Part 31 (2/2)
”I say, Blachland,” said old Pemberton, with a jerk of the thumb to the southward, ”We didn't reckon to meet again like this last time when we broke camp yonder on the Matya'mhlope, and old Lo Ben fired you out of the country? Eh?”
”Not much, did we? You going on this new trot, Sybrandt?”
”I believe so. What do you think about this part of the world, West?”
”Here, let's have another tot all round,” interrupted Pemberton who, by the way, had had just as many as were good for him. ”You ain't going to n.o.bble Lo Ben, Sybrandt, so don't you think it.”
”Who says so, Pemberton?”
”I say so. Didn't I say Blachland 'ud never get to Umzilikazi's grave?
Didn't I? Well, he never did.”
Possibly because the old trader was too far on in his cups the quizzical glance which pa.s.sed between Blachland and Sybrandt--who was in the know--at this allusion, went unnoticed. Pemberton continued, albeit rather thickly:
”Didn't I say he'd never get there? Didn't I? Well, I say the same now. You'll never get there. You'll never n.o.bble Lo Ben. See if I ain't right.”
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE RETREAT OF THE PATROL.
The patrol held on its retreat.
Wearily on, from day to day, nearly a hundred and a half of hungry, ragged, footsore men--their clothing well-nigh in tatters, their feet bursting out of their boots, in several instances strips of clothing wound round their feet, as a sort of tinkered subst.i.tute for what had once been boots, as sole protection against thorns and stony ground, and the blades of the long tambuti gra.s.s, which cut like knives--depression at their hearts because of the score and a half of brave staunch comrades whom they had but the faintest hope of ever beholding again-- depression too, in their faces, gaunt, haggard and unkempt, yet with it a set fierce look of determination, a dogged, never-say-die expression, still they held on. And ever upon their flanks hovered the savage enemy, wiser now in his generation, wasting his strength no more in fierce rushes, to be mown helplessly down with superior weapons. Under cover of his native bush he could harry the retreating whites from day to day. And he did.
Very different the appearance of this group of weary, half-starved men, fighting its way with indomitable courage and resource, through the thick bush and over donga-seamed ground, and among rough granite hillocks, to that of the smart, light-hearted fellows, repelling each fierce rush of the Matabele impis, in the skilfully constructed waggon laagers. Every rise surmounted revealed but the same heart-breaking stretch of bush and rocks, and dongas through which the precious Maxims had to be hauled at any expenditure of labour and time--to be borne rather, for the carriages of the said guns had been abandoned as superfluous lumber--and all through the steamy heat of the day the roar of the swollen river on the one hand never far from their ears--and, overhead, that of the thunder-burst, which should condemn them to pa.s.s a drenched and s.h.i.+vering night. For this expedition, with the great over-weening British self-confidence which has set this restless little island in the forefront of the nations--has started to effect with so many--or rather so few--men, what might or might not have been effected with just four times the number--in a word has started to do the impossible and--has not done it.
”Well, Percy, do you still wish this fun wasn't going to be over quite so quickly?”
”No. Yet I don't know. I suppose it's only right to see some of the rougher side, as well as the smooth,” answered the young fellow pluckily--though truth to tell his weariness and exhaustion were as great as that of anybody else. There was the same hollow, wistful look in his face, the same hardened and brick-dust bronze too, and his hands were not guiltless of veldt-sores, for he had borne his full share both of the hards.h.i.+ps and the fighting and was as thoroughly seasoned by now as any of them.
”I was something of a prophet when I told you the toughest part of the campaign was to come, eh?” said Blachland, filling up his pipe with nearly the last shreds of dust remaining in his pouch.
”Rather. I seem to forget what it feels like not to be shot at every day of my life,” was the answer. ”And this beastly horsefles.h.!.+ Faugh!”
”Man! That's nothing,” said Sybrandt, his mouth full of the delicacy alluded to, while he replaced a large slice of the same upon the embers to cook a little more. ”What price having to eat snake?”
”No. I'd draw the line at that,” answered Percival quickly.
”Would you? Wait until you're stuck on a little island for three days with your boat drifted away, and a river swarming with crocodiles all round you. You'd scoff snake fast enough, and be glad to get him.”
”Tell us the yarn,” said Percival wearily.
But before the other could comply, a message from the officer in command arrived desiring his presence, and Sybrandt, s.n.a.t.c.hing another great mouthful of his broiling horseflesh, got up and went.
”Another wet night, I'm afraid?” said Blachland philosophically, reaching for a red-hot stick to light his pipe, which the rain dripping from his weather-beaten hat-brim was doing its best to put out. ”Here, have a smoke, Spence,” becoming alive to the wistful glance wherewith he whom he had named was regarding the puffs he was emitting.
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