The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 32

Spence stretched forth his hand eagerly for the pouch, then thrust it back again.

"No. It's your last pipe," he said. "I won't take it."

"Take it, man. I expect there's a good acc.u.mulation of 'bacco dust in my old coat pockets. I can fall back on that at a pinch."

Spence complied, less out of selfishness than an unwillingness to go against the other in any single detail. A curious change had come over him since his rescue--since the man he had wronged, as he thought, had ridden into the very jaws of death to bring him out. He regarded his rescuer now with feelings akin to veneration. He had at the time, expressed his sorrow and regret in shamefaced tones, but Blachland had met him with the equable rea.s.surance that it didn't matter. And then he had eagerly volunteered for this expedition because Blachland was in it, and once there, he had watched his rescuer with untiring pertinacity to see if there was nothing he could do for him, even if he could risk his life for him. More than once he had striven stealthily to forego his own scanty rations when they were messing together, pretending he loathed food, so that there might be a little more for this man whom he now regarded in the light of a G.o.d; but this and other attempts had been seen through by their object, and effectually, though tactfully, frustrated. Hunger and exhaustion, however, are somewhat of an antidote to even the finest of finer feelings, and Justin Spence was destined to experience the truth of this.

The patrol was resting. Thick bush surrounded the position, with long gra.s.s and boulders. But the ground had been well scouted in advance: and in rear--well, the strength of the command was distributed in that direction. There were granite kopjes, too, which could be turned to good account.

"_Whau_!" grunted Ziboza, the fighting induna of the Ingubu regiment.

"I think we have them now. They have no more waggons to hide behind, and the _izikwakwa_ are broken down, for did we not find their wheels?

These are they who would have captured the Great Great One. We shall see, ah--ah! Now we shall see."

Squirming like snakes through the long gra.s.s and bush, the Matabele advance, stopping every now and again to reconnoitre. They can hear the subdued hum of voices in the sorry camp of the whites--and on each face raised to peer forward, there is a ferocious grin of antic.i.p.ation. In obedience to the signalled orders of their leaders they spread their ranks, so as to be in a position to surround that sorry command with the first order issued. More and more are pressing on from behind--and the bush is alive with swarming savages, creeping, crawling onward. The dreaded _izikwakwa_ are broken now. They have only to fear the ordinary fire of that handful of whites, to surround them, rush in and make an end.

Of a truth the agency that supplied Lo Bengula with firearms was a far-seeing benefactor to its countrymen. For those warriors now in the front line of attack who have rifles, no power on earth can restrain from using them. They now open fire, hot and heavy but wild. No more surprise now, no wild rush of overwhelming numbers with the deadly a.s.segai. The _coup-de-main_ has failed. Like magic the whites are in position, replying with sparing, but deadly and well-directed fire--as the plunge and fall of more than one warrior flitting from bush to bush, testifies. But the forward rush has carried some right among the remaining horses of the patrol, and the a.s.segai is plied with deadly effect, as the savages slash right and left, burying their reeking blades within the vitals of the poor animals. It is something to kill at any rate, and besides, goes for towards crippling the movements of their human enemies. "_Jji-jji_! _Jji-jji_!" the ferocious death-hiss vibrates amid the trampling and squealing and the fall of the slaughtered animals. And then--what is this? Through and above the discharge of rifles, the sharp, staccato, barking sound so known to them, so dreaded by them--as the Maxims speak. Is there no doing anything with these invulnerable whites? They have left the wheels behind, even as brave Ziboza has just said, but--they have mounted the _izikwakwa_ on sticks, each _on three sticks_, and the deadly muzzles are sweeping round as usual, pouring in their leaden hail.

"Percy--Spence! Up here, quick!" says Blachland--and in a moment they are within the sheltering boulders of a kopje. Two other men are already there.

"_Au_! _Isipau_!" cry some of the Matabele, who have seen and recognised him. And a sharp discharge follows, at least two of the missiles humming unpleasantly near.

"Watch that point!" says Blachland grimly, designating a spot where a bit of bare rock surface, the length of a man, showed out in the bush beneath. And almost with the words his piece went off. A brown, writhing body rolled forward from the cover, the flung away s.h.i.+eld and a.s.segais falling with a rattle.

"That scalp yours, Blachland," observed one of the American scouts who was up there with them. "Oh, snakes!"

The last e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n is evoked by an uncomfortably near missile, which grazing the granite slab immediately behind the speaker, hums away at a tangent into s.p.a.ce. It is followed by another and another: in fact a settled determination to make it hot for the holders of that particular kopje upon the part of the enemy seems to have followed upon the recognition of Blachland.

"Lie close, you fellows!" warns the latter. "Hallo! That's Sybrandt signalling me. It's an old hunting call of ours," as a peculiar chirping whistle travels over from an adjacent granite pile. "Ah, I thought so." Quick as thought he has wormed himself behind another stone and now peeps forth. Below, a couple of hundred yards distant, dark forms are crawling. The bush is thinner there, and the object of the savages is to pa.s.s this, with a view to extending the surround.

Blachland and the American have both taken in this, and the thud and gurgling groans following on the simultaneous crash of their pieces tell that they have taken it in to some purpose. At the same time a cross fire from among the boulders where Sybrandt and some others are lying, throws the Matabele into a momentary but demoralising muddle of consternation.

The rain has ceased, but in the damp air the smoke hangs heavy over the dark heads of the bushes. Down in the camp, the sullen splutter of rifles, and ever and anon the angry, knock-like bark of the Maxims.

There is a lull, but again and again the firing bursts forth. With undaunted persistency the savages return to the a.s.sault, howling out jeering taunts at those who a short while back they reckoned as sure and easy prey--but with dogged pertinacity the defence is kept up. One man falls dead while serving a Maxim, and several more horses are shot.

At length the firing slackens. The enemy seem to have had enough.

Quickly the orders are pa.s.sed round. Those in the kopjes are to remain there, covering the retreat of the rest of the patrol, until this shall have gained better ground some little way beyond.

Then the very heavens above took part in the fight, and in a trice the deafening, stunning thunder crashes rendered the sputter of the volleys as the noise of mere popguns, and the lurid blinding glare of lightning, pouring down in rivers of sheeting flame, put out the flash of man's puny weapons.

"This is rather more risky than their bullets, eh Hilary?" remarked Percival West, involuntarily shrinking down from one of these awful flashes.

"Gun barrels are a good conductor," was the grimly consolatory reply.

So, too, are a.s.segai blades. In the midst of that stunning awful crash that seems to split open the world, five Matabele warriors are lying, mangled, fused into all shapes--and shapelessness--while nearly twice that number besides are lying stunned, as though smitten with a blow of a k.n.o.b-kerrie.

"_Mamo_!" cries Ziboza, who is just outside the limit of this destruction, himself unsteady from the shock. "Lo, the very heavens above are fighting on the side of these whites!"

CHAPTER FIVE.

A SUBLIME LIE.

"Trooper Skelsey missing, sir."

Such the terse report. The patrol had continued its retreat the night through, taking advantage of the known aversion of the Matabele--in common, by the way, with pretty nearly all other savages--to fighting in the dark. Now it was just daybreak, and the muster had been called-- with the above result.

Where had he last been seen? n.o.body knew exactly. He had formed one of the party left as a rear-guard. Sybrandt had, however, exchanged a few words with him since they had all rejoined the patrol. Some declared they had seen him since, but, as to time a general mistiness prevailed.

"Well, I can't send back for him," p.r.o.nounced the commanding officer curtly. "He must take his chance. I'm not going to risk other men's lives for the sake of one, and seriously weaken the patrol into the bargain."

"If you don't mind, Major," said Blachland, who was standing by, "I'll ride a mile or two back. I believe I can pick him up, and I've got the best horse of the few left us."

"Guess you'll need him," interjected the American scout.

"Well, I can't give you any men, Blachland," said the Major. "No, not one single man. You go at your own risk."

"I'll take that. I've been into tighter corners before."

Here several men volunteered, including Percival West. These were curtly dismissed.

"I don't want you, Percy," said Blachland. "In fact I wouldn't have you at any price--excuse my saying so." And there was a laugh, in the midst of which the young fellow gave way to the inevitable.

But there was another man who proved less amenable, and that was Justin Spence.

"Do let me go, sir," he said, stepping forward. "Skelsey and I prospected together once."

There was a momentary awkwardness, for all knew that since they had been in the field together the missing man had refused to exchange a word with his former chum and partner, whom he declared, had behaved like an utter cad. In short Skelsey had proved more implacable than the man presumably most injured.

"No. Return to your duty at once."

"I'll blow my brains out then, and you'll lose one more man at any rate."

"Place Corporal Spence under arrest immediately," said the Major sternly.

"Don't be a fool, Spence," said Blachland kindly. "You'd be more hindrance than help to me really--and so would any one except Sybrandt, but we can't take two scouts away at once."

The commanding officer thought so too, and was in a correspondingly bad humour. But Blachland was far too valuable a man to gainsay in a matter of this kind, besides, he had a knack of getting his way. Now having got it, he lost no time in preparations or farewells. He simply started.

"His contract's too big," said the American, presently. "Guess we've nearly seen the last of him."

"He'll come through, you'll see," rejoined Sybrandt, confidently.

The while Blachland was riding along the backward track: not quite on it, but rather above, where possible; scanning every point with lynx-eyed vigilance. Once a glimpse of something lying across the track caused his pulses to beat quicker. Cautiously he rode down to it. Only an old sack dropped during the march. The spoor of the patrol was plain enough, but he remembered that the missing man suffered from fever, and had been slightly wounded during the earlier stages of the campaign.

The possibilities were all that he had been overtaken with sudden faintness and had collapsed, unperceived by the rest--in which case a lonely and desolate end here in the wilds, even if the more merciful a.s.segai of the savage did not cut short his lingerings. And he himself had been too near such an end, deserted and alone, not to know the horror of it.