The Fire Trumpet Part 68

"Steady, men," cried Claverton again, as the whole force knelt behind the light breastwork of thorn-bushes, which a quarter of an hour's work had sufficed to throw round the camp when they first halted. "Steady.

Don't put up any sights, and aim low. Now--Fire!"

Truly the attacking force presented a terrific and appalling spectacle.

In a semi-circular formation on they came at a run--hundreds and hundreds of fierce savages, their naked bodies gleaming with red ochre, as they poured through the bush like demons, shrilling their wild war-whistles, and snapping their a.s.segais across their knees to shorten them for the charge and the irresistible hand-to-hand encounter which it seemed nothing could stay.

Crash!

A roar of the detonation of many rifles. The smoke clears away, and a confused ma.s.s of fallen bodies and red struggling limbs, is descried.

Another and another volley; the a.s.sailants roll over in heaps, their ranks literally ploughed through by the heavy and terribly destructive Snider bullets--almost explosive in their effects--poured in at such close quarters. The advancing ma.s.s halts a moment like a wave suddenly stopped by a breakwater, fairly impeded by the fallen bodies of its slain and the frantic convulsive throes of the stricken.

"That's right, men!" shouts Claverton. "Give it them again! Hurrah!"

A wild cheer breaks from his followers as they pour in their fire--a shrill yell of maddening excitement, nearly drowned by the fierce, frenzied war-cry of the Gaika warriors. But these are beginning to waver. The tremendous loss they have suffered, the determined and wholly unexpected resistance they have met with, all tells, and promptly they drop down into cover, and commence a rapid and heavy fire upon the camp. Their shooting, however, is ludicrously bad, and the bullets and "pot-legs" whiz high overhead, imperilling no one. The Hottentots answer with a derisive cheer, and every time a Kafir shows his head a dozen shots are blazed into him, generally with effect.

Suddenly a tremendous fire is opened upon the camp from quite a new quarter. One man drops dead, and two or three others are badly hit, and then on the opposite side a great ma.s.s of Kafirs rises from the bush and sweeps down upon the frail breastwork, uttering a terrific shout. A chief is at their head--a slightly-built, handsome man, with bright, clear eyes and a heavy beard for a Kafir--waving his tiger-skin kaross as, sounding his rallying-cry, he charges straight forward. Claverton spots him at once, and, coolly drawing a bead upon him, fires and misses. The chief laughs--a bold, defiant laugh--showing a splendid set of white teeth, and poising an a.s.segai, hurls it with good aim at his would-be destroyer, who manages to dodge it, or his hopes and fears would come to an untimely end then and there. And the rifles roar and crash into the red, bounding ma.s.s, and the smell of powder is heavy in its asphyxiating denseness; and the demon figures flit athwart the smoke and jets of belching flame, while the gun-barrels grow hot, and the brain begins to reel amid that awful, deafening din, and the foot slips in a dark stain of fresh warm life-blood welling forth upon the gra.s.s.

Truly all this is unsurpa.s.sed by Pandemonium in its wildest conception.

The last volley has broken the neck of the charge, but the impetus has carried a number of the enemy within the breastwork, and among them the chief, who, grasping a short, broad-bladed a.s.segai, is stabbing right and left. Claverton sees him, and, amid the frightful turmoil of the hand-to-hand conflict, cannot help admiring the cool intrepidity of the man. He tries to get at him, but finds enough on his hands with a huge Kafir who hurls himself upon him, making herculean efforts to brain him with a clubbed rifle. A neat revolver shot and the savage falls--the bullet cleaving his skull, entering straight through the right eye--and in falling nearly upsets Claverton by stumbling forward on him.

"The chief! Stop him or kill him!" cries the latter. "Twenty pounds to whoever kills the chief!"

He cannot get near him himself, however. He sees his quondam prisoner, Sharkey, lay hold of one of the enemy and by main force brain the Gaika warrior as he hurls him head downwards upon a stone. He sees Sam kill two Kafirs with his own hand by as many strokes with a powerful Zulu-made a.s.segai, as he replies to their fierce challenge with the most ear-splitting of whistles. He can make out Lumley and the cool-headed little Hottentot, Gert Spielmann, with the utmost calmness keeping up, together with a section of their men, such a fire upon the Kafirs outside that these are already in full retreat; but get at the chief he cannot. And, indeed, that bold leader seems to bear a charmed life as he charges through the camp, till, seeing that the game is up, he bounds like a deer over the breastwork unharmed amid the shower of bullets that flies round him, and, shouting his war-cry, regains the friendly cover with such few of his followers as have had the good fortune to escape.

The fight is over and the day is saved, and the Kafirs may be seen slinking off in squads through the bush--some, indeed, dragging the wounded with them. Orders are given to cease firing, and then about twenty of the best shots are told off to pepper the retreating enemy at long range, while the rest are held ready in the event of a fresh and unexpected attack; for their leader is not the man to overlook the smallest possibility in the chances of war. But a rally is not among them in this instance, and, after a sufficient time has elapsed, the men are paraded. It is found that the loss has been fire killed and twelve wounded. Silence is restored--all but restored, that is--for a voice might still be heard in the ranks in half-smothered dispute with a comrade, and then, with a vehemence which sounded loud upon the silence, it exclaimed: "Haow! Amaxosa n.i.g.g.a no good!" And at this sudden and evidently unintentional interruption a roar of laughter broke from one and all of those present, from their leader downwards, while our friend Sam, whose feedings had found vent, in his uncontrollable excitement, in his favourite e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, stood there looking sheepish and guilty to a degree. Then Claverton addressed them.

"My men," he said, "you have just shown the stuff you are made of. Half an hour ago we didn't know there was a Kafir within ten miles of us, and now in that time, taken by surprise as you were, you have beaten off an enemy outnumbering you by six to one. You have behaved splendidly to-day--splendidly, I say--and I am proud to command you. You fought as well as any Englishmen could have done, in a tough action partly hand-to-hand, and you have won it by sheer pluck and hard fighting. We have lost five men, unfortunately--five good men and true. They fell doing their duty--fell with arms in their hands, like soldiers, and I shall make it my business strongly to recommend their families to the Government for a pension. Now, we must keep up our discipline in the camp stricter than ever after this, as you must see, if only for our common safety. So we'll just give three cheers for the Queen, and then we'll set to work and get into marching order. Now, then--"

Cheer upon cheer went up--three times three again and again; but it is to be feared that amid their acclamations the men thought far more of their present leaders than of their absent Sovereign. However, the effect was that intended--an inspiriting one.

"One word more," cried Claverton. "The Kafirs have fought us like men-- in fair, open fight, and we've thrashed them, and thrashed them well.

Now, there are many of them lying wounded round here in the bush. It is hardly necessary to remind you that soldiers--true soldiers--don't hurt wounded men after a battle; so when we go round to count the dead directly, no harm is to be done to the wounded. Leave the poor devils in peace until their kinsmen come to carry them off, as they will do when we are gone. So mind--they are not to be hurt."

"Ja, ja, Kaptyn. Det is recht!" cried many of them.

"You put that neatly," remarked Lumley. "There's nothing like giving people a good opinion of themselves."

"Well, yes," answered the other, with a slightly cynical laugh. "These fellows are like children--take in everything you tell them in praise of themselves. Now they're as pleased as Punch, and ready to go anywhere."

"I wonder what would have been the upshot if the Kafirs had come on more slowly. These chaps of ours are not half such good shots as they think themselves, for I noticed some of them firing awfully wide. They couldn't help hitting the crowd, you see; and being under the influence of excitement, didn't stop to think. Otherwise the effect of their poor shooting would have been disheartening to them and encouraging to the enemy. And the odds were frightfully against us, you know."

Claverton looked grave. "There's a great deal in what you say, Lumley.

More than ever, then, must we keep the fellows thoroughly up to the mark."

Accompanied by ten mounted men, Claverton made a wide circuit of the camp, by way of reconnaissance. From the ridges not a Kafir was to be seen, and it seemed incredible that on this spot, within the last half-hour, a furious conflict had raged. Beyond the camp a film of smoke still hung heavily upon the air, and there was a thick, sulphurous smell; otherwise, all was quiet and serene, as if the peace of the morning had never been disturbed. And then they came upon the bodies of the slain foe, lying thickly around the camp, most of them struck dead where they lay, and terribly mangled by the great tearing shock of the Snider bullets. Some had managed to crawl a few yards, and lay with their fingers dug deep into the hard earth, which they had clutched in their convulsive agony. Now and then a shuddering tremor would run through one of the bodies, and lips would move, and glazed eyes half unclose. It was a terrible thing to contemplate that ma.s.s of humanity so lately pulsating with life and vigour, now a mere heap of inert corpses, mangled and hideous, lying there doubled up and contorted by the throes of death--a sight which, could the intriguing heads of the war faction in the tribe have seen, would surely have caused a dire sinking of heart and a regret, all too late, that the counsel of the older men should have been set at naught. _They_ had had experience of these things; and such a sight as this hecatomb of their nation's manhood in its vigour and prime, must have been before their eyes when they uttered their warning, oft repeated but all unheeded.

Suddenly they came upon a horrible sight. In the midst of a pile of bodies, about thirty yards in front of them, a great gaunt savage rose slowly up to a sitting posture. The whole of his face, neck, and shoulders was one ma.s.s of blood, and he appeared to be intently listening. Not a muscle moved as, with his head turned sideways towards them, he awaited their approach. "Poor devil!" muttered Claverton, contemplating the grisly figure, while even the Hottentots were vehement in their expressions of commiseration. Then a rapid movement was seen to agitate the Kafir's limbs, and, springing half up, he discharged his gun quick as thought right into the astonished party barely ten yards distant, slightly wounding one of the horses, but doing no further damage.

"Stop!" cried Claverton in a tone of command, seeing that his men were about to fire on the unfortunate savage. "Stop! Not a shot to be fired; his gun's empty now." Then halting, he ordered the Kafir to lay down his arms; but the man never moved.

"Whaow!" he cried, ferociously. "Did I kill any one? But come and kill me, cowards, as you have sent me into night. Come and kill me. Do you hear, cowards? Or are you afraid of a man _who cannot see_?"

His last words were indeed true. A ball had pa.s.sed through the upper part of his face, taking away both his eyes. The poor wretch was stone-blind. And in this condition, maddened by the frightful pain of his wound and a sense of his calamity, he had quietly awaited their approach, and then, guided by the sound, had struck a parting blow at his hated foes. Something very like a shudder ran through the spectators.

"No. We are not going to kill you," replied Claverton. "Listen. We shall soon be away from here, and then your friends will come back and find you. You may yet live a long time, and there may yet be some little pleasure in life even for a man who cannot see. So we shall not harm you. It's the fortune of war--you to-day, myself to-morrow."

The only answer was a moan of exhaustion as the sufferer sank back on the ground. Claverton sent one of his men for some water, of which the wounded man drank copiously. Then he washed his face, and, placing the poor wretch in a more comfortable position, left him and pa.s.sed on his round of the field of slaughter. Many a sickening sight met his gaze--a sight to curdle the heart's blood and make the brain grow sad, but none to equal that, and never in after years would he quite forget the spectacle of the stricken savage all covered with blood, rearing himself up in the agony of his sightlessness, guided by his hearing alone, to strike one last blow at his hated foes.

No time was there to do more than hurriedly bury their dead. They must get on, and the sooner the better. So the five slain Hottentots were buried in a common grave, one wizened little old fellow, by virtue of his office as "elder" of a native chapel in one of the settlements, making a rambling, incoherent prayer, and leading off, in a nasal tw.a.n.g, a cracked, doleful Dutch psalm. Scarcely was this impromptu dirge brought to a close when a group was descried advancing towards the camp, waving something white.

"Three Kafirs with a white flag, by Jove!" said Lumley, scanning the approaching group through his field-gla.s.s. "Ah! Lucky for him," he went on, as on further investigation he made out the sentry, with his piece at "present," walking distrustfully some twenty yards behind.

All present were disposed so as to be in readiness should this last move prove to be a mere ruse--it would not be the first instance in savage warfare of the abuse of the white flag--and the Kafirs were suffered to approach. All three were good-looking men of about middle age, shrewd of countenance, and lithe and well-made of figure. They halted just outside the camp, and saluted Claverton gravely as he went forth to meet them. He nodded in reply, looked them rapidly up and down and asked shortly:

"What do you want?"

"We have come to ask the white chief to let us carry away our wounded.

Many of our brethren have fallen, and are lying about in the bushes.

They will die if we do not attend to them."

For a few moments Claverton made no reply, but stood meditatively flicking his boot with a small switch he held in his hand, the savage delegates, the while, eyeing him narrowly. He was turning over the situation in his mind. Why were they in such a hurry to look after their wounded--it was not in accordance with their usual practice?

Could it be with the object of keeping his attention employed, of disarming watchfulness while a large force stole up to surprise them?

Or were they merely enacting the part of spies? At length he replied-- and his suspicion and deliberateness, so far from offending, caused him to rise in their estimation; for anything like hastiness either of speech or decision does not find favour in the eyes of these people:

"How is it you were not afraid to trust yourselves in our hands? It is not the time of peace."

"Aow! The white captain is brave. He will not hurt three men alone in his camp," replied the spokesman. "We are not afraid. See--we have the white flag."

The insidious flattery conveyed in this speech was quite thrown away.

For all the change that came over Claverton's face he might not have heard it.

"Who was your leader?" he said. "The man with the leopard-skin cloak?"

"Matanzima."

"The son of Sandili?"

"Yes."

"He is a brave man and fought well. Now, why are you so anxious to look after your wounded at once, instead of waiting until we are gone?"

"The chief's uncle is among them. The chief fears that his kinsman will die."

"H'm. Who are you?"

"I am Usivulele the son of Sikunaya," replied the spokesman of the three.

"H'm. Well, now, listen you three. These are my terms," said Claverton, decisively. "If you, Usivulele, will remain with me as a hostage till the sun is there" (designating a point in the heavens which that luminary would reach by about four o'clock), "then your people may come and look after their wounded, but not until we are over that second hill. Should they come before, we shall fire on them again, and if they attack us before the hour named, you, Usivulele, shall die the moment a shot is fired. At that hour, if your people observe my conditions, you shall go free and unharmed. Those are my terms, they are not hard; you are at liberty to accept or to reject them."