Part 69 (1/2)
At this juncture, and with almost a sensation of pleasure, Saxham saw his old acquaintance Father Noah climb out of his particular trench, briskly for one well stricken in years, and toddle out, laden with rifle, biltong bag, and coffee-can, to his favourite sniping-post, where a bush rose beside a rock, which was shaded by a small group of blue-gums. Soon the smoke of the veteran's pipe rose above his lurking-place, and as Saxham, with a grunt of satisfaction, stretched himself upon his stomach on the hot, sandy earth and pulled the lever, a return bullet sheared a piece off his boot-heel, and painfully jarred his ankle-bone.
No one else was shooting at the big rooinek now. It was understood that Father Noah had a prior claim. And the old man peered hopefully up to see the result of his shot, and rubbed his eyes. For the hulking dief was standing, voor den donder! standing as he emptied his magazine, and the bullets sang about Father Noah as viciously as hornets roused to anger by the stripping of a decayed thatch. The magazine of the repeating-rifle emptied, Saxham calmly refilled it, causing the puzzled patriarch to waste many cartridges in wild shooting at that erect, indifferent mark, and finally to abandon the level-headed caution to which he owed his venerable years, and climb a tree to obtain a better view of the tactics of the enemy.
Saxham laughed as the invisible hornets sang in the air about him. The battered solar helmet he wore was pierced through the hinder brim, and he was bleeding from a bullet-graze upon the knuckle of the second finger of his left hand. Since that Sunday afternoon beside the river, when he learned the madness of his hope and the hopelessness of his madness, he had taken risks like this daily, not in the deliberate desire of death, but as a man consulting Fate negatively.
Father Noah would decide, one way or the other: the issue of their protracted duel should determine things for Saxham. If he sent the old man in, then there was Hope, if the superannuated, short-stocked Martini, with that steady old finger on the trigger, and that sharp old eye at the backsight, ended by accounting for Saxham, then there would be an end to this burning torment for ever. Strangely, he did not believe that he could be killed by any other hand than Father Noah's. Doubtless the long overstrain was telling upon him mentally, though physically the man seemed of wrought steel.
”To-day will settle it, one way or the other. To-day----”
As the thought pa.s.sed through his mind, and he brought the sights into line with the mark, a sc.r.a.p of white, fluttering some twenty inches lower down, caught his eye. He dropped the tip of the Winchester's foresight to the bottom of the backsight's V, and knew, almost before the shot rang out, and an ownerless Martini tumbled out of the tree-crotch, that Fate had decided for Saxham.
Then he went back to the Hospital, grim-jawed and inscrutable as ever. A dirty white rag was being hoisted on a pole by one of the relatives of the deceased. Father Noah, with the long ends of his dirty grey beard raggedly bannering in the dust-wind, was still waiting for the bearers of the hastily improvised stretcher of sticks and green reims, as Saxham, having obtained a strip of black cloth with a needle and thread from the Matron, pulled off his jacket and sat down upon the end of the cot-bed in his little room, and neatly tacked a mourning-band upon the upper part of the left sleeve.
It was his nature to absorb himself in whatever work he undertook. As he st.i.tched, the crowded Hospital buzzed about him like a hive, the moans of sick men and the rattling breaths of the dying beat in waves of sound upon his brain, for the long rows of beds stood upon either side of the corridors now, with barely a foot of room between them. In the necessarily open s.p.a.ce before the Doctor's door a woman's hurrying footsteps paused, there came a rustling, and a sheet of printed paper folded in half was thrust underneath.
”The _Siege Gazette_, Doctor,” called the Matron's pleasant womanly voice, as, simultaneously with the utterance of Saxham's brief word of thanks, she pa.s.sed on. In the famine for news that possessed him, as every other human being in the town, the sight of the little badly-printed sheet was welcome, although it could hardly contain anything to satisfy his need. He set the last st.i.tches, fastened and cut the thread, reached down a long arm from the foot of the bed, and took up the paper.
The Latest Information had whiskers. The General Orders announced an issue of paper currency in small amounts, owing to the deplorable shortage of silver, congratulated those N.C.O.'s and men of the Baraland Irregulars who, under Lieutenant Bya.s.s, occupying the advanced Nordenfeldt position, had brought so effective a fire to bear upon the enemy's big gun that Meisje had been compelled to abandon her commanding position, and take up her quarters in a spot less advantageous, from the enemy's point of view.
A reduction in the Forage ration was hinted at, and a string of Social Jottings followed, rows of asterisks exploding like squibs under every paragraphic utterance of the Gold Pen.
Not for nothing had Captain Bingo dolefully boasted that his wife exuded Journalese from her very finger-ends. Saxham recognised in the style, the very table-Moselle of Fas.h.i.+onable Journalism. So like the genuine article in the shape of the bottle, the topping of gilt-foil, the arrangement of wire and string, that as the stinging foam overflowed the goblet, snapping in iridescent bubbles at the cautious sipper's nose, and evaporated, leaving nothing in particular at the bottom, it was barely possible to believe the vintage other than the genuine article from Fleet Street.
Stay.... The French quotations were not enclosed in inverted commas. That let Lady Hannah out.
”Society in Gueldersdorp,” she wrote, ”bubbles with interested expectation of the public announcement of a matrimonial engagement with which the intimate friends of the happy lovers profess _etre aux anges_.
”Not for worlds would we draw the veil of delightful mystery completely aside from the secret of two young, charming and popular people. Yet it may be hinted that the elder son of a representative English House and heir of a sixteenth-century Marquisate, who is one of the most gallant and das.h.i.+ng among the many heroic defenders of our beleaguered town, proposes at no very distant date to lead to the altar one of the loveliest among the many lovely girls who grace Gueldersdorp's social functions.
”Both bride-elect and bridegroom-to-be attended High Ma.s.s at the Catholic Church on Sunday, when the Rev. Father Wix, in apprising paris.h.i.+oners of the near approach of Lent, caused an irresistible smile to ripple over the faces of his hearers. _Toujours perdrix_ may sate in the long-run, but perpetually to _faire maigre_ is attended with even greater discomfort.
”We have pleasure in announcing the approaching marriage of Lieutenant the Right Hon. Viscount Beauvayse, Grey Hussars, Junior Aide to the Colonel Commanding H.M. Forces, Gueldersdorp, to Miss Lynette Bridget-Mary Mildare, ward of the Mother-Superior, Convent of the Holy Way, North Veld Road.”
XLV
Saxham has not been staring at the printed words because they have struck him to the heart with their intelligence, but--or so it seems to him--because they convey nothing. There is an aching pain at the back of his neck, and his mind is curiously dull and sluggish. But after a little he becomes aware that somebody is knocking at his door.
”Who is it----”
The Doctor thinks he utters these words, but in reality he has only made a harsh croaking sound that might mean anything. The door opens and shows the Chaplain standing smiling on the threshold.
The Reverend Julius Fraithorn, no longer a worn and wasted pilgrim stumbling amongst the thorns and sharp stones of the Valley of the Shadow, appears in these days as a perfectly sound and healthy, if rather too narrow-shouldered, young Anglican clergyman, not unbecomingly arrayed, in virtue of his official position under martial authority, in a suit of Service khaki such as Saxham wears, with the black Maltese Cross on the collar and the band of the wide-peaked cap. Yellow puttees conceal the unduly spare proportions of his active legs, and the brown boots upon his long slender feet are dusty, as, indeed, is the rest of him, not with the reddish dust of the veld that powders Saxham to the very eyelashes, and lies in light drifts in every wrinkle of his garments, but with the yellowish dust of the town.
”I rather thought,” the Chaplain says, hesitating, as Saxham, without lifting his eyes, turns his square, white face upon the visitor, ”that you said 'Come in'?”
”Come in, and shut the door, and sit down,” says Saxham heavily and thickly. And Julius does so, and, occupying the single cane-seated chair the bedroom boasts, glows upon Saxham with a sincerity of affection and a simplicity of admiration pleasant to see, and asks in his thin, sweet voice how things are going.