Part 35 (1/2)

It was just such a paragraph as is sure to occur from time to time in the chronicling of any of the little wars in which the forces of the British Empire are almost unceasingly engaged, in some quarter or other of the same, and it set forth in stereotyped journalese, how Hilary Blachland of the Scouting Section attached to the Salisbury Column, had deliberately turned his horse and ridden back into what looked like certain death, in order to rescue Trooper Spence, whose horse had been killed, and who was left behind dismounted, and at the mercy of a large force of charging Matabele, then but a hundred or two yards distant--and how at immense risk to his rescuer, whose horse was hardly equal to the double load, Spence had been brought back to the laager, unharmed, though closely pursued and fired upon all the way. Bayfield gave a surprised whistle.

”What, father? Isn't it splendid?” cried Lyn, wondering.

”Yes. Of course.” What had evoked the outburst of amazement was the name--the ident.i.ty of the rescued man--but of this to be sure, Lyn knew nothing. So of all others it was destined to be the man who had played him a scurvy dog's trick that Blachland was destined to imperil his own life to save: true that the said trick had been a very great blessing in disguise, but that feet did not touch the motive thereof. It remained.

”Bah! The swine wasn't worth it,” went on Bayfield, unconsciously.

”No, very likely not,” a.s.sented Lyn. ”But that makes it all the more splendid--doesn't it, father?”

”Eh, what? Yes, yes--of course it does,” agreed Bayfield, becoming alive to the fact that he had been thinking out loud. ”By Jove, Lyn, you'll have to design a new order of merit for him when he gets back.

What shall it be?”

”Man, Lyn! Didn't I tell you he'd make old Lo Ben scoot?” said Fred triumphantly, craning over to have another look at the paragraph, which his father was reading over again. It did not give much detail, but from the facts set forth it was evident that the deed had been one of intrepid gallantry. Bayfield, yet deeper in the know, opined that it deserved even an additional name, and his regard and respect for his friend increased tenfold. For the other two--well, there was less chance than ever of Hilary Blachland's name and memory being allowed to grow dim in that household.

”Why, he'll soon be back now,” said Lyn. ”The war must be nearly over now they've got to Bulawayo.”

”Perhaps. But--they haven't got Lo Ben yet,” replied her father, unconsciously repeating Blachland's own words. ”They'll have to get him. Fancy him blowing up his own place and clearing!”

”_Ja_. I knew he'd make old Lo Ben scoot,” reiterated Fred.

There was another household something over six thousand miles distant from Bayfield's in which the name of Hilary Blachland was held in honour, which is strange, because the last time we glanced within the walls of this establishment, the reverse was the case. ”That out and out irreclaimable scamp!” was the definition of the absent one then. It was hard winter around Jerningham Lodge when the news of Spence's rescue arrived there, and it was sprung upon Sir Luke Canterby in precisely the same manner as he had learned the whereabouts of his erring nephew on that occasion--through the daily papers to wit. He had congratulated himself mightily on the success of Percival's mission. The latter's correspondence was full of Hilary, and what great times they were having together up-country. Then the war broke out and the tidings which reached Sir Luke of his absent nephews were few and far between.

Thereupon he waxed testy, and mightily expatiated to his old friend Canon Lenthall.

”They're ungrateful dogs the pair of them. Yes, sir--Ungrateful dogs I said, and I'll say it again. What business had they to go running their necks into this noose?”

The Canon suggested that in all probability they couldn't help themselves, that they couldn't exactly turn tail and run away. Sir Luke refused to be mollified.

”It was their duty to. Hang it, Canon. What did I send Percy out there for? To bring the other rascal home, didn't I? And now--and now he stays away himself too. It's outrageous.”

Then had come the news of the capture and occupation of Bulawayo, and the events incidental to the progress of the column thither, and Sir Luke's enthusiasm over his favourite nephew's deed knew no bounds. He became something like a bore on the subject whenever he could b.u.t.tonhole a listener, indeed to hear him would lead the said listener to suppose that never a deed of self-sacrificing gallantry had been done before, and certainly never would be again, unless perchance by that formerly contemned and now favoured individual hight Hilary Blachland.

”That out and out irreclaimable scamp,” murmured the Canon with a very comic twinkle in his eyes. Then, as his old friend looked rather foolish--”See here, Canterby, I don't think I gave you bad advice when I recommended you to put that draft behind the fire.”

”Bad advice! No, sir. I'm a fool sometimes--in fact, very often.

But--oh hang it, d.i.c.k, this is splendid news. Shake hands on it, sir, shake hands on it, and you've got to stay and dine with me to-night, and we'll put up a bottle of the very best to drink his health.”

And the two old friends shook hands very heartily.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A FEARSOME VOYAGE.

On rushed the mighty stream, roaring its swollen course down to the Zambesi, rolling with it the body of dead Ziboza, hacked and ripped, the grand frame of the athletic savage a mere chip when tossed about by the hissing waves of the turbid flood. On, too, rolled the body of his slayer, as yet uninjured and still containing life. And in the noon-tide night, darkened by the black rain-burst which beat down in torrents, and, well-nigh ceaseless, the blue lightning sheeted over the furious boil of brown water and tree trunks and driftwood: and with the awful roar above, even the baffled savages were cowed, for it seemed as though the elements themselves were wrath over the death of a mighty chief.

Strange are the trifles which turn the scale of momentous happenings.

Strange, too, and ironical withal, that the body of dead Ziboza should be the means of restoring to life its very nearly dead slayer. For the current, bringing the corpse of the chief against a large uprooted tree, upset the balance of this, causing it to rise half out of the water and turn right over. This in its turn impeded a quant.i.ty of driftwood, and the whole ma.s.s, coming in violent contact with the bank, threw back a great wave, the swirl of which, catching the body of the still-living man, heaved it into a lateral cleft, then poured forth again to rejoin the momentarily impeded current.

A glimmer of returning consciousness moved Hilary Blachland to grasp a trailing bough which swept down into the cleft, a clearer instinct moved him to hold on to it with all his might and main. Thus he saved himself from being sucked back into the stream again.