The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 30

"I think they will, Major," was the confident reply.

"No such luck," growled one of the group. "After the hammering we gave them at Shangani. I tell you what it is, Blachland. These wonderful Matabele of yours are miserable devils after all. I don't believe they've another kick in them," added this c.o.c.ksure Briton.

Hard, weather-beaten men these--tough as nails from the life they have been leading since the beginning of the campaign. They have been tested again and again, and have pa.s.sed the ordeal well: not only under fire, but the more nerve-straining duties of scouting and reconnoitring and nocturnal guard. Hilary Blachland is attached to the scouting section, and is somewhat of an important personality in the command, by reason of his complete knowledge of the country to be traversed, and his acquaintance with its inhabitants, now the enemy.

"No more bad country you say?" went on the commanding officer, making some notes in a pocket-book.

"No. It's all pretty much as we see it, open, undulating and moderately bushed. Yonder is the Intaba-'Zinduna, and we hold to the left of its further end by about a couple of miles. We are certain to be attacked between this and Bulawayo, and that's barely twenty miles, why any minute may settle it."

"Why what's this?" muttered the commanding officer hurriedly, bringing his gla.s.s to his eyes.

"Ah, I thought so," said Blachland with a smile. "We shall get it here, Major."

Dark ma.s.ses of the enemy were now appearing, away in front--still about a mile off. No sooner had the sh.e.l.ls begun to drop among these than the alarm was raised much nearer home, and, as with the celerity of perfect discipline every man was at his place within the laager, the battle line of the savages could be seen sweeping forward through the thorns on the northern side. Then the rattle of volleys, and the knock-like thud of the machine guns playing upon them, mingles for a time with the deep, humming war-hiss of the Matabele and the defiant whoops of individual excited warriors, leaping in bravado as though challenging the marksmans.h.i.+p of the defenders.

The line of battle soon wavers, halts, then drops down, only to glide on again. More and more press on from behind, and soon the line is seen to be extending, as though for a surround. There are firearms too, within the savage host, and the bullets begin to whizz and "ping" around the ears of the defenders.

"They have got another kick in them after all, eh, Grantham?" remarks Blachland to the officer who had uttered the above disparaging remark.

For a piece of sharp splinter, chipped from the side of a waggon, had struck the latter, causing his ear to bleed profusely, while the speaker himself gives an involuntary duck, as another Martini bullet hums right over his head, and near enough for him to feel its draught.

"Oh d.a.m.n them, yes!" answers the man apostrophised, grinding his teeth with the sharp pain, and discharging his rifle--aiming low--into the enemy's line.

For a while matters are lively. Ma.s.sing at this and that point the swarming Matabele will essay a charge, but the deadly machine guns are turned on with telling precision, breaking up every attempt at organised movement, and the veldt is strewn with dark bodies, dead, motionless, or writhing in death--and s.h.i.+elds flung around in all directions, for which their owners will never more have use. But within the laager the organisation is complete. Every man has his own duty to do and does it, and has no time or attention to spare for what is going on elsewhere.

"Come along, Blachland!" shouted another member of the scouting section, in a state of the wildest excitement. "Jump on your gee, man! We've got to go and turn back those horses, or we'll lose every hoof of them."

He addressed, looked round and took in the situation at a glance, and a thrilling one it was. A large troop of horses, which had been grazing outside, by some blundering on the part of the herders, had been headed off while being driven into the laager, and now were making straight in the direction of the enemy's lines.

There was little organisation among the handful of mounted men who dashed forth to turn them back, but there was plenty of coolness, commonsense, and unflinching courage. Away streamed the panic-stricken horses, but soon at a hard hand gallop, and keeping well off them, the pursuers were forging up even with the leaders of the stampede.

"Hold to the right! More to the right!" cried Blachland, edging further in the direction indicated, even though it took him perilously near the swarming lines of the Matabele, whom he could now make out, pouring down in a black torrent to cut off himself and his comrades as well as the runaway steeds. But an intense wild exhilaration was upon him now, during this mad gallop: buoyant, devil-may-care, utterly scorning the slightest suspicion of fear. On, on! The sharp "crack--crack" of the rifles of the advancing savages, the "whigge" and hum of missiles overhead--in front--around--all was as nothing. Then he realised that they had headed the wild stampede, had turned it away from the enemy's line. And then--

"Help, help! For G.o.d's sake, don't leave me!"

A rumble and a heavy fall immediately behind him. Even before he turned his head, he realised what had happened. As he did so he saw it all, the sprawling horse, the rider dragging himself up from the ground. He saw, too, that the fallen man and himself were the last on the outside of the chase, and that the others were receding fast, as, closing further and further in, they were turning the runaway horses back to the camp. He saw, too, that the Matabele had noted their brief success, and were rus.h.i.+ng forward with redoubled energy and shouts of exultation to secure at any rate this one victim.

"For G.o.d's sake, don't leave me!" again yelled the unfortunate man, the terror of certain death in his voice, and stamped upon his countenance.

And that countenance, in the quick resourceful glance, taking in every chance, every possibility, Hilary recognised as that of Justin Spence.

To return was almost certain death. The momentum of the speed of his own horse had carried him some distance onward, even while the agonised cry of the despairing man was sounding in his ears. Why should he help him, why throw his own life away for the sake of this cur who had so grossly abused his friends.h.i.+p, requiting it in such mean and despicable fas.h.i.+on? Anybody else--but this one--no, he would not.

Yet what was it that rose before his mental light in that crucial moment. Not the face of her for whom yonder man now about to meet a b.l.o.o.d.y death had betrayed him--but another and a purer vision swept his brain, and it was as the face of an angel from Heaven, for it was that of Lyn. Hilary Blachland triumphed.

Turning his steed with a mighty wrench, he rode straight back to the unhorsed trooper. From the ranks of the charging savages, now near enough to recognise him, there arose a mighty roar.

"Isipau! Ha! Isipau!"

"Quick, Spence! Get up behind me. Quick!"

The other needed no second bidding. As the horse with its double burden--either of these, singly, would have been a sufficient one for the poor brute, blown as he was--started once more, the foremost line of the savages was barely two hundred yards distant. Leaping, bounding, uttering their blood-curdling war-hiss, they reckoned their prey secure.

The horse, weighted like that could never distance them. They would overtake it long before camp should be reached. Already they gripped their a.s.segais.

"Sit tight, Spence, or you'll pull us both to the ground," said Hilary, with a sardonic suspicion that if the other saw a chance of throwing him off without risking a similar fate himself, he was quite mean enough to seize it. "Sit light too, if you can, and spare the horse as much as possible."

Down into a hollow, and here, in the bed of a dry watercourse, the game steed stumbled heavily, but just saved his footing, and thereby the lives of his two riders. Bullets flew humming past now, but it seemed that the din of their pursuers was further behind, and indeed such was the case, for they arrived at the laager at the same time as the rescued troop horses.

"Good G.o.d! Blachland! You are a splendid fellow, and I owe you my life," gasped the rescued man. "But what must you think of me?" he added shamefacedly.

"No more no less than I did before," was the curt reply. "Get off now.

You're quite safe."

"You ought to get the V.C. for this," went on Spence.

But the other replied by coupling that ardently coveted decoration with a word of a condemnatory character. "I believe I've nearly killed my horse," he added crustily.

There were those in the laager who witnessed this, and to whom the circ.u.mstances of the former acquaintances.h.i.+p between the two men were known--but they tactfully refrained from making any comment. Percival West, however, was not so reticent.

"Why, Hilary, you splendid old chap, what have you done?" he cried, fairly dancing with delight. "Why didn't you take me with you though--"

"Oh go away, Percy. You are such a silly young a.s.s," was the very ill-humoured reception wherewith his transports were greeted by his kinsman.

The fight was over now and the enemy in retreat. Yet not routed, for he still hung about at a safe distance, in sufficient force to make things warm for any pursuing troop who should venture after him into the thicker bush, until a few deftly planted sh.e.l.ls taught him that he had not yet achieved a safe distance. Then he drew off altogether.

CHAPTER THREE.

A FLAMING THRONE.

"Too late, boys, I guess the Southern Column got there first." And the utterer of this remark lowered his field gla.s.ses and turned to the remainder of the little band of scouts with an air of profound conviction.

Away in the distance dense columns of smoke were rising heavenward. For some time this group of men had been eagerly intent upon watching the phenomenon through their gla.s.ses, and there was reason for their eagerness, for they were looking upon the goal of the expedition, and what should practically represent the close of the campaign--Bulawayo to wit, but--Bulawayo in flames. Who had fired it?

Considerable disappointment was felt and expressed. Their prompt march, their hard and victorious fighting had not brought them first to the goal. The Southern Column had distanced them and was there already.

Such was the conclusion arrived at on all sides.

One man, however, had let go no opinion. Lying full length, his field gla.s.s adjusted upon a convenient rock, he had been steadily scanning the burning kraal in the distance during all the foregoing discussion, ignoring the latter as though he were alone on the ground. Now he spoke.

"There's no Southern Column thereat all. No sign or trace of a camp."

This dictum was received with dissent, even with a little derision.

"Who's set it on fire then, Blachland?" said one of the exponents of the latter phase, with a wink at the others. "You're not going to tell us that Lo Bengula's set his own shop alight?"

"That's about what's occurred," was the tranquil reply. "At least I think so."

"It's more'n likely Blachland's right, boys," said one of the scouts, speaking with a p.r.o.nounced American accent. "He's been there anyway."