's been here a good
number of years now and got into our ways. Still, I remember when he
first came out. And Milne only came out the other day."
"Well, Milne's `blanket friends' have paid him off in a coin he didn't
bargain for. Wonder what he thinks of 'em now--if he _can_ think," said
someone, with an ill-natured sneer--for Eustace, like most men with any
character in them, was not beloved by everybody.
"Ah, poor chap," went on the old man. "Milne was rather too fond of the
Kafirs and Carhayes was a sight too much down on 'em. And now the
Kafirs have done for them both, without fear, favour, or--"
"Tsh--tsh--tsh! Shut up, man alive, shut up!"
This was said in a low, warning whisper, and the speaker's sleeve was
violently plucked.
"Eh? What's the row?" he asked, turning in amazement.
"Why, that's her!" was the reply, more earnest than grammatical.
"Her? Who?"
"His wife, of course."
A Cape cart was driving by, containing two ladies and two young girls.
Of the former one was Mrs Hoste, the other Eanswyth. As they passed
quite close to the speakers, Eanswyth turned her head with a bow and a
smile to someone standing in front of the hotel. A dead, awkward
silence fell upon the group of talkers.
"I say. She didn't hear, did she?" stage-whispered the old man eagerly,
when the trap had gone by.
"She didn't look much as though she had--poor thing!" said another whom
the serene, radiant happiness shining in that sweet face had not
escaped.
"Poor thing, indeed," was the reply. "She ought to be told, though.
But I wouldn't be the man to do it, no--not for fifty pounds. Why, they
say she can hardly eat or sleep since she heard Tom Carhayes was coming
back, she's so pleased. And now, poor Tom--where is he? Lying out
there hacked into Kafir mince-meat." And the speaker, jerking his hand
in the direction of the Transkei, stalked solemnly down the steps of the
_stoep_, heaving a prodigious sigh.