In the Whirl of the Rising

“That’s news!” said Peters. “They’re likely coming for this place, expecting only to find Grunberger, all childlike and confiding. Ah!”

Again the vedette was signalling, and all eyes turned instinctively in the same direction as before. There, sure enough, where the first dust column had been sighted, arose another; no narrow thread this time but a very volume.

“That’s them, right enough,” said Driffield, while refreshing. “Let my boy have some skoff, will you, Grunberger. He’s jolly well earned it.”

If the news brought by the Native Commissioner was a source of vivid excitement to all present, no less was theirs to him. He had calculated on warning Grunberger, and if needful giving him a hand in moving his family to Gandela, which he would have had time to do while the Matabele were looting his possessions; instead of which he found the place quite strongly garrisoned, and indeed, considering its defensive facilities, it might be held against very considerable odds. And thus to hold it was the resolve of all there.

“By Jove, but you fellows were in luck,” he said regretfully. “I wish I had been there. And Miss Vidal – why, she’s splendid.”

“I can tell you she saved the whole outfit, by preventing the niggers getting at the mules before we came up,” went on his informant. “I had it from Fullerton she shot three with her own hand.”

“Three mules?”

“No – niggers – don’t be a silly ass, Driffield. Only don’t make any allusion to it when you see her. She wants to forget it.”

“Of course. Any nice girl would. And she – by Jove, she’s splendid!”

“You’re not alone in that opinion,” said the other so significantly as to draw the obvious query —

“Why?”

“Well,” lowering his voice, “Lamont seems to be making powerful running in that quarter. In fact he pretty well gave the show away in his wild eagerness to start after them the moment he heard Fullerton’s crowd was on the road at all.”

Whereby it is manifest that Lamont’s secret was not quite such a secret as he – and the sharer of it – imagined.

He, the while, together with others, was watching the approaching dust-cloud, and a council of war was held. Most were in favour of allowing the raiders to approach quite close, and then surprise them with a raking volley. This followed up quickly by another and another could not fail to demoralise them utterly. Meanwhile the pickets came riding rapidly in.

“Large force of Matabele coming up the road, sir,” reported the first.

“Right. Every man to his post,” ordered Lamont. His expression of countenance grew anxious, as soon the impi swung into view, marching in close formation, and divided into three companies – the largest and central of which kept the road, hence the dust-cloud. For he estimated that it could not be less than a thousand strong, and how was his small force going to hold its own against a determined rush on the part of such overwhelming odds?

The impi, as it drew near, presented an imposing spectacle. The warriors were in their national fighting gear. Quite half of them had been herders or mine boys for the settlers and prospectors – some perchance store-hands in the townships, but all had discarded the tattered shirt and trousers, or ragged hat, and their bronze bodies were bedecked with feather and bead adornments, and cow-tails, and monkey skins, and jackal-teeth necklaces – all of which, from a spectacular point of view, constituted an immense improvement. Then, too, the forest of great tufted shields, white or black, red or variegated, the quivering rattle of assegai hafts, making weird accompaniment to the gong-like roar of the deep voices as they marched, singing – assuredly the sight was a martial and inspiring one; but of those who beheld it their leader was not the only one to think that he might have appreciated it more fully if this enclosure contained not less than a hundred good white men instead of a bare three dozen.

The latter were watching through the chinks in the stockade – these in many places formed natural loopholes, where they did not they were made to. How long would it be before the word was given to fire? was the one thought in possession of each tense, strained mind. Then, suddenly, the advancing host came to a halt.

Clearly the Matabele were not quite satisfied as to the place being so innocent-looking and deserted as they had expected. For one thing, there were no horses or cattle grazing about anywhere within sight, these, of course, having been brought within at the earliest alarm. This looked suspicious.

They were obviously holding a consultation, but had lowered their voices so as not to be heard by whoever might be inside. Then about a score of them, leaving the others, came a little nearer.

“Ho, Gumbega,” called out one, hailing the storekeeper by the nearest approach to his name that the native tongue could roll itself round. “Are you from home that your gate is all barred up and made extra strong?”

“No, I am here,” replied Grunberger, in obedience to a whisper from Lamont. “But that was done by the captain’s orders.”

“The captain! What captain?”

“The captain of about a hundred men who arrived here yesterday. Look at all the rifles.”

There was no mistake as to this. Rifle barrels protruded through the chinks so that the whole of that side of the stockade seemed to glisten with them. The savages were obviously nonplussed. A strongly defended place containing a hundred well-armed whites – or even half that number – constituted a nut which, large as their own force was, they did not care to crack – at any rate not just then. So without a word those who had come forward returned to the main body, and the whole impi resumed its way, taking care to let them see, however, that it had no intention of drawing any nearer to the place.

“Come out and look, Lucy,” said Clare, who had been dividing her attention between watching what was going on and trying to reassure her terrified sister. “It’s a splendid sight, and we don’t get an opportunity of seeing a big Matabele regiment on the march every day, and in full war-paint too.”

“A splendid sight! Ugh, the horrible wretches! I never want to set eyes on them again.”

And the speaker shuddered, and stopped her ears as though to shut out the receding thunder of the marching song.

“But, Mrs Fullerton, there’s nothing to be frightened of,” urged the storekeeper’s wife. “They’re going right away.”

An idea struck Clare. Going outside, the first person she ran against was Lamont.

“Piers,” she said in a low tone, “where are they going?”

“I suspect they are making straight for Gandela.”

“Will they – take it?”

“No reason why they should, if only Orwell and Isard have condescended to act on my repeated warning, and put the place into a state of defence.”

“And if not – ?”

He looked at her for a moment without answering. Then he said —

“In that case these will have things all their own way.”

“How awful!”

“Well, we must hope for the best.”

“What if we had started to return there to-day?” she said suddenly, “We should have had to reckon with these. The mules are in no condition to travel out properly, and they could soon have overhauled us.”

“Ah!”

Then she subsided into silence. Even her courageous spirit had fallen upon a kind of reaction. The morning had been so bright and happy, and now a shadow of horror and gloom seemed to have darkened upon the land. Bloodshed, massacre everywhere, would it never pass? The other seemed to read her thoughts.

“Do not give way to depression, my Clare,” he said. “Keep up your own brave heart. We are quite safe here, with ordinary precaution, and you may be sure that nothing of that will be wanting. This cloud will pass, and all will be brighter than ever.”

“I seem to have a presentiment. Oh, it is horrible! And there is bloodshed on my hands too.”

“There is none,” he replied emphatically. “No, none. What you were forced to do to defend the life of your helpless sister does not count for one single moment. Darling, did we not settle all that last evening?”

“Yes, we did. You are a born comforter, dearest. But I believe it is my love for you that is making a coward of me. What if – if I lost you before this horrible war is over?”

“Now – now – now!” adopting a rallying tone, although thrilled to the heart by her words. “You must not indulge in these fancies or my bright and winsome Clare will be quite somebody else. I shall have to call Peters to cheer you up. See how he is keeping those jokers in a roar over there.”

This was a fact, but not an accident. Peters, ever watchful where his idolised friend was concerned, had gathered together quite a crowd, a little way apart, and was clearly regaling it with abundant humour – which he possessed – and this with the sole intent that these two should have a little time together uninterrupted.

“Yes, he can be very entertaining,” said Clare. “And I like him so much. Do you know, darling, he simply adores you.”

“I know he does his level best to make me beastly conceited.”

“He told me how you risked your life to save his during the retreat on the Shangani.”

“Did he, confound him! Then it was a distinct act of mutiny, for he’s under strict orders to let that well-worn chestnut be forgotten. I’ll have him put under arrest for disobedience to orders, since by popular vote I seem to have been put in command here.”

“But you weren’t in command here when he told me, so you can’t come down upon him. How’s that?” and she laughed brightly.

“In that case I suppose I can’t,” he allowed, rejoicing greatly that she had shaken off her vein of depression. “But you know, dearest, that sort of thing was done over and over again during that very Shangani business, for one, by other men, and nobody thought of making a fuss about it. It was taken quite as a matter of course, and naturally it genuinely annoys me when Peters tries to make a sort of scissors and paste-pot hero of me.”

“I shall claim the right to reserve my own opinion, all the same,” she declared with mock loftiness. “By the way, who is Mr Peters? He seems something of a mystery.”

“Yes. He delights in humbugging the curious. Nobody is ever an atom the wiser concerning him.”

“But – you know.”

“Yes, I know all about him.”

“And – you won’t tell me?”

“No.”

It came out quite naturally but quite decisively.

“Then you will have secrets from me?”

“Other people’s secrets – certainly.”

“And – your own?”

“I haven’t got any.”

During this apparent skirmish they had been looking each other straight in the eyes. But the skirmish was only apparent. “Oh, I do love a man who knows his own mind,” said the girl delightedly. “Why, I was not even trying you, for I knew beforehand what your answer would be.”

“I know you were not. Well, if you really want to know anything about Peters, the only possible way of doing so is to – ask Peters.”

Then they both laughed – laughed long and heartily.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Attack at Dawn

Over the slumbering land the dawn has not yet broken, though but for the chill mist lying upon bush and earth the first faint streaks might be lining the eastern sky. Nor are the voices of the night stilled as yet, and the weird laughter of the faraway jackals, and the crying of invisible plover circling above, blend with ghostly mysterious rustlings among the bush and damp grass-bents. For, like dark ghosts, innumerable figures are flitting, well-nigh shoulder to shoulder in the mist, moving rapidly in noiseless, springy advance.

Now these halt, and listen intently. Not a sound is audible on the stillness; rather, would not be save to such as they. But to them, well-nigh inaudible in the distance, comes the steady ‘crunch crunch’ of ruminating cattle, and the occasional snort and stamp of a horse.

They move forward again, and although not one can see more than a dozen yards on either side, the crescent-moon formation advances unbroken. They move forward, but now no longer erect. In bent, crouching attitude, head turned on one side, intently listening, yet none the less swiftly, none the less noiselessly, do they move; so noiselessly indeed that not even the faintest rattle of assegai haft against shield stick is heard throughout the whole length of that terrible battle line, and of voices not even the faintest breath of a whisper. No need for such at this stage. The tactics are simplicity itself, the plan already laid.

Out of the misty gloom in front – though this is now growing perceptibly less – the chewing of the ruminating cattle sounds nearer, but of any sound betokening the proximity of human beings there is none. Soon, of human beings other than these there will be none; none left in life, that is; and the eyeballs of these human wolves roll, in the delirious transport of the awaiting blood-feast; and weapons of destruction are gripped and ready. Of a truth this mist is not there by accident. It has been invoked by Umlimo that his children might steal upon these hated Amakiwa, and rid the land of so many more of them, according to his bidding.

And yet, the concealing mist is thinning somewhat. Well, it has served its purpose, and having done so they will be better without it, to make their work the surer and the more complete. And now, through its lifting folds, rises in dark loom the jagged silhouette of the mopani stockade. Then the crescent line seems to tighten itself as for a spring, and, still in dead silence, the swarming dark figures hurl themselves forward. They have barely a couple of hundred yards to cover, and they will be pouring over the fence in their numbers, and overwhelming those within by their sheer weight. Half the distance is already covered, and in each savage ruthless heart is the anticipating delight of a demon – when, lo —

It is as though the earth itself were splitting in the detonnade which rends the stillness, crashing forth from that dark silent barrier. Aimed low, hardly a single bullet misses its mark, in many cases doing double, even treble, execution at that short range. Those thus stricken leap in the air or fall heavily forward, in any case staggering, and upsetting those immediately behind or around; and still with unflagging rapidity and unerring accuracy that deadly fire plays upon the whole advancing line. Advancing? No! Now no longer; for like the roll of a vast billow, met by a cliff face, this dark wave staggers, hurling itself on high, then falls back; and ever that pitiless hail adds to the destruction, at the rate of so many lives per second. The confusion is awful, absolute, complete.

Howls and yells, roars and shrieks from those stricken down, and those in their immediate vicinity, mingle with the wild hissing of those behind, pressing forward in fierce eagerness to pour over the defences before those within shall have time to reload. But those within seem not under the necessity of doing anything of the kind, for somehow that terrific fire never slackens, and the crashing detonnade is marked by the same deadly execution upon those without. Human intrepidity has its limits, and these fall back, gliding, wriggling like snakes so as to render themselves as inconspicuous a mark as possible. And aided by the – to them – friendly mist, many escape who would otherwise have shrilled their last battle-hiss.

“Time!” called Peters, with a grim laugh, and then a smothered cuss word, as the hot barrel of his magazine rifle which he was reloading came in contact with a knuckle. “Time! That’s the first round, and I guess we’ve knocked our friend the enemy some.”

“First round!” echoed Jim Steele. “Why, we’ve knocked him out.”

“Not yet – by any means. And when it gets quite light, and he realises how few we are, it’ll take us all our time to do it.”

The excitement of the men was something indescribable, and intensified the more by their anxiety to keep cool. It found vent in the restless gleaming of their eyes, and a few muttered explosions of profanity. There had been a little discontentment the evening before when Lamont and Peters had decided that all should not only remain under arms, but that each man should spend the night at his post; in short, that the whole garrison should, as it were, stand on sentry-go. Surely a double guard would be sufficient, they had argued. But the two leaders, backed up by others equally well versed in the ways of the wily savage, had decided otherwise. Not for nothing had that formidable impi left them so quietly and peacefully the day before, they had pointed out. Just such a move as this would have been intended. Now those who had been the least contented were the first to recognise the wisdom of the plan.

But, as Peters has said, it was only the first round, for now a swarming crowd of savages, advancing at a lightning run, hurled themselves upon the stockade at the other side, with intent to effect an entrance in overwhelming force before the defenders should have time to create sufficient havoc to turn them. It was a weak point too, for the back wall of a long, low stable constituted a break in the line of mopani poles, and once under cover of this a considerable number of them would be sheltered from the effects of any cross-fire, and could even set alight the thatched roof. And as if to second their efforts an extra dense cloud of mist, borne down by the wind, rolled right up to the stable wall.

Here, too, the crackling volleys mowed them down, but doing nothing like the execution that had been at first effected.

“Good Lord! here’s a go,” muttered the police sergeant, who with his men formed a section of the defenders on this side. “There’s quite a lot of the cusses under here, and we can’t get at ’em. Stop. I’ll have a try.”

He hoisted himself up to the top of the palisade, and, reaching over, pumped his revolver into the concentrated mass. An awful roar of rage and dismay arose from below, raked thus at close quarters; then one agile warrior, taking in the situation, leaped upward, and drove his assegai clean through the throat of the unfortunate policeman, who fell back stone dead, his vertebrae completely severed by the impact of the stroke.

But hardly time had those around to take in this than a diversion occurred. Grunberger appeared from within his store bearing a strange unwieldy object, followed by Driffield’s Makalaka boy armed with a crowbar. Both entered the stable, and but for the crackle of firing and hissing and yells of the Matabele, a sound might have been heard like that of drilling a hole in a mud wall. A moment later a sound was heard; a roar from within the stable like that of a discharge of cannon, together with the squealing and stamping of mules. A crowd of savages who had been lurking there under secure cover, as they thought, awaiting their chance, rushed helter-skelter forth to regain the main rank – and not all reached it. Soon after, the German reappeared, choking with laughter.

“Dot is one goot old shspring-gun,” he explained. “I fill him up mit black powder und loopers, den I make one leetle hole, und shtick him through, ja so, mit de muzzle pointing upwards. Herr Gott! but de Matabele think dot a cannon haf gone off.”

“Well done, Grunberger, well done!” cried Lamont. “You’re a man of resource. They ought to have made you a colonel in your own army before they’d done with you.”

“Ach, so,” said the old soldier, greatly pleased. “Well, I load him up again. Dot place behind the stable they find no longer safe.”

“What’s the row, Driffield? Not hit?” cried Lamont sharply. For a sudden fusillade had opened on that side, and the chips were flying wildly from the mopani poles.

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered the Native Commissioner dazedly, staggering back from one of the improvised loopholes. “At least – no – I think not.”

A bullet had struck the barrel of his rifle, and the shock had produced a numbing sensation, causing him to drop the weapon.

“N-no. I’m all right. It’s only hit the shooter, blazes take it! It’s all right, too.”

“What’s this?” growled Peters. “They weren’t firing before. I believe they’ve been reinforced; like yesterday.”

And as if to bear out his words, at that moment a furious rush was made on the palisades from all sides, to the accompaniment of a perfect hail of missiles, all fired high, and obviously with intent to confuse the defenders, and cover the advance of a strong storming party. At the same time the crashing of axes was heard against the poles on the side where stood the store and dwelling-house – the side, to wit, where the women and wounded were sheltered.

“Half of you here!” ordered Lamont in clear ringing tones. “Those are no mere flimsy native choppers, but good imported axes.”

They were only just in time. Demon figures, swarming out of the mist by dozens and scores, were on the heels of those who had been told off to cut a way in. The hissing and yells rose hideously above the terrific roar of the volleys. And now upon the farther side the savages were dropping down within the stockade, while the larger section of the defenders were engaged in repelling this more serious menace.

It was of no use. At that point the defenders were helpless. The place was divided into two enclosures, and the one in which the Matabele had secured a footing was the cattle kraal. In less than no time they were blazing away from the inner fence, and all on that side must perforce take cover in the houses.

Not without loss. Several men lay dead or grievously disabled, and the horrible death-hiss of the savages shrilled forth more demoniacally loud as they poured their fire again and again into these.

And now, taken thus in the rear, the situation of the whites seems hopeless. Clearly they are doomed. Those within the houses find it all they can do to keep the assailants already within the cattle kraal from pouring over, and rushing the position. Those on the front side are straining every effort to hold in check the attempt to break down the stockade; for the wily enemy had chosen a spot where the logs stand thick, and there is scarcely a chink to fire through. And above – around – the mist, which had lifted somewhat, descends darker than ever in its dank, thick folds.

Every man there is a desperate and dangerous animal, for every man there is fighting for his life, and not only for his life, for of that he has given up all hope, but maddened by the thought of those helpless women. What of them, when there are no more left to fight for them?

To one we may be sure this aspect of affairs is borne in upon with searing, maddening force. Outwardly deadly calm, Lamont is superintending, directing everything, yet when the head of a savage shows itself above the palings it drops back, drilled by a soft-nosed bullet from the unerring magazine rifle. His back is against the dwelling-house of the store, as he watches and directs operations.

“What chance have we?”

The voice, firm and without a tremor, is from the window just at his back. He cannot resist one quick turn of the head for one last look at the pale, set, beautiful face – ah! and the anguish of that moment renders him a hundredfold more desperate.

“My Clare! Do you want to live after capture?” and he hardly knows his own voice.

“No.”

“Quite sure?”

“Need you ask?”

“Then – when I say, ‘Now!’ say the ‘Commendo spiritum meum’ and turn your back to me. Understand?”

“I understand.”

There is no time for words. In the shadow of this grim, sudden, violent death, the same thought is in both their minds. Would the next few moments, the fleeting agony of one swift pang over, unite them together for evermore, or —

Three sharp detonating explosions, one after another, staggered them, with their vibrating shock upon the air. With howls of dismay the swarming savages had scattered, rushing helter-skelter in all directions. Not all, though – no not all. Many would never rush anywhere again. The first glimmer of explanation came in the shape of Grunberger, who stood, chuckling and choking and shaking with laughter. The sight sobered those who beheld it, all inured as they were to ghastly sights. Had the man’s brain suddenly given way?

“Ach, so!” he chuckled. “Ach, so! De tam niggers haf got one leetle shock this time. Here goes for another.”

And with the words, he raised his arm, and seemed to hurl something he held in his hand far out beyond the stockade. In an instant the same vibrating roar seemed to stun the air. Then the explanation stood revealed. The ingenious German had been turning time to account by doing a little stroke of business on his own. He had got out some dynamite cartridges, and, having set them with a cleverly contrived fuse, had hurled them into the thick of the enemy where he judged they would do most execution. His calculation was rewarded, for now, imagining that they were being attacked in the rear, and utterly demoralised by the havoc and concussion, the Matabele warriors stampeded in a wild frenzy of terror, leaving the whole of that side open. “You’ve saved us, Grunberger,” cried Lamont. “By God! you’ve saved us, man.”