Chapter Seven.“That Irreclaimable Scamp!”For some while after his departure from Lannercost, their recent guest occupied a very large share in the conversation and thoughts of its inmates. He had been so long with them, had become so much one of themselves in their quiet, rather isolated life, and now his absence had left a very real void.He had written to them with fair frequency, telling of up-country doings—of the growing aggressiveness of the Matabele, and of the contemplated expedition, with the object of bringing Lo Bengula to book, then of the actual formation of such expedition, by that time on the eve of a start, and how he and young West had volunteered upon the Salisbury Column, and were to serve in the scouting section. Then correspondence had ceased. The expedition had set out.It was then that Bayfield found himself importuned to increase the circulation of two or three other newspapers, in addition to those regularly sent him, by one subscriber, in order that no chance might be missed of seeing the very latest concerning the Matabele war, and upon such, Lyn and small Fred would fasten every post day.“I say, Lyn!” cried the latter, disinterring his nose from a newly opened sheet, “but won’t Mr Blachland make Lo Bengula scoot, when once he gets at him? Man! but I’d like to be there.”“But he and the King are great friends, Fred.”“Pooh! How can they be friends if they’re at war?Nouw ja—but he just will scoot old Lo Ben! I’d like to be there.”“I hope they’ll take all sorts of proper precautions against surprises,” said Lyn seriously, for she was just old enough to remember the shudder of gloom which ran through the whole country when the disastrous news of Isandhlwana had come upon it like a storm-burst fourteen years previously. It had struck vividly upon her childish imagination then and she had not forgotten it.“Surprises! I’d like to see them surprise a commando that Mr Blachland’s on,” returned Fred, magnificent in his whole-souled contempt that any one could even imagine any such possibility. “And these Matabele chaps ain’t a patch on the Zulus. I’ve heard Mr Blachland say so again and again.Ja, he’s a fine chap! Won’t he make old Lo Ben sit up!”Lyn would smile at this kind of oft-repeated expression of her young brother’s honest and whole-hearted idolatry, in which, although more reticent herself, she secretly shared. And the object of it? He was always in her thoughts. She delighted to think about him—to talk about him. Why not? He was her ideal, this man who had been an inmate of their roof for so long, who had been her daily companion throughout that time and had stored her mind with new thoughts, new ideas, which all unconsciously to herself, had expanded and enlarged it—and not one of which but had improved it. He represented something like perfection to her, this man, no longer young, weather-beaten, somewhat lined, who had come there in the capacity of her father’s friend. Strange, you see, but then, life is teeming with eccentricities.This state of Lyn’s mind was not without one interested spectator, and that her father. Half amused, half concerned, he watched it—and put two and two together. That outburst of grief in which he had surprised her had never been repeated, and, watching her with loving care, he failed to descry any symptom of it having been, even in secret. But the girl’s clear mind was as open and as honest as a mirror. There was no shadow of hesitation or embarrassment in her manner or speech when they talked of their late guest—even before strangers. George Bayfield was puzzled. But through it all, as an undercurrent, there ran an idea. He recalled the entire pleasure which Blachland had taken in Lyn’s society, the frank, open admiration he had never failed to express when she or her doings formed the topic of conversation between them—the excellent and complete understanding between him and the girl. What if—Too old! Not a bit of it. He himself had married very young, and Blachland was quite half a dozen years his junior. Why, he himself was in his prime—and as for the other, apart from that shake of fever, he was as hard as nails.Now this idea, the more and more it struck root in Bayfield’s mind, was anything but distasteful to him. The certainty that he must some day lose Lyn, was the one ever-haunting grief of his life. He had pictured some externally showy, but shallow-pated youth—on the principle that such things go by opposites—who should one day carry off his Lyn, and amid new surroundings and new interests, teach her—unconsciously perhaps, but none the less effectually—to forget her old home, and the father who loved and adored her from the crown of her sweet golden head to her little feet. But here was a man whose experience of the world was greater than his own, a man with an exhaustive knowledge of life, who had immediately seen and appreciated this pearl of great price, a strong man who had lived and done—no mere empty-headed, self-sufficient, egotistical youth; and this man was his friend. He was thoroughbred too, and the worst that could be said of him was that he had sown some wild oats. But apart from the culminating stage in the sowing of that crop—and even there probably there were great extenuating circumstances—nothing mean, nothing dishonourable had ever been laid to Hilary Blachland’s charge. Personally, he had an immense liking and regard for him, and, as he had said to himself before, Lyn’s instinct was never at fault. He remembered now that Blachland had declared he could never stand English life again—and—he remembered too, something else, up till now forgotten—how Blachland had half chaffingly commissioned him to find out the lowest terms its owner would accept for a certain farm which adjoined Lannercost, and which was for sale, because he believed he would squat down for a little quiet life when he returned from up-country. All this came back to him now, and with a feeling of thankful relief, for it meant, in the event of his idea proving well-founded, that his little Lyn would not be taken right away from him after all.So the months went by after Hilary Blachland’s departure, but still his memory was kept green and fresh within that household of three.One day, when Bayfield was outside, indulging in some such speculation as the above, out to him ran Lyn, flourishing one of the newly arrived newspapers. She seemed in a state of quite unwonted excitement, and at her heels came small Fred.“Father, look, here’s news! Look. Read that. Isn’t it splendid?”Bayfield took the paper, but before looking at the paragraph she was trying to point out, he glanced admiringly at the girl, thinking what a sweet picture she made, her golden hair shining in the sun, her blue eyes wide with animation, and a glow of colour suffusing her lovely clear-cut face. Then he read:“Gallantry of a Scout.”It was just such a paragraph as is sure to occur from time to time in the chronicling of any of the little wars in which the forces of the British Empire are almost unceasingly engaged, in some quarter or other of the same, and it set forth in stereotyped journalese, how Hilary Blachland of the Scouting Section attached to the Salisbury Column, had deliberately turned his horse and ridden back into what looked like certain death, in order to rescue Trooper Spence, whose horse had been killed, and who was left behind dismounted, and at the mercy of a large force of charging Matabele, then but a hundred or two yards distant—and how at immense risk to his rescuer, whose horse was hardly equal to the double load, Spence had been brought back to the laager, unharmed, though closely pursued and fired upon all the way. Bayfield gave a surprised whistle.“What, father? Isn’t it splendid?” cried Lyn, wondering.“Yes. Of course.” What had evoked the outburst of amazement was the name—the identity of the rescued man—but of this to be sure, Lyn knew nothing. So of all others it was destined to be the man who had played him a scurvy dog’s trick that Blachland was destined to imperil his own life to save: true that the said trick had been a very great blessing in disguise, but that feet did not touch the motive thereof. It remained.“Bah! The swine wasn’t worth it,” went on Bayfield, unconsciously.“No, very likely not,” assented Lyn. “But that makes it all the more splendid—doesn’t it, father?”“Eh, what? Yes, yes—of course it does,” agreed Bayfield, becoming alive to the fact that he had been thinking out loud. “By Jove, Lyn, you’ll have to design a new order of merit for him when he gets back. What shall it be?”“Man, Lyn! Didn’t I tell you he’d make old Lo Ben scoot?” said Fred triumphantly, craning over to have another look at the paragraph, which his father was reading over again. It did not give much detail, but from the facts set forth it was evident that the deed had been one of intrepid gallantry. Bayfield, yet deeper in the know, opined that it deserved even an additional name, and his regard and respect for his friend increased tenfold. For the other two—well, there was less chance than ever of Hilary Blachland’s name and memory being allowed to grow dim in that household.“Why, he’ll soon be back now,” said Lyn. “The war must be nearly over now they’ve got to Bulawayo.”“Perhaps. But—they haven’t got Lo Ben yet,” replied her father, unconsciously repeating Blachland’s own words. “They’ll have to get him. Fancy him blowing up his own place and clearing!”“Ja. I knew he’d make old Lo Ben scoot,” reiterated Fred.There was another household something over six thousand miles distant from Bayfield’s in which the name of Hilary Blachland was held in honour, which is strange, because the last time we glanced within the walls of this establishment, the reverse was the case. “That out and out irreclaimable scamp!” was the definition of the absent one then. It was hard winter around Jerningham Lodge when the news of Spence’s rescue arrived there, and it was sprung upon Sir Luke Canterby in precisely the same manner as he had learned the whereabouts of his erring nephew on that occasion—through the daily papers to wit. He had congratulated himself mightily on the success of Percival’s mission. The latter’s correspondence was full of Hilary, and what great times they were having together up-country. Then the war broke out and the tidings which reached Sir Luke of his absent nephews were few and far between. Thereupon he waxed testy, and mightily expatiated to his old friend Canon Lenthall.“They’re ungrateful dogs the pair of them. Yes, sir—Ungrateful dogs I said, and I’ll say it again. What business had they to go running their necks into this noose?”The Canon suggested that in all probability they couldn’t help themselves, that they couldn’t exactly turn tail and run away. Sir Luke refused to be mollified.“It was their duty to. Hang it, Canon. What did I send Percy out there for? To bring the other rascal home, didn’t I? And now—and now he stays away himself too. It’s outrageous.”Then had come the news of the capture and occupation of Bulawayo, and the events incidental to the progress of the column thither, and Sir Luke’s enthusiasm over his favourite nephew’s deed knew no bounds. He became something like a bore on the subject whenever he could buttonhole a listener, indeed to hear him would lead the said listener to suppose that never a deed of self-sacrificing gallantry had been done before, and certainly never would be again, unless perchance by that formerly contemned and now favoured individual hight Hilary Blachland.“That out and out irreclaimable scamp,” murmured the Canon with a very comic twinkle in his eyes. Then, as his old friend looked rather foolish—“See here, Canterby, I don’t think I gave you bad advice when I recommended you to put that draft behind the fire.”“Bad advice! No, sir. I’m a fool sometimes—in fact, very often. But—oh hang it, Dick, this is splendid news. Shake hands on it, sir, shake hands on it, and you’ve got to stay and dine with me to-night, and we’ll put up a bottle of the very best to drink his health.”And the two old friends shook hands very heartily.
For some while after his departure from Lannercost, their recent guest occupied a very large share in the conversation and thoughts of its inmates. He had been so long with them, had become so much one of themselves in their quiet, rather isolated life, and now his absence had left a very real void.
He had written to them with fair frequency, telling of up-country doings—of the growing aggressiveness of the Matabele, and of the contemplated expedition, with the object of bringing Lo Bengula to book, then of the actual formation of such expedition, by that time on the eve of a start, and how he and young West had volunteered upon the Salisbury Column, and were to serve in the scouting section. Then correspondence had ceased. The expedition had set out.
It was then that Bayfield found himself importuned to increase the circulation of two or three other newspapers, in addition to those regularly sent him, by one subscriber, in order that no chance might be missed of seeing the very latest concerning the Matabele war, and upon such, Lyn and small Fred would fasten every post day.
“I say, Lyn!” cried the latter, disinterring his nose from a newly opened sheet, “but won’t Mr Blachland make Lo Bengula scoot, when once he gets at him? Man! but I’d like to be there.”
“But he and the King are great friends, Fred.”
“Pooh! How can they be friends if they’re at war?Nouw ja—but he just will scoot old Lo Ben! I’d like to be there.”
“I hope they’ll take all sorts of proper precautions against surprises,” said Lyn seriously, for she was just old enough to remember the shudder of gloom which ran through the whole country when the disastrous news of Isandhlwana had come upon it like a storm-burst fourteen years previously. It had struck vividly upon her childish imagination then and she had not forgotten it.
“Surprises! I’d like to see them surprise a commando that Mr Blachland’s on,” returned Fred, magnificent in his whole-souled contempt that any one could even imagine any such possibility. “And these Matabele chaps ain’t a patch on the Zulus. I’ve heard Mr Blachland say so again and again.Ja, he’s a fine chap! Won’t he make old Lo Ben sit up!”
Lyn would smile at this kind of oft-repeated expression of her young brother’s honest and whole-hearted idolatry, in which, although more reticent herself, she secretly shared. And the object of it? He was always in her thoughts. She delighted to think about him—to talk about him. Why not? He was her ideal, this man who had been an inmate of their roof for so long, who had been her daily companion throughout that time and had stored her mind with new thoughts, new ideas, which all unconsciously to herself, had expanded and enlarged it—and not one of which but had improved it. He represented something like perfection to her, this man, no longer young, weather-beaten, somewhat lined, who had come there in the capacity of her father’s friend. Strange, you see, but then, life is teeming with eccentricities.
This state of Lyn’s mind was not without one interested spectator, and that her father. Half amused, half concerned, he watched it—and put two and two together. That outburst of grief in which he had surprised her had never been repeated, and, watching her with loving care, he failed to descry any symptom of it having been, even in secret. But the girl’s clear mind was as open and as honest as a mirror. There was no shadow of hesitation or embarrassment in her manner or speech when they talked of their late guest—even before strangers. George Bayfield was puzzled. But through it all, as an undercurrent, there ran an idea. He recalled the entire pleasure which Blachland had taken in Lyn’s society, the frank, open admiration he had never failed to express when she or her doings formed the topic of conversation between them—the excellent and complete understanding between him and the girl. What if—Too old! Not a bit of it. He himself had married very young, and Blachland was quite half a dozen years his junior. Why, he himself was in his prime—and as for the other, apart from that shake of fever, he was as hard as nails.
Now this idea, the more and more it struck root in Bayfield’s mind, was anything but distasteful to him. The certainty that he must some day lose Lyn, was the one ever-haunting grief of his life. He had pictured some externally showy, but shallow-pated youth—on the principle that such things go by opposites—who should one day carry off his Lyn, and amid new surroundings and new interests, teach her—unconsciously perhaps, but none the less effectually—to forget her old home, and the father who loved and adored her from the crown of her sweet golden head to her little feet. But here was a man whose experience of the world was greater than his own, a man with an exhaustive knowledge of life, who had immediately seen and appreciated this pearl of great price, a strong man who had lived and done—no mere empty-headed, self-sufficient, egotistical youth; and this man was his friend. He was thoroughbred too, and the worst that could be said of him was that he had sown some wild oats. But apart from the culminating stage in the sowing of that crop—and even there probably there were great extenuating circumstances—nothing mean, nothing dishonourable had ever been laid to Hilary Blachland’s charge. Personally, he had an immense liking and regard for him, and, as he had said to himself before, Lyn’s instinct was never at fault. He remembered now that Blachland had declared he could never stand English life again—and—he remembered too, something else, up till now forgotten—how Blachland had half chaffingly commissioned him to find out the lowest terms its owner would accept for a certain farm which adjoined Lannercost, and which was for sale, because he believed he would squat down for a little quiet life when he returned from up-country. All this came back to him now, and with a feeling of thankful relief, for it meant, in the event of his idea proving well-founded, that his little Lyn would not be taken right away from him after all.
So the months went by after Hilary Blachland’s departure, but still his memory was kept green and fresh within that household of three.
One day, when Bayfield was outside, indulging in some such speculation as the above, out to him ran Lyn, flourishing one of the newly arrived newspapers. She seemed in a state of quite unwonted excitement, and at her heels came small Fred.
“Father, look, here’s news! Look. Read that. Isn’t it splendid?”
Bayfield took the paper, but before looking at the paragraph she was trying to point out, he glanced admiringly at the girl, thinking what a sweet picture she made, her golden hair shining in the sun, her blue eyes wide with animation, and a glow of colour suffusing her lovely clear-cut face. Then he read:
“Gallantry of a Scout.”
It was just such a paragraph as is sure to occur from time to time in the chronicling of any of the little wars in which the forces of the British Empire are almost unceasingly engaged, in some quarter or other of the same, and it set forth in stereotyped journalese, how Hilary Blachland of the Scouting Section attached to the Salisbury Column, had deliberately turned his horse and ridden back into what looked like certain death, in order to rescue Trooper Spence, whose horse had been killed, and who was left behind dismounted, and at the mercy of a large force of charging Matabele, then but a hundred or two yards distant—and how at immense risk to his rescuer, whose horse was hardly equal to the double load, Spence had been brought back to the laager, unharmed, though closely pursued and fired upon all the way. Bayfield gave a surprised whistle.
“What, father? Isn’t it splendid?” cried Lyn, wondering.
“Yes. Of course.” What had evoked the outburst of amazement was the name—the identity of the rescued man—but of this to be sure, Lyn knew nothing. So of all others it was destined to be the man who had played him a scurvy dog’s trick that Blachland was destined to imperil his own life to save: true that the said trick had been a very great blessing in disguise, but that feet did not touch the motive thereof. It remained.
“Bah! The swine wasn’t worth it,” went on Bayfield, unconsciously.
“No, very likely not,” assented Lyn. “But that makes it all the more splendid—doesn’t it, father?”
“Eh, what? Yes, yes—of course it does,” agreed Bayfield, becoming alive to the fact that he had been thinking out loud. “By Jove, Lyn, you’ll have to design a new order of merit for him when he gets back. What shall it be?”
“Man, Lyn! Didn’t I tell you he’d make old Lo Ben scoot?” said Fred triumphantly, craning over to have another look at the paragraph, which his father was reading over again. It did not give much detail, but from the facts set forth it was evident that the deed had been one of intrepid gallantry. Bayfield, yet deeper in the know, opined that it deserved even an additional name, and his regard and respect for his friend increased tenfold. For the other two—well, there was less chance than ever of Hilary Blachland’s name and memory being allowed to grow dim in that household.
“Why, he’ll soon be back now,” said Lyn. “The war must be nearly over now they’ve got to Bulawayo.”
“Perhaps. But—they haven’t got Lo Ben yet,” replied her father, unconsciously repeating Blachland’s own words. “They’ll have to get him. Fancy him blowing up his own place and clearing!”
“Ja. I knew he’d make old Lo Ben scoot,” reiterated Fred.
There was another household something over six thousand miles distant from Bayfield’s in which the name of Hilary Blachland was held in honour, which is strange, because the last time we glanced within the walls of this establishment, the reverse was the case. “That out and out irreclaimable scamp!” was the definition of the absent one then. It was hard winter around Jerningham Lodge when the news of Spence’s rescue arrived there, and it was sprung upon Sir Luke Canterby in precisely the same manner as he had learned the whereabouts of his erring nephew on that occasion—through the daily papers to wit. He had congratulated himself mightily on the success of Percival’s mission. The latter’s correspondence was full of Hilary, and what great times they were having together up-country. Then the war broke out and the tidings which reached Sir Luke of his absent nephews were few and far between. Thereupon he waxed testy, and mightily expatiated to his old friend Canon Lenthall.
“They’re ungrateful dogs the pair of them. Yes, sir—Ungrateful dogs I said, and I’ll say it again. What business had they to go running their necks into this noose?”
The Canon suggested that in all probability they couldn’t help themselves, that they couldn’t exactly turn tail and run away. Sir Luke refused to be mollified.
“It was their duty to. Hang it, Canon. What did I send Percy out there for? To bring the other rascal home, didn’t I? And now—and now he stays away himself too. It’s outrageous.”
Then had come the news of the capture and occupation of Bulawayo, and the events incidental to the progress of the column thither, and Sir Luke’s enthusiasm over his favourite nephew’s deed knew no bounds. He became something like a bore on the subject whenever he could buttonhole a listener, indeed to hear him would lead the said listener to suppose that never a deed of self-sacrificing gallantry had been done before, and certainly never would be again, unless perchance by that formerly contemned and now favoured individual hight Hilary Blachland.
“That out and out irreclaimable scamp,” murmured the Canon with a very comic twinkle in his eyes. Then, as his old friend looked rather foolish—“See here, Canterby, I don’t think I gave you bad advice when I recommended you to put that draft behind the fire.”
“Bad advice! No, sir. I’m a fool sometimes—in fact, very often. But—oh hang it, Dick, this is splendid news. Shake hands on it, sir, shake hands on it, and you’ve got to stay and dine with me to-night, and we’ll put up a bottle of the very best to drink his health.”
And the two old friends shook hands very heartily.
Chapter Eight.A Fearsome Voyage.On rushed the mighty stream, roaring its swollen course down to the Zambesi, rolling with it the body of dead Ziboza, hacked and ripped, the grand frame of the athletic savage a mere chip when tossed about by the hissing waves of the turbid flood. On, too, rolled the body of his slayer, as yet uninjured and still containing life. And in the noon-tide night, darkened by the black rain-burst which beat down in torrents, and, well-nigh ceaseless, the blue lightning sheeted over the furious boil of brown water and tree trunks and driftwood: and with the awful roar above, even the baffled savages were cowed, for it seemed as though the elements themselves were wrath over the death of a mighty chief.Strange are the trifles which turn the scale of momentous happenings. Strange, too, and ironical withal, that the body of dead Ziboza should be the means of restoring to life its very nearly dead slayer. For the current, bringing the corpse of the chief against a large uprooted tree, upset the balance of this, causing it to rise half out of the water and turn right over. This in its turn impeded a quantity of driftwood, and the whole mass, coming in violent contact with the bank, threw back a great wave, the swirl of which, catching the body of the still-living man, heaved it into a lateral cleft, then poured forth again to rejoin the momentarily impeded current.A glimmer of returning consciousness moved Hilary Blachland to grasp a trailing bough which swept down into the cleft, a clearer instinct moved him to hold on to it with all his might and main. Thus he saved himself from being sucked back into the stream again.For a few minutes thus he crouched, collecting his returning faculties—and the first thing that came home to him was that he was in one of those cavernlike inlets on the river bank similar to that in which his struggle with Ziboza had taken place. Stay! Was it the same? He had a confused recollection of being swept out into stream, but that might have been an illusion. He peered around. The place was very dark but it was not a cave. The overhanging of one side of the cleft, and the interlacing of bushes and trees above, however, rendered it very like one. But this fissure was much smaller than the one he had fallen into with the Matabele chief, nor was it anything like as deep.Had he been swept far down the river, he wondered? Then he decided such could not have been the case, or he would have been drowned or knocked to pieces among the driftwood, whereas here he was, practically unharmed, only very exhausted. A thrill of exultation ran through his dripping frame as he realised that he was uninjured. But it did not last, for—he realised something further.He realised that he was weaponless. His rifle had been shot from his hand. He had lost his revolver in his fall, and even the sheath knife, wherewith he had slain Ziboza, he had relaxed his grasp of at the moment of being swept away. He was that most helpless animal of all—an unarmed man.He realised further that he was in the remotest and most unknown part of little known Matabeleland, that he had formed one of aretreatingcolumn, which was fighting its own way out, and which would have given him up as dead long ago: that no further advance was likely to be made in this direction for some time to come, and that meanwhile every human being in the country was simply a ruthless and uncompromising foe. He realised, too, that save for a few scraps of grimy biscuit, now soaked to pulp in his jacket pocket, and plentifully spiced with tobacco dust, he was without food—and entirely without means of procuring any—and that he dared not leave his present shelter until nightfall, if then. In sum he realised that at last, even he, Hilary Blachland, was in very hard and desperate case indeed.Were his enemies still searching for him, he wondered, or had they concluded he had met his death in the raging waters of the flooded river, as indeed it seemed to him little short of a miracle that he had not? The rain was still pouring down, and the lightning flashes lit up the slippery sides of his hiding-place with a steely glare: however, the fury of the storm seemed to have spent itself, or passed over, but the bellowing, vomiting voice of the flood as it surged past the retreat, was sufficient to drown all other sounds. Then it occurred to him that he could be seen from above by any one peering over. He must get further in.He was more than knee deep in water. Towards its head, however, the cleft was dry. It terminated in a cavity just large enough for him to crouch within—overhung too, with thorn bush from above. An ideal hiding-place.The situation reminded him of something. Once he had shot a guinea-fowl on a river bank, and the bird had dropped into just such a cleft as this. After a long and careful search, he had discovered it, crouching, just as he was now crouching. It was only winged, however, and fled further into the cleft. He remembered the fierce eagerness with which he had pursued the wounded bird, fearing to lose it, how he had pounced upon and seized it when it came to the end of the cleft and could get no further. Well, events had a knack of repeating themselves. He was the hunted one now.Wet through now, he shivered to the very bones. The pangs of hunger were gnawing him. He dived a hand into his pocket. The pulpy biscuit was well-nigh uneatable, and black with tobacco dust. There was no help for it. He swallowed the stuff greedily, and it produced a horrible nausea. Soaked, chilled through and through, he crouched throughout that long terrible day, and a sort of lightheadedness came over him. Once more he was within Umzilikazi’s sepulchre, and the awful coils of the blackmambawere waving, over yonder in the gloom, then, with a prolonged hiss, the terror plunged into the flood which was bearing him along. It had seized his legs beneath the surface and was dragging him down—and then it changed to Hermia. She was in the stream with him, and he was striving to save her, and yet fiercely combating a longing to let her drown, but ever around his heart was one yearning, aching pain, an awful, unsatisfied longing for a presence, a glimpse of a face—he hardly realised whose—and it would not come. Had he gone mad—he wondered dully, or was this delirium, the beginning of the end, or the terrible unsatisfied longings of another world? Then even that amount of brain consciousness faded, and he slept. Chilled, soaked, starred—his case desperate—down there in that clay-girt hole, he slept.When he awoke it was quite dark, and the roar of the flood seemed to have decreased considerably in intensity. Clearly the river had ran down. How long he had been asleep he could form no approximate idea, but the thought moved him to hold his watch to his ear even though he could not see it. But it did not tick. The water had stopped it of course.Yes, the river had gone down, for no water was left in the cranny now. Moreover, the entrance to his hiding-place was several feet above the surface. The next thing was to get out. Simple it sounds, doesn’t it? But the sides of the cleft, wet and slimy from the rain, offered no foothold. There were boughs hanging from above—but on clambering up these, lo, the lip of the cleft was overhung with a completechevaux-de-friseofhaakdoorn, a mass of terrible fishhooks, turned every way, as their manner is, so as to be absolutely impenetrable, save to him who should be armed with a sharp cane knife with abundant room and purchase for plying it. To an enfeebled and exhausted man, obliged to use one if not both hands for holding on to his support and armed with nothing at all, the obstacle was simply unnegotiable. He was at the bottom of a gigantic natural beetle trap—with this difference that there remained one way out: the way by which he had got in—the river to wit.From this alternative he shrank. The flood had very considerably decreased; yet there was abundance of water still running down, quite enough to tax the full resources of an average strong swimmer—moreover, he knew that the banks were clayey and overhanging for a considerable distance down—and over and above that, the rains would have bordered the said banks, even where shelving, with dangerous quicksands. Yet another peril lay in the fact that the stream was inhabited by the evil-minded, carnivorous crocodile. It was one thing to choose the river as a means to avoid an even surer peril still, it was quite another to take to it in cold blood, for it might mean all the difference between getting in and getting out again. But a further careful investigation of his prison decided him that it was the only way.Letting himself cautiously down, so as to drop with as little splash as possible, he was in the river once more, but somehow the water seemed warmer than the atmosphere in his chilled state, as, partly swimming, partly holding on to a log of driftwood, he allowed the stream to carry him down. It was a weird experience, whirled along by the current in the darkness, the high banks bounding a broad riband of stars overhead, but it was one to be got through as quickly as possible, for have we not said that the river was inhabited by crocodiles? Carefully selecting a likely place, the fugitive succeeded in landing.Many a man in his position, alone, unarmed, and without food, in the heart of a trackless wilderness whose every inhabitant was uncompromisingly hostile, would have lost his head and got turned round indeed. But Hilary Blachland was made of different stuff. He was far too experienced and resourceful an up-country man to lose his head in the smallest degree. He understood how to shape his bearings by the stars, and fortunately the sky was unclouded; and in the daytime by the sun and the trend of the watercourses whether dry or not. So he began his retreat, facing almost due south.Fortune favoured him, for in the early morning light he espied a large hare sitting up on its haunches, stupidly looking about it. A deft, quick, stone throw, and the too confiding animal lay kicking. Here was a food supply which at a pinch would last him a couple of days. Selecting as shut in a spot as he could find, he built a fire, being careful to avoid unnecessary smoke, and cooked the hare—his matches had been soaked in the river, but he was far too experienced to be without flint and steel.For four days thus he wandered, without seeing an enemy. A small deserted kraal furnished him with more food, for he knew where to find the grain pits, and then, just as he was beginning to congratulate himself that safety was nearly within his grasp, he ran right into a party of armed Matabele.There was only one thing to be done and he did it. Advancing with an apparent fearlessness he was far from feeling, he greeted the leader of the party, whom he knew. The demeanour of the savages was sullen rather than overtly hostile, and this was a good sign, still Blachland knew that his life hung upon a hair. There was yet another thing he knew, and it was well he did. This petty chief, Ngeleza, was abnormally imbued with a characteristic common to all savages—acquisitiveness to wit. This was the string upon which to play. So he represented how anxious he was to return to Bulawayo, as soon as possible, ignoring the fact that the war was not over, or indeed that there was any war at all, and that they could not do better than guide him thither. He gave Ngeleza to understand that he would pay well for such a service, and not only that, but that all who had the smallest share in its rendering, should receive a good reward—this for the enlightenment of the rest of the band, which numbered a round dozen men. It was well, too, that Ngeleza knew him—knew him for a man of substance, and a man of his word.
On rushed the mighty stream, roaring its swollen course down to the Zambesi, rolling with it the body of dead Ziboza, hacked and ripped, the grand frame of the athletic savage a mere chip when tossed about by the hissing waves of the turbid flood. On, too, rolled the body of his slayer, as yet uninjured and still containing life. And in the noon-tide night, darkened by the black rain-burst which beat down in torrents, and, well-nigh ceaseless, the blue lightning sheeted over the furious boil of brown water and tree trunks and driftwood: and with the awful roar above, even the baffled savages were cowed, for it seemed as though the elements themselves were wrath over the death of a mighty chief.
Strange are the trifles which turn the scale of momentous happenings. Strange, too, and ironical withal, that the body of dead Ziboza should be the means of restoring to life its very nearly dead slayer. For the current, bringing the corpse of the chief against a large uprooted tree, upset the balance of this, causing it to rise half out of the water and turn right over. This in its turn impeded a quantity of driftwood, and the whole mass, coming in violent contact with the bank, threw back a great wave, the swirl of which, catching the body of the still-living man, heaved it into a lateral cleft, then poured forth again to rejoin the momentarily impeded current.
A glimmer of returning consciousness moved Hilary Blachland to grasp a trailing bough which swept down into the cleft, a clearer instinct moved him to hold on to it with all his might and main. Thus he saved himself from being sucked back into the stream again.
For a few minutes thus he crouched, collecting his returning faculties—and the first thing that came home to him was that he was in one of those cavernlike inlets on the river bank similar to that in which his struggle with Ziboza had taken place. Stay! Was it the same? He had a confused recollection of being swept out into stream, but that might have been an illusion. He peered around. The place was very dark but it was not a cave. The overhanging of one side of the cleft, and the interlacing of bushes and trees above, however, rendered it very like one. But this fissure was much smaller than the one he had fallen into with the Matabele chief, nor was it anything like as deep.
Had he been swept far down the river, he wondered? Then he decided such could not have been the case, or he would have been drowned or knocked to pieces among the driftwood, whereas here he was, practically unharmed, only very exhausted. A thrill of exultation ran through his dripping frame as he realised that he was uninjured. But it did not last, for—he realised something further.
He realised that he was weaponless. His rifle had been shot from his hand. He had lost his revolver in his fall, and even the sheath knife, wherewith he had slain Ziboza, he had relaxed his grasp of at the moment of being swept away. He was that most helpless animal of all—an unarmed man.
He realised further that he was in the remotest and most unknown part of little known Matabeleland, that he had formed one of aretreatingcolumn, which was fighting its own way out, and which would have given him up as dead long ago: that no further advance was likely to be made in this direction for some time to come, and that meanwhile every human being in the country was simply a ruthless and uncompromising foe. He realised, too, that save for a few scraps of grimy biscuit, now soaked to pulp in his jacket pocket, and plentifully spiced with tobacco dust, he was without food—and entirely without means of procuring any—and that he dared not leave his present shelter until nightfall, if then. In sum he realised that at last, even he, Hilary Blachland, was in very hard and desperate case indeed.
Were his enemies still searching for him, he wondered, or had they concluded he had met his death in the raging waters of the flooded river, as indeed it seemed to him little short of a miracle that he had not? The rain was still pouring down, and the lightning flashes lit up the slippery sides of his hiding-place with a steely glare: however, the fury of the storm seemed to have spent itself, or passed over, but the bellowing, vomiting voice of the flood as it surged past the retreat, was sufficient to drown all other sounds. Then it occurred to him that he could be seen from above by any one peering over. He must get further in.
He was more than knee deep in water. Towards its head, however, the cleft was dry. It terminated in a cavity just large enough for him to crouch within—overhung too, with thorn bush from above. An ideal hiding-place.
The situation reminded him of something. Once he had shot a guinea-fowl on a river bank, and the bird had dropped into just such a cleft as this. After a long and careful search, he had discovered it, crouching, just as he was now crouching. It was only winged, however, and fled further into the cleft. He remembered the fierce eagerness with which he had pursued the wounded bird, fearing to lose it, how he had pounced upon and seized it when it came to the end of the cleft and could get no further. Well, events had a knack of repeating themselves. He was the hunted one now.
Wet through now, he shivered to the very bones. The pangs of hunger were gnawing him. He dived a hand into his pocket. The pulpy biscuit was well-nigh uneatable, and black with tobacco dust. There was no help for it. He swallowed the stuff greedily, and it produced a horrible nausea. Soaked, chilled through and through, he crouched throughout that long terrible day, and a sort of lightheadedness came over him. Once more he was within Umzilikazi’s sepulchre, and the awful coils of the blackmambawere waving, over yonder in the gloom, then, with a prolonged hiss, the terror plunged into the flood which was bearing him along. It had seized his legs beneath the surface and was dragging him down—and then it changed to Hermia. She was in the stream with him, and he was striving to save her, and yet fiercely combating a longing to let her drown, but ever around his heart was one yearning, aching pain, an awful, unsatisfied longing for a presence, a glimpse of a face—he hardly realised whose—and it would not come. Had he gone mad—he wondered dully, or was this delirium, the beginning of the end, or the terrible unsatisfied longings of another world? Then even that amount of brain consciousness faded, and he slept. Chilled, soaked, starred—his case desperate—down there in that clay-girt hole, he slept.
When he awoke it was quite dark, and the roar of the flood seemed to have decreased considerably in intensity. Clearly the river had ran down. How long he had been asleep he could form no approximate idea, but the thought moved him to hold his watch to his ear even though he could not see it. But it did not tick. The water had stopped it of course.
Yes, the river had gone down, for no water was left in the cranny now. Moreover, the entrance to his hiding-place was several feet above the surface. The next thing was to get out. Simple it sounds, doesn’t it? But the sides of the cleft, wet and slimy from the rain, offered no foothold. There were boughs hanging from above—but on clambering up these, lo, the lip of the cleft was overhung with a completechevaux-de-friseofhaakdoorn, a mass of terrible fishhooks, turned every way, as their manner is, so as to be absolutely impenetrable, save to him who should be armed with a sharp cane knife with abundant room and purchase for plying it. To an enfeebled and exhausted man, obliged to use one if not both hands for holding on to his support and armed with nothing at all, the obstacle was simply unnegotiable. He was at the bottom of a gigantic natural beetle trap—with this difference that there remained one way out: the way by which he had got in—the river to wit.
From this alternative he shrank. The flood had very considerably decreased; yet there was abundance of water still running down, quite enough to tax the full resources of an average strong swimmer—moreover, he knew that the banks were clayey and overhanging for a considerable distance down—and over and above that, the rains would have bordered the said banks, even where shelving, with dangerous quicksands. Yet another peril lay in the fact that the stream was inhabited by the evil-minded, carnivorous crocodile. It was one thing to choose the river as a means to avoid an even surer peril still, it was quite another to take to it in cold blood, for it might mean all the difference between getting in and getting out again. But a further careful investigation of his prison decided him that it was the only way.
Letting himself cautiously down, so as to drop with as little splash as possible, he was in the river once more, but somehow the water seemed warmer than the atmosphere in his chilled state, as, partly swimming, partly holding on to a log of driftwood, he allowed the stream to carry him down. It was a weird experience, whirled along by the current in the darkness, the high banks bounding a broad riband of stars overhead, but it was one to be got through as quickly as possible, for have we not said that the river was inhabited by crocodiles? Carefully selecting a likely place, the fugitive succeeded in landing.
Many a man in his position, alone, unarmed, and without food, in the heart of a trackless wilderness whose every inhabitant was uncompromisingly hostile, would have lost his head and got turned round indeed. But Hilary Blachland was made of different stuff. He was far too experienced and resourceful an up-country man to lose his head in the smallest degree. He understood how to shape his bearings by the stars, and fortunately the sky was unclouded; and in the daytime by the sun and the trend of the watercourses whether dry or not. So he began his retreat, facing almost due south.
Fortune favoured him, for in the early morning light he espied a large hare sitting up on its haunches, stupidly looking about it. A deft, quick, stone throw, and the too confiding animal lay kicking. Here was a food supply which at a pinch would last him a couple of days. Selecting as shut in a spot as he could find, he built a fire, being careful to avoid unnecessary smoke, and cooked the hare—his matches had been soaked in the river, but he was far too experienced to be without flint and steel.
For four days thus he wandered, without seeing an enemy. A small deserted kraal furnished him with more food, for he knew where to find the grain pits, and then, just as he was beginning to congratulate himself that safety was nearly within his grasp, he ran right into a party of armed Matabele.
There was only one thing to be done and he did it. Advancing with an apparent fearlessness he was far from feeling, he greeted the leader of the party, whom he knew. The demeanour of the savages was sullen rather than overtly hostile, and this was a good sign, still Blachland knew that his life hung upon a hair. There was yet another thing he knew, and it was well he did. This petty chief, Ngeleza, was abnormally imbued with a characteristic common to all savages—acquisitiveness to wit. This was the string upon which to play. So he represented how anxious he was to return to Bulawayo, as soon as possible, ignoring the fact that the war was not over, or indeed that there was any war at all, and that they could not do better than guide him thither. He gave Ngeleza to understand that he would pay well for such a service, and not only that, but that all who had the smallest share in its rendering, should receive a good reward—this for the enlightenment of the rest of the band, which numbered a round dozen men. It was well, too, that Ngeleza knew him—knew him for a man of substance, and a man of his word.
Chapter Nine.Conclusion.The New Year is very young now, and Lannercost is well-nigh hidden in its wealth of leafiness, and very different is the rich languorous midsummer air to the bracing crispness under which we last saw it. Other things are different too, as we, perchance, shall see, but what is not different is the warmth of welcome accorded to Hilary Blachland to that which he expected it to be—for the war in far-away Matabeleland is practically over, and this man who has borne so full a part in it, is enjoying a much-needed and well-earned rest.The news of his first deed of self-sacrificing daring had hardly had time to cool before it was followed by that of the second, more heroic because more hopeless still, but the fact of him being given up for dead by those who witnessed it, did not transpire until after his return to safety, for, as it happened, he reached Bulawayo at about the same time as the returning patrol.Of the bare mention of these two deeds, however, he most concerned in them is heartily sick and tired. Skelsey and Spence between them had started the ball and kept it rolling, being enthusiastically aided and abetted therein by Percival West. Here at Lannercost he had stipulated that the subject be absolutely taboo, an understanding however, not always strictly carried out, the greatest offender being small Fred.“Quite sure you’re not making a mistake in putting off going to England, Blachland?” Bayfield was saying, as the two men, seated together under a tree in front of the stoep, were talking over a transaction just effected.“Dead cert. I’ve earned a rest, and bucketing off on an infernal sea voyage is anything but that. I’ll go later. Percy can make my peace for me so long, and he’ll do it too, for he’s about as effective a trumpeter as—well, all the rest of you, Bayfield. No. Now I’ve taken on that farm, I’m going to try my hobby, and see how many kinds of up-country animals I can keep there. Shall have to go to England some day, and then I think we’d better all go together.”“Don’t know. We might. Did you hear that, Lyn? We are all to go to England together.”The girl had just appeared on the stoep. She was looking exquisitely fair and sweet. There were times when Hilary Blachland could hardly believe that he was wide awake, and not merely dreaming, that the presence which had been with him in spirit throughout his wanderings, in hardship and direst peril, was actually and really with him now, from day to day, and this was one of them.“I think it would be rather nice,” she answered, coming over to join them. “But you don’t really mean it, father? When?”“Ask Blachland,” was the quizzical rejoinder. “It’s his scheme—Eh—What’s up, Jafta?”For that estimable Hottentot had appeared on the scene with intent to bespeak his master’s presence and attention as to some everyday matter.“Oh, well, I suppose I must go and see about it,” said Bayfield, getting up.Over the green gold of the hilltops the summer sunlight swept gloriously—and the valley bottom lay in a hot shimmer, but here in the leafy shade it was only warm enough to convey the idea of restful ease. Bright butterflies flitted amid the flowers, and the hum of bees mingled with the twittering of noisy finks and the piping of spreuws—not having the fear of Fred’s air-gun before their eyes—in the bosky recesses of the garden.Hilary Blachland, lounging there in his cane chair—the very personification of reposeful ease in his cool white attire—was watching the beautiful face opposite, noting every turn of the sweet golden head. There was a difference in Lyn, he decided. It was difficult to define it exactly, but the difference was there. Was it that something of the old, frank, childlike ingenuousness seemed to have disappeared?“Do you remember what we were talking about here, Lyn, that evening we got back from the Earles’?” he said. “You were wishing that I and your father were partners.”“Yes. I remember,” and the lighting up of her face was not lost upon him. “And you predicted we should soon find you a most desperate bore. See how well I remember the very words.”“Quite right, little Lyn. Well, both predictions are going to be fulfilled.”“But—how?”“And—I shall be here always, as you were wishing then. Are you still pleased, little Lyn?”“Oh, you know I am.”It came out so spontaneously, so whole-heartedly. He went on:“You see that beacon away yonder on top of therand? Well, that’s my boundary. Mine! I’m your next-door neighbour now. Your father and I spent three mortal hours this morning haggling with five generations of Van Aardts, and now that eight thousand morgen is mine. So I shall always be here, as you said then. Now I wonder if you will always be as pleased as you are now.”So do we, reader, but the conditions of life are desperately uncertain, wherefore who can tell? That it is unsafe to prophesy unless you know, is eke a wise saw, which for present purposes we propose to bear in mind. Nevertheless—The End.
The New Year is very young now, and Lannercost is well-nigh hidden in its wealth of leafiness, and very different is the rich languorous midsummer air to the bracing crispness under which we last saw it. Other things are different too, as we, perchance, shall see, but what is not different is the warmth of welcome accorded to Hilary Blachland to that which he expected it to be—for the war in far-away Matabeleland is practically over, and this man who has borne so full a part in it, is enjoying a much-needed and well-earned rest.
The news of his first deed of self-sacrificing daring had hardly had time to cool before it was followed by that of the second, more heroic because more hopeless still, but the fact of him being given up for dead by those who witnessed it, did not transpire until after his return to safety, for, as it happened, he reached Bulawayo at about the same time as the returning patrol.
Of the bare mention of these two deeds, however, he most concerned in them is heartily sick and tired. Skelsey and Spence between them had started the ball and kept it rolling, being enthusiastically aided and abetted therein by Percival West. Here at Lannercost he had stipulated that the subject be absolutely taboo, an understanding however, not always strictly carried out, the greatest offender being small Fred.
“Quite sure you’re not making a mistake in putting off going to England, Blachland?” Bayfield was saying, as the two men, seated together under a tree in front of the stoep, were talking over a transaction just effected.
“Dead cert. I’ve earned a rest, and bucketing off on an infernal sea voyage is anything but that. I’ll go later. Percy can make my peace for me so long, and he’ll do it too, for he’s about as effective a trumpeter as—well, all the rest of you, Bayfield. No. Now I’ve taken on that farm, I’m going to try my hobby, and see how many kinds of up-country animals I can keep there. Shall have to go to England some day, and then I think we’d better all go together.”
“Don’t know. We might. Did you hear that, Lyn? We are all to go to England together.”
The girl had just appeared on the stoep. She was looking exquisitely fair and sweet. There were times when Hilary Blachland could hardly believe that he was wide awake, and not merely dreaming, that the presence which had been with him in spirit throughout his wanderings, in hardship and direst peril, was actually and really with him now, from day to day, and this was one of them.
“I think it would be rather nice,” she answered, coming over to join them. “But you don’t really mean it, father? When?”
“Ask Blachland,” was the quizzical rejoinder. “It’s his scheme—Eh—What’s up, Jafta?”
For that estimable Hottentot had appeared on the scene with intent to bespeak his master’s presence and attention as to some everyday matter.
“Oh, well, I suppose I must go and see about it,” said Bayfield, getting up.
Over the green gold of the hilltops the summer sunlight swept gloriously—and the valley bottom lay in a hot shimmer, but here in the leafy shade it was only warm enough to convey the idea of restful ease. Bright butterflies flitted amid the flowers, and the hum of bees mingled with the twittering of noisy finks and the piping of spreuws—not having the fear of Fred’s air-gun before their eyes—in the bosky recesses of the garden.
Hilary Blachland, lounging there in his cane chair—the very personification of reposeful ease in his cool white attire—was watching the beautiful face opposite, noting every turn of the sweet golden head. There was a difference in Lyn, he decided. It was difficult to define it exactly, but the difference was there. Was it that something of the old, frank, childlike ingenuousness seemed to have disappeared?
“Do you remember what we were talking about here, Lyn, that evening we got back from the Earles’?” he said. “You were wishing that I and your father were partners.”
“Yes. I remember,” and the lighting up of her face was not lost upon him. “And you predicted we should soon find you a most desperate bore. See how well I remember the very words.”
“Quite right, little Lyn. Well, both predictions are going to be fulfilled.”
“But—how?”
“And—I shall be here always, as you were wishing then. Are you still pleased, little Lyn?”
“Oh, you know I am.”
It came out so spontaneously, so whole-heartedly. He went on:
“You see that beacon away yonder on top of therand? Well, that’s my boundary. Mine! I’m your next-door neighbour now. Your father and I spent three mortal hours this morning haggling with five generations of Van Aardts, and now that eight thousand morgen is mine. So I shall always be here, as you said then. Now I wonder if you will always be as pleased as you are now.”
So do we, reader, but the conditions of life are desperately uncertain, wherefore who can tell? That it is unsafe to prophesy unless you know, is eke a wise saw, which for present purposes we propose to bear in mind. Nevertheless—
The End.
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21| |Chapter 22| |Chapter 23| |Chapter 24| |Chapter 25| |Chapter 26| |Chapter 27| |Chapter 28| |Chapter 29| |Chapter 30| |Chapter 31| |Chapter 32|