Chapter Twenty Six.
The Attack at Dawn
Over the slumbering land the dawn has not yet broken, though but for the chill mist lying upon bush and earth the first faint streaks might be lining the eastern sky. Nor are the voices of the night stilled as yet, and the weird laughter of the faraway jackals, and the crying of invisible plover circling above, blend with ghostly mysterious rustlings among the bush and damp grass-bents. For, like dark ghosts, innumerable figures are flitting, well-nigh shoulder to shoulder in the mist, moving rapidly in noiseless, springy advance.
Now these halt, and listen intently. Not a sound is audible on the stillness; rather, would not be save to such as they. But to them, well-nigh inaudible in the distance, comes the steady ‘crunch crunch’ of ruminating cattle, and the occasional snort and stamp of a horse.
They move forward again, and although not one can see more than a dozen yards on either side, the crescent-moon formation advances unbroken. They move forward, but now no longer erect. In bent, crouching attitude, head turned on one side, intently listening, yet none the less swiftly, none the less noiselessly, do they move; so noiselessly indeed that not even the faintest rattle of assegai haft against shield stick is heard throughout the whole length of that terrible battle line, and of voices not even the faintest breath of a whisper. No need for such at this stage. The tactics are simplicity itself, the plan already laid.
Out of the misty gloom in front – though this is now growing perceptibly less – the chewing of the ruminating cattle sounds nearer, but of any sound betokening the proximity of human beings there is none. Soon, of human beings other than these there will be none; none left in life, that is; and the eyeballs of these human wolves roll, in the delirious transport of the awaiting blood-feast; and weapons of destruction are gripped and ready. Of a truth this mist is not there by accident. It has been invoked by Umlimo that his children might steal upon these hated Amakiwa, and rid the land of so many more of them, according to his bidding.
And yet, the concealing mist is thinning somewhat. Well, it has served its purpose, and having done so they will be better without it, to make their work the surer and the more complete. And now, through its lifting folds, rises in dark loom the jagged silhouette of the mopani stockade. Then the crescent line seems to tighten itself as for a spring, and, still in dead silence, the swarming dark figures hurl themselves forward. They have barely a couple of hundred yards to cover, and they will be pouring over the fence in their numbers, and overwhelming those within by their sheer weight. Half the distance is already covered, and in each savage ruthless heart is the anticipating delight of a demon – when, lo —
It is as though the earth itself were splitting in the detonnade which rends the stillness, crashing forth from that dark silent barrier. Aimed low, hardly a single bullet misses its mark, in many cases doing double, even treble, execution at that short range. Those thus stricken leap in the air or fall heavily forward, in any case staggering, and upsetting those immediately behind or around; and still with unflagging rapidity and unerring accuracy that deadly fire plays upon the whole advancing line. Advancing? No! Now no longer; for like the roll of a vast billow, met by a cliff face, this dark wave staggers, hurling itself on high, then falls back; and ever that pitiless hail adds to the destruction, at the rate of so many lives per second. The confusion is awful, absolute, complete.
Howls and yells, roars and shrieks from those stricken down, and those in their immediate vicinity, mingle with the wild hissing of those behind, pressing forward in fierce eagerness to pour over the defences before those within shall have time to reload. But those within seem not under the necessity of doing anything of the kind, for somehow that terrific fire never slackens, and the crashing detonnade is marked by the same deadly execution upon those without. Human intrepidity has its limits, and these fall back, gliding, wriggling like snakes so as to render themselves as inconspicuous a mark as possible. And aided by the – to them – friendly mist, many escape who would otherwise have shrilled their last battle-hiss.
“Time!” called Peters, with a grim laugh, and then a smothered cuss word, as the hot barrel of his magazine rifle which he was reloading came in contact with a knuckle. “Time! That’s the first round, and I guess we’ve knocked our friend the enemy some.”
“First round!” echoed Jim Steele. “Why, we’ve knocked him out.”
“Not yet – by any means. And when it gets quite light, and he realises how few we are, it’ll take us all our time to do it.”
The excitement of the men was something indescribable, and intensified the more by their anxiety to keep cool. It found vent in the restless gleaming of their eyes, and a few muttered explosions of profanity. There had been a little discontentment the evening before when Lamont and Peters had decided that all should not only remain under arms, but that each man should spend the night at his post; in short, that the whole garrison should, as it were, stand on sentry-go. Surely a double guard would be sufficient, they had argued. But the two leaders, backed up by others equally well versed in the ways of the wily savage, had decided otherwise. Not for nothing had that formidable impi left them so quietly and peacefully the day before, they had pointed out. Just such a move as this would have been intended. Now those who had been the least contented were the first to recognise the wisdom of the plan.
But, as Peters has said, it was only the first round, for now a swarming crowd of savages, advancing at a lightning run, hurled themselves upon the stockade at the other side, with intent to effect an entrance in overwhelming force before the defenders should have time to create sufficient havoc to turn them. It was a weak point too, for the back wall of a long, low stable constituted a break in the line of mopani poles, and once under cover of this a considerable number of them would be sheltered from the effects of any cross-fire, and could even set alight the thatched roof. And as if to second their efforts an extra dense cloud of mist, borne down by the wind, rolled right up to the stable wall.
Here, too, the crackling volleys mowed them down, but doing nothing like the execution that had been at first effected.
“Good Lord! here’s a go,” muttered the police sergeant, who with his men formed a section of the defenders on this side. “There’s quite a lot of the cusses under here, and we can’t get at ’em. Stop. I’ll have a try.”
He hoisted himself up to the top of the palisade, and, reaching over, pumped his revolver into the concentrated mass. An awful roar of rage and dismay arose from below, raked thus at close quarters; then one agile warrior, taking in the situation, leaped upward, and drove his assegai clean through the throat of the unfortunate policeman, who fell back stone dead, his vertebrae completely severed by the impact of the stroke.
But hardly time had those around to take in this than a diversion occurred. Grunberger appeared from within his store bearing a strange unwieldy object, followed by Driffield’s Makalaka boy armed with a crowbar. Both entered the stable, and but for the crackle of firing and hissing and yells of the Matabele, a sound might have been heard like that of drilling a hole in a mud wall. A moment later a sound was heard; a roar from within the stable like that of a discharge of cannon, together with the squealing and stamping of mules. A crowd of savages who had been lurking there under secure cover, as they thought, awaiting their chance, rushed helter-skelter forth to regain the main rank – and not all reached it. Soon after, the German reappeared, choking with laughter.
“Dot is one goot old shspring-gun,” he explained. “I fill him up mit black powder und loopers, den I make one leetle hole, und shtick him through, ja so, mit de muzzle pointing upwards. Herr Gott! but de Matabele think dot a cannon haf gone off.”
“Well done, Grunberger, well done!” cried Lamont. “You’re a man of resource. They ought to have made you a colonel in your own army before they’d done with you.”
“Ach, so,” said the old soldier, greatly pleased. “Well, I load him up again. Dot place behind the stable they find no longer safe.”
“What’s the row, Driffield? Not hit?” cried Lamont sharply. For a sudden fusillade had opened on that side, and the chips were flying wildly from the mopani poles.
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered the Native Commissioner dazedly, staggering back from one of the improvised loopholes. “At least – no – I think not.”
A bullet had struck the barrel of his rifle, and the shock had produced a numbing sensation, causing him to drop the weapon.
“N-no. I’m all right. It’s only hit the shooter, blazes take it! It’s all right, too.”
“What’s this?” growled Peters. “They weren’t firing before. I believe they’ve been reinforced; like yesterday.”
And as if to bear out his words, at that moment a furious rush was made on the palisades from all sides, to the accompaniment of a perfect hail of missiles, all fired high, and obviously with intent to confuse the defenders, and cover the advance of a strong storming party. At the same time the crashing of axes was heard against the poles on the side where stood the store and dwelling-house – the side, to wit, where the women and wounded were sheltered.
“Half of you here!” ordered Lamont in clear ringing tones. “Those are no mere flimsy native choppers, but good imported axes.”
They were only just in time. Demon figures, swarming out of the mist by dozens and scores, were on the heels of those who had been told off to cut a way in. The hissing and yells rose hideously above the terrific roar of the volleys. And now upon the farther side the savages were dropping down within the stockade, while the larger section of the defenders were engaged in repelling this more serious menace.
It was of no use. At that point the defenders were helpless. The place was divided into two enclosures, and the one in which the Matabele had secured a footing was the cattle kraal. In less than no time they were blazing away from the inner fence, and all on that side must perforce take cover in the houses.
Not without loss. Several men lay dead or grievously disabled, and the horrible death-hiss of the savages shrilled forth more demoniacally loud as they poured their fire again and again into these.
And now, taken thus in the rear, the situation of the whites seems hopeless. Clearly they are doomed. Those within the houses find it all they can do to keep the assailants already within the cattle kraal from pouring over, and rushing the position. Those on the front side are straining every effort to hold in check the attempt to break down the stockade; for the wily enemy had chosen a spot where the logs stand thick, and there is scarcely a chink to fire through. And above – around – the mist, which had lifted somewhat, descends darker than ever in its dank, thick folds.
Every man there is a desperate and dangerous animal, for every man there is fighting for his life, and not only for his life, for of that he has given up all hope, but maddened by the thought of those helpless women. What of them, when there are no more left to fight for them?
To one we may be sure this aspect of affairs is borne in upon with searing, maddening force. Outwardly deadly calm, Lamont is superintending, directing everything, yet when the head of a savage shows itself above the palings it drops back, drilled by a soft-nosed bullet from the unerring magazine rifle. His back is against the dwelling-house of the store, as he watches and directs operations.
“What chance have we?”
The voice, firm and without a tremor, is from the window just at his back. He cannot resist one quick turn of the head for one last look at the pale, set, beautiful face – ah! and the anguish of that moment renders him a hundredfold more desperate.
“My Clare! Do you want to live after capture?” and he hardly knows his own voice.
“No.”
“Quite sure?”
“Need you ask?”
“Then – when I say, ‘Now!’ say the ‘Commendo spiritum meum’ and turn your back to me. Understand?”
“I understand.”
There is no time for words. In the shadow of this grim, sudden, violent death, the same thought is in both their minds. Would the next few moments, the fleeting agony of one swift pang over, unite them together for evermore, or —
Three sharp detonating explosions, one after another, staggered them, with their vibrating shock upon the air. With howls of dismay the swarming savages had scattered, rushing helter-skelter in all directions. Not all, though – no not all. Many would never rush anywhere again. The first glimmer of explanation came in the shape of Grunberger, who stood, chuckling and choking and shaking with laughter. The sight sobered those who beheld it, all inured as they were to ghastly sights. Had the man’s brain suddenly given way?
“Ach, so!” he chuckled. “Ach, so! De tam niggers haf got one leetle shock this time. Here goes for another.”
And with the words, he raised his arm, and seemed to hurl something he held in his hand far out beyond the stockade. In an instant the same vibrating roar seemed to stun the air. Then the explanation stood revealed. The ingenious German had been turning time to account by doing a little stroke of business on his own. He had got out some dynamite cartridges, and, having set them with a cleverly contrived fuse, had hurled them into the thick of the enemy where he judged they would do most execution. His calculation was rewarded, for now, imagining that they were being attacked in the rear, and utterly demoralised by the havoc and concussion, the Matabele warriors stampeded in a wild frenzy of terror, leaving the whole of that side open. “You’ve saved us, Grunberger,” cried Lamont. “By God! you’ve saved us, man.”
“Ach, so! Well, I think I made de tam niggers feel sick.”
What is this? There is a rumbling noise, then the sharp cracking of shots away there in the mist. It becomes a regular roll – and with it the sound of yells and the scurry of flying feet. The frenzied bellowing and moaning of the cattle in the kraal, rushing hither and thither, and struck down by the assegais of the savages, blends, too, with the roar and din and confusion. Yet – what is this? Nearer and nearer comes that volleying roll, nearer and nearer the rumble of unmistakable horse-hoofs, and, as with incredible swiftness the last remaining savages flit away into the mist, such a ringing cheer goes up from all within the stockade that hardly the hell of the recent battle rout can have surpassed it for volume.
It is answered, and now out of the smother, other forms appear – the forms of armed horsemen; and still the darkling mist is rent ever and anon by a spurt of flame, as these descry a belated body of fleeing warriors not sufficiently quick to take themselves out of sight and range.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
“Where is he?”
Clare Vidal’s beautiful eyes are strained upon the farthest limits of vision in a certain direction, and, not for the first time, the thought rather than the utterance, expressed by these three words, passes through her mind —
“Where is he?”
The day is one of cloudless beauty. With the arrival – the timely arrival – of the relieving force an hour or so ago, the mist had suddenly rolled back; retreating as though still to curtain their flight, simultaneously with the demoralised Matabele. The said relieving force – which was made up of a company of Green’s Scouts, and a number of mounted men who had volunteered to patrol the Buluwayo road, and warn and assist all who should be in danger – had forthwith started in hot pursuit. They were going to keep that impi on the run, they declared, even if it had to run to – well, a certain place that shall be nameless, but which is popularly understood to lie within the torrid zone. With them had gone Lamont. Clare was a little sore at heart, a little reproachful, as she stood there outside the stockade, gazing wistfully out over the roll of the veldt. Why had he left her just then? There was no necessity for it. Had he not borne himself as a very hero in that awful fight which seemed to have lasted a year, though in point of actual time it lasted considerably less than an hour; what necessity then could there be for him to give further evidence of his prowess? They two had but been snatched back from the portal of Death, had even felt his cold blast together – why then, could he not have remained by her at such a moment? For the life of her she could not but feel conscious of a certain soreness.
Since the relief Clare had been by no means idle; for, conquering her natural repulsion towards wounds and death, she had been rendering the surgeon very practical assistance, and incidentally, but all unconsciously, had gone far towards implanting in poor Strange’s system a wound which only time might avail to heal. Her quick aptitude, however, atoned for her lack of experience, to a quite astonishing degree, and Strange expressed considerable scepticism as to her never having undergone any training. Lucy Fullerton, utterly worn out with the exhaustion of terror, had fallen sound asleep through the sheer reaction of relief; which was as well, for it may be imagined that the relics of such a struggle as this had been consisted largely of ghastly and horrifying sights meeting the eye at every turn. These, however, had been minimised, and the enemy’s dead had been dragged off to a sufficient distance as to be invisible.
Their own dead had been cared for, and the wounded made as comfortable as the circumstances of the place would admit; this it turned out was beyond what might have been expected, for the Kezane Store was exceedingly well supplied with most necessaries; and fortunate indeed that it was so, for there had been grave danger of ammunition giving out during the battle. It must not be supposed, either, that the place was left to take its chance, practically undefended, for over and above its original defenders quite a number of the relieving force, whose horses were not up to further calls upon speed and endurance, had remained behind.
“You must have had the very devil of a scrap, Peters,” one of these was saying. “We could hear you banging away from the time you began, and pushed our gees for all they’d carry; for we reckoned all that shooting meant a big thing and no bally skirmish. The cream of the fun was when we got in among the niggers in the mist. They didn’t know we were there till we got cracking away right in their faces, or mostly backs. Magtig! didn’t they skip. But – I say though – what old powder magazine was it that you blew up just before we got here? Man! it nearly knocked us all down.”
The explanation of Grunberger’s ingenious device raised a great laugh, and many were the felicitations showered upon that estimable Teuton.
“I say, Wyndham,” another was saying. “What on earth could have possessed you and Fullerton to start tooling your team off into the very teeth of hell let loose, in the confiding, childlike way you seem to have done?”
“We didn’t know hell was let loose, that’s the explanation. But Lamont went for us on exactly the same terms.”
“Lamont? Is he with you then?”
“I should say so. Why, he’s been bossing up the whole show. If it hadn’t been for him we’d have gone under long before we got here.”
“So? Then you’ve got a right good man, that’s all. I was out with him in ’93. He’s a tiger in a fight.”
“Seems to be,” said Wyndham drily. “You’d think he’d had enough of that sort of thing day before yesterday, and this morning, to last him at any rate for a day or two, and now instead of having a quiet smoke and a cool drink, like a rational Christian, he must race off along with your crowd to contract for some more knocks. Silly ass!”
“There’s something in it when you put things that way. But – I say. Who’s the lady?”
“Where?” following his glance. “Oh, that’s Miss Vidal, Fullerton’s sister-in-law.”
“So! By Jove! what a fine-looking girl. Oh! oh! – Wyndham, you deep-down dog! So that’s where the little venture in charioteering came in, eh? I see.”
“Shut up, Selby, and don’t be a silly ass,” answered Wyndham shortly. “I hate that sort of chaff, you know.”
“Oh, all right, old man. Keep your shirt in,” was the good-humoured rejoinder.
“I think I’ll go and talk to Miss Vidal now,” said Wyndham, just a trifle self-consciously. “By Jove! she has been plucky throughout all this.”
“So? Well, good luck, old man.”
Clare had returned to her post of observation outside, but there was still no sign of the returning pursuit: and now a dire heart-sinking began to take the place of her former resentment. She looked at her watch. They had been away an hour nearly. Surely the work of completing the rout should have been over by that time. They should be returning, and there was one whom she would scold – scold gently – for having gone with them. No. She believed she would not scold him at all. It would be all too sufficing to behold him once more safe and sound.
“Taking a morning constitutional, Miss Vidal? Well, it has turned out a lovely day, hasn’t it?” And Wyndham, conscious of the banality of the remark, felt rather foolish.
She turned, but she was hardly listening to him. Why did they not come back? ran her thoughts. Had they, rendered reckless by success, pursued the fleeing enemy too far? The force which had attacked them was a strong one – strong and daring. What if it had recovered from its first wild panic? What if it had rallied, and shown a sudden change of front to its pursuers? What if the latter had straggled and been cut off in detail by the vengeful savages; all of which reduced to detail meant: What if one of them had?
“What do you think, Mr Wyndham?” she said suddenly. “Why are they so long away?”
Wyndham was no fool, and apart from what he had heard hinted at – albeit always in a kindly and good-natured way – would have had no difficulty in putting two and two together.
“Don’t you be anxious, Miss Vidal,” he said. “Those men are a hard-bitten lot, and not in the least likely to be led into any booby trap.”
“You think so?” she queried, speaking quickly.
“I’m sure of it. Ah – Look there. See? I was right. Here they come.”
Her face lighted up in a way that cost poor Wyndham something of a pang. It was even as he had said. Away over the nearly flat landscape figures were moving – horsemen. As they drew nearer it could be seen that they were split up in irregular groups, and were riding leisurely.
“Mr Wyndham, will you do me a very great favour?” she went on, speaking quickly. “Do get me those binoculars some of you were looking through yesterday.”
“Certainly I will. Grunberger has a good pair.”
He was back at her side in a minute. What horrible presentiment or instinct was it that caused Clare’s hands to tremble as she put the glasses to her eyes, so that she could scarcely see anything through them? With an effort she controlled her excitement. The horsemen were much nearer now, and she could make out they were quite unconcerned, and seemed to be chatting and laughing together. Clearly, then, nothing had gone wrong, and there had been no casualties.
To that extent relieved she brought the glasses to bear upon group after group, but still they failed to reveal – one.
“Where is he?” she repeated, speaking unconsciously half aloud.
“Let me look, Miss Vidal,” said Wyndham, tactfully facing the situation. Then, as she surrendered the glasses to him, a rapid, but careful scrutiny convinced him that among those now approaching Lamont was not.
“Don’t be anxious, Miss Vidal,” he said. “There may be others coming on behind. In fact, there are sure to be.”
But as the mounted men drew near, the veldt between them and the farthest line of vision spread undisturbed by other mounted figures – no – nor did the widest scrutiny in any direction reveal any sight of such. What did it mean?
“Keep yourself in hand, Miss Vidal, whatever you do,” said Wyndham concernedly, as he noted how ashy pale the beautiful face had grown. “I’ll find out about this.”
In a very short time the whole troop had mustered. The men were in high spirits. They had driven the enemy before them for miles, they reported, and had made still greater holes in their numbers. They had broken up that impi most effectually, and taught the rebels a lesson they wouldn’t forget for a long day to come. Lamont? Oh, he had last been seen away on the right flank with about a dozen men riding down the enemy for all they were worth. The mist was rather thick up where they were, which was at the foot of a range of low hills. He’d turn up directly, they held. Turn up! Rather! Of course he would, and report a record bag, too. Lamont was an old campaigner and a knowing one. There need be no anxiety about him. And then all hands, having attended to their horses, turned to and assailed their well-earned refreshment with a whole-heartedness that left nothing to be desired.
“There need be no anxiety about him.” Thus the cheerful dictum! Need there not? But to one there, at any rate, ‘anxiety about him’ turned to something like anguish, as the morning wore on, and still he did not appear. It needed all of Clare Vidal’s splendid pluck and self-command to conceal her terrible anxiety. To those nearest to her, she could no longer keep her secret by reason of it; no longer, indeed, did she care to.
“Oh, it’ll be all right, Clare,” said Fullerton, cheerfully and good-naturedly, when appealed to. “You’ve seen what Lamont’s made of, and you bet he won’t enjoy being fussed after by women when he’s got a bit of sharpish work in hand.” In despair she turned to Wyndham.
“Do help me,” she pleaded. “If you won’t I’ll go alone. Get some of the men who last saw him – them – and make a thorough search. Who knows what may have happened. I will go with you. I can borrow Mrs Grunberger’s side-saddle.”
“I’ll do what I can, Miss Vidal, but only on condition that you remain here.”
“But – I can’t. I can’t.”
“But you must,” he answered firmly. “Just think. You’d be far more of a hindrance than a help. And we can’t do with hindrances.”
She gave way, and Wyndham set to work to organise a search or a relief, as the case might be. There was no lack of volunteers. The troop was mustered, and it was found that besides Lamont there were seven men missing. And now for the first time something like a feeling of blank uneasiness spread through the whole force.
Was there ground for it? We shall see. Some three hours earlier Lamont and a mere handful of men were pursuing a disorganised mass of the fleeing Matabele. The latter were thoroughly demoralised; panic-stricken beyond all thought – and seemingly, all power – of resistance. They would allow themselves to be shot down as they ran, sullenly, doggedly, not even begging for quarter; and little mercy had the avengers on the murderers and mutilators of women and children. The horses were getting blown, and then it occurred to Lamont that he was allowing his excitement to outstrip his prudential instincts. Quietly he conveyed the recommendation to retire – he could not give an order, for none of these were his own men.
Some of them acted upon it, and some did not. And then as the former reined in their panting steeds, an unpleasant discovery was made. In the eagerness of the pursuit they had wandered afield. They made out, as well as the mist would allow, that they had got among hills, and assuredly, judging by the entire absence of sound, they had got right away from the main body. In short they did not know where they were, and until the mist should lift did not know whether to bear to the right or the left. The situation was growing awkward.
And to render it more awkward still, they could hear the savages calling to one another on either side of and rather above them. This looked as though the weakness of the party had been discovered. And just then, a curtain of mist rolled backward and upward, revealing granite-strewn slopes, and along them, resting after their wild and headlong flight, crouched masses of armed warriors. These, seeing the mere handful of whites, sprang up immediately and came for them, uttering wild yells.
But not at once did they close. This might be but the advance party of the force which had meted out to them such terrible punishment, and might again whirl down upon them in the mist as it had done before. So they kept a parallel course, as they ran in pursuit, loth to quit the welcome refuge of rock and boulder in the event of surprise.
The party now realised that it was in a tight place. The horses were far from fresh, and the fleet-footed savages could keep pace with them on the upper slopes. Even then all might have turned out well, but the mist, which had befriended them by concealing their weakness, now lifted entirely, dispelled by a brilliant flash of sunlight. In a few moments the whole situation stood revealed. They were in a sort of labyrinth between low stony kopjes, and not one of the main body was in sight. With a very roar of hate and exultation, the whole mass of savages, realising their helplessness, swept down upon them from both sides.
“Spur up, boys. No time for shooting,” cried Lamont, instinctively the commander. “Spur up! It’s our only chance.”
They know this, and they do spur up. If the horses had got anything left in them they have to travel now. Again, instinctively, Lamont holds back to cover the rear, though he could easily have been among the foremost.
For some minutes this terrible race continues – its prizes dear life; and now as the ground becomes more level, the horsemen are gaining. Through the fierce hissing and the thunder of the shouts of the pursuers nothing else can be heard, and it is literally every man for himself.