Part 10 (1/2)
”Ay,” replies Bill, ”them black beggars has got plenty of lush--more's the pity; and they doesn't give none to their wives--more's their sense. Ax your pardon, sir,” he adds, turning to Charlie, ”but we shall advance right upon their centre, now, anyways, shan't us?”
Ere Charlie could reply he was interrupted by Bill's comrade, who seemed to have rather a _penchant_ for Kaffir ladies. ”Likely young women they be, too, Bill, those n.i.g.g.e.rs' wives; why, every Kaffir has a dozen at least, and we've only three to a company; wouldn't I like to be a Kaffir?”
”_Black!_” replied Bill, in a tone of intense disgust.
”What's the odds?” urged the matrimonial champion, ”a black wife's a sight better than none at all;” and straightway he began to hum a military ditty, of which fate only permitted him to complete the first two stanzas:--
”They're sounding the charge for a brush, my boys!
And we'll carry their camp with a rush, my boys!
When we've driven them out, I make no doubt We'll find they've got plenty of lush, my boys!
For the beggars delight To sit soaking all night, Black although they be.
And when we get liquor so cheap, my boys!
We'll do nothing but guzzle and sleep, my boys!
And sit on the gra.s.s with a Kaffir la.s.s, Though s.m.u.tty the wench as a sweep, my boys!
For the Light Brigade Are the lads for a maid, Black although she may be.”
”Come, stow that!” interrupted Bill, as the _ping_ of a ball whistled over their heads, followed by the sharp report of a musket; ”here's music for your singing, and dancing too, faith,” he added, as the rear files of the advanced guard came running in; and ”Old Swipes”
exclaimed, ”By Jove! they're engaged. Attention! steady, men!--close up--close up”--and, throwing out a handful of skirmishers to clear the bush immediately in his front and support his advanced guard, he moved the column forward at ”the double,” gained some rising ground, behind which he halted them, and himself ran on to reconnoitre. A sharp fire had by this time commenced on the right, and Charlie's heart beat painfully whilst he remained inactive, covered by a position from which he could see nothing. It was not, however, for long. The ”Light-Bobs” were speedily ordered to advance, and as they gained the crest of the hill a magnificent view of the conflict opened at once upon their eyes.
The Rifles had been beforehand with them, and were already engaged; their dark forms, hurrying to and fro as they ran from covert to covert, were only to be distinguished from the savages by the rapidity with which their thin white lines of smoke emerged from bush and brake, and the regularity with which they forced position after position, compared with the tumultuous gestures and desultory movements of the enemy. Already the Kaffirs were forced across the ford of which we have spoken, and, though they mustered in great numbers on the opposite bank, swarming like bees along the rising ground, they appeared to waver in their manuvres, and to be inclined to retire. A mounted officer gallops up, and says a few words to the grey-headed captain. The ”Light-Bobs” are formed into column of sections, and plunge gallantly into the ford. Charlie's right-hand man falls pierced by an a.s.sagai, and as his head declines beneath the bubbling water, and his blood mingles with the stream, our volunteer feels ”the devil” rising rapidly to his heart. Charlie's teeth are set tight, though he is scarce aware of his own sensations, and the boy is dangerous, with his pale face and flas.h.i.+ng eyes.
The ”Light-Bobs” deploy into line on the opposite bank, covered by an effective fire from the Rifles, and advance as if they were on parade.
”Old Swipes” feels his heart leap for joy. On they march like one man, and the dark ma.s.ses of the enemy fly before them. ”Well done, my lads!” says the old captain, as, from their flank, he marks the regularity of their movement. They are his very children now, and he is not thinking of the little blue-eyed girl far away at home. A belt of _mimosas_ is in their front, and it must be carried with the bayonet! The ”Light-Bobs” charge with a wild hurrah; and a withering volley, very creditable to the savages, well-nigh staggers them as they approach. ”Old Swipes” runs forward, waving them on, his shako off, and his grey locks streaming in the breeze--down he goes! with a musket-ball cras.h.i.+ng through his forehead. Charlie could yell with rage, and a fierce longing for blood. There is a calm, matronly woman tending flowers, some thousand miles off, in a small garden in the north of England, and a little girl sitting wistfully at her lessons by her mother's side. They are a widow and an orphan--but the handsome lieutenant will get his promotion without purchase; death-vacancies invariably go in the regiment, and even now he takes the command.
”Kettering,” says he, cool and composed, as if he were but giving orders at a common field-day, ”take a sub-division and clear that ravine; when you are once across you can turn his flank. Forward, my lads! and if they've any nonsense _give 'em the bayonet_!”
Charlie now finds himself actually in command--ay, and in something more than a skirmish--something that begins to look uncommonly like a general action. Waving the men on with his sword he dashes into the ravine, and in another instant is hand-to-hand with the enemy. What a moment of noise, smoke, and confusion it is! Cras.h.i.+ng blows, fearful oaths, the Kaffir war-cry, and the soldiers' death-groan mingle in the very discord of h.e.l.l. A wounded Kaffir seizes Charlie by the legs, and a ”Light-Bob” runs the savage through the body, the ghastly weapon flas.h.i.+ng out between the Kaffir's ribs.
”You've got it _now_, you black beggar!” says the soldier, as he coolly wipes his dripping bayonet on a tuft of burnt-up gra.s.s. While yet he speaks he is writhing in his death-pang, his jaws transfixed by a quivering a.s.sagai. A Kaffir chief, of athletic frame and sinewy proportions, distinguished by the grotesque character of his arms and his tiger-skin _kaross_, springs at the young lancer like a wild-cat.
The boy's sword gleams through that dusky body even in mid-air.
”Well done, blue 'un!” shout the men, and again there is a wild hurrah! The young one never felt like this before.
Hand-to-hand the savages have been beaten from their defences, and they are in full retreat. One little band has forced the ravine, and gained the opposite bank. With a thrilling cheer they scale its rugged surface, Charlie waving his sword and leading them gallantly on. The old privates swear he is a good 'un. ”Forward, lads! Hurrah! for _blue 'un_!”
The boy has all but reached the brink; his hand is stretched to grasp a bush that overhangs the steep, but his step totters, his limbs collapse--down, down he goes, rolling over and over amongst the brushwood, and the blue lancer uniform lies a tumbled heap at the bottom of the ravine, whilst the cheer of the pursuing ”Light-Bobs”
dies fainter and fainter on the sultry air as the chase rolls farther and farther into the desert fastnesses of Kaffirland.
CHAPTER XII
CAMPAIGNING AT HOME
THE SOLDIER IN PEACE--THE LION AND THE LAMB--”THE GIRLS WE LEAVE BEHIND US”--A PLAIN QUESTION--THE STRONG MAN'S STRUGGLE--FATHERLY KINDNESS--THE ”PEACE AND PLENTY”--A LADY-KILLER'S PROJECTS--WAKING THOUGHTS
In a neat, well-appointed barouche, with clever, high-stepping brown horses and everything complete, a party of three well-dressed persons are gliding easily out of town, sniffing by antic.i.p.ation the breezes of the country, and greeting every morsel of verdure with a rapture only known to those who have been for several weeks in London. Past the barracks at Knightsbridge, where the windows are occupied by a race of giants in moustaches and s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, and the officers in front of their quarters are educating a poodle; past the gate at Kensington, with its smartest of light-dragoon sentries, and the gardens with their fine old trees disguised in soot; past dead walls overtopped with waving branches; on through a continuous line of streets that will apparently reach to Bath; past public-houses innumerable, and grocery-shops without end; past Hammersmith, with its multiplicity of academies, and Turnham Green, and Chiswick, and suburban terraces with almost fabulous names, and detached houses with the scaffolding still up; past market-gardens and rosaries, till Brentford is reached, where the disappointed traveller, pining for the country, almost deems himself transported back again east of Temple Bar. But Brentford is soon left behind, and a glimpse of the ”silver Thames” rejoices eyes that have been aching for something farther afield than the Serpentine, and prepares them for the unbounded views and free, fresh landscape afforded by Hounslow Heath. ”This is really the country,” says Blanche, inhaling the pure air with a sigh of positive delight, while the General exclaims, at the same instant, with his accustomed vigour, ”Zounds! the blockhead's missed the turn to the barracks, after all.”