The Fire Trumpet Part 76

The place where they stood, or rather crouched, was a ring of bush.

Above, rose the great yellow-wood tree, with long, tangled monkey ropes trailing from its boughs. Around, however, all was tolerably open, although the trunks of the large forest trees which overshadowed the spot, shutting out the sunlight, might afford some cover to the foe.

And this openness of the surroundings might yet prove the salvation of the devoted group, who stood there hemmed in by relentless and eager foes.

"We'll hold our own, never fear!" cried Claverton. "We were in a worse fix that day down by the Bas.h.i.+--you remember, Jack?--when a blast of your old post-horn sent the n.i.g.g.e.rs flying in every direction."

The wounded man smiled faintly at the reminiscence.

"Give us a revolver, some one," he said. "I can still draw a bead lying here."

"No, you can't. Just lie quiet, old chap, and leave the fun to us this time. The Dutchmen are sure to come up soon, and then we'll turn the tables, as we did that other time."

It was their only chance. Not for ever could that brave handful hope to hold their own against such desperate odds. They could hear the firing of their comrades on the hillside far away; but these had enough to do to act on the defensive; no relief was to be looked for from them. And now the savages began to call to each other, and scores of dark shapes could be seen flitting amid the semi-gloom of the forest--now running a few yards, now sinking down, as it were, into the very earth, as the well-directed fire of the defenders began to tell, but each time springing up again, and more of them crowding on behind, and advancing nearer--nearer--nearer.

"Now, then, you six, blaze a volley into that low bush there, at the foot of the tree. At least three n.i.g.g.e.rs are lying there," said Claverton.

They obeyed, and upon the detonation came a loud yell and groans from more than one throat, notifying that the move had been effective. Two bodies rolled out into the open, and two more, badly hit, staggered behind the huge trunk.

"That's it, boys! Hurrah! We'll give them pepper! They won't come to close quarters, not they!" And catching their leader's spirit, the men, all young fellows brimful of pluck, cheered wildly and gazed eagerly round in search of more targets.

There was silence for a moment, and then a crowd of Kafirs could be seen gliding like spectres among the trees.

"Here they come, by Jingo!" muttered several of the group, but the savages hardly seemed to see them. They pa.s.sed on, running, as for dear life, many of them turning their heads to look back. And the reason of this soon became evident, as a strong, harsh voice was heard exclaiming: "_Nouw kerels, skiet maar! Skiet em doed, die verdomde schepsels_,"

["Now, boys, shoot away! Shoot them dead, the d.a.m.ned rascals."] and immediately a tremendous volley was poured into the retreating foe.

Never was any sound more welcome to mortal ear than the harsh, familiar dialect to the ears of the beleaguered group to whom it brought deliverance, and a ringing cheer went up from their midst as they recognised the voice of the old Dutch commandant, who with his men had thus arrived timely to the rescue. Spread out in a long line through the bush the Boers advanced, cautiously but rapidly, shooting down the flying foe in every direction. And another wild cheer went up in reply, as Jim Brathwaite, at the head of his mounted men, charged up the path in the hope of cutting off the enemy's retreat, or at any rate of thinning his numbers while crossing the open ground some two miles beyond.

"Hallo, Claverton!" he cried as he rode past. "Better fall back, as you're dismounted. The ground's quite clear behind." And the battle, which had now become a rout, swept on, farther and farther up the pa.s.s.

Indeed our friends had as much as they could, manage in transporting their wounded comrade with all the comfort--rough at best--that they could muster under the circ.u.mstances; but it had to be done, and the poor fellow went through agonies. His pluck and cheerfulness never failed him. "I say, Claverton," he remarked, with an attempt at a smile, "that old humbug McShane will have the laugh of me now. How the old beggar will crow!" But the speaker knew full well that not a soul among the forces now in the field would be more concerned and grieved on his account than the fiery but soft-hearted Irish doctor.

The camp was reached at last; but long before it was reached, the whole force had overtaken them, returning from the pursuit. The bodies of those who had fallen were found, horribly mutilated, and were hastily buried where they fell. But the undertaking had been a failure. The Boer commando had been unable to arrive at the rendezvous in time, owing to the same reason which had delayed Brathwaite's Horse. It had been engaged by a large body of the enemy evidently thrown out for the purpose, and as soon as it had beaten these off it hastened to the relief of our friends, as we have seen. And the upshot of the whole affair was that nearly two thousand rebels, with an immense number of cattle, had succeeded in breaking through, and had gone to join their countrymen in the fastnesses of the Amatola Mountains.

All through that night the wounded man lay, watched in turns by his old comrades, those among whom he had spent his life. A stupor had succeeded the agony which he had first undergone, and now he lay comparatively free from pain and breathing heavily. It happened that there was no surgeon in the camp, McShane being with the larger column some twenty-five miles off; and though three men were galloping across country to fetch him, it had long since become evident to all, even the sufferer himself, that the whole Faculty of Medicine could not save his life. He was doomed from the very first; that ball in the side had decided his fate. So they watched beside him there, and many times in the course of the night would his companions-in-arms steal to the door of the tent to whisper for news, for poor Jack was a favourite with the whole corps. So still and beautiful was the night that it required some extent of imagination to realise the stirring drama which had been enacted the day before, and an hour after midnight the camp was wrapped in slumber and darkness, save for that one faint light burning in the dying man's tent, a meet symbol of the life that was flickering within, fainter, and fainter, and fainter. Away on the slopes of the far Amatola the red signal fires of the savages twinkled and glowed, and above rose the eternal peaks in dark outline.

It was towards dawn. Jim Brathwaite and Claverton alone were in the tent when Armitage seemed suddenly to awake from his death-like stupor.

"Who's there?" he whispered. "That you, Jim?"

In a moment Jim was at his side.

"Well, look here, old chap, I'm off the hooks this time, and no mistake.

It wouldn't much matter--only--" and he paused.

"It wouldn't much matter," he continued, as if with an effort; "but-- Jim--hang it, it's Gertie I'm thinking of. Poor little girl, she'll be left all alone--," again he seemed to hesitate, and by the light of the dim lantern, it could be seen that the dying man's eyes were very moist.

"You'll look after her a little, now and then, won't you, Jim, for the sake of old times? There'll be enough to keep her comfortably--when everything's realised--that's one consolation. And tell the little girl not to fret. It can't be helped."

Solemnly Jim promised to carry out his wishes. He was a man of few words, but they were from his heart.

"Claverton--it was downright good of you to bring a fellow up here to die among his old friends," went on Armitage, suddenly catching sight of the other. "Better fun than pegging out with only the sooty-faced n.i.g.g.e.rs prodding away at you," he added, with an attempt at his old light-heartedness. "After all, what does it matter? I say, though, you fellows, don't go bothering to drag me off to 'King.' Just slip me in somewhere here. I'd rather, you see. Best sort of grave for a fellow campaigning--and it's all G.o.d's earth."

His voice grew somewhat fainter as he ceased. There was silence for a few minutes, and he lay with closed eyes. The watchers stole a look at each other, and just then three more figures slipped softly into the tent. They were Hicks, and Allen, and Naylor. The dying man's lips began to move, but Claverton, bending over him, could not catch his words, though he thought he could just detect the name of his wife.

"Where's Hicks?" he suddenly exclaimed, opening his eyes. "And Naylor, and all of them? I should just like to say good-bye to them. Oh, hang it all--it's too soon to give way. One more shot and the beggars'll run. Ah-h-h! That chap's down." His mind was wandering, and he fancied himself in the conflict again, "N-no. Where am I? It's awfully dark. Open those shutters, somebody. A fellow can't see."

Again the watchers look at each other. This was the beginning of the end. Hicks had knelt down beside his dying comrade, and, grasping his hand, something very like a sob is heard to proceed from his broad chest. The candle in the lantern burns low, flickers, and goes out.

They put back the flaps of the tent door, and just then the first red flush of dawn glows in the east. Then they bend down to look at their comrade; but it is all over. The spirit has fled, only the clay remains--cold and tenantless.

Thus died, in his full manhood, the joyous, mischief-loving, sunny-tempered Jack Armitage--light-hearted to the very last; fearless, for he had never done anything to be ashamed of, or contrary to his simple, straightforward code. Never a dishonest or malicious action could he blame himself with, and now he was at peace with all mankind.

And if any one is tempted to ask: "Was the man a Pagan? Was he utterly G.o.dless?" I reply, not necessarily. He died as he had lived, among his old comrades, careless and unthinking, perhaps, and with his thoughts apparently all for those he left behind; but genuinely regretted by all, and without an enemy in the world. And, O pious reader, when your time comes and the grim monarch lays his icy grasp upon you, will they be able to say of you even thus much?

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

FACE TO FACE.

They buried poor Jack Armitage in the afternoon, and all turned out to render the last honours to their departed comrade. Brathwaite's Horse, with arms reversed, formed the princ.i.p.al guard of honour, the improvised bier being borne by the dead man's most intimate friends. All the Dutch burghers followed in the _cortege_, and, hovering around in dark groups, the men of the Fingo Levies gazed curiously but respectfully upon the white man's burial. No surpliced priest stood to hallow this newly-made grave in the wilderness, or speak the commendatory words; but all the solemnity which real feeling could impart was supplied in the demeanour of these rough bands of armed hors.e.m.e.n, pacing along so silent, and orderly, and mournful.

The grave had been dug beneath a couple of euphorbia trees, upon a green knoll commanding a lovely view of hill and dale, and sweeping gra.s.sland and distant mountain, all blending into one soft picture in the golden l.u.s.tre of the afternoon sun. The steady tramp of hoof-strokes ceased as the hors.e.m.e.n ranged themselves in a semicircle around the grave, and there was dead silence. All uncovered as Jim Brathwaite, who, as senior commander and the dead man's intimate friend, had been unanimously voted to the duty, began to read--in the subdued and serious voice of one wholly unaccustomed to the performance of such offices--the Anglican burial service. At its close a firing party stepped forward, and a threefold volley sounded forth upon the hushened air, rolling its echoes afar, till the Amaxosa warriors, listening from their tangled fastnesses to its distant thunder, told each other, with grim satisfaction, that the English must be burying one of their princ.i.p.al captains.

So poor Jack Armitage was laid to rest there in his lonely grave amid the sunny wilds of Kaffraria, and a gloom hung over the camp because of the cheerful spirit taken from its midst.

That evening they were joined by the other column, forming part of which was Claverton's old corps. It happened that Lumley, who had been given the provisional command on the transfer of his chief, was in hot water.

An excellent subordinate, he was quite unfit for a wholly responsible position, and, as was disgustedly said by those on whom his mistakes had nearly entailed serious disaster, he had made an utter mess of it.

Consequently he had been superseded, and was daily expecting the arrival of the man appointed to take his place. "Quite a new hand," as he said, in an injured tone; "a fellow only just out from England." All this he told Claverton, seated that evening in the latter's tent, where he had come to pour out his grievances. He would clear out, he vowed, and let the beastly war go to the deuce. Naylor was also present.

"Don't do anything rash, Lumley. Wait and see who the new fellow is,"

was Claverton's advice. "You and I had very good fun together, and so may you and he. It isn't all walnuts and Madeira being in command, I can tell you. Anyhow, I found it quite within my conscience to throw over mine in favour of subordinacy--and am not sorry. No, believe me, responsibility's a mistake except for the gifted few; and you and I can have a much better time of it playing second fiddle."

With such arguments he soothed the other's wounded spirit, and at length persuaded him that so far from feeling ill-used he ought to rejoice.

"'Pon my soul, I believe you're right," was poor Lumley's parting remark, made in a tone of intense relief, partly owing to his former chief's friendliness and encouragement, partly--it may be--the result of a couple of gla.s.ses of grog warming the c.o.c.kles of his heart. "But I wish it was you they were going to put back again, Claverton. It would be all right then. Good-night--good-night," and he went out.

"Poor Lumley," remarked Claverton, after he had left. "I'm sorry for him; but he's no more fit to be at the head of a body of men than I am to command the Channel Fleet."

"H'm, isn't he?" said Naylor. "At any rate you have sent him away in quite a contented frame of mind. I was watching the process leading up to it, somewhat narrowly."

Claverton laughed. "Oh, I can always talk over a fool, that is, an ordinary one, when it's worth while taking the trouble, which in this case it is, for Lumley's a good fellow in most ways. But I can't talk over the fool blatant, for he is too overwhelmed with a sense of his own infallibility to give the slightest attention to any one else's suggestions. By the way, I must go across and see Jim Brathwaite. Will you come, or would you rather stay here? Our 'business' won't take a minute."

"I may as well walk across," and they went out. On arrival at Jim's tent, however, that redoubted warrior was not there.

"Probably making a night of it with some of the fellows who have just come," was Claverton's remark. "Ah, here's what I want," pouncing upon a bit of blue paper which lay ostentatiously upon an old packing-case, and was directed to himself. "Now we'll go back."

The night was moonless and rather dark, for a curtain of cloud had drifted across the sky; here and there one or two stars twinkled through its rifts, and the outline of the sombre ridge beyond was scarcely visible. All was quiet in the camp, the voices of the men made a kind of monotonous hum, and now and then a laugh arose from some centre of jollity for the time being.