Part II. (continued 3)

“Be quick, darling,” he said to her one day, as she was leaving the room for a moment to fetch some necessary implement missing from her work-basket. “I hate to have you out of my sight for half a minute more than is inevitable.”

The two were alone together, and he pitched his book across the room impatiently as he spoke. She turned and came back to him.

“Why, I wonder you’re not quite tired of me,” she said, with her sunny smile, bending over him and toying with his hair.

“Tired of you! My Lilian. The only being on earth for me to love. The capacity has been kept so long in reserve that now there’s no holding it.”

She bent lower and laid her cheek against his brow. “Yes, Arthur. We are both alone in the world for each other—are we not?” she whispered; then, suddenly escaping from his would-be detaining arm, she darted to the door, turning to flash upon him a bright, loving look before she went out; and he, rising, kicked over a chair and then another, and opened and threw down three or four books without gleaning an idea of their contents, and walked to the window, then back again, and whistled, and otherwise fidgeted outrageously until her return.

Lose not a minute of your happiness, ye two; gather to the full the sweets of the present, even while ye may, for ye know not what the future may have in store. Even yet the war-cloud hangs threatening on the horizon; it has lifted, but has not vanished. Amid the rage of the elements may suddenly fall peace. It is but a lull in the tempest.

To some of his former companions-in-arms, who lived in the town or neighbourhood, Claverton was an unfailing source of wonder.

“I should never have known the fellow,” one of them would say, as they discussed him among themselves. “Why, most of us in camp used to look upon Claverton as a man with no more heart than a stone. A fellow who would close the eyes of his twin brother and then sit down to a jolly good breakfast, and crack a joke about it,”—the speaker’s idea of the acme of callousness. “And now he’s making a perfect fool of himself about a girl—hardly leaves her for a moment, they say. I can’t understand it,” and the speaker knocked the ashes out of his pipe with a jerk and a shrug, implying half pity, half contempt.

“You could if you had seen her,” said another, quietly. “She’s awfully fetching.”

“So I’m told. But still—such a hard nail as Claverton. I can’t make it out.”

Thus spoke his companions-in-arms. It could not be expected, however, that these plain, honest, matter-of-fact frontiersmen should give him credit for possessing a two-sided nature. They merely spoke of him as they had seen him.

One day the two were walking along the upper end of the market-square. It was in the middle of the forenoon, and though warm, a fine day, and the traffic on the footway was tolerably brisk, while around an auctioneer’s table a goodly crowd was assembled, and the sale went on in spirited fashion. They were stopped by some mutual acquaintance, and Claverton, taking advantage of the incident, left Lilian talking to these, while he dived into the throng for a moment to speak to some one whom he had suddenly caught sight of. When he returned, he found Lilian standing alone, their friends having taken their leave and passed on.

“So sorry you’ve had to wait, darling—even a minute. Why, what is it?” For she was looking a trifle perturbed.

“Nothing. Really nothing. Let’s go on.”

“Is it the heat? We’ll go home. It is rather overwhelming, of course; I ought to have remembered,” he said, anxiously.

“No, it isn’t too hot in the least,” she answered. Then taking a quick, furtive look behind: “Arthur—wait—now look round—quick! There’s somebody following us.”

He turned rapidly and scanned the crowd. No one seemed to be making of them a special point of observation.

“I don’t see any one out of the common. See if you can point him out, dear.”

“No. He is gone; I could see him shrink out of sight directly I looked round the second time,” she said, excitedly, twirling the handle of her sun-shade. “I wouldn’t say anything at first, thinking it might be my fancy; but I could see him eyeing you as you went in among all those people just now. He was standing on the pavement—there.”

“Well, he’s disappeared now, at any rate,” said Claverton, again looking carefully around. “What was the animal like—white or black?”

“Neither. A sort of dirty brown colour, not at all like a native of these parts. He had woolly hair, though, and a hideous, wrinkled face with two pointed, shark-like teeth; and he was looking at you so fiercely,” and she shuddered. “And oh—Arthur—when I looked round again and saw those glaring eyes following on so close behind us, it quite frightened me.”

Claverton was puzzled. Nine Englishmen out of ten would have gently pooh-poohed the idea as mere fancy; but his life had been too full of strange and startling experiences for that.

“Have you no secret enemy? No one who would owe you a grudge?” she continued, in a tone of deep anxiety. “That man looked murder at you.”

“N-no; I can’t call to mind any. Most likely a case of mistaken identity. The fellow must have taken me for some one else, and bolted directly I looked round for fear of being brought to book. That was it, dear, depend upon it; so don’t think anything more about the concern,” he concluded, with the air of a man who has successfully solved a mystery. But he wished he had caught a glimpse of the mysterious individual all the same.

The incident had a depressing effect upon Lilian which she was quite unable to shake off. That some terrible danger was hovering over and threatening her lover she was certain; and the idea of being tracked and watched by a secret foe was to her fraught with horror. But it was for him she feared—for this man whom every day rendered more unspeakably dear to her, and for whom, retiring, even timid as her nature was, she could be brave as a lion, even to the giving of her own life to shield him from harm. Of his past she knew but little—as yet he had not told her much, and in all the fulness of her love and trust she took a pride in abstaining from asking him; but that it had been more eventful than the lives of most men of his age she had gathered, and what relentless enemies might he not have, now surely and stealthily pursuing him? Many a glance of admiration was cast on her—in her serene, dignified beauty, which the troubled thoughtfulness now clouding her face only seemed to enhance—as they passed along the busy streets; and people began to inquire of each other who those two were who were never seen apart, and who looked such a well-matched couple.

Meanwhile, the political outlook was becoming gloomier every day, for the warlike tribes of the Gaikas and Hlambis—whose locations comprised some of the wildest and most inaccessible parts of Kaffraria—were on the verge of revolt. The stage of sullen restlessness and daring outrage was about to culminate in open warfare, and no doubt now existed that these savages intended to rise and make common cause with their brethren the Gcalekas, who, though decimated and dispersed, were as far as ever from being subdued. And, when compared with the rising now threatening, the fighting in Gcalekaland was a mere fleabite, for the latter had been localised in the Transkei, whereas this would envelope the whole Eastern frontier in the flames of war. Day by day the low rumblings of the gathering storm increased, and from far and near the families of the settlers came crowding into King Williamstown. Every hotel and lodging-house was crammed, and not a room was obtainable for love or money. Many lived in their tent-waggons, failing more substantial shelter, and the pastureland in the immediate neighbourhood seemed in danger of exhaustion from the multitudes of live stock which grazed thereon. The telegraph was actively at work, hourly flashing its messages of alarm or reassurance according as the latest turn of events warranted; while many-tongued rumour hinted at a decisive move pending on the part of the enemy beyond the border simultaneously with the rising of the tribes within the same. It was understood that the burgher forces were liable to be called out at any moment, and among the townsmen fresh volunteers were enrolled, and drill and parades went on night and day in view of the probability that the regular troops in garrison would be ordered to take the field, and that the townspeople must be ready to protect themselves.

And as if the scourge of impending war—the merciless warfare of the savage—was not enough, the land lay parched up with drought. Transport-riders from up-country had gruesome tales to tell of roads lined with rotting carcases or bleached skeletons of trek-oxen, which had succumbed unable to find nourishment in the burnt-up grass, or perishing on the margin of water-holes reduced to patches of dry, baked mud—pointing to their own attenuated spans in corroboration of their statements. The crops were failing, and, already in some districts, the appearance of locusts in sufficiently formidable swarms was reported; and the scant herbage, which the drought had spared, would be in danger of disappearing entirely before this new and redoubtable plague. Trade was at a standstill, and, amid the all-pervading apprehension and gloomy outlook, it was universally held that the sooner the rising took place the better. So Christmas approached; but it was not with joy or gladness that men’s hearts looked forward to the kindly festival in that burning Southern midsummer, for the deserted farms and homesteads told their own tale, and the savage enemy sullenly sat still, biding his own time. The war-cloud hung brooding over the land darker and darker.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

The Fire Trumpet Again.

Payne had removed his household to Grahamstown, as being further from the seat of hostilities, and a very agreeable change to our party was the city of the old settlers, nestling in its basin-like hollow, and with its tree-shaded streets and leafy gardens, after the dust and glare and over-crowding of the Kaffrarian capital. Here, too, the talk was all of the war, but its dire evidences were less obtrusive, and, on the whole, the Paynes made themselves tolerably comfortable. To Lilian Strange, the time was fraught with a wondrous joy, and she often took herself to task for feeling so supremely happy while so much suffering and anxiety was pending over those around her. But she need not have, for the days of her rejoicing were already numbered.

She was out riding with her lover one afternoon, when a turn in the road brought them suddenly upon a man—only a native, apparently on the tramp—a half-caste Hottentot, and a dark-browed, ruffianly-looking specimen of the breed. Directly this fellow caught sight of them he stopped, and, stooping down, pretended to be tying his shoestring, at the same time keeping his face turned away from them as they passed. Lilian grew very pale.

“Arthur,” she whispered. “That’s the same man who was following us the other day in King Williamstown. I knew him at once; and he knew me. Didn’t you see how quickly he stopped and pretended not to take any notice of us?” And glancing at her lover, she saw that his face wore a slightly puzzled expression and a frown which, however, disappeared as she spoke.

“Only some loafer. One often runs against the same specimens of that class,” he said, carelessly.

“But see how quickly he has come here. Arthur—I can’t help looking upon the circumstance as an ill omen. I never saw such a murderous-looking ruffian; and I’m certain he knows you. You may laugh at my silly superstition, dear, but I can’t get rid of the feeling.”

He did laugh; but so pleasantly, so tenderly, as he tried to reassure her.

“But you must get rid of the feeling. Look now, my darling. We are not even on the road from King Williamstown, but on one leading almost in the opposite direction. If that nigger had been following me, and I don’t care a brass doit if he is, he would have come straight and not all round the country. So let the affair slide. I want you to enjoy this afternoon; we may not have many more together, for some time, you know.”

He threw in this to counteract the effect of the unexpected encounter. Shaking off her depression, she looked up at him with a bright smile.

“You dreadful prophet of ill. I won’t have you predict such things. Let’s have another of those glorious canters. I’m not nearly such a coward as I was, am I?”

“No. You’re as fearless as a circus-rider,” answered he, with a laugh; and then they started off into a long, level, swinging canter. And the golden hours of the afternoon fled as they kept on their way, over breezy grassland and shady bush road; and not till after sundown did they draw rein at their door, just as the labours of the day were at an end in the pleasant old frontier city, whose inhabitants were strolling up the wide streets, or turning into the ever open bars in quest of their evening “peg,” or standing in knots at the corners discussing the news from the front.

“Oh, there you are,” said Payne, meeting them in the doorway, and handing Claverton a couple of letters. “Heard the news?”

“No.”

“Well, here’s the deuce to pay all round. A telegram came in to-day saying that a chap named Kiva, with five or six hundred Gcalekas, has crossed into the Gaika location, that the Gaikas have risen as one man, and the whole country is up in arms. The hotel and store at Draaibosch is burnt to the ground and a lot of farmhouses besides, mine among them, I expect. The road from ‘King’ to the Transkei is blocked, and Komgha in a state of siege. A pretty kettle of fish, isn’t it?”

“H’m. Rather. What’s going to be done?”

“They’re calling out men. Our old corps is in the thick of it now, I expect. Brathwaite’s will soon be there, too, I should think.”

“I should rather like to take service in that. But, look here,” went on Claverton, who had been opening his letters the while, extending one of them to Payne. It was an official one, offering him on the recommendation of Jim Brathwaite the command of a corps of Hottentot levies which was being raised; the other was from Jim himself strongly advising him to accept it.

It was hard—very hard, to leave Lilian again so soon, and for an indefinite time—but, after all, it had been more than half expected. He supposed he must go. All would most likely be called out for service at a later stage of hostilities, perhaps almost at once, and even if it were not so, how could he hold back? Besides, now, at any rate, here was a definite command which might lead to something much better.

“Take it, Arthur. You can’t refuse it,” Lilian said, bravely, when he showed her the letter. “You must go; but you need not to-morrow. We will have one more whole day together, my darling—will we not?”

“This is Saturday. They will want me to start to-morrow, but they may want. I can’t put it off later than Monday, I’m afraid, or they’ll pitch-fork some other fellow into the concern instead. So we will make the most of to-morrow. But cheer up, dearest. It won’t be for so long as last time.”

She only answered with a smile, a little forced. She kept her tears for when she was alone, then they flowed freely enough. Such are the results of war—glorious war! Men’s blood, mingled with women’s tears, fills the cup of the destructive demon.

That evening Claverton went round to the official to whom the letter referred him, and notified his acceptance of the post.

“Ah! Yes. The levies—I remember,” and he unearthed one or two papers from a pile. “You will go round by Fort Beaufort, and Victoria East, and pick up contingents that have been recruited there, and then report yourself at King Williamstown, where you will receive further instructions. Of course you will be ready to start at once—to-morrow at the latest.”

“No.”

The official looked up quickly, with a stare of astonishment.

“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 assure 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 niggers 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 encumbered 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 nigga 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 circumstance, 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 grass, 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 passing 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 passing minute compared with that.”

“Ah, yes. Now I am delaying you, and you must go. God keep you, darling, and bring you back to me safe again. Good-bye.”

One more strong, loving embrace, and he is gone. He throws himself upon his horse, which Sam has with difficulty been holding, and its impatient hoof-strokes ring through the empty street as he turns for one last look at the graceful figure waving him a farewell from the gate, and for the moment he feels inclined to retrace his steps, go straight back and resign the post which, all unsought, has been thrust upon him, and allow the war to take care of itself as far as he is concerned.

And Lilian, returning to the deserted room, now so desolate and empty to her, as the dawn reduces the light of the candles to a pale garish flicker, feels the tears welling up afresh as she reproaches herself for not having kept him at any cost, for round her heart is a terrible foreboding of evil to come—how, when, and in what form the future will reveal. Yet the feeling is there.

We must follow the wayfarer. Throughout the whole day he rode mechanically forward, absorbed in his own thoughts. A heavy storm drove him for shelter to a wretched roadside inn; but ever impatient to be moving, he left before it was nearly over. The roads wet and slippery with the rain rendered progress slow, so that by the time it grew dark he was still some miles from Hicks’ farm, where he intended to pass the night.

“I’m afraid we’ve lost the way,” he ruminated, as having gone some distance up a long, bush-covered valley, he began to feel rather out of his bearings. “Sam! Where the devil are we?”

“Don’t know, Inkos. I never was here before. Look. There’s a house!”

“So there is. We’ll make for it,” and, picking up their horses’ heads, they approached the dwelling, which was a sorry-looking affair. Darker and darker it grew, and a drizzling shower began to fall. Suddenly a light gleamed from the ill-closed window, and at the same time a man’s voice, raised high in expostulation, reached their ears—a voice not unfamiliar to Claverton, withal, and in its tones he caught his own name. Quickly he dismounted.

“Sam,” he whispered. “Take the horses out of sight, there, in the bush—quietly, d’you hear? And if you hear a row, come and look after me without a moment’s loss. You’ll soon see which way to shoot.”

“Yeh bo ’Nkos,” replied the ready-witted native, whose eyes sparkled with excitement. Then silently, and with a rapid glide, Claverton made his way round to the back of the house. Through a chink under the window-joist he could see the interior of a room—a mouldy, disused room, with damp, discoloured walls, and rotting beams festooned with cobwebs; but the place wore a look of familiarity to him, even as a sight or a sound which now and then will strike our imaginations as in no wise to be accounted for save in the previous experience of a dream. For a moment he was puzzled; then it flashed upon him that he was looking into the room where he and Ethel Brathwaite had taken refuge on the night of the storm. Yes; there was the very place where she had slept and he had covered her with his cloak, and where she had sat when terrified by the wolf; and, straining his gaze further, he almost expected to see that quadruped’s footsteps in the dust by the half-open door. A fire burnt in the middle of the room, and there by the side of it lay the very stone he had used for a seat. It all seemed so strange that he seriously began to think he must be dreaming.

But he was wide awake enough as the sound of voices was heard, and two men entered the room from outside, closing the door after them. And in one of them Claverton recognised his recruit of yesterday; the other he had never seen before. He was an Englishman—a tall, dark man, well made and erect of carriage, evidently a gentleman by birth, and yet with a certain sinister expression that would have led the watcher to regard him with distrust even had he not heard his own name brought into the conversation.

“It’s all right, Sharkey,” this one was saying.

“Your ears must have played you tricks. There’s no sign of any one moving.”

“No, there ain’t. Well, now, Cap’n, about this devil Claverton?”

“Yes, I’ll be as good as my word. One hundred pounds, this day six months.”

“Make it two, Cap’n; make it two. He’s a devil to deal with—a very devil. You don’t know him as well as I do.”

“No; one. Not another stiver. And now, are you downright sure that Arthur Lidwell and Arthur Claverton are one and the same man? Could you swear to him?”

The mulatto laughed—a hideous, hyaena-like grin—showing the long, sharp, canine teeth which had gained him his repellent sobriquet.

“Swear to him?” he cried. “I’d swear to him in a million! I recognised him directly I set eyes on him in the crowd at ‘King.’ But the young lady spotted me sharp as a needle, and I had to hide. She does seem awful fond of him. Why, when I—”

“Drop that damned nonsense, Sharkey, and stick to the point?” exclaimed the Englishman, with a deep frown.

“Very sorry, Cap’n. Well, I was going to say, I knew him, and, what’s more, he knew me.”

“The devil he did!”

“Yes. He recognised me first when I met him on the road on Saturday, riding with the young lady; then afterwards I spoke to him, but he was that high and lofty! I told him my name, and watched him closely; then I called him by his name that he carried up there—just let it slip, like—and, would you believe it?—he never winced!”

“Didn’t he?”

“No, he didn’t. Says he: ‘Never saw you before in my life!’ as cool as you please. Ah, he’s a plucky devil is Lidwell; he always was!” said the mulatto, with a sigh of admiration.

“Why do you owe him a grudge?” asked the other, curiously.

“He knocked me down once, Cap’n—hit me here, bang on the nose.” And the speaker’s features assumed a look of deadly malice. “He shot me, too, and left me for dead. I could forgive him that, but not the whack on the nose.”

“So help me Heaven, I’ll repeat that operation with interest before you’re many weeks older, friend Sharkey,” muttered the watcher, between his set teeth.

“And then—one hundred pounds,” went on the fellow. “Hist! I’m certain I heard something.” And both men sat in an attitude of listening. For a moment there was dead silence; then the Englishman rose. “I’ll just take a look round, to make sure,” he said, producing a revolver and going out into the night, while Claverton, drawing his own weapon, crouched there, covering the angle of the tenement round which he expected his enemy to appear; for that this man was, for some cause or other, his deadly enemy was obvious. He would have the advantage of him, however, for his eyes were accustomed to the darkness, whereas the other had just come out of the light. For a moment he waited—anxious, expectant—but no one appeared; then he heard the two men’s voices inside again, and, peering through the crevice, saw the Englishman return, shutting the door behind him.

“All right; there’s no one moving. You do hear the most unaccountable noises, though, in this infernal bush at night.”

“Ha, ha, ha! So you do, Cap’n; and you’ll hear plenty more when you get up there to the front among the Kafirs,” said the other, with a mocking laugh. “When do you leave?”

“As soon as I get my command. Now, no tricks, Sharkey. In three months this fellow must have disappeared. No violence, mind; but he must be induced to leave the country;” and he emphasised the words with a significant look into the other’s face. “Mind, you mustn’t hurt him.”

“All right, Cap’n. I’ve joined his levies. What d’you think of that, hey? I’m not a bad shot, you know, and there’s no fear of my mistaking a Kafir for any one else, or any one else for a Kafir, eh? Ha, ha, ha!” and the villain winked his yellow eyes with a murderous leer.

The Englishman’s dark features grew red and then white. “By Jove, Sharkey, but you’re a knowing one,” he said. “I’m deuced glad I ran against you. One hundred pounds, fair and square.”

“Bight you are, Cap’n. One hundred pounds, and,” sinking his voice to a whisper, every word of which was audible to the listener, “in three months he’ll be out of your way, never fear.”

The gloom spread around, pitchy black, and the rain pattered upon the bush and upon the crouched form of the man who, with his eye to the chink in the wall, and gripping his revolver, witnessed these two calmly plotting his death, for there could be no mistaking the drift of their scarcely veiled hints. A wave of fierce wrath surged up in his heart as he gazed upon his would-be murderers. Why should he not quietly walk round and, flinging open the door, shoot the pair dead? It would be but the work of a moment. Then came the cold but none the less dangerous caution which always stood his friend—dangerous to the objects of his resentment in proportion as it preserved to him his own coolness. It would not do. How could he prove to the world at large that he had done it to save his own life? No. He would keep a close eye upon this ruffianly mulatto, and then the first time they were in action he could easily turn the tables on his sneaking assassin by shooting him quietly through the head—in mistake for one of the enemy—and he laughed sardonically at the thought of hoisting the villain with his own petard. He had no compunction, no nice scruples of honour in such a matter as this. It was vae victis. The other had put the weapon into his hand. And who was this Englishman who seemed bent on pursuing him in such a deadly manner? Who was this secret foe, so eager and anxious to plant the assassin’s steel in his back? And as the firelight flickered into the corners of the grim old room, lighting up the faces of these two midnight plotters, Claverton scanned every feature of the reckless lineaments of the arch-schemer again and again, but could detect nothing familiar in them. He had never seen the man before.

Suddenly the latter rose.

“Well, now I shall be off,” he said. “I leave it to you, Sharkey. Here’s something to go on with,” and there was a chink as of gold as he passed something into the mulatto’s hand, who clutched it greedily. “We understand each other. Now, the sooner you join your regiment the better,” he added, with a harsh laugh. “Good-bye. Are you going to stay here to-night?”

“Why, yes, Cap’n; it’s warm and dry.”

“Ha, ha! Supposing Claverton should want to off-saddle here. That would be a joke—eh?”

“He’s better employed, that devil,” replied the Cuban mulatto, and he chuckled to himself as the other passed out, frowning. And the listener heard the sound of footsteps, and then the tread of a horse receding in the distance. The man was evidently riding away up the kloof.

Left to himself Sharkey got up, fastened the cranky door, and threw some more wood on the fire. Then he took out his pipe, filled and lighted it, and drawing his blanket around him, lay down, prepared to make himself thoroughly comfortable. He grunted once or twice as his pipe went out, and then with a muttered imprecation threw it down, and, pulling the blanket over his head, began to snore. A few moments more, and the watcher arose and softly stole away into the bush, for he was revolving a merciless and coldblooded plan.

“Sam!”

“Inkos?”

“Tie the horses up and come with me. You remember the scoundrel we enlisted yesterday?”

“Yeh bo ’Nkos.”

“Well, he is in that place, and you and I are going to take him. Directly I kick down the door, you will follow on my heels and collar him. Now come.”

They stole back to the house, and Claverton took the precaution of once more peeping in. The mulatto lay quite still, rolled in his blanket, evidently asleep. Then he returned to the front of the building.

“Now, Sam—ready!” he whispered.

A sudden rush, and a tremendous kick, and the door went down with an appalling crash, as, staggering with the shock and the impetus, Claverton half fell half rushed upon the sleeper, gripping him by the throat before he had time to move; while Sam, seizing both his hands, twisted them behind him, and rolled him over on to his stomach.

“That’s it, Sam; tie him up,” cried Claverton, in a steely voice, restraining with difficulty his longing to throttle the life out of the prostrate villain, who, for his part, did not yield without a struggle—and a violent one. Indeed, it required all their efforts to hold him, for the mulatto was of powerful and athletic build.

“So!” said Claverton, approvingly, as Sam dexterously made fast the prisoner’s feet with a reim he had brought for the purpose, having previously pinioned his hands. “Now, Mr Vargas Smith, alias Sharkey, alias the Cuban gentleman—now, may I ask, what the devil are you doing here?”

The man regarded him with a scowl of hatred. “I was on the way to join the levy, Baas, and came in here for shelter from the rain,” he replied, sullenly.

“On the way to join the levy, were you? My good friend, this is not the way to King Williamstown. That, I believe, is where you were consigned to—but never mind that. Now, I want to know, who was the gentleman who has just left?”

The ruffian’s yellow hide grew a dirty, livid colour. “I don’t know his name, Baas,” he said, falteringly.

“It’s surprising how we live and learn,” said the other, coolly. “Before I count twenty you’ll not only have learnt his name, but you’ll have told it to me. Sam, put up that door. And Sam, go to the corner and keep watch; and let me know if you hear anybody coming. It isn’t in the least likely, but there’s nothing like caution. Now, friend Sharkey, what is his name? Out with it.”

“Don’t know, Baas,” repeated the other.

“That’s unfortunate for you. Now, you see this?” taking a glowing faggot from the fire and blowing upon it. “With this I am about to tickle the soles of your feet until you do know. Come! Out with it,” and he approached his victim.

“Mercy, mercy! I’ll tell you, Baas,” pleaded the mulatto.

“Well?”

“It’s Wallace—Cap’n Wallace, Baas.”

“Oh. No lies, mind,” said Claverton, with a determined look. “You know me. I stand no nonsense. Well, now, where did you first fall in with this Captain Wallace?”

“At Port Elizabeth.”

“Who is he?”

“That I don’t know, really, Baas,” pleaded the fellow, piteously. “He’s going to raise a levy and fight the Kafirs, and he wanted me to join it.”

“H’m. I believe the first statement, the last is a lie. No more lies, friend Sharkey, if you please, or we shall quarrel. And now, tell me, how do you purpose earning your hundred pounds?”

The mulatto’s face grew livid as death, and great beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead. He knew that from this man, whose murder he had just been plotting, he need expect no mercy; and he read his doom in every line of the other’s features, as he stared at his captor with the haggard and hunted expression of a trapped wild creature. Again his shaking lips reiterated a prayer for mercy.

“You were going to be very merciful to the man whom you were about to put out of this Captain Wallace’s way in three months, were you not? Who was the man, by the way?”

“Yourself. He hates you, Baas, I don’t know why, I swear I don’t. I think it’s about some money you have that he ought to have—at least, so he says.”

“Quite so. And he set you to watch me?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Then there was dead silence. It was a strange sight that the ghostly firelight flickered and danced upon in that lonely hut. The bound and prostrate-ruffian, and the quiet, refined-looking man sitting opposite him—sitting in judgment on his would-be murderer. Outside, the rain pattered with a monotonous, dismal sound, and the distant cry of a jackal floated upon the heavy night air.

“Well, now, Sharkey,” said Claverton at length, “you are the greatest scoundrel that ever breathed, you know. I had almost made up my mind to amuse myself for the rest of the night by drawing figures on your carcase with this,” and again he held up the glowing faggot; “but I will be merciful, and won’t do that.”

A look of relief came into the prisoner’s eyes; but his tormentor went on:

“But, you see, you have confessed to having intended to murder me for the sake of a hundred pounds. Now, do you know what we do with murderers? We hang them; but I won’t hang you.” The look of relief increased, and the fellow began to murmur his thanks.

“Wait, wait, not so fast. I won’t hang you. I say, because, to begin with, I haven’t got a rope. But a couple of prods with this,”—touching the handle of a long, keen sheath-knife—“will answer the purpose a great deal better. For this is war-time, you know, Sharkey, and this hut is a devilish lonely place, so that when in about a month you are found here, a yarn will go the round of the papers as to how the body of a poor devil of a Hottentot—not even a Cuban gentleman, mind, they don’t understand that distinction here—was found slain by Kafirs, with no end of assegai holes in him. Or it might be safer for us to dig a hole in the next room, and quietly drop you in—alive, of course—and cover you up. It would, perhaps, be a little more trouble, but safer.”

The expression of the miserable man’s face, as he stared at his tormentor with a frozen, hopeless look of despair, was awful to behold, while he listened to the terrible doom which the other pronounced upon him. Not a gleam of relenting could he trace in that stern, impassive countenance.

“Mercy—mercy,” he moaned. “I will be your slave—your dog. I will kill the other man if you wish, only spare me,” and his dry, bloodless lips could hardly articulate his hopeless entreaty. “Only spare my life—it is yours—I deserve to die; but spare me,” and the miserable wretch grovelled on the earth.

Claverton contemplated him for a few moments with calm equanimity, unmoved by the extremity of his terror.

“Upon my word, Sharkey, I gave you credit for more gameness. Well, now, listen to me. It is as you say—you deserve to die, and your life is mine. Never mind about the other man, I won’t have him hurt for anything. Now for yourself. You have gone through all the bitterness of death in the last few minutes, as I intended you should. That is enough. I will spare your life—richly as you have deserved to lose it—but listen to me. You will go from here as a prisoner, and not be released from arrest till we have joined the others. I will make no conditions with you—first of all, because you are absolutely powerless to harm me, now, or at any future time—the very events of to-night prove that; secondly, because, if I did, you would not keep them. So I forgive you completely your plot to murder me, and you shall join the corps as if nothing had happened. One word of warning, though. I shall have my eye upon you always, and wherever you may be. And remember this, in case we go into action together—I’m not a bad shot, you know; and there’s no fear of my mistaking a Kafir for any one else, or any one else for a Kafir. Bear all this in mind, for if you are up to any more tricks, what you have just gone through is a mere joke compared with what’s in store for you. You know me.”

The prisoner looked at Claverton with a wild, superstitious awe. This man must be something more than mortal, and he shuddered as he reflected that he was indeed powerless to harm him. Then, as he realised that his life was spared, the look of relief returned to his livid features. He knew the other only too well, and that every word had been spoken in no mere spirit of empty threat, but in sober earnest. And now he felt like a man who has been reprieved from under the very gallows-tree itself. He had spoken the truth in his revelation in all good faith—indeed, he dared not have done otherwise—and had told all he knew, marvelling that he had been asked so few questions.

Claverton, meanwhile, was sitting opposite, watching his prisoner with a curious and thoughtful expression. By what stroke of luck had he been made to lose his way and brought to this place in time to overhear the plot against his own life? Who on earth could the other man be—the arch mover in the scheme? He had never seen him before; had never even heard his name; and then what the mulatto had said, about it being a question of money. Stay, could it be that some will existed of which he, Claverton, knew nothing, and under which the other would benefit in the event of his death? It seemed strange, certainly; but then his experience had taught him that nothing was too strange to be true. And then recurred to his mind, with all the force of a prophecy, the words which Lilian had spoken when first she discovered the ruffian was following them in the square at King Williamstown: “Have you no secret enemy? No one who would owe you a grudge?” and he had answered lightly in the negative; whereas, he was actually being dogged by two secret assassins—one of them no mere common ruffian like the cut-throat lying there before him, but a man apparently his equal in birth and station. With whom, however, he promised himself a full and complete reckoning, all in good time.

Then the recollection of Lilian’s words naturally recalled the image of Lilian herself. What was she doing then? Thinking of him ever—at that hour most likely praying for him—and he? With difficulty had he just restrained himself from an act of wild, lawless vengeance—justified, perhaps, but still vengeance—one which in earlier days he would not have shrunk from; and now, as he thought of her, his whole mood softened and he felt glad that he had spared the villain opposite, even though by doing so he might have jeopardised his own life. Not that he gave this side of the question a thought, for his experiences had made him a fatalist, and he really believed himself under a special protection for some purpose or other—be that purpose what it might. Thus musing, he fell into a doze; while the faithful Sam, having stabled the horses in the adjoining apartment, had barred up the door as well as he could, and sat, huddled in his blanket, smoking his pipe and keeping watch over the prisoner and over his master’s safety.

With the first ray of dawn they were astir. The horses being saddled, the prisoner’s feet were untied to allow him to walk.

“Yon dam Hottentot nigga?” said Sam, administering a sly kick to the crestfallen Sharkey, when his master’s back was turned. “You cheek my chief, eh? Now, you try to run away, I shoot—shoot you—so. My chief, he good shot, shoot you dead—ha, ha!”

With which salutary warning they set out. Sam, in his heart of hearts, hoping that it would be disregarded, and that the mulatto would really make an attempt at escape. But that worthy was wise in his generation, and the Natal native had no opportunity of showing his skill with the new Snider rifle wherewith a paternal Goverment had supplied him on the occasion of his joining “Claverton’s Levies.”

A curious contrast did this grim cortège present to the last occasion of his leaving that place in the early dawn, thought Claverton. Instead of the bright, laughing girl who was his companion then, he cast his eye on the sullen prisoner and his guard, and then on his own warlike equipment; and mingled, indeed, were his reflections as he found himself traversing the old roads, with all the features of the familiar landscape stretching around. There was old Isaac Van Rooyen’s homestead, down in the hollow, on the right, looking just the same as of yore, except that that slow-going old Boer had built a new room on to it, probably for the accommodation of the family of one of his children, who had quartered themselves upon him. In front, in the distance, rose the frowning face of Spoek Krantz and the heights from among which it stood forth. The mountains, too, on the sky-line, wore their well-known aspect; and every feature of the surroundings, whether bush or open, seemed to bring back the past. Even Hicks’ farm, whither he was now wending, was the one he himself had started to treat for, and had turned back, that day when he had heard his fate and been sent forth into banishment from all that made life for him—four years ago.

“Hallo, hallo!” cried honest Hicks, looking up in astonishment from some carpentering he was doing behind the house, as the trio rode up. “Well, this is a piece of luck! How are you, Arthur, old boy? And who the deuce have you got there?”

“A chap who joined my corps and began his service by desertion; I chanced to pick him up on the way.”

Hicks looked mystified for a moment. “Oh—ah—yes, now I remember! Jim told me you had got the command of some of the greatest blackguards under heaven. That bird, by the way, looks as if he would be quite in his element among them. But I should think you’d manage to lick them into shape if any one would, eh?”

“Oh, yes. And they’re not bad fellows to fight, once you get them away from the canteens. I’ll manage them, never fear.”

“But come in. Laura will be surprised. Don’t bother about the horses, I’ll see to them; and your boy will be enough to look after the prisoner, I should think.”

“He will. The rascal has been licking his chops over him like a bull-terrier contemplating a cat in a tree. There’s nothing he’d like better than a chance of practising at the fellow running away.”

By this time they had entered the house, which was a trifle small perhaps, but comfortable, after the style of the ordinary frontier dwelling, and Claverton took in at a glance the air of neatness and domesticity that pervaded it, from the sewing-machine and work-basket on the table to the rocking-cradle standing in the corner, which latter was the sole work of Hicks’ skilful hands.

And Laura? She was but little changed in appearance, and that, if anything, for the better. More matronly-looking and a trifle more demure perhaps than formerly, and if her greeting to Claverton lacked ever so slightly in cordiality, it might have been that she still cherished a latent spark of resentment against him on Ethel’s account. But, after all, there was no altering the past. Whatever was to be—was—and there was no help for it. And being a good-hearted little woman she soon cast aside her first veil of reserve, and talked to him as in the old times, for she had always liked him, and besides, he had done her husband more than one good turn.

“And where is Ethel now, and how is she getting on?” asked Claverton, presently.

“She’s down at Cape Town still.”

“Does she ever come up to the frontier?”

“Oh, yes. Sometimes. She would have been coming just about now, only this new war broke out.”

“Who’s that? Ethel?” asked Hicks, returning. He had left the room for a moment to give some directions to one of his natives outside. “Oh, yes. She was engaged to some fellow down there and then choked him off all at once, no one quite knew why. Laura vows that—” Here the speaker became aware of a battery of warning glances being levelled at him from his wife’s dark eyes, and suddenly collapsed in a violent fit of coughing, on recovery from which he threw open the door, and looking frantically up at the heavens declared, with a vehemence wholly unsuited to the occasion, that the rain would inevitably clear away before twelve o’clock. Claverton, on whom not one fraction of this by-play was lost, although he pretended not to see it, could hardly restrain his mirth. Good old Hicks, he thought, was always a whale at blundering, and he had done for himself again. Even in trying to extricate it, he had put his unlucky foot in yet deeper; for, to any one who did not know him, this violent prognostication as to the weather, taken in conjunction with what had gone before, would have had slightly an inhospitable smack; but Claverton enjoyed the situation only too well. By-and-by, when pursuing his journey, he would shout with laughter over the recollection; now, however, not a muscle of his countenance moved as he said, in the most matter-of-fact way:

“You might remember me to Ethel, when you write. We used to have rather fun together in the old times.”

Laura said something in assent, though she mentally resolved to do nothing of the kind. No good would come of waking up old recollections, she reasoned, by mentioning this man who, even if through no fault of his own, had, at any rate, she told herself, cast a cloud over her bright, wayward, beautiful sister’s life, and the sooner he was forgotten the better. For that sister’s sake she by no means shared her husband’s joy over his reappearance, and she sincerely hoped that those two might not meet again, and wished that he would be quick and marry Lilian Strange, or leave this part of the country, or both. Meanwhile here he was, still on the frontier, and Ethel might be coming up to visit her at any time.

Just then a chubby toddling—an exact infantile reproduction of his father—rushed into the room; and Laura, with a touch of pride that was very becoming, exhibited him to her guest, while the urchin opened his big blue eyes wide, and stood staring, with his finger in his mouth, at Claverton’s long boots and shining spurs.

“Go and say how d’you do to Mr Claverton, Jimmy,” said his mother, in the tone of half command, half entreaty, usual under the circumstances. “He’s a soldier, you know, going to fight the Kafirs, like Uncle Jim.”

“Uncle Jim” being Jim Brathwaite, who was the urchin’s godfather.

“I’ll be soja, when I big,” lisped the prodigy, toddling up to Claverton, and tentatively stroking with one finger the shin of his high boot. “I got gun—shoot de Kaffa—bang!”

“Halloa,” cried Hicks, re-entering. “Don’t let that kid bother you, Arthur. Kids are a confounded nuisance unless they happen to belong to a fellow, and very often even then.”

But Jimmy was not to be detached from his new acquaintance, to whom he had taken an immense fancy, and just then, fortunately for his peace of mind, a move was made in favour of breakfast.

They talked of the war and its progress. Hicks declared his intention of holding on a bit for the present, and joining Jim Brathwaite—who, with his troop, had already left for the front—later, if things got worse. Laura had been in a terrible fright the last time when he had gone, he said; but now, since she saw that none of them had been hurt, she didn’t care—in fact, concluded Hicks, he rather believed she wanted to get rid of him, so he was determined to stay, just to spite her. Listening to the playful recrimination that followed, Claverton found himself thinking what a good thing it was to see two people happy like this, for there could be no doubt but that happy they were—thoroughly so—in their quiet and hitherto peaceful (for the tide of war had not yet rolled in so far as this) frontier home; though such may appear incredible to those who find their enjoyment of life in the whirl and feverishness of fashionable civilisation. And thinking it, he rejoiced greatly on his old chum’s account.

And the said “old chum” was considerably crestfallen at the announcement that he must take the road again. “Why, hang it all,” he grumbled; “you’ve hardly had time to look at us.”

“My dear fellow—duty—inexorable duty calls. But I shall assuredly knock you up again, soon.”

“Why, here’s baby!” exclaimed Laura, as an approaching squall resounded through the passage. “You will just be able to have a peep at her before you go,” and regardless of her lord’s impatient protest that “Claverton didn’t want to be bothered with a lot of kids,” she took a limp bundle of clothes from the arms of its bearer and uncovered a wee red and—shall it be confessed?—rather wet physiognomy for her guest’s inspection.

“H’m, I’m no judge of infants, Laura,” said Claverton, good-humouredly, “but I should say this one ought to fetch first prize at the next show. But now I must be off—good-bye.”

“Must you go? I’m so sorry,” said Laura. “I should like to get Lilian up here to stay for a bit, only ‘some one’ would be sure to forbid it as unsafe,” she added, archly.

“Well, good-bye, old fellow,” said Hicks. “My horses are out in the veldt, and will take hours to get in, or I’d go part of the way with you. Mind you look us up again as soon as ever you can.” He was going to add something about hoping “to see you both here before long”; but with his recent slip fresh in his mind, he refrained, fearing lest in some unaccountable manner he should put his foot in it again. “Good-bye—success to you. Mind you shoot lots of niggers and come back all jolly,” and with a hearty hand-shake the two men parted.

Claverton rode on, reaching Fort Beaufort, where he tarried a day to recruit his men, or rather to collect them, for they had already been recruited by his lieutenant, a young Englishman named Lumley; and it was high time he appeared on the scene, for the rascals had taken the opportunity of getting on the spree, indulging in much inebriate jollification preparatory to starting for the seat of war. They would be all right, though, once away from the canteens and under proper discipline—and under proper discipline he intended they should be. So promptly mustering them he marched them off without any farther delay, not even waiting a day in Alice, the divisional town of Victoria East, where a fresh batch was picked up. At the latter place, however, a despatch awaited him, ordering him, instead of going to King Williamstown, to proceed straight through to join the main column on the borders of Sandili’s location.

All along the road he met with fresh rumours and alarms. The rebellion was spreading; the whole of British Kaffraria and the Transkei was over-ran; nearly all the settlers’ houses in the more exposed districts were burnt down; the Police express-riders carried their lives in their hands, as they darted across the hostile country, several of them having been cut off already. Added to which these districts were in a dire state of alarm, by reason of impending troubles nearer home, for the Gaika clans in the Waterkloof and Blinkwater fastnesses, under the chiefs Tini Macomo and Oba, were in a state of restlessness, and meanwhile signal fires burnt nightly on the higher peaks of the Amatola.

It was, indeed, a motley crew, was this “levy” of which the two Englishmen were in command, numbering between sixty and seventy men. Yellow-skinned Hottentots; dark Korannas; tall, light-coloured Bastards; every shade and kindred of the race which though inferior to them in many respects, yet looked upon themselves as the natural foes of the Kafirs, and with far more sympathies of rule, of civilisation, or rather semi-civilisation, and even of blood, with the white man, for few indeed but had some drops of white blood in them. Even two or three specimens of the ape-like Bushmen found part in the motley gathering—wiry, active little rascals, with skulls hard as iron and the agility of cats—and one and all by virtue of their white strain, and the weapons wherewith they had been supplied; and confidence in their leaders, felt themselves immeasurably superior in prowess to the naked tribesmen against whom they were burning to be led. Not a few of the older men—wrinkled, shrivelled-looking, sinewy creatures, but game to the backbone—had been rebels in the war of ’50, when the old Cape Mounted Rifles, then composed of such fellows as these, had gone over in a body to the enemy, and, bearing in mind the salutary lesson they had been taught, both by their ill-chosen friends and their deserted employers, were now only too ready to retrieve the past, and to avenge themselves upon the treacherous savages who had then misled them. They were mostly plucky; fair shots and reliable at a pinch; but, as yet, in a state of indifferent discipline; and it required all their leader’s promptitude and firmness to lick them into anything like decent shape. His first address to them was short and to the point.

“Now, men,” he said, in the ordinary Boer Dutch, which was their mother tongue. “We are going out to fight—to fight in real earnest, and not to play. I have seen fellows I would far less sooner command than I would you, for I know you can hold your own against any number of these rascally Gaikas. Many of you are good shots, I know, and we’ll soon have plenty of opportunity of peppering Jack Kafir handsomely, I promise you. Remember, we are going to fight—and to fight we must always be in a state of readiness and of order, because we are in the enemy’s country and never know when we may have him down upon us. Now, mark my words. Any man who gets drunk, or is found asleep at his post, shall have six dozen well laid on with a couple of new reims, as sure as my name’s Claverton, and the second time he’ll be shot. Mind, I’ll stand no hanky-panky. When we get home again you can get on the spree as much as you like; in camp, steadiness is the order of the day. Your rations you’ll get just as I get mine, neither better nor worse. I shall ask no man to go where I won’t lead him, and now we’ll just go and thrash Jack Kafir into a cocked hat—yourselves and Mr Lumley and I. So we understand each other. I am commanding men, not fools or children—isn’t it so?”

“Ja, kaptyn—ja!” they cried, cheering him vociferously. “We shall show you we are all men—good men and true.”

“That’s right. Now I am going to let you elect your own sergeants and corporals, and, having elected them, by Jove, you’ll have to obey them. I should recommend, for choice, Gert Spielman, Cobus Windvogel, Dirk Hesler,” and he ran through a list of about a dozen of the most trustworthy veterans, knowing full well that those who were elected would be devoted to him, and those who were not, scarcely less so for his having recommended them. And thus having got his corps into working order, and, in fact, it became more manageable every day, Claverton and his lieutenant journeyed with light hearts towards the seat of war.

“These fellows will turn out a very creditable lot, or I’m much mistaken,” remarked Lumley, as they were advancing through one of the defiles of the Amatola. “They are cool and reliable at a pinch, and not susceptible to panic like the Fingoes. I’d rather have fifty of them than five hundred Fingoes.”

“I quite believe it,” assented Claverton. “Some of them are tough customers, and once beyond the reach of grog they’re all right.”

“Yes. Look at that old Gert Spielman, for instance,” pointing to a shrivelled, little old Hottentot, with a skin like parchment. “He’s a dead shot. The infernal old scoundrel was a rebel last war, and only escaped hanging by the skin of his teeth. I suspect he’s drawn a bead with effect many a time on poor Tommy Atkins in those days. Well, now—if occasion offers—you’ll see he’ll turn out to be one of our best men.”

“No doubt. But I say; this is a queer place, and the sooner we get through it the better.”

They were threading a long, narrow defile. Overhead the forest-covered slopes rose to the sky, and down to the path stretched the jungly bush—dense, tangled, and apparently impenetrable. Great yellow-wood trees here and there reared their grey, massive limbs, from which the lichens dangled, above the lower scrub, and monkeys chattered, and birds flitted screaming from the road as the troop moved forward. Some fifteen or twenty of the men had horses of their own, and these, Claverton, like a prudent commander, had thrown forward as scouts, if not to clear the way at any rate to give warning of any assemblage of the foe threatening to oppose their progress—which they could easily do, being as quick of eye and as agile of limb as the Kafirs themselves. But no sign of obstruction was encountered, and soon, emerging from the gorge, they found themselves in more open country, bushy still, but not densely so—indeed, such that in the event of attack the advantage would not be wholly on the enemy’s side.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

“The Land is Dead.”

For two days “Claverton’s Levy” has continued its march farther and further into the disturbed country, meeting, as yet, with no opposition. Now and again, far away on a hill-top, like a black speck, would be descried the form of a Kafir scout watching their movements, and on two or three of these occasions shots had been fired, though futilely, for at present the wily foe was showing a discretion eminently the better part of valour, and kept his distance. Deserted kraals and mealie-lands, here and there even the ruins of a once prosperous homestead, tell in significant, if voiceless testimony, that the “land is dead” indeed; and no sign of life is visible along the path, save for the occasional presence of the wild creatures of the waste, who, for their part, lose no time in getting out of the way of this quaint-looking crew. Once, indeed, a number of Kafir women came into the camp with a plausible tale of how they were fleeing from the rebels, and were on their way to join their husbands and fathers in the colony, who were loyal to the Government, and wouldn’t the white captain give them rations to carry them on their road? But Claverton, who saw through the trick, had ordered them out of camp at once, threatening to make prisoners of the lot if they were even within sight half an hour later. He knew they were spies—these confiding creatures—sent in by the enemy to see how great a fool the white chief was, and to report accordingly; but in the present instance they found him in no sense a fool at all.

Very careful and precise has Claverton been in the matter of guard; visiting the sentries himself, and that often. Indeed, there has been a tendency among the men to growl a little—always in secret, for they have already begun to look upon their leader with no inconsiderable awe—at the extra precautions he takes in posting rather more than the absolutely necessary number of guards. Very careful and precise is he in matters of discipline, although, within limits, the men are allowed and encouraged to make the time pass as cheerfully as possible; and many are the yells of laughter round the evening camp-fire over the antics of some yellow-skinned monkey; or another discourses the sweet music of a Dutch Hottentot song to the accompaniment of a concertina and a battered old fiddle, for they are fond of music in their way, are these light-hearted, scatter-brained half-breeds—their own music, that is—a weird, shrill, bag-pipish chorus, unparalleled in its discordant monotony. But at a given time all lights out, and woe to the delinquent who should think it safe to begin “trying it on” in this or any other respect. So the corps is in capital order for its rough work, and, thanks to the carefulness of its leaders, runs no more jeopardy than that provided by the ordinary chances of war—which, indeed, is fully sufficient.

And now the troop is halted in a hollow, by the side of a small stream—at this season nearly dry—dry, that is, in places where it should run, though there are several deep pools of standing water very inviting on a morning like this, for, though not yet high, the sun is making his rays disagreeably felt. Around, for a distance of about half a mile, the slopes are dotted with spekboem and aloes; the straight, prickly stems of the latter looking like an array of dark Kafirs stationed about in the shimmer of the rising heat. It is the third morning of their march, and to-day they expect to reach the main body; meanwhile, having been on the move since dawn, they are halted for breakfast.

As usual, the sentries have been carefully posted, for their leader has noticed among his men a certain tendency to carelessness, in proportion as their advance is made without sign of opposition, and, knowing their characteristics and their failings well, his watchfulness never relaxes. And now, as the sun shines pleasantly down, on this cloudless morning, the men sit and lounge about, taking their well-earned rest ere the word is given to set forward again. Some are cooking their breakfasts and those of their fellows; others lie about smoking their pipes and indulging in drowsy gossip; some lying on their backs, with their ragged hats between their faces and the son, are fast asleep; while others are still splashing merrily in one or two of the water-holes, diving into the water or sitting on the brink basking in the sun. Claverton himself has just returned from his bath, and stands, in scanty attire, looking placidly round upon those under his command, in their various attitudes of ease and restfulness.

“Not much use tubbing if one has to walk a hundred yards after it,” he is saying. “One wants to go in again directly one gets here.”

“Yes,” answers his lieutenant, dreamily. “By the way, I was thinking what we should do if Jack Kafir were to make a sudden rush on us while we were splashing away down there. But I don’t believe we shall get a glimpse of the beggar until—”

Bang!

A shot is heard just over the brow of the rise about seven hundred yards off. It rings out on the still morning air with a sharp clearness that is startling, and immediately it is followed by a second. The effect is like magic: loungers sit bolt upright, sleepers wake, those in the water scurry out, and all eyes in camp are turned in the direction of this unlooked-for alarm.

“Kaptyn, Kaptyn—Kyk dar so!” (Captain, Captain—Look there!) cries one of the sergeants, a wiry little Hottentot of some sixty summers. But even before his warning is uttered Claverton’s quick eye has caught the cause of alarm, and more, has mastered the fact that nothing but the utmost coolness and determination will save every soul in that camp from destruction. For the whole ridge is alive with Kafir warriors, swarming over the brow of the hill like a crowd of red ants; on they come, straight for the camp, evidently with the intention of carrying it by a rush. A man is fleeing before them as hard as ever he can run—apparently the sentry who has fired the shot—but he has a small start and they are gaining upon him. Suddenly he falls, then disappears, pierced by a score of assegais, and the crowd pours over him.

“Steady, men—steady!” cries Claverton, his clear voice ringing like a trumpet. “Every man to his place. No one to fire before the word is given.”

And now the state of discipline into which the corps had been brought, bore its fruit, as, quickly and without flurry, each man knew exactly where to find his rifle and ammunition, and found it—for the arms had been placed separately in a circle, not piled—and now, inspired by their leader’s coolness, every man stood armed and ready, only waiting the word of command. Once or twice Claverton detected signs of flurry and scrambling; but a word or two thrown in, and an invincible coolness—which could not have been greater had they been on parade, instead of waiting the furious onslaught of a savage horde, rushing down at a pace which three minutes at the outside would bring right upon them—instantly had the effect of restoring order.

“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 assegais 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 mass of fallen bodies and red struggling limbs, is descried. Another and another volley; the assailants 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 mass 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 mass 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 assegai, 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 mass, 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 grass. Truly all this is unsurpassed 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 assegai, 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 assegai, 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 nigga 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 ejaculation, 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 mass 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 mass 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 passed 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 passed 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 twang, 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-glass. “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?”