Part 1 — BOOT AND SADDLE.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

A TRUE INCIDENT IN THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN (1893).

Mashangombi's was the rat-hole, Which we had to draw ere day, Heedless whether this or that hole— If we only found a way; Up among the iron furrows Of the rocks, where hid in burrows Safe the rats in shelter lay. No misgiving, not a fear— Nor was I the last astraddle Nor the hindmost in the rear When the bugle sounded clear— "Boot and saddle!"

Right away went men and horses, Both as eager for the fun; Through the drifts and dried-up courses, Where like mad the waters run After storms or through the winters, Mashing all they meet to splinters— Ready, hand and sword and gun. Every eye was keen to mark, And the tongue alone seemed idle Every ear alert to hark As we scanned each crevice dark— Bit and bridle!

Here and there the startled chirrup Of strange creatures, as we go, Standing sometimes in the stirrup, Just to get a bigger show; Till we gain our point, the entry— There the pass, no sign of sentry, Not a sound above, below! Clear the coast, the savage gave Never hint to south or norward; Was he napping in his cave, With that quiet like the grave?— Steady, forward!

Further in; the rats were sleeping; We would grimly smoke them out, With a dose of lead for keeping And a fence of flame about; They might wake perhaps from shelter, At our bullets' ghastly pelter, To the brief and bloody rout!— But, next moment, we were wrapt Down to saddle girth and leather In the fire of foes unmapt; We were turned, and fairly trapt— "Keep together!"

On they poured in thousands, hurling Steel that stabbed and belching ball From a host of rifles, curling Serpent-wise around us all. Front and flank and rear, they tumbled Nearer, darker, as we fumbled— Till we heard the Captain's call, "Each man for himself, and back!" So we rushed those rocky mazes, With that torrent grim and black Dealing ruin in our track— Death and blazes!

Ah, that bullet! How it shattered Vein and tissue to the bone; Dropt me faint and blood-bespattered, Helpless on a bed of stone! While the mare which oft had eaten From my hand, caressed, unbeaten, Left her master doomed, alone. Limply then I lay in dread, Racked with torture, sick and under— Hearing, as through vapours red And with reeling heart and head, Hoofs of thunder!

Was I dreaming? By the boulder Where I huddled as I fell, Stood the steed beside my shoulder Faithful, fain to serve me well. Whinnying softly, then, to screen me From the foe, she knelt between me And that circling human hell. Tenderly she touched my face With the nose that knew my petting, Ripe for the last glorious race And her comrade's own embrace— Unforgetting!

O her haunches heaved and quivered With the passion freely brought For the life to be delivered, Though she first with demons fought; While her large eyes gleamed and glistened And her ears down-pointing listened, Waiting for the answer sought. Till a sudden wave of might Set me once again astraddle On the seat of saving flight, Plucked from very jaws of night— Boot and saddle!