Jasper Lyle Part 46

They fled, but left their victim no chance of life from his fellow-men.

Jasper Lyle was quite dead when they unbound him from the oak, down the bark of which the blood streamed from his mangled limbs.

It was riven by lightning afterwards, and, till Mr Trail had it cut down, stood all white and ghastly, an unsightly memento of the convict's awful death.

The hour fixed for Gray's execution pa.s.sed by--the world was already dead to him; but had Mr Trail, the kind, the thoughtful, the unselfish, forgotten him?

How clear are the heavens! how serene and still! how balmy the autumnal breeze of Kafirland.

Hark to the sullen roar of artillery close at hand! It shakes the darkened hut of the poor prisoner.

Cries of anger and defiance disturb the silence of the majestic hills; men rush by with clattering arms.

The dusky host has gathered on the mountain slopes; they hover about in clouds. Gray recognises the well-known challenge, "Izapa!" it is answered by a volley of musketry. Again the deep-mouthed guns open wide their fiery throats, and a hearty English cheer announces that shot and sh.e.l.l have told upon the savage foe.

But the wild war-cry rings out shrill and strong again; it draws nearer, and is answered by the Fingoes.

Gray could see but little from the aperture of his hut. He noticed though that the Kafirs, emboldened by their superiority of numbers, came muzzle to muzzle with the infantry; they grappled with the soldiers, they snapped their reed-like a.s.segais in two and gave back stab for stab; they gibbered, they leaped, they dropped as if dead into the bush, only to rise the next moment and wound their adversaries in the back; they came bounding down the hills in fresh bodies, among which the British artillery soon began to make havoc; but, for those that fell, numbers started from behind the rocks and shrubs, and dashed forward to the onslaught.

They stepped into the open ground. Up rose the warlike Fingoes from beneath their shields! Their spears glittered in the glowing sun; the ma.s.s extended, it spread east and west, and they advanced to the charge.

Slave and master meet in the deadly strife! How the dark eyes of each glare with vengeance and detestation! but the Fingoes not only know the warfare of their enemy, they also fight with the skill and coolness of the British. They will die rather than yield, for they feel that to surrender were worse than death.

And they do conquer, before the outlying picquets posted in the mountain glens, by the experienced orders of Sir Adrian Fairfax, emerge from their ambush to meet the retiring warriors.

It was a deadly struggle. The Kafirs, beaten back from the encampment, hoped to find safe shelter in their strongholds; but Sir Adrian's policy was as deep as their own. He, too, had had his spies scattered through the land; and albeit these specious savages had sworn to sit still--had humbled themselves like dogs, and sworn by the bones of their dead chiefs to keep faith, he knew that when they professed most they meant least; and, on being informed that Sir John Manvers's large force was scattered, and that some of the burghers had antic.i.p.ated their dispersion, and were about to depart, he hurried his march, after closing his treaties with the Boers, whom he contrived also to conciliate, and made such an admirable disposition of his troops that the Kafirs were deceived completely.

The soldiers, dispersed among the kloofs, appeared to the Gaikas to be making roads and hewing wood: they little knew that, at a certain sound of the bugle, they would be up and ready at any hour of the day or night.

Hundreds of the enemy were left dead, after the action, near Sir John Manvers's camp: and, alas! many a family in England, whose best sympathies had been enlisted in favour of this "ill-used race," "driven from their land"--"a peaceful, inoffensive people, asking only gra.s.s for their cattle," mourned the loss of a gallant son or brother shot down or a.s.segaied by these cunning and untameable beings.

And all day long, and through the dark night, the wailing cry of women mourning for their dead resounded in the mountains, and, lo! from the British camp the triumphant chorus of the Fingoes answered it.

The enemy were beaten, and councils were held, and the warriors crawled to the feet of their "white Father," and prayed to be forgiven as little children!

But melancholy experience teaches us the value of a Kafir's word!

A little pyramid marks the spot where, on the evening of that fatal day, a funeral party of British soldiers dug a grave for the comrades who had fallen in the fray.

There are other monuments around it, for a town stands now where long lines of tents dotted the green-sward, and a church is rising in the midst. Within it is a grand monument to the memory of Sir John Manvers, who died ere the body of his murdered son was brought into the encampment.

Divided in their lives, are they united in eternity?

Within the encampment there were no great signs of the struggle which had taken place on the preceding day. On the contrary, there was an unusual stillness about it, for short and conclusive as had been the battle, the heavy wings of Death had cast a dark shadow on the scene, which had its influence on all. The cottages were closed, there were no people at work in the gardens, men spoke apart and in whispers, and, though morning was in her prime, a stillness like that of night prevailed.

Presently, there came forth from the tents soldiers fully accoutred; then their officers; next Sir Adrian Fairfax and his staff. All wore the same grave aspect.

But the brilliant uniforms, the glittering arms, the waving plumes, made a dazzling array, as the troops fell in and formed three sides of a square.

Nine or ten men stepped out from the rest.

Beyond the soldiery, were the Fingo warriors, seated on the turf; and a few Kafir women and children looked from the hills upon the scene, which they could not understand, for, with arms bound, and head uncovered, there walked into the square a young man, whose whole air and aspect bespoke him anything but a malefactor--a rebel doomed to die: it was Gray!

Mr Trail was with him. The prisoner advanced with steady step, but the flush of shame overspread his face, as he felt that the gaze of hundreds was fixed upon him. He would have read sincere and sorrowful pity in that gaze, had he seen it, but his eyes were fixed upon the ground.

Anon, there swelled upon the air that solemn march for the dead that thrills to the very soul when we hear it. The sudden burst of the drum startled the prisoner, and he looked up. He saw his coffin borne before him; he moved on mechanically to the time of the wailing music; he pa.s.sed the long lines of soldiers; he did not lose his presence of mind.

As he drew near Sir Adrian Fairfax, he raised his eyes for an instant, and lifting his fettered hands, bowed on them. Frankfort's heart beat with the dread of being overcome to tears; Colonel Graham brushed the drops away from his eyes, and one young soldier fainted in the ranks.

All at last was ready; the drum ceased to beat.

The prisoner's eyes were bound; it was observed that he cast one long, lingering look upon the bright and lovely scenes around him, ere this was done.

He wished to take a last look of earth!

He was told that some moments would be allowed him for prayer at the last. He pressed Mr Trail's hands within his own, and the good minister left him.

The lightest whisper might have been heard while the prisoner was absorbed in prayer. He never moved when the firing party knelt down, although their arms and accoutrements broke the silence sharply. The officer in command of this party uttered the word, "Ready!" in a voice so clear that it penetrated to the farthest in the ranks.

Did Gray hear it? None could tell.

"Present!"--he heard that, for he lifted his head and dropped his hands before him, awaiting the fiery shower of musketry.

Still, not a movement in those disciplined ranks!

"Prisoner!"

It was another voice that spoke.

The General had bid the party wait his order to fire, and, lest any fatal error should occur, had warned the men, that he should step before them to address the prisoner.--"Remember," said Sir Adrian, "if you do not strictly adhere to my orders, you will shoot me."

None but the firing party and Mr Trail were prepared for this pause in the ceremonial.

"Prisoner--"

Gray remained kneeling, but bent his head in recognition of the voice addressing him.

"The offence of which you were found guilty on the --th of--should have been punished yesterday by death; but the events of that day delayed your doom. Extenuating circ.u.mstances induced your merciful judges to reconsider your case, and finally to accept your own a.s.sertions as evidence in your favour. G.o.d is the judge of your word, whether true or false. In the name then of Him, who loves mercy better than sacrifice, I entreat you to redeem your past errors by a deep repentance.

Prisoner, rise!--you are pardoned!"

Some one removed the bandage from Gray's eyes--the light dazzled them-- he could see nothing; but, though faint and powerless, he knew it was in Mr Trail's kind arms that he reclined.

He heard the clattering arms of the dispersing soldiers, and the drums and fifes beating merry time in marching off the ground, but he felt utterly unable to help himself. He was lifted up--he fainted as they carried him away, and on reviving, found himself in the little room he had occupied in Mr Trail's cottage.

But it was strangely metamorphosed--a carpet covered the hitherto matted floor, snowy curtains shaded the small windows, there were books on the table, and a gla.s.s with wild flowers, and, beside the sofa on which he leaned, stood a lady tall and fair, who looked to him like some ministering angel.

It was Lady Amabel Fairfax.

Peace was proclaimed in Kafirland--peace for a time.