In the Whirl of the Rising

“Ach, so! Well, I think I made de tam niggers feel sick.”

What is this? There is a rumbling noise, then the sharp cracking of shots away there in the mist. It becomes a regular roll – and with it the sound of yells and the scurry of flying feet. The frenzied bellowing and moaning of the cattle in the kraal, rushing hither and thither, and struck down by the assegais of the savages, blends, too, with the roar and din and confusion. Yet – what is this? Nearer and nearer comes that volleying roll, nearer and nearer the rumble of unmistakable horse-hoofs, and, as with incredible swiftness the last remaining savages flit away into the mist, such a ringing cheer goes up from all within the stockade that hardly the hell of the recent battle rout can have surpassed it for volume.

It is answered, and now out of the smother, other forms appear – the forms of armed horsemen; and still the darkling mist is rent ever and anon by a spurt of flame, as these descry a belated body of fleeing warriors not sufficiently quick to take themselves out of sight and range.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

“Where is he?”

Clare Vidal’s beautiful eyes are strained upon the farthest limits of vision in a certain direction, and, not for the first time, the thought rather than the utterance, expressed by these three words, passes through her mind —

“Where is he?”

The day is one of cloudless beauty. With the arrival – the timely arrival – of the relieving force an hour or so ago, the mist had suddenly rolled back; retreating as though still to curtain their flight, simultaneously with the demoralised Matabele. The said relieving force – which was made up of a company of Green’s Scouts, and a number of mounted men who had volunteered to patrol the Buluwayo road, and warn and assist all who should be in danger – had forthwith started in hot pursuit. They were going to keep that impi on the run, they declared, even if it had to run to – well, a certain place that shall be nameless, but which is popularly understood to lie within the torrid zone. With them had gone Lamont. Clare was a little sore at heart, a little reproachful, as she stood there outside the stockade, gazing wistfully out over the roll of the veldt. Why had he left her just then? There was no necessity for it. Had he not borne himself as a very hero in that awful fight which seemed to have lasted a year, though in point of actual time it lasted considerably less than an hour; what necessity then could there be for him to give further evidence of his prowess? They two had but been snatched back from the portal of Death, had even felt his cold blast together – why then, could he not have remained by her at such a moment? For the life of her she could not but feel conscious of a certain soreness.

Since the relief Clare had been by no means idle; for, conquering her natural repulsion towards wounds and death, she had been rendering the surgeon very practical assistance, and incidentally, but all unconsciously, had gone far towards implanting in poor Strange’s system a wound which only time might avail to heal. Her quick aptitude, however, atoned for her lack of experience, to a quite astonishing degree, and Strange expressed considerable scepticism as to her never having undergone any training. Lucy Fullerton, utterly worn out with the exhaustion of terror, had fallen sound asleep through the sheer reaction of relief; which was as well, for it may be imagined that the relics of such a struggle as this had been consisted largely of ghastly and horrifying sights meeting the eye at every turn. These, however, had been minimised, and the enemy’s dead had been dragged off to a sufficient distance as to be invisible.

Their own dead had been cared for, and the wounded made as comfortable as the circumstances of the place would admit; this it turned out was beyond what might have been expected, for the Kezane Store was exceedingly well supplied with most necessaries; and fortunate indeed that it was so, for there had been grave danger of ammunition giving out during the battle. It must not be supposed, either, that the place was left to take its chance, practically undefended, for over and above its original defenders quite a number of the relieving force, whose horses were not up to further calls upon speed and endurance, had remained behind.

“You must have had the very devil of a scrap, Peters,” one of these was saying. “We could hear you banging away from the time you began, and pushed our gees for all they’d carry; for we reckoned all that shooting meant a big thing and no bally skirmish. The cream of the fun was when we got in among the niggers in the mist. They didn’t know we were there till we got cracking away right in their faces, or mostly backs. Magtig! didn’t they skip. But – I say though – what old powder magazine was it that you blew up just before we got here? Man! it nearly knocked us all down.”

The explanation of Grunberger’s ingenious device raised a great laugh, and many were the felicitations showered upon that estimable Teuton.

“I say, Wyndham,” another was saying. “What on earth could have possessed you and Fullerton to start tooling your team off into the very teeth of hell let loose, in the confiding, childlike way you seem to have done?”

“We didn’t know hell was let loose, that’s the explanation. But Lamont went for us on exactly the same terms.”

“Lamont? Is he with you then?”

“I should say so. Why, he’s been bossing up the whole show. If it hadn’t been for him we’d have gone under long before we got here.”

“So? Then you’ve got a right good man, that’s all. I was out with him in ’93. He’s a tiger in a fight.”

“Seems to be,” said Wyndham drily. “You’d think he’d had enough of that sort of thing day before yesterday, and this morning, to last him at any rate for a day or two, and now instead of having a quiet smoke and a cool drink, like a rational Christian, he must race off along with your crowd to contract for some more knocks. Silly ass!”

“There’s something in it when you put things that way. But – I say. Who’s the lady?”

“Where?” following his glance. “Oh, that’s Miss Vidal, Fullerton’s sister-in-law.”

“So! By Jove! what a fine-looking girl. Oh! oh! – Wyndham, you deep-down dog! So that’s where the little venture in charioteering came in, eh? I see.”

“Shut up, Selby, and don’t be a silly ass,” answered Wyndham shortly. “I hate that sort of chaff, you know.”

“Oh, all right, old man. Keep your shirt in,” was the good-humoured rejoinder.

“I think I’ll go and talk to Miss Vidal now,” said Wyndham, just a trifle self-consciously. “By Jove! she has been plucky throughout all this.”

“So? Well, good luck, old man.”

Clare had returned to her post of observation outside, but there was still no sign of the returning pursuit: and now a dire heart-sinking began to take the place of her former resentment. She looked at her watch. They had been away an hour nearly. Surely the work of completing the rout should have been over by that time. They should be returning, and there was one whom she would scold – scold gently – for having gone with them. No. She believed she would not scold him at all. It would be all too sufficing to behold him once more safe and sound.

“Taking a morning constitutional, Miss Vidal? Well, it has turned out a lovely day, hasn’t it?” And Wyndham, conscious of the banality of the remark, felt rather foolish.

She turned, but she was hardly listening to him. Why did they not come back? ran her thoughts. Had they, rendered reckless by success, pursued the fleeing enemy too far? The force which had attacked them was a strong one – strong and daring. What if it had recovered from its first wild panic? What if it had rallied, and shown a sudden change of front to its pursuers? What if the latter had straggled and been cut off in detail by the vengeful savages; all of which reduced to detail meant: What if one of them had?

“What do you think, Mr Wyndham?” she said suddenly. “Why are they so long away?”

Wyndham was no fool, and apart from what he had heard hinted at – albeit always in a kindly and good-natured way – would have had no difficulty in putting two and two together.

“Don’t you be anxious, Miss Vidal,” he said. “Those men are a hard-bitten lot, and not in the least likely to be led into any booby trap.”

“You think so?” she queried, speaking quickly.

“I’m sure of it. Ah – Look there. See? I was right. Here they come.”

Her face lighted up in a way that cost poor Wyndham something of a pang. It was even as he had said. Away over the nearly flat landscape figures were moving – horsemen. As they drew nearer it could be seen that they were split up in irregular groups, and were riding leisurely.

“Mr Wyndham, will you do me a very great favour?” she went on, speaking quickly. “Do get me those binoculars some of you were looking through yesterday.”

“Certainly I will. Grunberger has a good pair.”

He was back at her side in a minute. What horrible presentiment or instinct was it that caused Clare’s hands to tremble as she put the glasses to her eyes, so that she could scarcely see anything through them? With an effort she controlled her excitement. The horsemen were much nearer now, and she could make out they were quite unconcerned, and seemed to be chatting and laughing together. Clearly, then, nothing had gone wrong, and there had been no casualties.

To that extent relieved she brought the glasses to bear upon group after group, but still they failed to reveal – one.

“Where is he?” she repeated, speaking unconsciously half aloud.

“Let me look, Miss Vidal,” said Wyndham, tactfully facing the situation. Then, as she surrendered the glasses to him, a rapid, but careful scrutiny convinced him that among those now approaching Lamont was not.

“Don’t be anxious, Miss Vidal,” he said. “There may be others coming on behind. In fact, there are sure to be.”

But as the mounted men drew near, the veldt between them and the farthest line of vision spread undisturbed by other mounted figures – no – nor did the widest scrutiny in any direction reveal any sight of such. What did it mean?

“Keep yourself in hand, Miss Vidal, whatever you do,” said Wyndham concernedly, as he noted how ashy pale the beautiful face had grown. “I’ll find out about this.”

In a very short time the whole troop had mustered. The men were in high spirits. They had driven the enemy before them for miles, they reported, and had made still greater holes in their numbers. They had broken up that impi most effectually, and taught the rebels a lesson they wouldn’t forget for a long day to come. Lamont? Oh, he had last been seen away on the right flank with about a dozen men riding down the enemy for all they were worth. The mist was rather thick up where they were, which was at the foot of a range of low hills. He’d turn up directly, they held. Turn up! Rather! Of course he would, and report a record bag, too. Lamont was an old campaigner and a knowing one. There need be no anxiety about him. And then all hands, having attended to their horses, turned to and assailed their well-earned refreshment with a whole-heartedness that left nothing to be desired.

“There need be no anxiety about him.” Thus the cheerful dictum! Need there not? But to one there, at any rate, ‘anxiety about him’ turned to something like anguish, as the morning wore on, and still he did not appear. It needed all of Clare Vidal’s splendid pluck and self-command to conceal her terrible anxiety. To those nearest to her, she could no longer keep her secret by reason of it; no longer, indeed, did she care to.

“Oh, it’ll be all right, Clare,” said Fullerton, cheerfully and good-naturedly, when appealed to. “You’ve seen what Lamont’s made of, and you bet he won’t enjoy being fussed after by women when he’s got a bit of sharpish work in hand.” In despair she turned to Wyndham.

“Do help me,” she pleaded. “If you won’t I’ll go alone. Get some of the men who last saw him – them – and make a thorough search. Who knows what may have happened. I will go with you. I can borrow Mrs Grunberger’s side-saddle.”

“I’ll do what I can, Miss Vidal, but only on condition that you remain here.”

“But – I can’t. I can’t.”

“But you must,” he answered firmly. “Just think. You’d be far more of a hindrance than a help. And we can’t do with hindrances.”

She gave way, and Wyndham set to work to organise a search or a relief, as the case might be. There was no lack of volunteers. The troop was mustered, and it was found that besides Lamont there were seven men missing. And now for the first time something like a feeling of blank uneasiness spread through the whole force.

Was there ground for it? We shall see. Some three hours earlier Lamont and a mere handful of men were pursuing a disorganised mass of the fleeing Matabele. The latter were thoroughly demoralised; panic-stricken beyond all thought – and seemingly, all power – of resistance. They would allow themselves to be shot down as they ran, sullenly, doggedly, not even begging for quarter; and little mercy had the avengers on the murderers and mutilators of women and children. The horses were getting blown, and then it occurred to Lamont that he was allowing his excitement to outstrip his prudential instincts. Quietly he conveyed the recommendation to retire – he could not give an order, for none of these were his own men.

Some of them acted upon it, and some did not. And then as the former reined in their panting steeds, an unpleasant discovery was made. In the eagerness of the pursuit they had wandered afield. They made out, as well as the mist would allow, that they had got among hills, and assuredly, judging by the entire absence of sound, they had got right away from the main body. In short they did not know where they were, and until the mist should lift did not know whether to bear to the right or the left. The situation was growing awkward.

And to render it more awkward still, they could hear the savages calling to one another on either side of and rather above them. This looked as though the weakness of the party had been discovered. And just then, a curtain of mist rolled backward and upward, revealing granite-strewn slopes, and along them, resting after their wild and headlong flight, crouched masses of armed warriors. These, seeing the mere handful of whites, sprang up immediately and came for them, uttering wild yells.

But not at once did they close. This might be but the advance party of the force which had meted out to them such terrible punishment, and might again whirl down upon them in the mist as it had done before. So they kept a parallel course, as they ran in pursuit, loth to quit the welcome refuge of rock and boulder in the event of surprise.

The party now realised that it was in a tight place. The horses were far from fresh, and the fleet-footed savages could keep pace with them on the upper slopes. Even then all might have turned out well, but the mist, which had befriended them by concealing their weakness, now lifted entirely, dispelled by a brilliant flash of sunlight. In a few moments the whole situation stood revealed. They were in a sort of labyrinth between low stony kopjes, and not one of the main body was in sight. With a very roar of hate and exultation, the whole mass of savages, realising their helplessness, swept down upon them from both sides.

“Spur up, boys. No time for shooting,” cried Lamont, instinctively the commander. “Spur up! It’s our only chance.”

They know this, and they do spur up. If the horses had got anything left in them they have to travel now. Again, instinctively, Lamont holds back to cover the rear, though he could easily have been among the foremost.

For some minutes this terrible race continues – its prizes dear life; and now as the ground becomes more level, the horsemen are gaining. Through the fierce hissing and the thunder of the shouts of the pursuers nothing else can be heard, and it is literally every man for himself.

In the wild din, we repeat, nothing can be heard, consequently the residue of the refugees are totally unaware that one among their number is down, lying pinned to the ground by his horse but otherwise uninjured, awaiting the spears of hundreds of savages aroused to the last degree of vengeful exasperation. But such is sadly the case – and that man is Piers Lamont.

This is “where he is.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

No Hope!

The township of Gandela was practically in a state of siege. Taught tardy wisdom – providentially not too tardy – by recent happenings, its authorities had caused a strong laager to be formed, and within this its inhabitants gathered at night. To those of them who owned stands in outlying parts of the township this was a considerable disadvantage, for in the event of attack their property would inevitably be looted and their houses burnt. Moreover, the accommodation within the laager was of necessity cramped and comfortless, and involved a considerable amount of promiscuous ‘herding,’ But in those lurid days, when tale succeeded tale of treacherous massacre and mutilation throughout the length and breadth of the land, – unhappily, for the most part true, – when refugees, singly or in groups, would come panting in with hair-breadth escapes to narrate, unspeakably glad to have escaped with their bare lives, – when, at any moment, the Matabele impis might swoop down upon them in such force as to tax their uttermost resources – why, then, people were not particular as to a little discomfort more or less.

And of this, in the Gandela laager at any rate, there was plenty. Transport had been scanty and dear enough, in all conscience, before, when it was not uncommon for a whole span of oxen to succumb on the road to the fell rinderpest. Now, since the outbreak, when anything like regular communication had been cut off – the roads only being kept open by strong and well-armed patrols and then at the cost of fierce fighting – the situation at outlying posts such as Gandela became more than serious. The food supplies threatened to run short. There was not much fear of any attack in the daytime, or at all events without ample warning, for the surrounding country was carefully scouted on every side; and such being the case those who dwelt on the outlying stands occupied their houses until sundown, when they collected within the laager. Among such were the Fullertons.

The worthy Dick grumbled terribly; not at the prevailing discomfort, but that having womenkind to look after he was debarred from joining any field force – at all events for the present – for the plan which we heard formulated for the raising of such a force under the command of Lamont was of necessity in abeyance by reason of the disappearance of the latter.

Disappearance, indeed, was the word. The men who were with him when flying for their lives had been utterly unable to tell when or where they had lost sight of him. They had, however, been able to guide the relief party under Peters and Wyndham to the place within the hills where they had been first attacked. But – no trace of him whom they sought. Farther on, they came upon the bodies of two others of the stragglers – as usual, hacked and mutilated – those of their horses, similarly treated, lying hard by. But of Lamont there was absolutely no trace. He seemed to have disappeared, horse and man.

The situation contained one hopeful feature. If there was no trace of him in life, equally was there no trace of his death; no blood marks, such as would probably have been the case. The innumerable footprints of the pursuing Matabele might have obliterated such, yet it was improbable that to experienced spoor-readers – and there were several here – some trace, however faint, should not be discernible; and herein lay room for hope.

The missing man might be in close hiding among the kopjes. To this end, Peters and his force spent a long time searching the wild and broken ground, and, incidentally, shooting an odd Matabele or two engaged in outlying scouting. But the search proved futile; moreover, a large impi – far too large for them to engage unless they desired to court disaster – appeared on their front, effectually barring further advance. Sorrowfully they returned to the Kezane to report their failure.

That was a day destined to remain engraved in lurid letters on Clare Vidal’s memory as long as she should live. She would not have believed the human mind to be capable of bearing so acute a stage of anguish as that which filled hers when the party returned, without – him. But with her it took no form of tears or hysteria. Pale, stony-eyed, she asked her questions calmly, and with coolness and acumen. Had they really searched exhaustively. Was it likely he had been taken prisoner? In a word – was there any hope?

“There’s life, you must remember, Miss Vidal,” had answered the officer in command of the Scouts. “The very fact of finding no trace of him shows that he was not killed there, at any rate. If he has been captured – well, prisoners have been known to escape. There have been instances of such.”

“But – not many?”

The other’s heart smote him. He had known of cases wherein men had blown their own brains out rather than accept the chances of life on such odds. He could only repeat —

“Well, there have been such instances. Natives very rarely take prisoners at all. The fact that they had not killed Lamont there and then, and it is certain they had not, seems to show some powerful motive for sparing his life for the present. And, while there is life – ”

” – There is hope. Yes, I know. And now, what is going to be done to try and save him?”

The other felt troubled, and looked it. His orders were to keep the road open, and afford escort to such outlying whites as desired to reach a place of safety. He did not see how he could take his troop off this duty, to engage in an indefinite search for one man, who would almost certainly have been murdered long before they should so much as hear of him – even if they ever did.

“This is one thing that’s going to be done, Miss Vidal,” cut in Peters. “I’m going to try and find him, – I for one. Wyndham I know will make another, and it’ll be strange if we don’t find a good few more who’ll volunteer.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Clare.

“Excuse me – no. That can’t be done, Miss Vidal. It’s quite impossible. Not a man would volunteer on those terms.”

She thought a moment. “You are right, Mr Peters. Yes. I see that. For me there is nothing for it but to – wait. To wait!” she repeated bitterly.

“And – hope,” supplemented Peters. “If any man is going to find out what’s become of Lamont, I’m that man. He almost threw away his life once to save mine, and now I’ll either return with him if he’s above ground or I won’t return at all.”

This conversation had taken place within the living-room of Grunberger’s house, and now Clare’s self-possession utterly gave way. She sank into a chair, and sobbed.

“Cheer up, Miss Vidal, cheer up,” said Peters briskly. “If it’s in the power of mortal man to find Lamont, I’m going to be that man. There’s more’n one could tell you I’m not easy put off a job I once make up my mind to bring through. I’m not saying it to brag. Now I’m going to collect as many as I can, and we’ll start at dark.”

“God will bless you,” was all she could say, as she wrung the hard, gnarled hand of the honest pioneer.

“This is a devilish sad, romantic sort of business,” said the officer of Scouts; for the circumstances of the engagement, thus tragically broken, were pretty well known now all over the camp. “Lovely girl, too, by Jove!” Peters nodded. “Good, too,” he said. “Good and plucky. She’s the only girl I’ve ever clapped eyes on good enough for Lamont.”

The other smiled half-heartedly. This was a piece of hero worship that he, naturally, could not enthuse over.

Peters was as good as his word – and that night he, with over twenty men, well-armed and rationed, started on their quest. The following morning the Fullertons and Clare Vidal, and the men who had been wounded in the fight, started in the other direction, that of Gandela to wit, under a strong escort of Scouts. With them, too, went the storekeeper’s family. Grunberger himself refused to budge, and as it was decided that the Kezane Store would form a very good base for supplies, and something of a garrison was left there for the present, there was no need for him to do so.