Part 27 (2/2)

”I say, Sergeant, am I in for it as well as Ole Bulgy Weskit? You might as well let me know and charnce it!”

The Sergeant answered with unfeeling indifference:

”Since you ask, I should say you was.”

”That's a bit 'ard! Wot'll I git?”

”Ten to one, your skater.”

”Wot is my skater?”

”Your Corporal's stripe, you suckin' innocent! Wot for? For takin' a Boer spy pris'ner--that's wot for!”

”Cripps!” said W. Keyse, enlightened, illuminated and glowing in the darkness. He added a moment later, in rather a depressed tone: ”But it was 'im, the civilian bloke with the beard, 'oo downed the Dutchy, an' sat on 'im till the guard come up.”

The Sergeant was ahead of the half-company, speaking to the officer in charge. It was the Corporal who answered, across the man who marched upon the left of W. Keyse:

”O' course it was. But you 'ad the Dopper fust, and,” he cackled quietly, ”the Colonel won't be jealous.”

The eyes and mouth of W. Keyse became circular.

”The who?”

”The Colonel, didn't you 'ear me say?”

”That wasn't never ... _'im_”?

”All right, since you know best. But him, for all that!”

”Great Jiminy Cripps!” gasped W. Keyse.

XXIII

You are to imagine Dawn, trailing weary-footed over the interminable plain, to find Gueldersdorp, lonely before, and before threatened, now isolated like some undaunted coral rock in mid-Pacific, crested with screaming sea-birds, girt with roaring breakers, set in the midst of waters haunted by myriads of hungry sharks. Ringed with silent menace, she squatted on her low hill, doggedly waiting the event.

It was known that on the previous day the telegraph wires north of Beaton had been cut, and this day was to sever the last link with Cape Town at Maripo, some forty miles south. The railway bridge that crossed the Olopo River might go next. Staat's Engineers had been busy there overnight.

Rumour had it, Heaven knows how, that the armoured train that had been sent up from the Cape with two light guns of superseded pattern--a generous contribution towards the collection of obsolete engines now bristling from the sand-bagged ramparts--had been seized by a commando, with the officer and the men in charge. This was to be confirmed later by the arrival of an engine-driver minus five fingers and some faith in the omnipotence of British arms. But at the beginning of this chapter he was hiding in a sand-hole, chewing the cud of his experiences, in default of other pabulum, and did not get in before dark of the long blazing day.

Crowds gathered on the barely-reclaimed veld at the northern end of the town to see the Military Executive take over the Hospital. But that the streets were barricaded with waggons and every able-bodied male citizen carried a rifle, it might have been mistaken for an occasion of national rejoicing or civic festivity. The leaves of the pepper-trees fringing the thoroughfares and clumped in the Market Square rustled in the faint hot breeze. By-and-by they were to stand scorched and seared and naked under the iron hail that beat in blizzards upon them, and die in the noxious lyddite fumes dispersed by bursting sh.e.l.ls.

The variegated crowd cheered as the Staff dismounted at the white-painted iron gates of the railed-in Hospital grounds. It was not the acclamation of admiration, it was the cheer expectant. They wanted to know what the Officer in Command was going to do? Intolerable suspense racked them.

Wherever it was known that he would be, there they followed at this juncture--solid ma.s.ses of humanity, bored with innumerable ear-holes, and enamelled with patient, glittering, expectant eyes. His own keen, kindly glance swept over them as he touched his grey felt hat in acknowledgment of their dubious greeting, that half-hearted but well-meant cheer. He read the mute question written upon all the faces. Part of his answer to the interrogation was standing in the Railway-yard, but they would have to wait a little while longer yet--just a little longer. He whistled his pleasant melodious little tune as the porter hurried to open the gates.

One pair of pale, rather ugly eyes in the crowd were illumined with pure hero-wors.h.i.+p. ”That's 'im,” explained their owner, nudging a big man in shabby white drill, who was shouldering a deliberate way through the press.

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