CAMPAIGNING ABROAD
SHIFTING THE SCENE--UNDER CANVAS--A VETERAN AND A YOUNG
SOLDIER--THE CHARMS OF A BIVOUAC--ORDERS FOR THE MORROW--A
SOLDIER’S DREAM--AN EARLY START--THE MARCH--THE
ENGAGEMENT--FORTUNE OF WAR--CHARLIE’S COMMAND--THE BLUE ONE
DOWN!
In the “good old times” when railways were not, and the _nec plus
ultra_ of speed was, after all, but ten miles an hour, he who would
take in hand to construct a tale, a poem, or a drama, was much
hampered by certain material conditions of time and place, termed by
critics the unities, and the observance of which effectually prevented
all glaring vagaries of plot, and many a _deus ex machinâ_ whose
unaccountable presence would have saved an infinity of trouble to
author as well as reader. But we have changed all this now-a-days.
When Puck undertook to girdle the earth in “forty minutes,” it was no
doubt esteemed a “sporting offer,” not that Oberon seems to have been
man enough to “book it”; but we, who back Electra, should vote such a
forty minutes “dead slow”--“no pace at all!” Ours are the
screw-propeller and the flying-express--ours the thrilling wire that
rings a bell at Paris, even while we touch the handle in London--ours
the greatest possible hurry on the least possible provocation--we ride
at speed, we drive at speed--eat, drink, sleep, smoke, talk, and
deliberate, still at full speed--make fortunes, and spend them--fall
in love, and out of it--are married, divorced, robbed, ruined, and
enriched, all _ventre à terre_! nay, time seems to be grudged even for
the last journey to our long home. ’Twas but the other day we saw a
hearse clattering along at an honest twelve miles an hour! Well,
forward! is the word--like the French grenadier’s account of the
strategy by which his emperor invariably out-manœuvred the enemy.
There were but two words of command, said he, ever heard in the grand
army--the one was “_En avant! sacr-r-ré ventre-bleu!_” the other,
“_Sacr-r-ré ventre-bleu! en avant!_” So forward be it! and we will not
apologise for shifting the scene some thousands of miles, and taking a
peep at our friend Cousin Charlie, fulfilling his destiny in that
heaven-forsaken country called Kaffirland. When it rains in South
Africa it rains to some purpose, pelting down even sheets of water, to
which a thunderstorm at home is but as the trickling of a gutter to
the Falls of Niagara--Nature endues her whole person in that same
leaden-coloured garment, and the world assumes a desolate appearance
of the most torpid misery. The greasy savage, almost naked, crouching
and coiling like a snake wherever covert is to be obtained, bears his
ducking philosophically enough; he can but be wet to the skin at the
worst, and is dry again almost before the leaves are; but the British
soldier, with his clothing and accoutrements, his pouches, haversacks,
biscuits, and ammunition--not to mention Brown Bess, his mainstay and
dependence--nothing punishes him so much as wet. Tropical heat he
bears without a murmur, and a vertical sun but elicits sundry jocose
allusions to beer. Canadian cold is met with a jest biting as its own
frost, and a hearty laugh that rings through the clear atmosphere with
a twang of home; but he hates water--drench him thoroughly and you put
him to the proof; albeit he never fails, yet, like Mark Tapley,
he _does_ deserve credit for being _jolly_ under such adverse
circumstances.
Look at that encampment--a detached position, in which two companies
of a British regiment, with a handful of Hottentots, are stationed to
hold in check some thousands of savages: the old story--outnumbered a
hundred to one, and wresting laurels even from such fearful odds. Look
at one of the heroes--the only one visible indeed--as he paces to and
fro to keep himself warm. A short beat truly, for he is within shot of
yonder hill, and the Kaffirs have muskets as well as “assagais.” No
shelter or sentry-box is there here, and our warrior at twelvepence a
day has “reversed arms” to keep his firelock dry, and covers his
person as well as he can with a much-patched weather-worn grey
great-coat, once spruce and smart, of the regimental pattern, but now
scarcely distinguishable as a uniform. To and fro he walks--wet,
weary, hungry, and liable to be shot at a moment’s notice. He has not
slept in a bed for months, and has almost forgotten the taste of pure
water, not to mention beer; yet is there a charm in soldiering, and
through it all the man is contented and cheerful--even happy. A slight
movement in his rear makes him turn half-round; between him and his
comrades stands a tent somewhat less uncomfortable-looking than the
rest, and from beneath its folds comes out a hand, followed by a
young, bronzed face, which we recognise as Cousin Charlie’s ere the
whole figure emerges from its shelter and gives itself a hearty shake
and stretch. It is indeed Charlie, “growed out of knowledge,” as Mrs.
Gamp says, and with his moustaches visibly and tangibly increased to a
very warlike volume. The weather is clearing, as in that country it
often does towards sundown; and Charlie, like an old campaigner, is
easing the tent-ropes, already strained with wet. “I wish I knew the
orders,” says the young lancer to some one inside, “or how I’m to get
back to head-quarters--not but what you fellows have treated me like
an alderman.” “You should have been here yesterday, my boy,” said a
voice from within, apparently between the puffs of a short, wheezing
pipe. “We only finished the biscuit this morning, and I could have
given you a mouthful of brandy from the bottom of my flask--it is dry
enough now, at all events. The baccy ’ll soon be done too, and we
shall be floored altogether if we stay here much longer.” “Why the
whole front don’t advance I can’t think,” replied Charlie, with the
ready criticism of a young soldier. “If they’d only let us get _at_
these black beggars, we’d astonish them!” “Heaven knows,” answered the
voice, evidently getting drowsy, “our fellows are all tired of
waiting----By Jove,” he added, brightening up in an instant, “here
comes ‘Old Swipes’; I’ll lay my life we shall be engaged before
daybreak, the old boy looks so jolly!”--and even as he spoke, a hale,
grey-headed man, with a rosy countenance and a merry, dark eye, was
seen returning the sentry’s salute as he advanced to the tent which
had sheltered these young officers, and passing on with a
good-humoured nod to Charlie, entered upon an eager whispered
conversation with the gentleman inside, whose drowsiness seemed to
have entirely forsaken him. “Old Swipes,” as he was irreverently
called (a nickname of which, as of most military sobriquets, the
origin had long been forgotten), was the senior captain of the
regiment, one of those gallant fellows who fight their way up without
purchase, serving in every climate under heaven, and invariably
becoming grey of head long ere they lose the greenness and freshness
of heart which in the Service alone outlive the cares and
disappointments that wait on middle age.
Now, Charlie had been sent to “Old Swipes” with dispatches from
head-quarters. One of the general’s _aides-de-camp_ was wounded,
another sick, an _extra_ already ordered on a _particular service_;
and Charlie, with the dash and gallantry which had distinguished him
from boyhood, volunteered to carry the important missives nearly a
hundred miles through a country not a yard of which he knew, and
threading whole hordes of the enemy with no arms but his sabre and
pistols, no guide but a little unintelligible Hottentot. From the Kat
River frontier to the defenceless portals of Fort Beaufort, the whole
district was covered with swarms of predatory savages; and but that
Fortune proverbially favours the brave, our young lancer might have
found himself in a very unpleasant predicament. Fifty miles finished
the lad’s charger, and he had accomplished the remainder of his
journey walking and riding turn-about with his guide on the hardy
little animal of the latter. No wonder our dismounted dragoon was
weary--no wonder the rations of tough beef and muddy water which they
gave him when he arrived elicited the compliment we have already
mentioned to the good cheer of “The Fighting Light-Bobs,” as the
regiment to which “Old Swipes” and his detachment belonged was
affectionately nicknamed in the division. The great thing, however,
was accomplished--wet, weary, and exhausted, Charlie and his guide
arrived at their destination by daybreak of the second day. The young
lancer delivered his dispatches to the officer in command, was
received like a brother into a subaltern’s tent, already containing
two inhabitants, and slept soundly through the day, till awakened at
sunset by a strong appetite for supper, and the absolute necessity for
slackening the tent-ropes recorded above.
“Kettering, you must join our council of war,” said the cheery voice
of the old captain from within; “there’s no man better entitled than
yourself to know the contents of my dispatches. Come in, my boy; I can
give you a pipe, if nothing else.”
Charlie lifted the wet sailcloth and crept in--the conclave did not
look so very uncomfortable after all. Certainly there was but little
room, but no men pack so close as soldiers. The old captain was
sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket in the centre, clad in a
russet-coloured coat that had once been scarlet, with gold lace
tarnished down to the splendour of rusty copper. A pair of regimental
trousers, plentifully patched and strapped with leather, adorned his
lower man, and on his head he wore a once-burnished shako, much gashed
and damaged by a Kaffir’s assagai. He puffed forth volumes of smoke
from a short black pipe, and appeared in the most exuberant spirits,
notwithstanding the deficiencies of his exterior; the real proprietor
of the tent, a swarthy, handsome fellow, with a lightning eye and huge
black beard and whiskers, was leaning against the centre support of
his domicile, in a blue frock-coat and buckskin trousers, looking very
handsome and very like a gentleman (indeed, he is a peer’s younger
son), though no “old clothes man” would have given him eighteenpence
for the whole of his costume. He had hospitably vacated his seat on a
battered portmanteau, “warranted solid leather,” with the maker’s
name, in the Strand--it seemed so odd to see it there--and was
likewise smoking furiously, as he listened to the orders of his
commander. A small tin basin, a canister of tobacco, nearly finished,
a silver hunting-flask--alas! quite empty--and a heap of cloaks, with
an old blanket in the corner, completed the furniture of this warlike
palace. It was very like Charlie’s own tent at head-quarters, save
that his cavalry accoutrements gave an air of finish to that dwelling,
of which he was justly proud. So he felt quite at home as he took his
seat on the portmanteau and filled his pipe. “Just the orders I
wanted,” said the old captain, between his whiffs; “we’ve been here
long enough, and to-morrow we are to advance at daybreak. I am
directed to move upon that ‘Kloof’ we have reconnoitred every day
since we came, and after forming a junction with the Rifles, we are to
get possession of the heights.”
“The river will be out after this rain,” interrupted the handsome
lieutenant; “but that’s no odds; our fellows can all swim--’gad, they
want washing!”
“Steady, my lad,” said the veteran, “we’ll have none of that; I’ve got
a Fingo at the quarter-guard here that’ll take us over dry-shod. I’ve
explained to him what I mean, and if he don’t understand it now he
will to-morrow morning. A ‘Light-Bob’ on each side, with his arms
sloped, directly the water comes in at the rent in these old boots,”
holding up at the same time a much-damaged pair of Wellingtons, “down
goes the Fingo, poor devil, and out go my skirmishers, till we reach
the cattle-ford at Vandryburgh.”
“I don’t think the beggar _will_ throw us over,” replied the
subaltern. “I suppose I’d better get them under arms before daybreak;
the nights are infernally dark, though, in this beastly country, but
my fellows all turn out smartest now when they’ve no light.”
“Before daybreak, certainly,” replied “Old Swipes”; “no whist _here_,
Kettering, to keep us up very late. Well,” he added, resuming his
directions to his subaltern, “we’ll have the detachment under arms by
four. Take Sergeant Macintosh and the best of the ‘flankers’ to form
an advanced guard. Bid him make every yard of ground good,
particularly where there’s _bush_; but on no account to fire unless
he’s attacked. We’ll advance in column of sections--_mind
that_--they’re handier that way for the ground; and Harry--where’s
Harry?” “Here, sir!” said a voice, and a pale, sickly-looking boy,
apparently about seventeen years of age, emerged from under the
cloaks and blankets in the corner, where he had been lying half
asleep, and thoroughly exhausted with the hardships of a life which it
requires the constitution of manhood to undergo. Poor Harry! with what
sickening eagerness his mother, the clergyman’s widow, grasps at the
daily paper, when the African mail is due. How she shudders to see the
great black capitals, with “Important News from the Cape!” What a hero
his sisters think Harry! and how mamma alone turns pale at the very
name of war, and prays for him night and morning on her knees till the
pale face and wasted form of her darling stand betwixt her and her
Maker. And Harry, too, thinks sometimes of his mother; but oh! how
different is the child’s divided affection from the all-engrossing
tenderness of the mother’s love! The boy is fond of “soldiering,” and
his heart swells as “Old Swipes” gives him his orders in a paternal
tone of kindness. “Harry, I shall entrust you with the rear-guard, and
you must keep up your communications with the sergeant’s guard I shall
leave here. He will probably be relieved by the Rifles, and you can
then join us in the front. If they don’t show before twelve o’clock,
fall back here; pack up the baggage, right-about-face, and join ‘the
levies,’ they’re exactly five miles in our rear; if you’re in
difficulties, ask Sergeant File what is best to be done, only don’t
club ’em, my boy, as you did at Limerick.”
“Well, sir,” said the handsome lieutenant, “we’ve all got our orders
now, except Kettering; what are we to do with him?”
“Give him some supper first,” replied the jolly commandant; “but how
to get him back I don’t know; we’ve had a fine stud of oxen for the
last ten days, but as for a horse, I have not seen one since I left
Cape Town.”
“We’re doing nothing at head-quarters, sir,” exclaimed Charlie, with
flashing eyes; “will you allow me to join the attack to-morrow, with
your people?”
The three officers looked at him approvingly, and the ensign muttered,
“By gad, he’s a trump, and no mistake!” but “Old Swipes” shook his
grey head with a half-melancholy smile as he scanned the boy’s
handsome face and shapely figure, set off by his blue lancer uniform,
muddy and travel-stained as it was. “I’ve seen many a fine fellow go
down,” thought the veteran, “and I like it less and less--this lad’s
too good for the Kaffirs; d----n me, I shall never get used to it;”
however, he did not quite know how to refuse so soldier-like a
request, so he only coughed, and said, “Well--I don’t approve of
_volunteering_--we old soldiers go where we’re ordered, but we _never
volunteer_. Still, I suppose you won’t stay here, with fighting in the
front. ’Gad, you _shall_ go--you’re a _real_ good one, and I _like_
you for it.” So the fine old fellow seized Charlie’s hand and wrung it
hard, with the tears in his eyes.
And now our three friends prepared to make themselves comfortable. The
old captain’s tent was the largest, but it was not water-tight, and
consequently stood in a swamp. His supper, therefore, was added to the
joint stock, and the four gentlemen who, at the best club in London,
would have turned up their noses at turtle because it was _thick_, or
champagne because it was sweet, sat down quite contentedly to half-raw
lumps of stringy beef and a tin mug only half filled with the muddiest
of water, glad to get even that.
How they laughed and chatted and joked about their fare! To have heard
them talk one would have supposed that they were at dinner within a
day’s march of Pall Mall, London--the opera, the turf, the ring, each
and all had their turn; and when the sergeant on duty came to report
the “lights out,” said lights consisting of two lanterns for the whole
detachment, Charlie had just proposed “fox-hunting” as a toast with
which to finish the last sip of brandy, and treated his entertainers
to a “view-holloa” _in a whisper_, that he might not alarm the camp,
which, save for the lowing of certain oxen in the rear, was ere long
hushed in the most profound repose.
Now, these oxen were a constant source of confusion and annoyance to
the “old captain” and his myrmidons, whose orderly, soldier-like
habits were continually broken through by their perverse charge. Of
all the contradictory, self-willed, hair-brained brutes on the face of
the earth, commend us to an ox in Kaffirland. He is troublesome enough
when first driven off by his black despoilers, but when recaptured by
British troops he is worse than ever, as though he brought back with
him, from his sojourn in the bush, some of the devilry of his
temporary owners, and was determined to resent upon his preservers all
the injuries he had undergone during his unwilling peregrinations.
Fortunately, those now remaining with the detachment were but a small
number, destined to become most execrable beef, large herds retaken
from the savages having already been sent to the rear; but even this
handful were perpetually running riot, breaking out of their “kraal”
on the most causeless and imaginary alarms when in the camp, and on
the march making a point of “knocking up” invariably at the most
critical moment. Imagine the difficulties of a commander when, in
addition to ground of which he knows comparatively nothing, of an
enemy outnumbering him hundreds to one, lurking besides in an
impenetrable bush, where he can neither be reached nor seen--of an
extended line of operation in a country where the roads are either
impassable or there are none at all--and, above all, of a trying
climate, with a sad deficiency of water--he has to weaken his already
small force by furnishing a cattle-guard, and to prepare himself for
the contingency of some thousands of frantic animals breaking loose
(which they assuredly will should his position be forced), and the
inevitable confusion which must be the result of such an untoward
liberation. The Kaffirs have a knack of driving these refractory
brutes in a manner which seems unattainable to a white man. It is an
interesting sight to watch a couple of tall, dark savages, almost
naked, and with long staves in their hands, manœuvring several
hundred head of cattle with apparently but little trouble. Even the
Hottentots seem to have a certain mysterious influence over the horned
troop; but for an English soldier, although goaded by his bayonet,
they appear to entertain the most profound contempt.
Charlie, however, cared little for ox or Kaffir; the lowing of the one
no more disturbed him than the proximity of the other. Was he not at
last in front of the enemy? Should he not to-morrow begin his career
of glory? The boy felt his very life-blood thrill in his veins as the
fighting propensity--the spirit of Cain, never quite dormant within
us--rose to his heart. There he lay in a corner of the dark tent,
dressed and ready for the morrow, with his sword and pistols at his
head, covered with a blanket and a large cloak, his whereabout only
discernible by the red glow from his last pipe before going to sleep;
the handsome lieutenant was already wrapped in slumber and an enormous
rough great-coat (not strictly regulation); the ensign was far away in
dreamland; and Charlie had watched the light die out from their
respective pipes with drowsy eyes, while the regular step of the
sentry outside smote less and less distinctly on his ear. He had gone
through two very severe days, and had not been in a bed for weeks.
Gradually his limbs relaxed and tingled with delightful languor of
rest after _real_ fatigue. Once or twice he woke up with a start as
Fancy played her usual tricks with the weary, then his head declined,
his jaw dropped, the pipe fell to the ground, and Charlie was fast
asleep.
* * * * *
Far, far away on a mountain in Inverness the wild stag is _belling_ to
the distant corries, and snuffing the keen north air as he stamps ever
and anon with lightning hoof that cuts the heather tendrils asunder
and flings them on the breeze. Is he not the great master-hart of the
parcel? and shall he not be circumvented and stretched on the moor ere
the fading twilight darkens into night? Verily, he must be stalked
warily, cautiously, for the wind has shifted and the lake is already
ruffling into pointed, white-crested waves, rising as in anger, while
their spray, hurried before the tempest, drifts in long-continuous
wreaths athwart the surface. Fitful gusts, the pent-up sobs of rising
fury, that must burst or be released, chase the filmy scud across that
pale moon, which is but veiled and not obscured; while among the ferns
and alders that skirt the water’s edge the wind moans and shrieks like
an imprisoned demon wailing for his freedom. Mists are rising around
the hazy forms of the deer; cold, chilling vapours through which the
mighty stag looms like some gigantic phantom, and still he swells in
defiance, and _bells_ abroad his trumpet-note of war. Charlie’s
finger is on the trigger; Uncle Baldwin, disguised as a Highlander,
whispers in his ear the thrilling caution, “Take time!” The wind howls
hideously, and phantom shapes, floating in the moonlight, mock and
gibber and toss their long, lean arms, and wave their silver hair. No,
the rifle is _not_ cocked; that stubborn lock defies the force of
human fingers--the mist is thickening and the stag moves. Charlie
implores Uncle Baldwin to assist him, and drops upon his knees to
cover the retiring quarry with his useless weapon. The phantoms gather
round; their mist-wreaths turn to muslin dresses, and their silver
hair to glossy locks of mortal hues. The roaring tempest softens to an
old familiar strain. Mary Delaval is before him. Her pale, sweet face
is bent upon the kneeling boy with looks of unutterable love, and her
white hand passes over his brow with an almost imperceptible caress.
Her face sinks gradually to his--her breath is on his temples--his
lips cling to hers--and he starts with horror at the kiss of love,
striking cold and clammy from a grinning skull! Horror! the rifleman,
whose skeleton he shuddered to find beneath his horse’s feet not
eight-and-forty hours ago! What does he here in the drawing-room at
home? _Home_--yes, he is at home, at last. It must have been
fancy--the recollections of his African campaign! They are all gone to
bed. He hears the General’s well-known tramp dying away along the
passage; and he takes his candle to cross the spacious hall, dark and
gloomy in that flickering light. Ha! seated on the stairs as on a
throne frowns a presence that he dare not pass. A tall, dark figure,
in the shape of a man, yet with angel beauty--no angel form of
good--glorious in the grandeur of despair--magnificent in the pomp and
glare of hell--those lineaments awful in their very beauty--those
deep, unfathomable eyes, with their eternity of suffering, defiance,
remorse, all but repentance or submission! Could mortal look and not
quail? Could man front and not be blasted at the sight? On his lofty
forehead sits a diadem, and on the centre of his brow, burned in and
scorched, as it were, to the very bone, behold the seal of the
Destroyer--the single imprint of a finger.
The boy stands paralysed with affright. The Principle of Evil waves
him on and on, even to the very hem of his garment; but a prayer rises
to the sleeper’s lips; with a convulsive effort he speaks it forth
aloud, and the spell is broken. The mortal is engaged with a mortal
enemy. Those waving robes turn to a leopard-skin _kaross_, the
glorious figure to an athletic savage, and the immortal beauty to the
grinning, chattering lineaments of a hideous Kaffir. Charlie bounds at
him like a tiger--they fight--they close--and he is locked in the
desperate embrace of life or death with his ghastly foe. Charlie is
undermost! His enemy’s eyes are starting from their sockets--his white
teeth glare with cannibal-like ferocity--and his hand is on the boy’s
throat with a grip of iron. One fearful wrench to get free--one last
superhuman effort of despair, and.... Charlie wakes in the
struggle!--wakes to find it all a dream; and the cold air, the
chilling harbinger of dawn, stealing into the tent to refresh and
invigorate the half-suffocated sleepers. He felt little inclination to
resume his slumbers; his position had been a sufficiently
uncomfortable one--his head having slipped from the pistol-holsters on
which it had rested, and the clasp of his cloak-fastening at the
throat having well-nigh strangled him in his sleep. The handsome
lieutenant’s matter-of-fact yawn on waking would have dispelled more
horrid dreams than Charlie’s, and the real business of the coming day
soon chased from his mind all recollections of his imaginary struggle.
Breakfast was like the supper of the preceding night--half-raw beef,
eaten cold, and a whiff from a short pipe. Ere Charlie had finished
his ration, dark though it was, the men had fallen in; the advanced
guard had started; Ensign Harry had received his final instructions,
and “Old Swipes” gave the word of command in a low, guarded
tone--“Slope arms! By your left--Quick march!”
Day dawned on a spirit-stirring scene. With the swinging, easy step of
those accustomed to long and toilsome marches the detachment moved
rapidly forward, now lessening its front as it arrived at some narrow
defile, now “marking time” to allow of its rear coming up, without
effort, into the proper place. Bronzed, bold faces theirs, with the
bluff, good-humoured air of the English soldier, who takes warfare as
it comes, with an oath and a jest. Reckless of strategy as of
hardship, he neither knows nor cares what his enemy may be about, nor
what dispositions may be made by his own officers. If his flank be
turned he fights on with equal unconcern, “it is no business of his”;
if his ammunition be exhausted he betakes himself to the bayonet, and
swears “the beggars may take their change out of that!”
The advanced guard, led by the handsome subaltern, was several hundred
paces in front. The Hottentots brought up the rear, and the “Fighting
Light-Bobs,” commanded by their grey-headed captain, formed the
column. With them marched Charlie, conspicuous in his blue lancer
uniform, now respectfully addressing his superior officer, now jesting
good-humouredly with his temporary comrades. The sun rose on a jovial,
light-hearted company; when next his beams shall gild the same arid
plains, the same twining _mimosas_, the same glorious landscape, shut
in by the jagged peaks of the Anatola mountains, they will glance back
from many a firelock lying ownerless on the sand; they will deepen the
clammy hue of death on many a bold forehead; they will fail to warm
many a gallant heart, cold and motionless for ever. But the men go on
all the same, laughing and jesting merrily, as they “march at ease,”
and beguile the way with mirth and song.
“We’ll get a sup o’ brandy to-night, anyhow, won’t us, Bill?” says a
weather-beaten “Light-Bob” to his front-rank man, a thirsty old
soldier as was ever “confined to barracks.”
“Ay,” replies Bill, “them black beggars has got plenty of lush--more’s
the pity; and they doesn’t give none to their wives--more’s their
sense. Ax your pardon, sir,” he adds, turning to Charlie, “but we
shall advance right upon their centre, now, anyways, shan’t us?”
Ere Charlie could reply he was interrupted by Bill’s comrade, who
seemed to have rather a _penchant_ for Kaffir ladies. “Likely young
women they be, too, Bill, those niggers’ wives; why, every Kaffir has
a dozen at least, and we’ve only three to a company; wouldn’t I like
to be a Kaffir?”
“_Black!_” replied Bill, in a tone of intense disgust.
“What’s the odds?” urged the matrimonial champion, “a black wife’s a
sight better than none at all;” and straightway he began to hum a
military ditty, of which fate only permitted him to complete the first
two stanzas:--
“They’re sounding the charge for a brush, my boys!
And we’ll carry their camp with a rush, my boys!
When we’ve driven them out, I make no doubt
We’ll find they’ve got plenty of lush, my boys!
For the beggars delight
To sit soaking all night,
Black although they be.
And when we get liquor so cheap, my boys!
We’ll do nothing but guzzle and sleep, my boys!
And sit on the grass with a Kaffir lass,
Though smutty the wench as a sweep, my boys!
For the Light Brigade
Are the lads for a maid,
Black although she may be.”
“Come, stow that!” interrupted Bill, as the _ping_ of a ball whistled
over their heads, followed by the sharp report of a musket; “here’s
music for your singing, and dancing too, faith,” he added, as the rear
files of the advanced guard came running in; and “Old Swipes”
exclaimed, “By Jove! they’re engaged. Attention! steady, men!--close
up--close up”--and, throwing out a handful of skirmishers to clear the
bush immediately in his front and support his advanced guard, he moved
the column forward at “the double,” gained some rising ground, behind
which he halted them, and himself ran on to reconnoitre. A sharp fire
had by this time commenced on the right, and Charlie’s heart beat
painfully whilst he remained inactive, covered by a position from
which he could see nothing. It was not, however, for long. The
“Light-Bobs” were speedily ordered to advance, and as they gained the
crest of the hill a magnificent view of the conflict opened at once
upon their eyes.
The Rifles had been beforehand with them, and were already engaged;
their dark forms, hurrying to and fro as they ran from covert to
covert, were only to be distinguished from the savages by the rapidity
with which their thin white lines of smoke emerged from bush and
brake, and the regularity with which they forced position after
position, compared with the tumultuous gestures and desultory
movements of the enemy. Already the Kaffirs were forced across the
ford of which we have spoken, and, though they mustered in great
numbers on the opposite bank, swarming like bees along the rising
ground, they appeared to waver in their manœuvres, and to be
inclined to retire. A mounted officer gallops up, and says a few words
to the grey-headed captain. The “Light-Bobs” are formed into column of
sections, and plunge gallantly into the ford. Charlie’s right-hand man
falls pierced by an assagai, and as his head declines beneath the
bubbling water, and his blood mingles with the stream, our volunteer
feels “the devil” rising rapidly to his heart. Charlie’s teeth are set
tight, though he is scarce aware of his own sensations, and the boy is
dangerous, with his pale face and flashing eyes.
The “Light-Bobs” deploy into line on the opposite bank, covered by an
effective fire from the Rifles, and advance as if they were on parade.
“Old Swipes” feels his heart leap for joy. On they march like one man,
and the dark masses of the enemy fly before them. “Well done, my
lads!” says the old captain, as, from their flank, he marks the
regularity of their movement. They are his very children now, and he
is not thinking of the little blue-eyed girl far away at home. A belt
of _mimosas_ is in their front, and it must be carried with the
bayonet! The “Light-Bobs” charge with a wild hurrah; and a withering
volley, very creditable to the savages, well-nigh staggers them as
they approach. “Old Swipes” runs forward, waving them on, his shako
off, and his grey locks streaming in the breeze--down he goes! with a
musket-ball crashing through his forehead. Charlie could yell with
rage, and a fierce longing for blood. There is a calm, matronly woman
tending flowers, some thousand miles off, in a small garden in the
north of England, and a little girl sitting wistfully at her lessons
by her mother’s side. They are a widow and an orphan--but the handsome
lieutenant will get his promotion without purchase; death-vacancies
invariably go in the regiment, and even now he takes the command.
“Kettering,” says he, cool and composed, as if he were but giving
orders at a common field-day, “take a sub-division and clear that
ravine; when you are once across you can turn his flank. Forward, my
lads! and if they’ve any nonsense _give ’em the bayonet_!”
Charlie now finds himself actually in command--ay, and in something
more than a skirmish--something that begins to look uncommonly like a
general action. Waving the men on with his sword he dashes into the
ravine, and in another instant is hand-to-hand with the enemy. What a
moment of noise, smoke, and confusion it is! Crashing blows, fearful
oaths, the Kaffir war-cry, and the soldiers’ death-groan mingle in the
very discord of hell. A wounded Kaffir seizes Charlie by the legs, and
a “Light-Bob” runs the savage through the body, the ghastly weapon
flashing out between the Kaffir’s ribs.
“You’ve got it _now_, you black beggar!” says the soldier, as he
coolly wipes his dripping bayonet on a tuft of burnt-up grass. While
yet he speaks he is writhing in his death-pang, his jaws transfixed by
a quivering assagai. A Kaffir chief, of athletic frame and sinewy
proportions, distinguished by the grotesque character of his arms and
his tiger-skin _kaross_, springs at the young lancer like a wild-cat.
The boy’s sword gleams through that dusky body even in mid-air.
“Well done, blue ’un!” shout the men, and again there is a wild
hurrah! The young one never felt like this before.
* * * * *
Hand-to-hand the savages have been beaten from their defences, and
they are in full retreat. One little band has forced the ravine, and
gained the opposite bank. With a thrilling cheer they scale its rugged
surface, Charlie waving his sword and leading them gallantly on. The
old privates swear he is a good ’un. “Forward, lads! Hurrah! for _blue
’un_!”
The boy has all but reached the brink; his hand is stretched to grasp
a bush that overhangs the steep, but his step totters, his limbs
collapse--down, down he goes, rolling over and over amongst the
brushwood, and the blue lancer uniform lies a tumbled heap at the
bottom of the ravine, whilst the cheer of the pursuing “Light-Bobs”
dies fainter and fainter on the sultry air as the chase rolls farther
and farther into the desert fastnesses of Kaffirland.