The Fire Trumpet Part 64

"Pardon me," he said, with some acerbity. "Did I understand you to say that you could not start upon this service to-morrow?"

"Not so fast, my dear sir; I didn't say I couldn't, I said I wouldn't.

A vastly different thing," said the other, with a pleasant laugh.

"But, Mr--Mr Claverton, I would really advise you not to throw up this appointment. I a.s.sure you that I could name at least a dozen men who would jump at the chance."

"In that case it might be as well to give them the opportunity of practising their leaping powers," was the cool, smiling reply, and he made a movement as if to rise.

The official was sorely perplexed. To let Claverton go would entail no end of correspondence and bother before he could fix upon another man altogether fit for the post; and, what with all the disturbance and worry of the past few days, he had more than enough on his hands already, as the heap of letters and telegrams lying before him all demanding "immediate" attention, and the lateness of the hour for him to be in his office, abundantly testified.

"How soon will you be ready, then?" he said at last, wearily pushing back his chair.

"On Monday morning--an hour before daylight."

"Very well, then, that's settled. I suppose a day won't make any great difference after all. And you might turn the time to account by picking up three or four likely-looking fellows here. If you want any further information you'll find me here all to-morrow. No rest for us public servants, not even on Sunday, since these confounded wars; I feel quite ashamed to look a parson in the face now--ha, ha, ha! Good-night!" and chuckling in a dispirited manner over his feeble jest, the official shook hands with Claverton and returned to grind away at his vouchers, and requisitions, and reports until midnight. And our new commandant of levies sallied forth, a flash of satirical mirth lurking in his eyes over his interlocutor's parting suggestion. So likely that, on the last day he would spend with Lilian, he was going to bother himself recruiting a lot of dirty n.i.g.g.e.rs among the grog-shops of Bog-na-fin [the popular name for a low quarter of Grahamstown].

But his fame must have spread very rapidly, for early the next morning before he was half-dressed, his faithful henchman came to tell him that a man was asking for him in the back-yard. "What does he look like, Sam?"

"An ugly Hottentot, Inkos. Big and strong, though."

"All right, tell him to wait. And, Sam!"

"Inkos?"

"I shall take you with me to the front. So you'll be able to try your hand at shooting Amaxosa."

Sam jumped with delight at this. He could hardly believe his ears. The last time, he had begged and prayed to be allowed to go; but then his master had gone in the capacity of a private trooper, and couldn't be enc.u.mbered with a servant. Now it was different, and subsequently Sam might be heard imparting his good news over the wall to the Hottentot groom belonging to the neighbouring house, winding up with his cherished formula--"Amaxosa n.i.g.g.a no good."

In a few minutes Claverton went out to interview his intending recruit, as he supposed the visitor to be, and an almost imperceptible shade of annoyance came over his face as he saw before him the man whose sudden appearance yesterday had so sorely troubled Lilian during their ride.

"Ghosts don't talk!" said he to himself, sardonically and with meaning, "or this might be one."

"Good mornin', Baas?" said the new arrival, with his eyes keenly fixed on the other's face.

"Morning," replied Claverton, shortly. "What d'you want with me?"

"I want to join your levies, Baas."

"Oh, do you? What's your name?"

"Vargas Smith, Baas," replied the fellow, who spoke English fluently, narrowly watching the effect of his words. But the said effect was simply nil.

"Queer name that. Where d'you come from?"

"I've bin up Zanzibar way--three, four, five years ago--up the river,"

answered the fellow, in a tone full of significance, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the supposed direction of that locality. Then sinking his voice to a whisper: "Don't you know me, Baas?"

"Never saw you before in my life," replied Claverton, looking him up and down with a cold stare of astonishment.

The coolness of this rejoinder fairly staggered Smith, who, for a minute, stood dumbfoundered. Then he said, still in a would-be significant whisper:

"They used to call me 'Sharkey,' Baas, up yonder."

"Did they? A devilish good name, too. But what's 'up yonder,' and where do you hail from, when all's said and done? Are you from these parts?"

"No, sah, I'm Cuban gentleman."

"Cuban gentleman, are you?" said Claverton, with a sneer. "Then let me tell you this, Mr Vargas Smith, alias Sharkey, that I don't want _gentlemen_ in my corps; so you won't do for me. Now we understand each other."

"Yes, sar. I was only jokin'. Of course I un'stand. But I want to serve under you, Baas Lidwell--ah--I mean, Baas Claverton--and you'll let me join."

Claverton thought for a moment. If the fellow intended mischief, it would be as well to keep him under his own eye. It might only be, after all, that Smith wae really desirous of joining his corps, for he, Claverton, had something of a reputation for coolness and daring, and this fellow, too, was in no wise wanting in pluck. And he had shown the man that he was determined not to recognise him, and that any attempt to trade upon a knowledge, real or imaginary, of former days, would be worse than useless. So he replied:

"Well, Smith, you're a likely-looking fellow enough, and, on second thoughts, I'll take you. But it's only fair to warn you that, as to promotion or recommendation or anything of that kind, you'll stand just the same chances as any one else: no more and no less, d'you hear? Now, you show up at the Public Offices at one o'clock, and I'll let you know when you will be sworn in, and the rest of it."

"Very well, Baas," said the other, respectfully. "I'll be there. Good morning."

Just then Lilian, throwing open her window, caught sight of the retreating figure of Smith. Her heart sank. What had this evil-looking ruffian to do with her lover? Had not his appearance heralded misfortune already?--for, with true feminine logic, she could not help connecting him in some way with the turn affairs had taken. And Claverton, knowing the idea she had taken upon the subject of the man, purposely forbore to mention the circ.u.mstance, and she, fearing to trouble him, would not ask him.

All along the frontier the tide of war was rising. The spark had fallen in dry gra.s.s, and now the flame flashed forth with lightning rapidity as one after another the insurgent tribes rose in open revolt. And amid the wild glens and bushy wastes of their secluded fastnesses lurked armed hordes of fierce savages, hungering for prey and plunder; and the smoke of burning homesteads hung in a pall over the land, telling of the toil and industry of years laid in ruins. On many a hill-top hovered dark clouds of the enemy, ever watchful, and ready to swoop down upon the lonely traveller, or patrol scanty in numbers; and the war-cry, grim and defiant, mingling with the crackling of musketry, told that each red wave was rolling on its course. And night after night, beneath the blackness of the heavens, the terrible Fire Trumpet rang out its lurid message of destruction, and pillage, and death.

Thus the year closed.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"HAVE YOU NO SECRET ENEMY?"

"Good-bye!"

Who among us has not uttered the mournful word? Not merely in airy, hollow fashion, when pa.s.sing out of a drawing-room door, but in dire sadness, as we look our last upon the face from which we are about to be divided by time or distance--and, it may be, upon which there is small chance of our ever looking again in life? The train rolls out of the station; the plank is hurriedly thrown back on to the thronged quay, and, as the great ship glides from her moorings handkerchiefs wave and voices no longer audible to each other still continue to articulate, it may be in accents of heartsick pain, or through a forced and broken smile, or even in tones of genuine cheerfulness, the saddest of all words--"Good-bye."

The fatal Monday morning has come at last; and there, in the grey dawn, Lilian stands bidding farewell to her lover. A light is burning in the sitting-room, and without it is almost dark, for the morning is lowering and cloudy. Now and then a puff of warm wind, which seems to herald rain, sighs mournfully through the trees, whirling up the dust in little eddies along the empty street--and they two are alone, for none of the household are astir, which neither regrets. And thus they stand, looking into each other's eyes and both hesitating to frame the word--"Good-bye."

The conditions of parting are unequal, it is true. To the man, going forth on this dark, desolate morning, the time of separation will be abundantly occupied--downright hard, honest soldiering--no mere child's play, and if during those long months there is hardship and privation, there is also the excitement of peril and the stir of strife, the rough sociality of camp, and the healthful glow and energy of life in the open. To the woman it means a period of weary and inactive waiting; of days unbrightened by the strong, tender presence she has learnt to love so dearly; of nights, wakeful and self-tormenting, when the overwrought brain will conjure up visions of deadly peril, of the flashing spears and wild war-cry of the savage foe, of the wasting form of fell disease following on wet and exposure, of the swift lightning and the raging of flooded rivers, and every contingency probable and improbable, attendant upon campaigning in a barbarous land.

"Wherever you are, and whatever you do, you _will_ take care of yourself," she is saying. "You will not run any unnecessary risks, even for other people. Your life belongs to me now, love."

"It does," he answers, softly and tenderly. "Keep up a good heart, my sweet. Don't go imagining all sorts of horrors while I am away, for, remember, that after these years I was not sent back to you to be taken away again. Mine is a charmed life--never fear."

"I believe so, indeed," she answers, looking at him fondly--proudly, and smiling through her tears.

"Why, Arthur, I would not keep you if I could, now. It is such as you who should be to the fore at present, and how could they supply _your_ place?"

He makes no reply for a moment, but presses his kisses faster upon the soft hair and sweet, up-turned face, and he is sad and heavy at heart; though he will affect as much cheerfulness as he can, with the object of making light of things. And there seems some excuse for her implied encomium, looking at him as he stands--ready and calm, entirely devoid of any affectation of the military in his dress or accoutrements; but yet, the very ideal of the frontier civilian soldier.

"Keep up a brave heart, my own," he murmurs again. "The day will soon come when we shall look back to this, as one of the sad experiences of the past, even as we look back to that other time. This is a mere pa.s.sing minute compared with that."

"Ah, yes. Now I am delaying you, and you must go. G.o.d keep you, darling, and bring you back to me safe again. Good-bye."