Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Twelve.Duty Calls.“Take up the White Man’s burdenAnd reap his old reward,The blame of those ye betterThe hate of those ye guard.”“No news from the front yet!” That was always the answer to our daily inquiries, and there was nothing to do but feed our anxious, hungry hearts with the old supposition that no news is good news. After the forces had once left Sigala there was no way of getting into telegraphic communication with them and the last direct news we had from our men was when they made a junction with the Salisbury and Victoria Columns, becoming merged in them and thereafter proceeding on the march for Buluwayo.Afterwards there was a long silence. A silence full of foreboding and fear for us, realising that our men were at last in the wild, unbroken, little known country of the Matabele, where a savage and bloodthirsty enemy lay in wait for them—an enemy that mustered twenty thousand fighting men strongly armed with rifles and assegai, while our troops all told mustered only six hundred and seventy (not including colonial boys and friendly natives).There was reason enough in the little township for pale faces and haggard eyes, and they were plainly in evidence, but hardly ever without the accompaniment of the old gaynil desperandumsmile which seems to be a peculiar attribute of British people when they find themselves in tight corners and unsmiling circumstances.About the end of October two men with despatches brought in the first news. There had been a big fight with the Matabele on the 25th October near the Shangani River, when our people had been engaged by a number of the most important of Lobengula’simpis, including the Insukameni regiment, the third best of the King’s crack companies. This battle was afterwards officially described as the Battle of Shangani, and the Matabele losses were about five hundred whilst our forces had lost one man, with six wounded. Two horses had been killed—a very serious matter, for the columns were already short of mounts.After the Battle of the Shangani our troops had resumed their march to Buluwayo, going slowly, as they were subject to constant small attacks burning kraals as they went, and collecting cattle left behind by the fleeing Matabele.After this we had no more news until the second week in November, when suddenly one morning the wires were humming with the tidings that Dr Jameson had occupied Buluwayo. The Union Jack strung to a great mimosa tree floated out over the ruined and burning kraal of a dethroned tyrant!The news came to us from Palapye, the capital of Khama’s country, away down south. It had been brought there by Burnham, that brave and intrepid American, whose name will live for ever in the annals of early Rhodesia and in the history of all scouts. He and his mate Ingram (also an American) had ridden with a Zulu boy who knew the road, one hundred and twenty miles to Tati, hoping to find there a telegraph office from which they could telegraph the news to Mr Rhodes. But at Tati they found no wire—it had not yet reached that place. There was only a heliograph station that because of the cloudy weather was of no use to them. Burnham then, though wearied out by the terrible ride they had already accomplished, decided to push on to Palapye, another ninety miles, and there, on the morning of November 9th, he gave to the world the news that civilisation had advanced another great stride, in the subjugating of a savage and cruel nation; while to the map had been added one more of those little pink stains that stand for Empire and Progress.Oh! how we stood around the telegraph office that day, and many days after, and drank in details of the victory! In thrilling scraps it all came in.We heard of the Battle of the Imbembesi, which had taken place on the first of November when the very flower of the Matabele army had come forth in all their glory of native war-dress and waving ostrich plumes, shaking the earth beneath their dancing feet, holding their red-and-white ox-skin shields before them and makingjiaat the white men with their gleaming assegais. They had fought there and died in hundreds at the very gates of the royal kraal; and the old King, desperate at last at the tidings of defeat brought in by his scouts, had fled, taking with him his wives and children and such of his warriors as remained faithful to him in his adversity. But before he went he gave orders for the burning and utter destruction of the kraal of Buluwayo, that scene of savage splendours and innumerable cruelties now for ever past.A just fate had overtaken Lobengula, but even while we realised it there seemed to us at that time something terribly pathetic in the thought of the old monarch, swollen and tortured with gout and the madness of defeat, full of fierce spleen against those whose friendship he had himself estranged by treachery and false dealing, fleeing now before the winds of adversity and despair. It seemed that some prophetic thought must have lain in the mind of his mother when she named him Lobengula—“Driven by the wind.”When our men at last arrived at the royal kraal, pitched high on the brow of a great plateau commanding a view of the whole country, they found that like Jericho of old its walls were down to the feet of the invader, but for a time they could see nothing clearly for the smoke that arose in black-and-grey spirals and suffused the landscape, blotting out the sunlight, while a disgusting and indescribable odour of burning refuse stung their throats and terribly assailed their nostrils. Besides firing the mean dwellings of his tribe, Lobengula had caused huts full of splendid ivory and furs and karosses to be given to the flames, and grain enough to feed a nation had been ruthlessly destroyed. While in the centre of a huge open space surrounded by rings a hundred feet wide of smouldering huts, were the ruins of what had lately been the King’s palace.This great space had been the place of the King’s privacy and at the same time his Throne-room and the arena of justice and state. There had been times when its white dust lay shimmering in an almost terrible peace, while the King sat before his door in the morning sunlight watching his magnificent peacocks as they strutted and scratched, preening their jewelled feathers and crying their sinister unmusical cries. In those hours many eyes secretly watched the tyrant through holes bored in the walls of their huts, but none except the peacocks dared break the silence when the Lion of Matabeleland sat considering his savage politics and arranging the affairs of his nation.There were other times when the court-yard witnessed scenes of barbaric glory and ferocity unparalleled since the time of Bloody Tchaka of Zululand. It was there that the King would come forth in state to receive the royal salute—“Bayete!”—from the brazen throats of hisimpisdrawn up in countless splendid lines—lines of rippling muscular bodies, black as polished ebony and as bare, save for themoochaof leopard skin and the bands and bangles of brass. There when the spirit moved them to slay and they wished for permission to go forth and plunge their assegais into the bosoms of the hapless Mashonas, his warriors danced before Lobengula, making the ground tremble and thunder beneath their leaping feet. There the greatindabashad taken place and the bloody “smelling out” ceremonies of the witch-doctors. Many a time had the wide level space been stained with hot gushing life-blood, and strewn with dead men, while the old King, great in stature as in cruelty, sat upon his three-legged stool of state, laughing in his thick throat, his small keen eyes like knife-points in his grossly featured face.Now all lay in ruins. Everything was broken and devastated and wrecked by the tremendous explosion of eighty thousand rounds of ammunition which had been fired at the last moment as the King’s commands.On top of the heaps ofdébris, forlorn and overturned, was found the silver elephant which had been given to Lobengula by the Tati Company to whom he had granted concessions. He had greatly prized this silver model, seeing in it a flattering reference to his own might and greatness. Now it lay amidst the ruins of his glory, a symbol of power broken and despotism thrown down.Our men had done splendidly. There had been deaths and casualties, but they were deaths bravely met—facing fearful odds—and the casualties were few, considering the enormous difference in numbers between the conflicting forces.Later in the month we got more news from men who had arrived in Salisbury with despatches, having left Buluwayo some little time after its occupation by our forces. They said that Dr Jameson was “sitting” there, waiting for an answer from the King whom he had sent after and told to come in. There had been some delay and difficulty in getting boys to go with this message, as unless they were Matabele they stood a very good chance of being killed before they could reach the presence of the King. However, eventually three colonial boys had volunteered to go, and the Doctor had given them a letter written in English, Dutch, and Zulu, telling the King that the nation was beaten and that to avoid further bloodshed he must come in. His personal safety was guaranteed, and he was further told that after the return of the messengers two days would be given him in which to return. The Doctor had also despatched some native spies—Zambesi boys—to find out all they could concerning the whereabouts and doings of the King. These returned a couple of days later and reported that the Matabele were massed in large numbers about thirty or forty miles to the north of Buluwayo. They were extended in camps across the country with the idea of protecting the King, who lay at a place called Intaba-gi-konga, a small hill surrounded by thick bush about fifty miles away from Buluwayo. The spies had been in the camps and talked to the enemy (pretending to be in search of some of their own people who had left their kraals) and they reported the Matabele very cowed and depressed by their recent reverses. The men of the Imbezu regiment who had bragged to the King that they would walk through thelaagersof the white men, killing the elder men and bringing back the rest for slaves, had lost at the Imbembezi fight about five hundred out of seven hundred men, and were so much demoralised by their beating that the Zambesi boys had actually gone in amongst them and spoken to them like equals, whereas in days not long past it meant death to an inferior native who addressed himself to an Imbezu.This news lifted a burden from our hearts, and we realised at last that our vigil with anxiety was at an end. The war was over! Our men would soon be home, all but those who meant to stay and occupy Matabeleland, of whom it was said there would be many, especially amongst the mining men. Rumours had already arrived that the country round Buluwayo showed signs of gold-bearing reef.It was certain at any rate that Lobengula must come in and surrender himself before long. He might linger for a while and try to make favourable terms, of course; or he might be persuaded by some of his younger warriors who had not had enough fighting, to hold out a little longer. But it was now known that the King was a very sick man, and for that reason alone it seemed most unlikely he would wish to continue a struggle that would keep him out for some months longer in a wild and uncultivated part of the country without proper shelter for himself and his queens and children. It is supposed by many people that natives can live anywhere and in any state of wildness as long as they are in their own country; but this is a mistake. The Matabele, for instance, had left their kraals and their growing crops behind them to go into the bush where there was nothing for them to eat except the cattle they had brought with them, and the small amount of grain they had been able to carry away. In the meantime the wet season was advancing rapidly, and there would be no shelter for them from the heavy flooding rains that fall in November, December, and early January. It surprised me to hear that natives cannot stand exposure to the furious elements any more than white people can. They sicken and die just as we should do. Furthermore, they cannot live on a perpetual meat diet; they need meal, and grain, and green mealies, and rice; and if they cannot get these things they cannot live.It was known too that small-pox was rife amongst the Matabele. This was one of the reasons that our native allies from Bechuanaland—the Bamangwatoos—had deserted us early in the campaign, and returned to their kraals. A thousand of them under their Chief Khama had started for Mashonaland to fight under Colonel Gould-Adams, who was bringing up a flying column of Bechuanaland Border Police to reinforce our men; but when they heard of small-pox, and further realised that the campaign was likely to last some months, they calmly gave notice to quit, and returning to their own country set about reaping their crops. Their attitude was the attitude of Dr Abingdon. They had not lost any Matabele, neither any small-pox; why should they seek for these things?Fortunately, there proved to be no need for the services of such valorous allies. The Southern Column was quite able to account for itself without native assistance, and had already arrived within fifty miles of Buluwayo, having met and ignominiously dispersed about eight thousand Matebele under the command of Gambo, the son-in-law of the King.The country south of Buluwayo was now quite clear of the enemy and the whole road to Tati and Tuli was reported to be crowded with transport-waggons bringing up loads of things to Mashonaland, and also hurrying with stores and provisions to the capital of the newly opened country.Odds and ends of private letters began to reach us from the front: some were brought in by native carriers—Maholi and Mashona boys who, now that the danger was all past were glad to return to the service of the white men (full of soft words of explanation and apology for having left so abruptly)—and some by despatch riders with official news. Mrs Grant got a long letter from her husband and Mr Stair a few lines from Gerry Deshon, and several other people received belated documents, which were thumbed and passed under many more eyes than they were originally intended for, within a few hours of their arrival. Mrs Marriott had a letter from her husband which changed the face of life for her and turned her into a laughing, weeping child. No one asked to seeherletter.Every one was able to glean some scrap of information to apply like a healing ointment to an aching wound, and every one seemed to have something to weep or smile over, except me. Neither letter nor message came for me! It is true that I gathered from others that Anthony Kinsella was well and had done splendid work, and incidentally I heard that he had despatched private letters to Fort George by carrier. But that carrier never came. If there was a letter for me, then like many another it never reached its destination. Often in the months that came after, sodden native pouches containing white pulp which had once been letters were found lying on the veldt—in one or two instances with a skull near by to tell a little tragic, eloquent tale.Every one wrote that they would be back very shortly—as soon as Lobengula came in and gave himself up. He had sent a specious letter to Dr Jameson to say that he was coming, and the Doctor was still waiting for the promise to be fulfilled. But the days went by and the King of the Matabele did not materialise. As a matter of fact, he was hastening to put as great a distance as possible between himself and Buluwayo. He was for the North. It seemed to him that the high fertile country beyond the Zambesi would be a good place to get out of the white man’s range and found a new dynasty, and thither he was hurrying with such speed as his fat and enormous body would permit. He was far too unwieldy to walk even if he had not been nicked with gout; so his warriors carried him, and at other times dragged him along in a Bath-chair. When that broke down at last, and his oxen died from lack of food and rest, he commanded his men to span themselves to the waggon and pull him along, and they did so; whilst close upon the spoor of the waggons came trooping crowds of women and children and boys driving cattle; all making for the new land of despotism that was to be founded beyond the waters of the Zambesi.In the meantime a feeling of insecurity and impatience began once more to prevail in the rest of the country. It was realised that no progress of any consequence could be made, no real advancement furthered until the question of the Matabele powers was settled for ever. Lobengula, if he would not surrender, must be laid by the heels, and there were men “sitting” in Buluwayo who were eager enough and able enough to do the laying.It was no use letting him settle and grow powerful on the other side of the Zambesi, ready to swoop down and give more trouble some day. There could be no security until every belligerent native had laid down his arms and returned to peaceable occupation.It was a great relief to the whole country when the news came that a column had started out after the King. Then indeed we knew that the beginning of the end had come, and that we might thereafter possess our souls in peace and security.Laagerwas broken in Fort George, and we slept in real beds once more. The coaches from “up” and “down” country began to pass through again, and we got regular mails and were no longer cut off from the civilised world. I was soon reminded of this fact by letters from Salisbury urging me to take coach and rejoin my sister-in-law there. My brother Dick was one of those who were remaining in Buluwayo to see things finally “fixed up.” However, it did not seem to me to be urgently indicated that I should join Judy just then. Instead, I left my hotel and at the invitation of Mrs Marriott took up my residence with her in her little series of huts.It was round about Christmas time and a sprightly air began to prevail in the township. One day some waggons arrived with machinery for a neighbouring mine and when they had off-loaded at the Mining Company’s stores in the town some one said:“Why should not we borrow one of these nice waggons and go for a picnic somewhere away from this old town in which we have lived too long and wearily?”And some one else said:“Good idea! Why not, indeed?”And before any one knew how or where it was done it had been definitely decided that we should have a Christmas picnic in a lovely spot called Green Streams ten miles away.Personally I was not very keen on this plan, and I knew that a great many others felt the same way about it. There seemed to be a certain heartlessness in celebrating Christmas so pleasantly while our men were still away at the front, even though we were assured that all was well with them—that they were not fighting, but merely making a triumphal march on the retreating enemy, in order to bring back the legal trophies of war. However, so many people seemed eager for the picnic, and really physically to need a change of air and scene from Fort George, and the children were so wistful about it, that it seemed selfish to protest against the plan. And I am sure that it was mainly for the children’s sake that many of us resisted the desire to remain at home, instead of picnicking on the veldt.Once the thing was settled, though, every one threw themselves with a zest into preparations. Cooking went on at a great rate, and the whole town smelt of belated plum-puddings, and hams bubbling in three-legged pots. And outside every house were to be seen half-a-dozen Mashona hens with their necks wrung. I may mention that there is about three mouthfuls of flesh on each of these birds.Every one was frightfully busy filling empty packing-cases with crockery and pots and pans, and late into the night people were still carrying things to be piled into the waggon. It was like the preparations of the Israelites for their departure to the promised land.The next day, at six o’clock of a blue-and-gold morning, we set out. Some of the women-folk, and the smaller children, rode in the waggon, but most of us cheerfully padded the hoof, glad of the opportunity to stretch our limbs over the short, burnt grass, regardless of such trifles as stick-grass and ticks.The children begged to wear their scarlet uniforms, and they danced along yelling and prancing, like a band of red Indians let loose.We reached Green Streams at about nine o’clock and found it a lovely open glade with clumps of trees scattered everywhere, and huge cliffy rocks standing alone, and a slender little fringed river curling like a silver caterpillar through the middle of the scene. Soon the lovely smell of wood fires was on the air, and every climbable rock had a scarlet spot decorating its summit.“I think it was an excellent idea of yours, Miss Saurin, to let the children wear their uniforms,” said Mrs Burney. “We can’t possibly lose sight of them now, can we?”“It was their own idea,” I said. “They adore that get-up of theirs.”“Yes, and they adore you, too. I’d like to know who doesn’t,” she said so unexpectedly that I was quite overwhelmed. Of course I was frightfully pleased at such a remark coming from her so warmly and spontaneously, and I really could not help believing that they did like me a little better than in the beginning oflaager; but of course it was absurd to talk of any one adoring me. It was only necessary to watch the faces of the Salisbury women when I was in their vicinity to see how cordially I was detested by them at least. As soon as we arrived they had ensconced themselves under the shadiest bunch of trees (not too far from the commissariat department) and were ordering Monty Skeffington-Smythe and another man about like dogs, to look for cushions and rugs and make them comfortable in the shade. They still clung together, but not from love, I think. I never saw three women moreennuiéwith each other. They were absolutely drooping with boredom, and I believe the only active feeling any of them possessed was dislike of me. It was really a wonder that they had found the energy to come to the picnic, but the Fort George women laughingly and perhaps a little maliciously suggested that their probable reason for coming was that they thought it the easiest and simplest way of securing an excellent Christmas dinner without any personal exertion. Adriana had for sometime past been professing herself to be precariously ill. The mysterious malady she was suffering from did not affect her appetite or prevent her from looking extremely robust; and rumour unkindly put it that she was in reality jibbing at last at having to do simply everything for three well-grown, able-bodied women who were perfectly capable of looking after themselves. However, she had recovered her health and strength for that day at least, and was at the moment assisting Monty Skeffington-Smythe and the Doctor to carry coffee androaster-cookiesto the languid party under the trees.“What are you going to do, Miss Saurin?” Mrs Rookwood asked me in her wistful way. Now thatlaagerwas over she had grown very tragic about the eyes again, and her mirthless laugh with its defiant note began to be frequently heard. She always stayed as near me as possible, perhaps because I made it my business to repay in kind everything in the shape of a snub that came her way.The Fort George women it is true were always kind to her, and forgot her sins in the remembrance of all her kindness and humble helpfulness to them and the children. The intimacy oflaagerlife had broken down barriers that would otherwise never have been overcome. Moreover, the objectionable Mr Geach had been so extremely obliging as to break his neck somewhere in the Cape Colony, so that as soon as George came back from the front all would be well with the Rookwoods. But the Salisburyites showed by the expression of their noses that they considered the air more than ever polluted when “the Geach person” was anywhere near.“I’m going to fix up Mrs Marriott under that tree with books and cushions, and then I suppose we’d better help get the dinner ready.”“Well, let me help, won’t you?” she begged.“Of course.”Mrs Marriott had really become most alarmingly fragile of late. She had grown amazingly young and pretty, it is true, but her clear skin looked almost too transparent, and there were big dark shadows under her eyes that threw them up and made them look perfectly lovely—but shadowsareshadows, and the fact remains that however becoming, they are not at all necessary to health. Secretly I was anxious about her; but no one else seemed to have noticed any change except the wonderful one in her spirits and looks. To-day, it might have been the consciousness that she was looking extremely pretty in a white dress Mrs Rookwood had made for her, but she was actually humming a little tune, and she remonstrated laughingly when I insisted that she should rest out of the heat and not think of coming to help get the dinner.“You’re just trying to make a molly-coddle of me,” she said, “and yourself so indispensable that I shan’t be able to do without you ever again. I know your little arts.”However, she was finally beguiled to do as I told her, and when she was comfortably fixed up Mrs Rookwood and I waited on her with breakfast—a cup of delicious coffee, and a hot buttered rusk.Afterwards enormous preparations for dinner began to go forward. The hour of three thirty in the afternoon having been fixed upon, such boys as were available wereinspannedto the task of collecting fuel and making big fires at a certain distance from the camp on account of the smoke. Others were set to work to scoop out ant-heaps and turn them into red-hot ovens for the reception of pastry and roast meats. These impromptu Dutch ovens turn out wonderfully light bread and are splendid for pastry.Plenty of cold delicacies had been provided for the picnic, but the Port George women had vowed that after so long a fast from nice meals every one should have a real hot Christmas dinner. So the ovens were prepared for rounds of beef, many chickens, mince pies, custards, and cakes. We found that they had arranged and allotted all the tasks among themselves, but they had included Mrs Rookwood amongst them, at which she could not conceal her pride and gratitude. But me they told to go away and play and incidentally to mind Mrs Marriott and keep an eye on the children. So we romped with the children first, then roamed about exploring the rocky kopjes, digging out fern roots for home planting, gathering flowers and looking at the Bushmen drawings of which there were several under the overhanging ledges of the biggest rock. Queer looking things they were—the men drawn like skeletons with all their ribs and bones showing, driving long, lean cattle that had the bodies of cows and the heads of horses, or shooting wild buck with bows and arrows. They say these drawings which are often seen in Mashonaland have been there for centuries, preserved and kept fresh because they are sheltered under the eaves of the rocks from sun and rain.

“Take up the White Man’s burdenAnd reap his old reward,The blame of those ye betterThe hate of those ye guard.”

“Take up the White Man’s burdenAnd reap his old reward,The blame of those ye betterThe hate of those ye guard.”

“No news from the front yet!” That was always the answer to our daily inquiries, and there was nothing to do but feed our anxious, hungry hearts with the old supposition that no news is good news. After the forces had once left Sigala there was no way of getting into telegraphic communication with them and the last direct news we had from our men was when they made a junction with the Salisbury and Victoria Columns, becoming merged in them and thereafter proceeding on the march for Buluwayo.

Afterwards there was a long silence. A silence full of foreboding and fear for us, realising that our men were at last in the wild, unbroken, little known country of the Matabele, where a savage and bloodthirsty enemy lay in wait for them—an enemy that mustered twenty thousand fighting men strongly armed with rifles and assegai, while our troops all told mustered only six hundred and seventy (not including colonial boys and friendly natives).

There was reason enough in the little township for pale faces and haggard eyes, and they were plainly in evidence, but hardly ever without the accompaniment of the old gaynil desperandumsmile which seems to be a peculiar attribute of British people when they find themselves in tight corners and unsmiling circumstances.

About the end of October two men with despatches brought in the first news. There had been a big fight with the Matabele on the 25th October near the Shangani River, when our people had been engaged by a number of the most important of Lobengula’simpis, including the Insukameni regiment, the third best of the King’s crack companies. This battle was afterwards officially described as the Battle of Shangani, and the Matabele losses were about five hundred whilst our forces had lost one man, with six wounded. Two horses had been killed—a very serious matter, for the columns were already short of mounts.

After the Battle of the Shangani our troops had resumed their march to Buluwayo, going slowly, as they were subject to constant small attacks burning kraals as they went, and collecting cattle left behind by the fleeing Matabele.

After this we had no more news until the second week in November, when suddenly one morning the wires were humming with the tidings that Dr Jameson had occupied Buluwayo. The Union Jack strung to a great mimosa tree floated out over the ruined and burning kraal of a dethroned tyrant!

The news came to us from Palapye, the capital of Khama’s country, away down south. It had been brought there by Burnham, that brave and intrepid American, whose name will live for ever in the annals of early Rhodesia and in the history of all scouts. He and his mate Ingram (also an American) had ridden with a Zulu boy who knew the road, one hundred and twenty miles to Tati, hoping to find there a telegraph office from which they could telegraph the news to Mr Rhodes. But at Tati they found no wire—it had not yet reached that place. There was only a heliograph station that because of the cloudy weather was of no use to them. Burnham then, though wearied out by the terrible ride they had already accomplished, decided to push on to Palapye, another ninety miles, and there, on the morning of November 9th, he gave to the world the news that civilisation had advanced another great stride, in the subjugating of a savage and cruel nation; while to the map had been added one more of those little pink stains that stand for Empire and Progress.

Oh! how we stood around the telegraph office that day, and many days after, and drank in details of the victory! In thrilling scraps it all came in.

We heard of the Battle of the Imbembesi, which had taken place on the first of November when the very flower of the Matabele army had come forth in all their glory of native war-dress and waving ostrich plumes, shaking the earth beneath their dancing feet, holding their red-and-white ox-skin shields before them and makingjiaat the white men with their gleaming assegais. They had fought there and died in hundreds at the very gates of the royal kraal; and the old King, desperate at last at the tidings of defeat brought in by his scouts, had fled, taking with him his wives and children and such of his warriors as remained faithful to him in his adversity. But before he went he gave orders for the burning and utter destruction of the kraal of Buluwayo, that scene of savage splendours and innumerable cruelties now for ever past.

A just fate had overtaken Lobengula, but even while we realised it there seemed to us at that time something terribly pathetic in the thought of the old monarch, swollen and tortured with gout and the madness of defeat, full of fierce spleen against those whose friendship he had himself estranged by treachery and false dealing, fleeing now before the winds of adversity and despair. It seemed that some prophetic thought must have lain in the mind of his mother when she named him Lobengula—“Driven by the wind.”

When our men at last arrived at the royal kraal, pitched high on the brow of a great plateau commanding a view of the whole country, they found that like Jericho of old its walls were down to the feet of the invader, but for a time they could see nothing clearly for the smoke that arose in black-and-grey spirals and suffused the landscape, blotting out the sunlight, while a disgusting and indescribable odour of burning refuse stung their throats and terribly assailed their nostrils. Besides firing the mean dwellings of his tribe, Lobengula had caused huts full of splendid ivory and furs and karosses to be given to the flames, and grain enough to feed a nation had been ruthlessly destroyed. While in the centre of a huge open space surrounded by rings a hundred feet wide of smouldering huts, were the ruins of what had lately been the King’s palace.

This great space had been the place of the King’s privacy and at the same time his Throne-room and the arena of justice and state. There had been times when its white dust lay shimmering in an almost terrible peace, while the King sat before his door in the morning sunlight watching his magnificent peacocks as they strutted and scratched, preening their jewelled feathers and crying their sinister unmusical cries. In those hours many eyes secretly watched the tyrant through holes bored in the walls of their huts, but none except the peacocks dared break the silence when the Lion of Matabeleland sat considering his savage politics and arranging the affairs of his nation.

There were other times when the court-yard witnessed scenes of barbaric glory and ferocity unparalleled since the time of Bloody Tchaka of Zululand. It was there that the King would come forth in state to receive the royal salute—“Bayete!”—from the brazen throats of hisimpisdrawn up in countless splendid lines—lines of rippling muscular bodies, black as polished ebony and as bare, save for themoochaof leopard skin and the bands and bangles of brass. There when the spirit moved them to slay and they wished for permission to go forth and plunge their assegais into the bosoms of the hapless Mashonas, his warriors danced before Lobengula, making the ground tremble and thunder beneath their leaping feet. There the greatindabashad taken place and the bloody “smelling out” ceremonies of the witch-doctors. Many a time had the wide level space been stained with hot gushing life-blood, and strewn with dead men, while the old King, great in stature as in cruelty, sat upon his three-legged stool of state, laughing in his thick throat, his small keen eyes like knife-points in his grossly featured face.

Now all lay in ruins. Everything was broken and devastated and wrecked by the tremendous explosion of eighty thousand rounds of ammunition which had been fired at the last moment as the King’s commands.

On top of the heaps ofdébris, forlorn and overturned, was found the silver elephant which had been given to Lobengula by the Tati Company to whom he had granted concessions. He had greatly prized this silver model, seeing in it a flattering reference to his own might and greatness. Now it lay amidst the ruins of his glory, a symbol of power broken and despotism thrown down.

Our men had done splendidly. There had been deaths and casualties, but they were deaths bravely met—facing fearful odds—and the casualties were few, considering the enormous difference in numbers between the conflicting forces.

Later in the month we got more news from men who had arrived in Salisbury with despatches, having left Buluwayo some little time after its occupation by our forces. They said that Dr Jameson was “sitting” there, waiting for an answer from the King whom he had sent after and told to come in. There had been some delay and difficulty in getting boys to go with this message, as unless they were Matabele they stood a very good chance of being killed before they could reach the presence of the King. However, eventually three colonial boys had volunteered to go, and the Doctor had given them a letter written in English, Dutch, and Zulu, telling the King that the nation was beaten and that to avoid further bloodshed he must come in. His personal safety was guaranteed, and he was further told that after the return of the messengers two days would be given him in which to return. The Doctor had also despatched some native spies—Zambesi boys—to find out all they could concerning the whereabouts and doings of the King. These returned a couple of days later and reported that the Matabele were massed in large numbers about thirty or forty miles to the north of Buluwayo. They were extended in camps across the country with the idea of protecting the King, who lay at a place called Intaba-gi-konga, a small hill surrounded by thick bush about fifty miles away from Buluwayo. The spies had been in the camps and talked to the enemy (pretending to be in search of some of their own people who had left their kraals) and they reported the Matabele very cowed and depressed by their recent reverses. The men of the Imbezu regiment who had bragged to the King that they would walk through thelaagersof the white men, killing the elder men and bringing back the rest for slaves, had lost at the Imbembezi fight about five hundred out of seven hundred men, and were so much demoralised by their beating that the Zambesi boys had actually gone in amongst them and spoken to them like equals, whereas in days not long past it meant death to an inferior native who addressed himself to an Imbezu.

This news lifted a burden from our hearts, and we realised at last that our vigil with anxiety was at an end. The war was over! Our men would soon be home, all but those who meant to stay and occupy Matabeleland, of whom it was said there would be many, especially amongst the mining men. Rumours had already arrived that the country round Buluwayo showed signs of gold-bearing reef.

It was certain at any rate that Lobengula must come in and surrender himself before long. He might linger for a while and try to make favourable terms, of course; or he might be persuaded by some of his younger warriors who had not had enough fighting, to hold out a little longer. But it was now known that the King was a very sick man, and for that reason alone it seemed most unlikely he would wish to continue a struggle that would keep him out for some months longer in a wild and uncultivated part of the country without proper shelter for himself and his queens and children. It is supposed by many people that natives can live anywhere and in any state of wildness as long as they are in their own country; but this is a mistake. The Matabele, for instance, had left their kraals and their growing crops behind them to go into the bush where there was nothing for them to eat except the cattle they had brought with them, and the small amount of grain they had been able to carry away. In the meantime the wet season was advancing rapidly, and there would be no shelter for them from the heavy flooding rains that fall in November, December, and early January. It surprised me to hear that natives cannot stand exposure to the furious elements any more than white people can. They sicken and die just as we should do. Furthermore, they cannot live on a perpetual meat diet; they need meal, and grain, and green mealies, and rice; and if they cannot get these things they cannot live.

It was known too that small-pox was rife amongst the Matabele. This was one of the reasons that our native allies from Bechuanaland—the Bamangwatoos—had deserted us early in the campaign, and returned to their kraals. A thousand of them under their Chief Khama had started for Mashonaland to fight under Colonel Gould-Adams, who was bringing up a flying column of Bechuanaland Border Police to reinforce our men; but when they heard of small-pox, and further realised that the campaign was likely to last some months, they calmly gave notice to quit, and returning to their own country set about reaping their crops. Their attitude was the attitude of Dr Abingdon. They had not lost any Matabele, neither any small-pox; why should they seek for these things?

Fortunately, there proved to be no need for the services of such valorous allies. The Southern Column was quite able to account for itself without native assistance, and had already arrived within fifty miles of Buluwayo, having met and ignominiously dispersed about eight thousand Matebele under the command of Gambo, the son-in-law of the King.

The country south of Buluwayo was now quite clear of the enemy and the whole road to Tati and Tuli was reported to be crowded with transport-waggons bringing up loads of things to Mashonaland, and also hurrying with stores and provisions to the capital of the newly opened country.

Odds and ends of private letters began to reach us from the front: some were brought in by native carriers—Maholi and Mashona boys who, now that the danger was all past were glad to return to the service of the white men (full of soft words of explanation and apology for having left so abruptly)—and some by despatch riders with official news. Mrs Grant got a long letter from her husband and Mr Stair a few lines from Gerry Deshon, and several other people received belated documents, which were thumbed and passed under many more eyes than they were originally intended for, within a few hours of their arrival. Mrs Marriott had a letter from her husband which changed the face of life for her and turned her into a laughing, weeping child. No one asked to seeherletter.

Every one was able to glean some scrap of information to apply like a healing ointment to an aching wound, and every one seemed to have something to weep or smile over, except me. Neither letter nor message came for me! It is true that I gathered from others that Anthony Kinsella was well and had done splendid work, and incidentally I heard that he had despatched private letters to Fort George by carrier. But that carrier never came. If there was a letter for me, then like many another it never reached its destination. Often in the months that came after, sodden native pouches containing white pulp which had once been letters were found lying on the veldt—in one or two instances with a skull near by to tell a little tragic, eloquent tale.

Every one wrote that they would be back very shortly—as soon as Lobengula came in and gave himself up. He had sent a specious letter to Dr Jameson to say that he was coming, and the Doctor was still waiting for the promise to be fulfilled. But the days went by and the King of the Matabele did not materialise. As a matter of fact, he was hastening to put as great a distance as possible between himself and Buluwayo. He was for the North. It seemed to him that the high fertile country beyond the Zambesi would be a good place to get out of the white man’s range and found a new dynasty, and thither he was hurrying with such speed as his fat and enormous body would permit. He was far too unwieldy to walk even if he had not been nicked with gout; so his warriors carried him, and at other times dragged him along in a Bath-chair. When that broke down at last, and his oxen died from lack of food and rest, he commanded his men to span themselves to the waggon and pull him along, and they did so; whilst close upon the spoor of the waggons came trooping crowds of women and children and boys driving cattle; all making for the new land of despotism that was to be founded beyond the waters of the Zambesi.

In the meantime a feeling of insecurity and impatience began once more to prevail in the rest of the country. It was realised that no progress of any consequence could be made, no real advancement furthered until the question of the Matabele powers was settled for ever. Lobengula, if he would not surrender, must be laid by the heels, and there were men “sitting” in Buluwayo who were eager enough and able enough to do the laying.

It was no use letting him settle and grow powerful on the other side of the Zambesi, ready to swoop down and give more trouble some day. There could be no security until every belligerent native had laid down his arms and returned to peaceable occupation.

It was a great relief to the whole country when the news came that a column had started out after the King. Then indeed we knew that the beginning of the end had come, and that we might thereafter possess our souls in peace and security.

Laagerwas broken in Fort George, and we slept in real beds once more. The coaches from “up” and “down” country began to pass through again, and we got regular mails and were no longer cut off from the civilised world. I was soon reminded of this fact by letters from Salisbury urging me to take coach and rejoin my sister-in-law there. My brother Dick was one of those who were remaining in Buluwayo to see things finally “fixed up.” However, it did not seem to me to be urgently indicated that I should join Judy just then. Instead, I left my hotel and at the invitation of Mrs Marriott took up my residence with her in her little series of huts.

It was round about Christmas time and a sprightly air began to prevail in the township. One day some waggons arrived with machinery for a neighbouring mine and when they had off-loaded at the Mining Company’s stores in the town some one said:

“Why should not we borrow one of these nice waggons and go for a picnic somewhere away from this old town in which we have lived too long and wearily?”

And some one else said:

“Good idea! Why not, indeed?”

And before any one knew how or where it was done it had been definitely decided that we should have a Christmas picnic in a lovely spot called Green Streams ten miles away.

Personally I was not very keen on this plan, and I knew that a great many others felt the same way about it. There seemed to be a certain heartlessness in celebrating Christmas so pleasantly while our men were still away at the front, even though we were assured that all was well with them—that they were not fighting, but merely making a triumphal march on the retreating enemy, in order to bring back the legal trophies of war. However, so many people seemed eager for the picnic, and really physically to need a change of air and scene from Fort George, and the children were so wistful about it, that it seemed selfish to protest against the plan. And I am sure that it was mainly for the children’s sake that many of us resisted the desire to remain at home, instead of picnicking on the veldt.

Once the thing was settled, though, every one threw themselves with a zest into preparations. Cooking went on at a great rate, and the whole town smelt of belated plum-puddings, and hams bubbling in three-legged pots. And outside every house were to be seen half-a-dozen Mashona hens with their necks wrung. I may mention that there is about three mouthfuls of flesh on each of these birds.

Every one was frightfully busy filling empty packing-cases with crockery and pots and pans, and late into the night people were still carrying things to be piled into the waggon. It was like the preparations of the Israelites for their departure to the promised land.

The next day, at six o’clock of a blue-and-gold morning, we set out. Some of the women-folk, and the smaller children, rode in the waggon, but most of us cheerfully padded the hoof, glad of the opportunity to stretch our limbs over the short, burnt grass, regardless of such trifles as stick-grass and ticks.

The children begged to wear their scarlet uniforms, and they danced along yelling and prancing, like a band of red Indians let loose.

We reached Green Streams at about nine o’clock and found it a lovely open glade with clumps of trees scattered everywhere, and huge cliffy rocks standing alone, and a slender little fringed river curling like a silver caterpillar through the middle of the scene. Soon the lovely smell of wood fires was on the air, and every climbable rock had a scarlet spot decorating its summit.

“I think it was an excellent idea of yours, Miss Saurin, to let the children wear their uniforms,” said Mrs Burney. “We can’t possibly lose sight of them now, can we?”

“It was their own idea,” I said. “They adore that get-up of theirs.”

“Yes, and they adore you, too. I’d like to know who doesn’t,” she said so unexpectedly that I was quite overwhelmed. Of course I was frightfully pleased at such a remark coming from her so warmly and spontaneously, and I really could not help believing that they did like me a little better than in the beginning oflaager; but of course it was absurd to talk of any one adoring me. It was only necessary to watch the faces of the Salisbury women when I was in their vicinity to see how cordially I was detested by them at least. As soon as we arrived they had ensconced themselves under the shadiest bunch of trees (not too far from the commissariat department) and were ordering Monty Skeffington-Smythe and another man about like dogs, to look for cushions and rugs and make them comfortable in the shade. They still clung together, but not from love, I think. I never saw three women moreennuiéwith each other. They were absolutely drooping with boredom, and I believe the only active feeling any of them possessed was dislike of me. It was really a wonder that they had found the energy to come to the picnic, but the Fort George women laughingly and perhaps a little maliciously suggested that their probable reason for coming was that they thought it the easiest and simplest way of securing an excellent Christmas dinner without any personal exertion. Adriana had for sometime past been professing herself to be precariously ill. The mysterious malady she was suffering from did not affect her appetite or prevent her from looking extremely robust; and rumour unkindly put it that she was in reality jibbing at last at having to do simply everything for three well-grown, able-bodied women who were perfectly capable of looking after themselves. However, she had recovered her health and strength for that day at least, and was at the moment assisting Monty Skeffington-Smythe and the Doctor to carry coffee androaster-cookiesto the languid party under the trees.

“What are you going to do, Miss Saurin?” Mrs Rookwood asked me in her wistful way. Now thatlaagerwas over she had grown very tragic about the eyes again, and her mirthless laugh with its defiant note began to be frequently heard. She always stayed as near me as possible, perhaps because I made it my business to repay in kind everything in the shape of a snub that came her way.

The Fort George women it is true were always kind to her, and forgot her sins in the remembrance of all her kindness and humble helpfulness to them and the children. The intimacy oflaagerlife had broken down barriers that would otherwise never have been overcome. Moreover, the objectionable Mr Geach had been so extremely obliging as to break his neck somewhere in the Cape Colony, so that as soon as George came back from the front all would be well with the Rookwoods. But the Salisburyites showed by the expression of their noses that they considered the air more than ever polluted when “the Geach person” was anywhere near.

“I’m going to fix up Mrs Marriott under that tree with books and cushions, and then I suppose we’d better help get the dinner ready.”

“Well, let me help, won’t you?” she begged.

“Of course.”

Mrs Marriott had really become most alarmingly fragile of late. She had grown amazingly young and pretty, it is true, but her clear skin looked almost too transparent, and there were big dark shadows under her eyes that threw them up and made them look perfectly lovely—but shadowsareshadows, and the fact remains that however becoming, they are not at all necessary to health. Secretly I was anxious about her; but no one else seemed to have noticed any change except the wonderful one in her spirits and looks. To-day, it might have been the consciousness that she was looking extremely pretty in a white dress Mrs Rookwood had made for her, but she was actually humming a little tune, and she remonstrated laughingly when I insisted that she should rest out of the heat and not think of coming to help get the dinner.

“You’re just trying to make a molly-coddle of me,” she said, “and yourself so indispensable that I shan’t be able to do without you ever again. I know your little arts.”

However, she was finally beguiled to do as I told her, and when she was comfortably fixed up Mrs Rookwood and I waited on her with breakfast—a cup of delicious coffee, and a hot buttered rusk.

Afterwards enormous preparations for dinner began to go forward. The hour of three thirty in the afternoon having been fixed upon, such boys as were available wereinspannedto the task of collecting fuel and making big fires at a certain distance from the camp on account of the smoke. Others were set to work to scoop out ant-heaps and turn them into red-hot ovens for the reception of pastry and roast meats. These impromptu Dutch ovens turn out wonderfully light bread and are splendid for pastry.

Plenty of cold delicacies had been provided for the picnic, but the Port George women had vowed that after so long a fast from nice meals every one should have a real hot Christmas dinner. So the ovens were prepared for rounds of beef, many chickens, mince pies, custards, and cakes. We found that they had arranged and allotted all the tasks among themselves, but they had included Mrs Rookwood amongst them, at which she could not conceal her pride and gratitude. But me they told to go away and play and incidentally to mind Mrs Marriott and keep an eye on the children. So we romped with the children first, then roamed about exploring the rocky kopjes, digging out fern roots for home planting, gathering flowers and looking at the Bushmen drawings of which there were several under the overhanging ledges of the biggest rock. Queer looking things they were—the men drawn like skeletons with all their ribs and bones showing, driving long, lean cattle that had the bodies of cows and the heads of horses, or shooting wild buck with bows and arrows. They say these drawings which are often seen in Mashonaland have been there for centuries, preserved and kept fresh because they are sheltered under the eaves of the rocks from sun and rain.

Chapter Thirteen.Defeat Calls.“Do we think Victory great? And so it is.But now it seems to me, when it cannot be helped,That Defeat is great, and Death and Dismay are great!”At twelve o’clock Colonel Blow and Maurice Stair and a number of men who had not been able to get away any earlier arrived, and the children went off to hail them and help get them some refreshment.Mrs Marriott and I sat down under one of the great rocks on a lounge of cool moss, glad to get out of the grilling sunshine for a while. It was not long before we began to speak of what was uppermost in our minds—our men at the front. I said:“I don’t know what your husband will say to you looking so fragile. I shall have to feed you up and make you plump before he arrives.”Impulsively she leaned towards me and took hold of my hands. Her face was suffused with colour.“Deirdre, you have been so good to me, and I must tell you, though I meant to keep it a secret. This looking fragile doesn’t really matter—it is natural.” She paused, then added softly, “It is part of the state of my coming motherhood.”“Oh!” I cried at last. “How beautiful and wonderful for you, dear! And how glad I am!”She looked at me shyly and gravely.“Yes: itisbeautiful, Deirdre. But I did not always think so. I knew it long ago, before Rupert went, and it seemed to me then like the last bitter drop in a most bitter cup. Now everything is altered. You and Anthony Kinsella have changed the face of life for him and for me.”“No, no! You have done it yourselves, dear. Your husband’s fine effort had to be made by himself; no one but one’s self can do these things. One must fight for one’s own soul. You know:“‘Ye have no friend but Resolution!’”“Yes, but if Anthony Kinsella had not given him his chance he would never have broken away from—Don’t I know? Oh, God! Did not I pray and watch and fight for him?—and afterwardswatch him drop back? Oh, Deirdre, no one can ever know the awful things that passed before hope died in me—that frightful drug rearing its hideous head between us like a great beast! You cannot imagine what it means to a woman to see not only the body but the soul of the man she loves being devoured before her eyes, while she stands looking on—helpless! And then after a time—it is all part of the hideous enslavement—he began to hate me for looking on at his degradation!”Her face became anguished even at the recollection. I held her hands tightly, but I looked away from her eyes, and we were silent for a while, but presently she went on:“And your share in it has been great, Deirdre. Without your help I could never have pulled myself out of the pit of despair and desolation into which I had fallen. My spirit was in fetters: but you have helped me to break them—and now I feel strong enough and brave enough for whatever comes. I have a heart for any fate. We have a big fight before us still, I know. Rupert has gone back in his profession all this time that he has done nothing, thought nothing. It will be uphill work getting back to where he was before—and we’ve only a tiny income—and he may be tempted again. But, oh! how I mean to fight for my happiness, Deirdre. And Iknowthat I shall win.”I could only press her hand tightly, and keep back my own tears. She looked such a delicate little thing to put up such a big fight. It seemed to me at that moment that the battle-field of life was a cruel and hard place for women, and their reward for battles won, all too pitiful. We sat a long time in silence.At last we were aroused by a great hooting and tooting and banging of pans and tin plates from the direction of the camp. The significance of these sounds and also the odours of baked meats that were beginning to suffuse the veldt, could not be misunderstood. We returned to camp and dinner.Mrs Burney had her best damask table-cloths spread in line on the level grass, and Mrs Rookwood had decorated the snowy expanse with trails of wild smilax and jasmine, and jam-jars full of scarlet lilies and maidenhair fern. We sat down to a banquet of unparalleled splendour, of which I cannot now remember all the details, but only that they were opulent and luxurious and kingly. Afterwards every one had a glass of some delightful champagne that had been unearthed from the cellars of Hunloke and Dennison, and Colonel Blow ceremoniously arose and asked us to drink the health of the Queen, and we drank, standing.Then Captain Clinton jumped up again with his glass in the air and called for toasts to Mr Rhodes and Dr Jim, and those we drank uproariously. Afterwards we sat very quiet for a moment, and only the children’s voices were heard. Colonel Blow got up again and a hush fell upon us all. Some of the women began to bite their lips, to keep themselves from crying, and Mrs Shand, who had been one of the brightest and gayest of the party all day, suddenly leaned against Saba Rookwood’s shoulder and began to sob.“I ask you to drink to those who cannot be with us here to-day—because they are attending to our business elsewhere—our fellows at the front!”Across the table-cloth Annabel Cleeve and I stared at each other dry-eyed.“Here’s to their speedy and safe return!” cried Captain Clinton, holding his glass aloft so that the wine shone and sparkled in the sunshine like liquid topaz. “Now you kids give three tremendous cheers for them, and maybe they’ll hear the echoes in Buluwayo.”That saved the situation. The men’s strong “Hurrahs!” mingling with the children’s cheery voices, rang and echoed among the rocks and hills. Emotion was pushed out of sight once more, and faces became calm. It appeared too that Colonel Blow had not finished the giving of toasts. He got up once again, his face wreathed in smiles.“And I want you all to drink the health,” he began, “of some one here who has been the sunshine of our darkest days, and the brightest star of many a weary night; who has minded the babies and made coffee for the patrol boys, and generally kept us all from dying of sheer boredom and hatred of life just by her lovely presence amongst us. I am sure you all know who I mean.”I’m sureIdidn’t. I stared round the table in astonishment, and to see what the others were thinking of this unlooked-for enthusiasm on the part of the usually sedate and sensible Commandant. Was he dreaming, or was he infatuated with one of the women, and simply drivelling about her? I had never noticed him paying any special attention to any one—he always seemed to be so busy. Anyway, I felt quite annoyed about it, and especially cross about the babies, whom I had looked upon as my own particular loves. He raised his glass on high.“I drink to Miss Deirdre Saurin!”“And drink it on the table!” someone shouted, and every one got up once more and put a dirty boot on Mrs Burney’s nice table-cloth and made a tremendous noise, while I stared at them. When I realised what they were saying I went hot with vexation and embarrassment, for I felt sure they were making fun of me.“Respond! Respond!” they cried all round me.“I never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life,” I said crossly. “And utterly uncalled for.” I threw Colonel Blow a glance of the utmost indignation. “I think you want to make every one hate me!” I said.He merely shouted with laughter.“Oh, I know I’m a wonder, but I couldn’t do that,” he said, and to my amazement the women all rushed at me and hugged me and made me feel as hot and stuffy and cross as possible.When I say all, I don’t of course mean that the Salisbury women did anything of the kind. Miracles do not happen in modern times. But I was not surprised that they got up in a group and strolled off sniffing disdainfully. The whole thing was ridiculous and absurd.“You’ve quite spoiled my day,” I said to Colonel Blow afterwards. He insisted upon taking me to see some wonderful drawings on a rode which he said only he and one other man knew about; and when we got there they were the same old drawings Mrs Marriott and I had been looking at in the morning. So we sat on top of the rock and I continued my upbraidings.“Of course it was very kind of you and all that, and I dare say you meant well—but I never felt more uncomfortable in my life, and I cannot say I feel the least bit grateful to you. I made sure you were talking about some woman you had fallen in love with and expected every one else to do the same,” I continued in my most unpleasant voice.“Well, so I was,” he had the effrontery to say. “But of course I know there is no hope for me.”I stared at him coldly. I really did not feel disposed for any more jesting. But his face had not the ghost of a smile on it, and he continued quite gravely:“I saw you kiss Kinsella the night he went, and of course I understood that a girl like you would not have done that except for one reason. So it can be of no use my telling you that I love you. Yet I want to tell you if you don’t mind, and to call you Deirdre once. May I, Deirdre?”I really don’t remember what I said, but I was frightfully surprised and sorry. I don’t believe I said anything. Perhaps I sat and stared at him with my mouth open. I only know that we came out of it sworn friends.Afterwards we climbed to the top of the highest of the rocks to get a view of the whole wide veldt lying shimmering in the sunshine with far-off hazes and veils of purple and amethyst, draped about the horizon like the robes of a god.As we stood looking a cloud of dust appeared upon the road, and presently we made out the figure of a man on a light horse approaching the camp. He was coming from the west and, therefore, towards Fort George, and when we realised this we knew that he was not from the town, but from the front—some one with news.Colonel Blow jumped up, and forgetting good manners and me ran for the edge of the rock and began to climb down as fast as he could. But I as swiftly followed him, and when he reached level ground I was there too. Then we took hands and frankly ran for the camp, stumbling over ruts and stones, and tripping in ant-bear holes, but covering the ground at a speed I had never achieved before except in an express train. But in spite of our haste the newcomer had arrived first, and we found him dismounted, standing at the head of a pale-coloured drooping horse, with every one in the camp clustered round him. I remember thinking that it was the first time I had ever seen a horse that looked so exactly like the pale-coloured horse Death is supposed to ride when he goes abroad. I wondered what made me think of it at that moment.I did not recognise the man’s face as one I had ever seen; but when Mrs Burney rushed forward and flung her arms round his neck I realised that this was her husband, whom I had often seen before. Yes: it was Robert Burney the scout! Yet why should dust and fatigue and a stubbly beard so terribly alter a man as he was altered? It is true that his coat hung in tatters, we could see his bare feet through his ragged boots, and his cheek-bones seemed almost piercing through his cheeks. But as he stood there looking at us I realised that it was in his eyes that the change lay. I never saw a man with such hard, calm eyes. If it had been a woman who stood there with those eyes I should have believed that she had wept until she had no more tears, and could never weep again. But this man’s iron face, haggard and weary though it seemed, was not one that could be associated with tears. Yet it is true that when I looked into the fearless, still eyes of Robert Burney I thought of tears—tears that were frozen in the heart and would never be shed. Neither were they dumb, those eyes of his that were so calm. When we had looked at him in silence for a moment, some knowledge leaped out to us from them and entered into our very hearts, paling our faces and chilling our blood so that we stood there shivering in the warm sunshine while we waited for him to speak. Fear had us by the throat, and in the heart of every one “terror was lying still!”Some name trembled on every lip, and each one of us longed to shout a question: but tongue clave to palate, lips were too dry to open. It was revealed to us in some strange way that Robert Burney had more to tell than the mere fate of one man.At last he moistened with his tongue his cracked and dust-thickened lips, and spoke quietly:“A lot of our fellows have been surrounded and cut up.”No one cried out. No one fainted. We just stood there quietly round him, staring into his eyes and listening. No one wept, except Mrs Burney, who had her man safe back in her arms.“Wilson from Victoria—Alan Wilson, with eighteen men, went across the Shangani River on the King’s spoor. We understood that the King was deserted all but a few hundred men, and Major Wilson was to see how the land lay. His idea was to get the King that night if possible and bring him in; but when he reached the scherms it was too late and too dark to do anything; only, he saw that the numbers round Lobengula had been underrated, and that the natives were threatening and hostile. He sent Napier back with information to Major Forbes for reinforcements, but Major Forbes did not think it safe to move that night and sent Captain Borrow instead with twenty men. Ingram and I had already gone on ahead and joined Wilson, and when Borrow reached us we were camped out in the bush about half a mile away from the King’s scherms. We lay there all night under arms, in pitch darkness and drenching rain; we could hear the voices of the natives in the bush round us. Several hours of the night Major Wilson and I spent in trying to find three men who were lost. They had got separated from the rest of us, and Wilson wouldn’t rest till he knew they were all right. It was so dark that I had to feel for the spoor with my hands, and eventually we found them by calling out their names continually but very softly, and we got back to camp together.“With the first glint of dawn we saddled up and rode down to the King’s waggon again, and Major Wilson called in a loud voice to Lobengula to come out and surrender. Immediately we were answered by the rattle of guns, and a heavy fire! They had evidently been ‘laying’ for us. We dismounted and returned the fire, but as soon as the natives began trying to get round us we mounted and retreated about six hundred yards, when we again dismounted and returned the fire from behind our horses. Then as they began to take to the bush round us we rode off again. Two of our horses had been shot, so two horses had to carry double.“We rode slowly down the spoor made by the King’s waggons the night before, Major Wilson and Captain Borrow behind us consulting as to what to do. Major Wilson then called me and asked me to ride back and get the main column to come on at once with the Maxims. I rode off with two other men, and we hadn’t gone a hundred yards when hordes of Matabele rushed out on us from the bush ahead, waving their assegais and yelling. We galloped to the left where the river lay, and by hard riding got away through a shower of bullets.“When we got to the river we found it in flood, and we had to swim over. Of course, it was too late then for the main column to cross.“Immediately after we got away from the last lot of natives we heard Wilson and his party come up to them, and heavy firing commenced. I looked back just before we got out of sight and saw that our fellows were surrounded.“There must have been thousands... our men in an open space without cover of any kind... surrounded by those shouting, ferocious devils mad for revenge!“They were the pick of our forces—the very flower—thirty-four of the finest fellows in the country—in the world!”He paused a little while, and his throat moved in a curious way that fascinated my eyes, so that I could not think about his news, but only about what was choking him.“It is still hoped that some of them escaped. But I don’t think so... It is true that some of them might possibly have got away—if they had tried. By hard riding those with the best mounts might,but they were not the kind of men to leave their chums. No: you can take it from me they fought it out there—side by side—to the bitter end.“But before that end came you can believe that they put up a fight that the natives of this country will never forget. I guess they showed those devils how brave men can die.”After a long time some one spoke. Some one had the fearful courage to stammer from twisted lips a question:“Who were they? Tell us the names.” Robert Burney’s steady glance passed from face to face, and he gave us the names.“Alan Wilson,” he repeated lingeringly, as though he loved the sound of those two words; and there is indeed something gallant-sounding, something intrepid and chivalrous, in the rhythm of that man’s name whom other men so much loved—that dauntless leader who instilled the spirit of courageous adventure and loyal comradeship into every one with whom he came in contact; whose comrades so loved him that it is certain they followed him to death as gaily as they would have ridden by his side to victory.“Alan Wilson—Borrow—Kirton—Judd—Greenfield—” Sometimes he paused for a moment, but he never repeated a name twice and he gave us every one of the thirty-four. Some one checked them off, slowly and relentlessly, like a clock ticking and bringing us at each tick nearer to some dreadful doom. When he had finished a sigh passed over us like a ghostly wind.Some of them were names we knew well; some we had never heard before; all were names to be thereafter written in our memories, and in letters of scarlet and gold across the deathless page of Fame. In other places many a woman’s head would be bowed to the dust, many a bereaved heart torn and broken, while yet it thrilled with pride for the glorious “Last Stand” of those thirty-four dauntless men.But for most of us standing there, hanging upon the words of Robert Burney, breathing heavily after every name as from a deathblow escaped, all that it seemed possible to feel at that moment was a savage joy; a joy so painful that it seemed as if it must burst the heart that felt it.God knows we grudged Fame to none for their noble dead. We mourned with them, and would weep for them. But at first, just at first, in that great pain of relief, we could not help that little ghostly sighing wind of relief and thanks that escaped from our dry lips—thanks to God for the omission of the special name we loved from that terrible roll-call of Honour.Alas! for one among us who could not so thank God—for the wife of one of the only two married men who fell with that heroic band. When we realised what had befallen her we gathered round her. We could do nothing to comfort her. No one tried to beguile her from her grief with words. But it seemed a kind thing to do to shelter her stricken eyes from the gay and flaunting sunshine.All was not yet told. There had been other engagements. After the loss of the Wilson patrol the main column had retreated down the Shangani River to Umhlangeni, and all the way were continuously attacked. Moreover, they had run short of food and been forced to eat some of their horses; their boots had given out; many of them were obliged to march with their broken feet thrust into the regulation leather wallets; fever also had attacked them. Another list of casualties was necessarily attached to this retreat. One of the nice cheeky boys had been killed; Mrs Shand’s husband wounded; Dr Marriott—When Burney came to this name his eyes rested for a moment on Mrs Marriott’s listening face, and by something that came into his expression I knew that his news for her was of the worst. God knows if she too read his look aright, but she was the first to speak:“What news of my husband, Mr Burney?” For a moment Robert Burney’s voice stuck in his throat; then he spoke out clearly, looking at the fragile, ashen-faced woman with actually the glint of a smile on his face, for as a brave man he had a kind of joy in saying what he did.“He died a splendid death, Mrs Marriott, saving Dick Saurin’s life.”Elizabeth Marriott showed that she was made of the material of which heroes’ wives should be made. She smiled too—a proud, bright, almost a gay smile. Then she turned to me and said softly so that no one heard but I:“That is my gift to you, Deirdre Saurin.” I kissed her, and my tears streamed down my face, falling upon hers; but suddenly they were dried in my eyes, and I could weep no more. Some fateful words, spoken almost brokenly by Robert Burney, had fallen upon my ears: “Tony Kinsella is missing.” It was as though some one had thrust a sword into my heart and I could feel the life-blood ebbing away from me, leaving me cold—cold as some frozen thing in the Arctic Sea. Though the sun shone so gaily upon us there I shivered with bitter cold.It was a desolate home-coming. As soon as the sun went down a mass of slate-coloured clouds that had been crouching in the south-west like some stealthy winged monster waiting to pounce, spread itself out swiftly and enshrouded us in grey, misty rain.The men hurriedlyinspannedand urged us into the shelter of the waggons, then started to walk ahead in silent, gloomy groups. No woman walked, except Mrs Burney; we could see her far behind, clinging to her husband’s arm, gazing into his face, caring nothing for rain—why should she? Mrs Rookwood, proud to have been asked to do so, minded the Burney baby and tried to hide the gladness of her eyes from those who had little enough cause to rejoice. Her news had been good; George Rookwood had done well and was returning on some special errand in a day or two.The children were bunched together in a little scarlet cluster at the end of the waggon, watching silent and wide-eyed two of their number who were weeping huddled against their mother. She sat between them with a white, thoughtful face on which there was no sign of tears, though her news had been bad enough to wipe all hope and joy from her life.“Hush, children,” she kept gently repeating. “We don’t know for certain... Mr Burney said there might be... that some thought there was still hope... we can’t be sure... but if it is—if he should be—he would like us to take it bravely—not to—not to make a fuss... but I don’t think itcanbe true... surely it can’t be true.” Her afflicted eyes searched our faces for some gleam of hope. But we had none to give. We were fighting each our own devils of despair.The mental exaltation that had sustained Mrs Marriott had given place to physical exhaustion and she lay against my shoulder with a strange heaviness, still as a stone, her eyes closed. Annabel Cleeve fainted quietly, twice, before we reached home, and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe and Mrs Valetta did what they could for her. But the latter’s pale, haunted face was not one in which to seek comfort. Once her glance crossed mine like a rapier flash, but I was sick and cold with pain, and had neither pity nor disdain in my heart for her. My mind was busy with its own misery. I was striving to “rear the changeling Hope in the black cave of Despair.” My thoughts set me in torment, and I could remember nothing but the words of Robert Burney:“He was last heard of out scouting with two other men near the Shangani River. They were surrounded and attacked by a party of twelve natives armed with rifles and assegais. One of them, Britton, managed to get away and ride to the main column for help, and when he got back with a patrol an hour later the other fellow, Vincent, was lying there wounded, surrounded by the bodies of dead natives, but Kinsella was nowhere to be found—and has never been heard of or seen since. Vincent could tell nothing but that just before he became unconscious Kinsella was still standing over his body shooting—”Not to know! Not to know! Torturing visions stole upon me; visions of men lying wounded to death; parched with bitter thirst; waiting, waiting for reinforcements that never came; for help that would never come!Then the terrible yet merciful remembrance that it was all so long ago! Many, many days had passed since it happened. If those splendid, heroic men lay there still they must be of the great, noble company of the dead. I looked up at the grey arch above me, blurred and dim with rain, and thinking of the unsheltered dead, lying with eyes wide open to the skies, was thankful that it fell so gently and pityingly down.“O loved ones lying far away,What word of love can dead lips send?O wasted dust! O senseless clay!Is this the end? Is this the end?“Peace, peace! we wrong the noble deadTo vex their solemn slumber so.Though childless and with thorn-crowned headUp the steep path must England go—”I could not remember at that moment who wrote those great lines. I only know that I thought there was strange healing in them for mourning hearts. There seemed suddenly something peaceful in the thought of Death; something that lulled and dulled the active burning pain of uncertainty.There seemed even a kind of mercy in Elizabeth Marriott’s definite tidings, terrible as they were. She knew at least that her man was at rest from torment; suffering was done with him; pain had been defeated.But—Not to know!Not to know!Before twelve o’clock that night Maurice Stair came to me and told me that he had determined to leave at once with two good colonial boys, Jacob and Jonas, to find Anthony Kinsella if possible, or at least get definite tidings of his fate.“If he is alive I’ll bring him back,” he said, in the quiet, modest way I had always found so attractive in him, and kissing the hand I gave him he went on his way.

“Do we think Victory great? And so it is.But now it seems to me, when it cannot be helped,That Defeat is great, and Death and Dismay are great!”

“Do we think Victory great? And so it is.But now it seems to me, when it cannot be helped,That Defeat is great, and Death and Dismay are great!”

At twelve o’clock Colonel Blow and Maurice Stair and a number of men who had not been able to get away any earlier arrived, and the children went off to hail them and help get them some refreshment.

Mrs Marriott and I sat down under one of the great rocks on a lounge of cool moss, glad to get out of the grilling sunshine for a while. It was not long before we began to speak of what was uppermost in our minds—our men at the front. I said:

“I don’t know what your husband will say to you looking so fragile. I shall have to feed you up and make you plump before he arrives.”

Impulsively she leaned towards me and took hold of my hands. Her face was suffused with colour.

“Deirdre, you have been so good to me, and I must tell you, though I meant to keep it a secret. This looking fragile doesn’t really matter—it is natural.” She paused, then added softly, “It is part of the state of my coming motherhood.”

“Oh!” I cried at last. “How beautiful and wonderful for you, dear! And how glad I am!”

She looked at me shyly and gravely.

“Yes: itisbeautiful, Deirdre. But I did not always think so. I knew it long ago, before Rupert went, and it seemed to me then like the last bitter drop in a most bitter cup. Now everything is altered. You and Anthony Kinsella have changed the face of life for him and for me.”

“No, no! You have done it yourselves, dear. Your husband’s fine effort had to be made by himself; no one but one’s self can do these things. One must fight for one’s own soul. You know:

“‘Ye have no friend but Resolution!’”

“‘Ye have no friend but Resolution!’”

“Yes, but if Anthony Kinsella had not given him his chance he would never have broken away from—Don’t I know? Oh, God! Did not I pray and watch and fight for him?—and afterwardswatch him drop back? Oh, Deirdre, no one can ever know the awful things that passed before hope died in me—that frightful drug rearing its hideous head between us like a great beast! You cannot imagine what it means to a woman to see not only the body but the soul of the man she loves being devoured before her eyes, while she stands looking on—helpless! And then after a time—it is all part of the hideous enslavement—he began to hate me for looking on at his degradation!”

Her face became anguished even at the recollection. I held her hands tightly, but I looked away from her eyes, and we were silent for a while, but presently she went on:

“And your share in it has been great, Deirdre. Without your help I could never have pulled myself out of the pit of despair and desolation into which I had fallen. My spirit was in fetters: but you have helped me to break them—and now I feel strong enough and brave enough for whatever comes. I have a heart for any fate. We have a big fight before us still, I know. Rupert has gone back in his profession all this time that he has done nothing, thought nothing. It will be uphill work getting back to where he was before—and we’ve only a tiny income—and he may be tempted again. But, oh! how I mean to fight for my happiness, Deirdre. And Iknowthat I shall win.”

I could only press her hand tightly, and keep back my own tears. She looked such a delicate little thing to put up such a big fight. It seemed to me at that moment that the battle-field of life was a cruel and hard place for women, and their reward for battles won, all too pitiful. We sat a long time in silence.

At last we were aroused by a great hooting and tooting and banging of pans and tin plates from the direction of the camp. The significance of these sounds and also the odours of baked meats that were beginning to suffuse the veldt, could not be misunderstood. We returned to camp and dinner.

Mrs Burney had her best damask table-cloths spread in line on the level grass, and Mrs Rookwood had decorated the snowy expanse with trails of wild smilax and jasmine, and jam-jars full of scarlet lilies and maidenhair fern. We sat down to a banquet of unparalleled splendour, of which I cannot now remember all the details, but only that they were opulent and luxurious and kingly. Afterwards every one had a glass of some delightful champagne that had been unearthed from the cellars of Hunloke and Dennison, and Colonel Blow ceremoniously arose and asked us to drink the health of the Queen, and we drank, standing.

Then Captain Clinton jumped up again with his glass in the air and called for toasts to Mr Rhodes and Dr Jim, and those we drank uproariously. Afterwards we sat very quiet for a moment, and only the children’s voices were heard. Colonel Blow got up again and a hush fell upon us all. Some of the women began to bite their lips, to keep themselves from crying, and Mrs Shand, who had been one of the brightest and gayest of the party all day, suddenly leaned against Saba Rookwood’s shoulder and began to sob.

“I ask you to drink to those who cannot be with us here to-day—because they are attending to our business elsewhere—our fellows at the front!”

Across the table-cloth Annabel Cleeve and I stared at each other dry-eyed.

“Here’s to their speedy and safe return!” cried Captain Clinton, holding his glass aloft so that the wine shone and sparkled in the sunshine like liquid topaz. “Now you kids give three tremendous cheers for them, and maybe they’ll hear the echoes in Buluwayo.”

That saved the situation. The men’s strong “Hurrahs!” mingling with the children’s cheery voices, rang and echoed among the rocks and hills. Emotion was pushed out of sight once more, and faces became calm. It appeared too that Colonel Blow had not finished the giving of toasts. He got up once again, his face wreathed in smiles.

“And I want you all to drink the health,” he began, “of some one here who has been the sunshine of our darkest days, and the brightest star of many a weary night; who has minded the babies and made coffee for the patrol boys, and generally kept us all from dying of sheer boredom and hatred of life just by her lovely presence amongst us. I am sure you all know who I mean.”

I’m sureIdidn’t. I stared round the table in astonishment, and to see what the others were thinking of this unlooked-for enthusiasm on the part of the usually sedate and sensible Commandant. Was he dreaming, or was he infatuated with one of the women, and simply drivelling about her? I had never noticed him paying any special attention to any one—he always seemed to be so busy. Anyway, I felt quite annoyed about it, and especially cross about the babies, whom I had looked upon as my own particular loves. He raised his glass on high.

“I drink to Miss Deirdre Saurin!”

“And drink it on the table!” someone shouted, and every one got up once more and put a dirty boot on Mrs Burney’s nice table-cloth and made a tremendous noise, while I stared at them. When I realised what they were saying I went hot with vexation and embarrassment, for I felt sure they were making fun of me.

“Respond! Respond!” they cried all round me.

“I never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life,” I said crossly. “And utterly uncalled for.” I threw Colonel Blow a glance of the utmost indignation. “I think you want to make every one hate me!” I said.

He merely shouted with laughter.

“Oh, I know I’m a wonder, but I couldn’t do that,” he said, and to my amazement the women all rushed at me and hugged me and made me feel as hot and stuffy and cross as possible.

When I say all, I don’t of course mean that the Salisbury women did anything of the kind. Miracles do not happen in modern times. But I was not surprised that they got up in a group and strolled off sniffing disdainfully. The whole thing was ridiculous and absurd.

“You’ve quite spoiled my day,” I said to Colonel Blow afterwards. He insisted upon taking me to see some wonderful drawings on a rode which he said only he and one other man knew about; and when we got there they were the same old drawings Mrs Marriott and I had been looking at in the morning. So we sat on top of the rock and I continued my upbraidings.

“Of course it was very kind of you and all that, and I dare say you meant well—but I never felt more uncomfortable in my life, and I cannot say I feel the least bit grateful to you. I made sure you were talking about some woman you had fallen in love with and expected every one else to do the same,” I continued in my most unpleasant voice.

“Well, so I was,” he had the effrontery to say. “But of course I know there is no hope for me.”

I stared at him coldly. I really did not feel disposed for any more jesting. But his face had not the ghost of a smile on it, and he continued quite gravely:

“I saw you kiss Kinsella the night he went, and of course I understood that a girl like you would not have done that except for one reason. So it can be of no use my telling you that I love you. Yet I want to tell you if you don’t mind, and to call you Deirdre once. May I, Deirdre?”

I really don’t remember what I said, but I was frightfully surprised and sorry. I don’t believe I said anything. Perhaps I sat and stared at him with my mouth open. I only know that we came out of it sworn friends.

Afterwards we climbed to the top of the highest of the rocks to get a view of the whole wide veldt lying shimmering in the sunshine with far-off hazes and veils of purple and amethyst, draped about the horizon like the robes of a god.

As we stood looking a cloud of dust appeared upon the road, and presently we made out the figure of a man on a light horse approaching the camp. He was coming from the west and, therefore, towards Fort George, and when we realised this we knew that he was not from the town, but from the front—some one with news.

Colonel Blow jumped up, and forgetting good manners and me ran for the edge of the rock and began to climb down as fast as he could. But I as swiftly followed him, and when he reached level ground I was there too. Then we took hands and frankly ran for the camp, stumbling over ruts and stones, and tripping in ant-bear holes, but covering the ground at a speed I had never achieved before except in an express train. But in spite of our haste the newcomer had arrived first, and we found him dismounted, standing at the head of a pale-coloured drooping horse, with every one in the camp clustered round him. I remember thinking that it was the first time I had ever seen a horse that looked so exactly like the pale-coloured horse Death is supposed to ride when he goes abroad. I wondered what made me think of it at that moment.

I did not recognise the man’s face as one I had ever seen; but when Mrs Burney rushed forward and flung her arms round his neck I realised that this was her husband, whom I had often seen before. Yes: it was Robert Burney the scout! Yet why should dust and fatigue and a stubbly beard so terribly alter a man as he was altered? It is true that his coat hung in tatters, we could see his bare feet through his ragged boots, and his cheek-bones seemed almost piercing through his cheeks. But as he stood there looking at us I realised that it was in his eyes that the change lay. I never saw a man with such hard, calm eyes. If it had been a woman who stood there with those eyes I should have believed that she had wept until she had no more tears, and could never weep again. But this man’s iron face, haggard and weary though it seemed, was not one that could be associated with tears. Yet it is true that when I looked into the fearless, still eyes of Robert Burney I thought of tears—tears that were frozen in the heart and would never be shed. Neither were they dumb, those eyes of his that were so calm. When we had looked at him in silence for a moment, some knowledge leaped out to us from them and entered into our very hearts, paling our faces and chilling our blood so that we stood there shivering in the warm sunshine while we waited for him to speak. Fear had us by the throat, and in the heart of every one “terror was lying still!”

Some name trembled on every lip, and each one of us longed to shout a question: but tongue clave to palate, lips were too dry to open. It was revealed to us in some strange way that Robert Burney had more to tell than the mere fate of one man.

At last he moistened with his tongue his cracked and dust-thickened lips, and spoke quietly:

“A lot of our fellows have been surrounded and cut up.”

No one cried out. No one fainted. We just stood there quietly round him, staring into his eyes and listening. No one wept, except Mrs Burney, who had her man safe back in her arms.

“Wilson from Victoria—Alan Wilson, with eighteen men, went across the Shangani River on the King’s spoor. We understood that the King was deserted all but a few hundred men, and Major Wilson was to see how the land lay. His idea was to get the King that night if possible and bring him in; but when he reached the scherms it was too late and too dark to do anything; only, he saw that the numbers round Lobengula had been underrated, and that the natives were threatening and hostile. He sent Napier back with information to Major Forbes for reinforcements, but Major Forbes did not think it safe to move that night and sent Captain Borrow instead with twenty men. Ingram and I had already gone on ahead and joined Wilson, and when Borrow reached us we were camped out in the bush about half a mile away from the King’s scherms. We lay there all night under arms, in pitch darkness and drenching rain; we could hear the voices of the natives in the bush round us. Several hours of the night Major Wilson and I spent in trying to find three men who were lost. They had got separated from the rest of us, and Wilson wouldn’t rest till he knew they were all right. It was so dark that I had to feel for the spoor with my hands, and eventually we found them by calling out their names continually but very softly, and we got back to camp together.

“With the first glint of dawn we saddled up and rode down to the King’s waggon again, and Major Wilson called in a loud voice to Lobengula to come out and surrender. Immediately we were answered by the rattle of guns, and a heavy fire! They had evidently been ‘laying’ for us. We dismounted and returned the fire, but as soon as the natives began trying to get round us we mounted and retreated about six hundred yards, when we again dismounted and returned the fire from behind our horses. Then as they began to take to the bush round us we rode off again. Two of our horses had been shot, so two horses had to carry double.

“We rode slowly down the spoor made by the King’s waggons the night before, Major Wilson and Captain Borrow behind us consulting as to what to do. Major Wilson then called me and asked me to ride back and get the main column to come on at once with the Maxims. I rode off with two other men, and we hadn’t gone a hundred yards when hordes of Matabele rushed out on us from the bush ahead, waving their assegais and yelling. We galloped to the left where the river lay, and by hard riding got away through a shower of bullets.

“When we got to the river we found it in flood, and we had to swim over. Of course, it was too late then for the main column to cross.

“Immediately after we got away from the last lot of natives we heard Wilson and his party come up to them, and heavy firing commenced. I looked back just before we got out of sight and saw that our fellows were surrounded.

“There must have been thousands... our men in an open space without cover of any kind... surrounded by those shouting, ferocious devils mad for revenge!

“They were the pick of our forces—the very flower—thirty-four of the finest fellows in the country—in the world!”

He paused a little while, and his throat moved in a curious way that fascinated my eyes, so that I could not think about his news, but only about what was choking him.

“It is still hoped that some of them escaped. But I don’t think so... It is true that some of them might possibly have got away—if they had tried. By hard riding those with the best mounts might,but they were not the kind of men to leave their chums. No: you can take it from me they fought it out there—side by side—to the bitter end.

“But before that end came you can believe that they put up a fight that the natives of this country will never forget. I guess they showed those devils how brave men can die.”

After a long time some one spoke. Some one had the fearful courage to stammer from twisted lips a question:

“Who were they? Tell us the names.” Robert Burney’s steady glance passed from face to face, and he gave us the names.

“Alan Wilson,” he repeated lingeringly, as though he loved the sound of those two words; and there is indeed something gallant-sounding, something intrepid and chivalrous, in the rhythm of that man’s name whom other men so much loved—that dauntless leader who instilled the spirit of courageous adventure and loyal comradeship into every one with whom he came in contact; whose comrades so loved him that it is certain they followed him to death as gaily as they would have ridden by his side to victory.

“Alan Wilson—Borrow—Kirton—Judd—Greenfield—” Sometimes he paused for a moment, but he never repeated a name twice and he gave us every one of the thirty-four. Some one checked them off, slowly and relentlessly, like a clock ticking and bringing us at each tick nearer to some dreadful doom. When he had finished a sigh passed over us like a ghostly wind.

Some of them were names we knew well; some we had never heard before; all were names to be thereafter written in our memories, and in letters of scarlet and gold across the deathless page of Fame. In other places many a woman’s head would be bowed to the dust, many a bereaved heart torn and broken, while yet it thrilled with pride for the glorious “Last Stand” of those thirty-four dauntless men.

But for most of us standing there, hanging upon the words of Robert Burney, breathing heavily after every name as from a deathblow escaped, all that it seemed possible to feel at that moment was a savage joy; a joy so painful that it seemed as if it must burst the heart that felt it.

God knows we grudged Fame to none for their noble dead. We mourned with them, and would weep for them. But at first, just at first, in that great pain of relief, we could not help that little ghostly sighing wind of relief and thanks that escaped from our dry lips—thanks to God for the omission of the special name we loved from that terrible roll-call of Honour.

Alas! for one among us who could not so thank God—for the wife of one of the only two married men who fell with that heroic band. When we realised what had befallen her we gathered round her. We could do nothing to comfort her. No one tried to beguile her from her grief with words. But it seemed a kind thing to do to shelter her stricken eyes from the gay and flaunting sunshine.

All was not yet told. There had been other engagements. After the loss of the Wilson patrol the main column had retreated down the Shangani River to Umhlangeni, and all the way were continuously attacked. Moreover, they had run short of food and been forced to eat some of their horses; their boots had given out; many of them were obliged to march with their broken feet thrust into the regulation leather wallets; fever also had attacked them. Another list of casualties was necessarily attached to this retreat. One of the nice cheeky boys had been killed; Mrs Shand’s husband wounded; Dr Marriott—

When Burney came to this name his eyes rested for a moment on Mrs Marriott’s listening face, and by something that came into his expression I knew that his news for her was of the worst. God knows if she too read his look aright, but she was the first to speak:

“What news of my husband, Mr Burney?” For a moment Robert Burney’s voice stuck in his throat; then he spoke out clearly, looking at the fragile, ashen-faced woman with actually the glint of a smile on his face, for as a brave man he had a kind of joy in saying what he did.

“He died a splendid death, Mrs Marriott, saving Dick Saurin’s life.”

Elizabeth Marriott showed that she was made of the material of which heroes’ wives should be made. She smiled too—a proud, bright, almost a gay smile. Then she turned to me and said softly so that no one heard but I:

“That is my gift to you, Deirdre Saurin.” I kissed her, and my tears streamed down my face, falling upon hers; but suddenly they were dried in my eyes, and I could weep no more. Some fateful words, spoken almost brokenly by Robert Burney, had fallen upon my ears: “Tony Kinsella is missing.” It was as though some one had thrust a sword into my heart and I could feel the life-blood ebbing away from me, leaving me cold—cold as some frozen thing in the Arctic Sea. Though the sun shone so gaily upon us there I shivered with bitter cold.

It was a desolate home-coming. As soon as the sun went down a mass of slate-coloured clouds that had been crouching in the south-west like some stealthy winged monster waiting to pounce, spread itself out swiftly and enshrouded us in grey, misty rain.

The men hurriedlyinspannedand urged us into the shelter of the waggons, then started to walk ahead in silent, gloomy groups. No woman walked, except Mrs Burney; we could see her far behind, clinging to her husband’s arm, gazing into his face, caring nothing for rain—why should she? Mrs Rookwood, proud to have been asked to do so, minded the Burney baby and tried to hide the gladness of her eyes from those who had little enough cause to rejoice. Her news had been good; George Rookwood had done well and was returning on some special errand in a day or two.

The children were bunched together in a little scarlet cluster at the end of the waggon, watching silent and wide-eyed two of their number who were weeping huddled against their mother. She sat between them with a white, thoughtful face on which there was no sign of tears, though her news had been bad enough to wipe all hope and joy from her life.

“Hush, children,” she kept gently repeating. “We don’t know for certain... Mr Burney said there might be... that some thought there was still hope... we can’t be sure... but if it is—if he should be—he would like us to take it bravely—not to—not to make a fuss... but I don’t think itcanbe true... surely it can’t be true.” Her afflicted eyes searched our faces for some gleam of hope. But we had none to give. We were fighting each our own devils of despair.

The mental exaltation that had sustained Mrs Marriott had given place to physical exhaustion and she lay against my shoulder with a strange heaviness, still as a stone, her eyes closed. Annabel Cleeve fainted quietly, twice, before we reached home, and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe and Mrs Valetta did what they could for her. But the latter’s pale, haunted face was not one in which to seek comfort. Once her glance crossed mine like a rapier flash, but I was sick and cold with pain, and had neither pity nor disdain in my heart for her. My mind was busy with its own misery. I was striving to “rear the changeling Hope in the black cave of Despair.” My thoughts set me in torment, and I could remember nothing but the words of Robert Burney:

“He was last heard of out scouting with two other men near the Shangani River. They were surrounded and attacked by a party of twelve natives armed with rifles and assegais. One of them, Britton, managed to get away and ride to the main column for help, and when he got back with a patrol an hour later the other fellow, Vincent, was lying there wounded, surrounded by the bodies of dead natives, but Kinsella was nowhere to be found—and has never been heard of or seen since. Vincent could tell nothing but that just before he became unconscious Kinsella was still standing over his body shooting—”

Not to know! Not to know! Torturing visions stole upon me; visions of men lying wounded to death; parched with bitter thirst; waiting, waiting for reinforcements that never came; for help that would never come!

Then the terrible yet merciful remembrance that it was all so long ago! Many, many days had passed since it happened. If those splendid, heroic men lay there still they must be of the great, noble company of the dead. I looked up at the grey arch above me, blurred and dim with rain, and thinking of the unsheltered dead, lying with eyes wide open to the skies, was thankful that it fell so gently and pityingly down.

“O loved ones lying far away,What word of love can dead lips send?O wasted dust! O senseless clay!Is this the end? Is this the end?“Peace, peace! we wrong the noble deadTo vex their solemn slumber so.Though childless and with thorn-crowned headUp the steep path must England go—”

“O loved ones lying far away,What word of love can dead lips send?O wasted dust! O senseless clay!Is this the end? Is this the end?“Peace, peace! we wrong the noble deadTo vex their solemn slumber so.Though childless and with thorn-crowned headUp the steep path must England go—”

I could not remember at that moment who wrote those great lines. I only know that I thought there was strange healing in them for mourning hearts. There seemed suddenly something peaceful in the thought of Death; something that lulled and dulled the active burning pain of uncertainty.

There seemed even a kind of mercy in Elizabeth Marriott’s definite tidings, terrible as they were. She knew at least that her man was at rest from torment; suffering was done with him; pain had been defeated.

But—Not to know!Not to know!

Before twelve o’clock that night Maurice Stair came to me and told me that he had determined to leave at once with two good colonial boys, Jacob and Jonas, to find Anthony Kinsella if possible, or at least get definite tidings of his fate.

“If he is alive I’ll bring him back,” he said, in the quiet, modest way I had always found so attractive in him, and kissing the hand I gave him he went on his way.

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