"Mr. Wilmshurst, I shall require you to proceed on special service," said Colonel Quarrier.
"Very good, sir," replied Dudley promptly, and awaited the C.O.'s instructions.
It was the evening of the fall of M'ganga. The prisoners had been collected and were about to be sent under escort to Kilwa. Fully under the impression that he was to be detailed for this monotonous but necessary duty Wilmshurst had reported himself to his colonel, but to his intense satisfaction he soon found that such was not the C.O.'s intention.
"Concerning this MacGregor-Gobendorff fellow," continued Colonel Quarrier. "It seems as if he has slipped through our fingers. We have been robbed of much of the satisfaction of capturing the position on that account. The Rhodesian Light Horse patrols are all back and report no luck as far as the capture of von Gobendorff is concerned, and the same applies to the Indian troops. From some of the prisoners we learnt that the fellow slipped away during the preliminary bombardment, and that he was not mounted. I have arranged with Colonel Mopesson, of the Light Horse, for a mounted patrol to be sent in pursuit, and since it is desirable for some one to identify the Hun—it sounds like counting our chickens before they are hatched, by the bye—I propose that you accompany the Rhodesians."
"Yes, sir," replied the subaltern.
"Very good. You have half an hour to make preparations," resumed the C.O. "Take a batman with you—a man who can ride well. You will rejoin your battalion at Kossa in three days' time, circumstances permitting."
Wilmshurst saluted and withdrew to make his brief preparations. Having given Tari Barl instructions to pack his kit the subaltern sent for Sergeant Bela Moshi.
"Find me a man who can ride well," he said.
A broad grin overspread the Haussa non-com.'s face.
"No go for look, sah," he replied. "Me know one time quick. Good man; him ride like de wind."
"Then bring him here," continued Wilmshurst.
"Him here, sah—me, Bela Moshi."
"I didn't know that you could ride," remarked the subaltern dubiously, fancying that Bela Moshi in his desire to accompany him was inventing a fairy tale concerning his equestrian abilities.
"Me one-time groom in Freetown, sah," declared Bela Moshi. "Me lib for ride any old hoss till him bust."
"I'll try you," announced Wilmshurst. "If you are wasting my time look out for squalls."
At the lines where the horses were picketed the Haussa picked out a powerful-looking brute—a "salted" Cape horse which had shown considerable temper at previous times.
Vaulting upon the animal Bela Moshi rode it barebacked, urging it at a gallop and finishing by taking a formidable obstacle in the shape of a cactus-bush.
"How can do, sah?" he asked.
"Good enough," replied Wilmshurst. "Cut off and pack your kit. We have only ten minutes."
Well within the time specified the Haussa was ready for the trek, his kit consisting of a blanket, rifle and ammunition, a haversack and his cooking utensils. In addition he carried his master's water-filter and a light waterproof tent weighing together with the socketed poles a little over two pounds.
"Good luck, old man!" exclaimed Spofforth, as his brother subaltern rode off to join the patrol. "Kindest regards to MacGregor when you meet him. Tell him how awfully delighted all of us will be to see him."
Wilmshurst's new comrades were all men of the Rhodesian farmer type, well set-up, sturdy, independent and resourceful—a band of chums voluntarily taken from their homesteads to render them immune from invasion by tackling the Hun on his own ground.
All were splendidly mounted on horses inured to the miasmic climate, "led" animals carrying their necessary equipment. Each man knew how to take care of himself. He knew only the elementary principles of drill, but was none the less a very tough proposition for a Hun to tackle. Skilled in woodcraft and travelling, able to cover great distances with the minimum of fatigue, and capable of going on short rations without loss of efficiency the Rhodesians were ideal men for the work on hand. One and all had a score to wipe off; though few, if any, had fallen in with von Gobendorff they deeply resented the Hun's audacity in posing as a Rhodesian, while those who were of Scots descent and bore Scottish names were highly indignant at the idea of a German adopting the honourable and ancient cognomen of MacGregor.
Through the far-flung Pathan outposts they passed and rode into the night. Scores of Askaris, who had thrown away their arms, signified their willingness to surrender. Some were questioned concerning the flight of von Gobendorff, their replies confirming the reports of the prisoners taken at M'ganga; and the surrendered men were ordered to return and give themselves up to the Indian troops, since the main objective of the patrol was the pursuit of the spy, von Gobendorff.
That night the patrol bivouacked a short distance from a native kraal, the inhabitants of which gave them a warm, demonstrative and noisy welcome, at the same time providing them with a goat, plenty of mealies and water. Enquiries elicited the information that a party of villagers had seen a white man hurrying through the bush, and fortunately had not given any indication of their presence. According to the natives' report the fugitive was making in a north-westerly direction.
"He'll have his work cut out to cross the Kiwa," declared the sergeant of the patrol. "The river's pretty full just now and swarms of hippos. I doubt whether he'll tackle it at night."
"In that case we'll boot and saddle an hour before sunrise," declared Wilmshurst. "My man, Bela Moshi, will be able to follow the spoor like a cat.... Oh, yes, light as many fires as you like. Von Gobendorff is too far away to see the glare."
The night passed quietly. Although there were wild animals prowling round they kept a respectful distance. Men in pairs took turn in keeping watch, their comrades lying wrapped in blankets, with their feet towards the fire, each with his loaded rifle by his side.
After a good meal, consisting of roast goat's-flesh, millet bread and hot chocolate, the trek was resumed, the Haussa following the spoor with the sagacity and skill of a sleuth-hound until it was light enough to enable the Rhodesians to follow up the trail.
After a distance of five miles had been covered the patrol halted in perplexity, for, seemingly from nowhere another spoor joined that of the one they were following. There were distinct imprints of two men walking—one wearing veldt-schoen, the other the heavy marching boot supplied to the German colonial units.
The latter was of slightly recent origin, as witnessed by the fact that here and there the footprints of the boots had partly obliterated those of the veldt-schoen.
"It strikes me we've only just tumbled on the right spoor," declared a Rhodesian. "Of the two I should imagine von Gobendorff was wearing military boots. I suppose you didn't happen to notice what he wore while he was attached to the Waffs?"
"Boots and gaiters," replied Wilmshurst. "But, of course, that was some time ago."
"And boots are scarce in this show," rejoined the other tentatively. "When a man gets used to wearing a certain pair he's not likely to discard them in a hurry. I'll bet that is von Gobendorff's trail."
"And the other?" asked Dudley.
"A nigger might be wearing veldt-schoen," suggested another Rhodesian. "Perhaps he looted them, and in his natural vanity, decided to put them on instead of slinging them round his neck. In my experience I find that a native 'boy' will wear veldt-schoen, but he'll draw the line at boots."
"In any case," remarked Wilmshurst, "the two spoors lead the same way, so we'll carry on."
Half a mile further the tracks separated, the older ones continuing straight on, those of the boots breaking away to the left.
After a brief debate the pursuers decided to follow the latter spoor. This they followed for another four miles until it vanished on an expanse of hard, sun-baked ground.
"We're close to the Kiwa," announced one of the patrol, who had pushed on ahead for fifty yards. "There's a kraal over yonder, and I can see the water between the trees."
Into the native village the pursuers rode, to hear a tale of woe from the headman. An armed German had passed through not an hour previously. He had demanded food and native beer; he had made no attempt to pay for the articles, and out of sheer mischief had set fire to a hut. Commandeering a canoe he had compelled the natives to ferry him across the river, and the four blacks who manned the craft had just returned with the news that he had gone into the bush.
"What was the German like?" asked a Rhodesian, who spoke the language of the natives with the utmost fluency.
The headman began to give an elaborate and detailed description, but it was soon evident that the pursuers were on the wrong track.
"Dash it all!" exclaimed Wilmshurst impetuously. "We've lost the fellow—what's that, Bela Moshi?"
"Go ober dem water one-time quick, sah; den you catch Bosh-bosh as him go for run away."
"That's a smart idea," declared Dudley, never backward in giving credit for other persons' ideas.
"Quite good," agreed the section commander of the patrol. "Over we go; the horses will have to swim."
Borrowing a couple of canoes the pursuers stepped into the cumbersome craft, four men in each had their loaded rifles ready to fire at any hippos that might attack the horses; the others, grasping the reins of the well-trained animals, guided them across.
The passage of the Kiwa—which was here about one hundred and twenty yards in breadth—was performed without mishap, in spite of the fact that the current ran at a speed of two knots, for the spot where the crossing was effected was two miles below the rapids that had all but claimed von Gobendorff as a victim.
Just as the second canoe was running aground one of the natives uttered a cry of surprise, and pointed to a water-logged dug-out drifting broadside on down stream. It was a prize well worth having, and without waiting to put Wilmshurst and the rest of the passengers ashore the blacks paddled out and secured the derelict.
"Golly, sah!" exclaimed the Haussa sergeant. "Him canoe have one-time man alive. Now him dead as mutton."
Lying on the bottom of the canoe with his head raised above the water was a native. As the rescuing craft ran alongside the man opened his eyes.
The call of humanity having a prior claim to the importance of the pursuit Wilmshurst and the Rhodesians rendered all the aid in their power to revive the badly-wounded man. Examination showed that he had been shot at close range by a small-bore high velocity bullet. The missile had scraped his right ear, and entering at the shoulder had emerged just above the third rib. It was a nasty wound, but with ordinary attention it ought not to prove fatal.
Finding that he was being well treated the injured man recovered sufficiently to explain what had occurred. There was no mistaking the description of his assailant—also another crime had been added to the list against Ulrich von Gobendorff, that of attempted murder.
"So the blighter is making for Twashi," remarked Wilmshurst, consulting his field service map. "That's well up in the Karewenda Hills. We may head him off even yet."
Mounting, the patrol, their energies quickened by the evidence of this latest Hunnish atrocity, set off at a gallop across the comparatively open country betwixt the Kiwa and the base of the Karewenda Hills. Woe betide von Gobendorff should he be spotted by one of the lynx-eyed Rhodesians.
It was well into the dry season. As far as the eye could reach lay an expanse of sun-baked ground dotted with scrub and parched grass, terminating in the rugged outlines of the Karewenda Geberge. In the clear African atmosphere the hills, although a good forty miles distant, looked no more than ten or twelve miles away. With a powerful telescope an outpost on the high ground ought to be able to spot the khaki-clad horsemen as they spurred across the bush.
The patrol had no immediate intention of following the fugitive's spoor. Their idea was to cut off his retreat by keeping on a parallel route until they had out-distanced him, and then, by extending to the right, to achieve their object. It was a game of hide-and-seek on a large scale—a contest of wits. Around the spot where the Hun was supposed to be an extended cordon was being formed. It was up to him to break through—if he could, but once detected he stood little chance against a well-mounted patrol composed of some of the crack shots of Rhodesia.
"We've cut across his spoor," announced one of the men. "Jones has just semaphored through. We've nabbed him this time."
The order was passed from man to man for the investing horsemen to contract the enfolding circle. Each man, his rifle ready for instant use, trotted towards an imaginary centre, the while keeping his eyes on the alert for signs of the fugitive.
Then, without warning, a column of smoke, beaten down by the strong northerly wind, rose from the scrub at a point a good two miles off. In a very short space of time the cloud increased in density of volume, moving with the rapidity of a trotting horse.
At the signal the patrol closed. The situation was serious, for not only were the chances of a successful pursuit knocked on the head, but there was the danger of the men being overtaken by the flames.
"Start another fire down wind," suggested one of the Rhodesians.
"The horses won't stand it," objected another. "They're getting jumpy already."
The man spoke truly. The animals, scenting danger, were becoming restless. The order was therefore given to mount, and the patrol galloped back in the direction of the Kiwa River, never drawing rein until they reached a ford two miles below the spot where they had crossed earlier in the day.
So swift was the advance of the bush-fire that the scrub on the furthermost bank was ablaze within twenty minutes of the time when the patrol recrossed the river, while right and left for miles the ground was covered with fiercely roaring flames. Clouds of black and brownish smoke swept across the stream, red hot embers mingling with the eddying vapour.
The patrol held their ground, keeping their horses under control by adopting the expedient of covering the horses' heads with blankets. With the possibility of the bush on their side of the river taking fire this was the safest course to pursue short of a forty mile ride across difficult country with the devouring element hard at their heels.
Mingled with the roar of the flames came the frequent crashes of falling trees, and the hiss of blazing embers as they fell into the water. The heat was terrific, while at times the smoke was so dense and suffocating that the men had the greatest difficulty to breathe. Elephants, bush-cows, rhinoceri and swarms of smaller animals, stampeded by the flames, plunged panic-stricken into the river, taking no notice of the men as they dashed past them.
For two hours the ordeal lasted, then, having consumed everything of a combustible nature the fire burnt itself out. Almost miraculously the flames had failed to gain a hold upon the scrub on the nearmost bank. The river had formed the furthermost limit, but across the stream as far as the eye could reach there was nothing to be seen but an expanse of blackened thorn-bushes, from which a faint bluish vapour rose in the now still and sultry air.
"Nothing more doing to-day, boys," declared the leader of the patrol. "We'll bivouac close to the village and try our luck to-morrow. Ground will be cool enough by then, I reckon."
"Von Gobendorff won't stand much chance in that," remarked another, indicating the devastated ground. "We may find his remains. That'll be some satisfaction."
"Unless he started the fire," added Wilmshurst.
"But we were surrounding his hiding-place," declared the first speaker.
"We believe we were," continued the subaltern. "It's just likely that we missed his spoor, and that he was to windward of us. The fire may have started spontaneously, but it's my belief that von Gobendorff fired the grass."
At daybreak on the following morning the patrol recrossed the river. With a heavy dew still upon the ground the devastated track gave the horses no inconvenience, although the air was heavy with the pungent smell of charred wood. In extended order they followed the track which the fugitive had been reported to have taken until they arrived at the further-most limit of the fire.
Each man as he closed in the centre made the same report—nothing had been seen of the body of the much-sought-after Hun.
"We've drawn a blank, it seems," remarked Wilmshurst. "There's nothing for it but to carry on until either we overtake him or come in touch with the enemy patrols. We've a clear twenty-four hours before we rejoin our regiment."
Mile after mile the patrol rode, but not the faintest trace of von Gobendorff's line of flight was to be seen. Whether he was alive or dead was a mystery yet unsolved.
Towards midday they arrived at a kraal situated in a vast semi-circular expanse of open ground bounded on three sides by scarps of the Karewenda Hills. The greatest caution was now necessary, the task of the patrol, failing von Gobendorff's capture, being to find out whether the lower slopes of the hill were held in force or only lightly so. If possible there was to be an avoidance of an exchange of shots with hostile outposts, but in any case the Rhodesians were to withdraw at the first sign of opposition.
The headman of the kraal, like most of his kind, was very communicative. Already the natives were appreciating the change of masters, for under German rule their lot was a hard one, forced labour and scanty or often no remuneration being the order of things.
He had seen no one answering to von Gobendorff's description, but he gave other information. The Germans were withdrawing their forces to a position on the northern slopes of the hills, and had already destroyed two guns which they were unable to remove from an abandoned redoubt about five miles to the east of the kraal. He also said that a German patrol escorting a white prisoner had passed along a native path at less than a mile of the village only an hour or so previously.
Questioned further the headman replied that the prisoner was not a "warrior"—meaning that he was not dressed in military uniform—and that for several months past he had been kept in captivity in the now abandoned fort. Several of the villagers had seen him when they went to dig earthworks for the Huns. In their hurried retirement the Germans had overlooked the fact that they had a prisoner, and the patrol had been sent back to bring him in.
"How many men?" asked Wilmshurst, one of the Rhodesians translating the question and its reply.
"Four white soldiers and ten Askaris, O chief," replied the headman.
"Good enough," exclaimed Wilmshurst. "We ought to be able to settle that crowd and release the prisoner."
The headman willingly allowed two natives to point out to the patrol the path which the Huns had taken. A reference to the map showed that, allowing the hostile patrol two hours' start, an ambush could be arranged at a spot four miles distant where the path crossed a spruit. It was unpleasantly close to one of the still occupied enemy outposts, but with quickness and decision the coup ought to be accomplished without much difficulty.
The native guides, although on foot, had no trouble to keep up with the mounted men, and when the latter arrived at the place chosen for the surprise they found that the Germans were not yet in sight.
Dismounted and accompanied by Bela Moshi Wilmshurst made his way along the side of the track until he came in touch with the hostile party. The Huns, suspecting nothing, were resting. Two Askaris had been posted as sentries, but they, too, were lax, little thinking that there was any danger of a surprise. The prisoner was seated at the base of a large tree, another Askari mounting guard over him. His back was turned in Wilmshurst's direction, but the subaltern was able to discern that the unfortunate man was practically bald-headed and wore a thick, straggling beard.
Up to that moment Dudley had been buoyed up by the hope that the prisoner might be his brother Rupert, but at the sight of the bent and aged figure his anticipations were shattered.
"We'll have him out of their clutches, at all events," he soliloquised as he cautiously signed to Bela Moshi to withdraw.
Regaining the patrol Wilmshurst explained how matters stood, and a decision was quickly formed to attack immediately, taking advantage of the lax state of the hostile party, without waiting for them to approach the previously selected spot for the ambush.
Dismounting and leaving their trained horses under the charge of a piquet the men cautiously made their way through the scrub until they were within eighty yards of the still unsuspecting Huns.
Extending the Rhodesians took up their desired position on a semi-circular formation, enabling each one to fire should necessity arise without the risk of hitting one of his own party, at the same time making it almost a matter of impossibility for the ambushed Huns to break away without being shot down.
A whistle sounded. Up sprang the curved line of khaki-clad troopers, each man covering one of the enemy with his rifle, while a stern order to surrender immediately was given to the completely astonished Germans.
The Askaris obeyed the command without demur, but the Germans were made of stiffer material. Throwing themselves at full length they grasped their rifles.
It was a signal for the Rhodesians to open fire—and the Huns paid the penalty. In less than a minute the action was over. The Askaris were unarmed and ordered to take themselves off, their rifles having been broken and the bolts removed.
Wilmshurst hastened to the prisoner, who at the opening fire had rolled on the ground by the side of a fallen tree. The subaltern found him lying face downwards, unable to rise, his wrists and ankles being secured by thongs of raw hide.
With a couple of strokes of his knife Dudley severed the bonds and assisted the released captive to his feet, for the man was so exhausted that he was incapable of standing unsupported.
"You're all right now," said the subaltern reassuringly. "Can you sit in a saddle for——"
"Good heavens!—Dudley!" exclaimed the gaunt and haggard prisoner.
It was Wilmshurst's turn to be dumfounded. He stepped back a pace and looked the rescued man intently in the face. Was it possible that this human wreck was his once well-set-up and powerfully-built brother?
"Rupert!" he exclaimed dubiously.
"That's me," rejoined the other. "Rather, what's left of me."
"Found an old pal?" enquired the patrol-commander, as the Rhodesians crowded round the object of their recent operations.
"My brother," replied Dudley.
"Good business," was the hearty rejoinder. "But we must be moving. We've alarmed every enemy post within five miles of us."
The patrol hurried back to the spot where they had left their horses, Bela Moshi settling the question of how the physically weakened Rupert Wilmshurst was to be moved by lifting him in his strong arms.
"Nothing ob him, sah," confided the Haussa. "Him weight of one-time porter load."
It was an exaggeration of speech on the Haussa's part, for the nominal burden of a Coast porter is roughly sixty pounds, but Rupert's weight had decreased from a normal "twelve seven" to a little over seven stones.
With the utmost dispatch the patrol remounted. Bela Moshi gave up his steed to "Massa Wimst's brudder" and rode one of the led horses. In single file the men retraced their course, maintaining a steady trot.
As they entered the kraal where the headman had given them such important information they found the natives in a state of agitated turmoil. The Huns had by some means discovered that these "black subjects of his Imperial Majesty the German Emperor" had entertained a hostile patrol, for within twenty minutes of the departure of Wilmshurst and his companions a party of Askaris, commanded by a German officer, had visited the village. By way of punishment half a dozen huts had been burnt and an indemnity of fifty goats and a hundred litres of corn demanded, the headman and five other principal inhabitants being seized as hostages.
So great was the faith of the blacks in the "white soldiers of King George" that they roseen masse, liberated the hostages and drove the Askaris from their village. But the trouble was far from over, for native scouts reported a concentration of German troops on the south-eastern side of the village, while other Askari battalions were debouching from the north-east, having been hurriedly sent from one of the fortified posts on the Karewenda Hills.
"And so our line of retreat is cut," remarked Dudley. "Very well; we'll have to fight to a finish."
The Rhodesians were men of few words. They were men of action; of the same blood as the gallant party who, under Major Wilson, fought against thousands of Matabele until the last cartridge had been fired and the last man fell with his face to the foe under the keen stabbing-spears of Lobengula's warriors.
The enemies that were threatening them were of a worse type. The Askaris, naturally ferocious, were under German command, and the German, whenever he is confident that he is on the winning side, exhibited all the brutality and cruelty of his Hunnish ancestors. Attila was a scourge; his modern descendants are simply imitators who, having the thin veneer of civilisation, combine science with bestial brutality in their methods of waging war.
Two of the troopers who were acquainted with the native dialect proceeded to place the village under a rough form of organisation. In spite of the severe restrictions laid upon the natives by their German taskmasters—amongst others they were not allowed to carry arms—the blacks managed to produce long-secreted numbers of spears, bows and arrows and a few antiquated smooth-bore muskets.
Men were sent into the bush to cut down thorns and sharpened stakes. These were set up in front of the existing stockade, the inner side of which was still further strengthened by earth thrown up from a trench three feet from its base. "Panjies" or sharpened bamboos were set obliquely from the foot of the stockade, on the outside, to check a rush at close quarters; the stockade itself, forming no protection against modern rifle-fire, was to be used merely as an obstacle, the defenders seeking cover in the ditch and behind the embankment formed from the excavated material.
Hardly were these preparations completed when the shrill notes of a bugle rang out, and a mounted officer, followed by a native orderly bearing a white flag, appeared from the cover afforded by the bush.
Evidently the Huns had more faith in the Briton's respect for the flag of truce than they had regard for that emblem in the hands of their foes, for after a brief pause the officer, finding that his appearance was not greeted with a volley of rifle-bullets, trotted boldly towards the closed gate of the stockade.
"Halt!" ordered the Rhodesian officer, when the German drew within audible distance. "Deliver your message."
The German, standing in his stirrups, shouted a demand for the instant surrender of the garrison, promising honourable treatment if the terms were complied with, and stating that the investing troops were fully aware of the weak numbers of the British patrol.
"You might have spared yourself the trouble, Herr Offizier," replied the patrol commander. "We mean to stick it."
"Vat you mean by 'stick it'?" demanded the envoy.
"To fight it out," was the grim reply. "Come on; we're ready."
The German made no further remark to the Rhodesian, but began an harangue in the native dialect, inciting the blacks to turn against their white allies, promising immunity and rewards.
"Stop that!" shouted the patrol commander sternly, raising his voice above the angry murmur of the villagers. "Another word and the flag of truce will not protect you."
The Hun scowled sardonically, and out of sheer bravado resumed his incitement to the natives to surrender.
Picking up a rifle the Rhodesian took careful aim at the horse's chest at point-blank range. The weapon barked. For a moment neither horse nor rider stirred, then without warning the animal's forelegs collapsed, throwing the Hun headlong in the dust.
The terrified orderly wheeled, and casting aside the white flag, rode at full gallop to the shelter of the bush, his hasty and undignified retreat being carried out without let or hindrance on the part of the defenders of the kraal.
The German officer lay where he fell, the dead steed pinning him down as it lay on its side with its hind, off-side leg rigidly extended at an oblique angle to the ground. Partly stunned by his fall the officer tried ineffectually to rise; then after a while he relaxed and lay motionless in the broiling sun with swarms of mosquitoes buzzing round the prostrate horse and rider.
Apart from the advantage of having a prisoner in their possession the call of humanity urged the defenders to release and bring in the injured Hun. The barricaded gate was thrown open, and two troopers ran to effect the work of mercy. Even as they bent over the prostrate officer and dragged aside the animal's carcass a ragged fire burst from the bush at a distance of five hundred yards. Bullets ricochetted from the dusty ground or whizzed unpleasantly close to the men's ears; but coolly they proceeded with their task, and, unscathed, regained the shelter of the stockade, bearing their prisoner between them.
"It's von Bohme, second-in-command of the Kelji Post," declared Rupert Wilmshurst. He was too chivalrous to relate the indignities and hardships he had suffered at the hands of this Hun in particular. "They abandoned the post yesterday. Unless I'm mistaken they've a couple of machine guns with them."
"Any field guns?" asked Dudley anxiously.
"Not to my knowledge," replied his brother.
"Thank heaven for that!" rejoined the subaltern fervently. "Well, how do you feel?"
"Able to use a rifle," answered Rupert grimly.
A heavy hostile fire was being maintained from three sides, the bullets either flying high—one of the characteristic faults of African native troops—or else knocking splinters from the timbers forming the palisade. The defenders, lying close, made no attempt to reply, for the attackers were adept at taking cover and offered no target to the former's fire. Presently, as Rupert Wilmshurst had predicted, came the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun, and a swathe of bullets traversed the open ground in front of the defences, rising until the hail of nickel simply cut a gap in the palisade like a scythe against the ripe corn.
Between the huts some villagers engaged in driving their goats to a more secure spot came under the machine-gun fire, two men being killed and four wounded, the herd suffering severely; but these were the only casualties, the defenders, both white and black, keeping admirable cover.
For a quarter of an hour the one-sided action was maintained, then still under the covering fire of the machine gun a battalion of Askaris advanced at the double in company formationen échelon. Simultaneously a half-battalion debouched on the opposite side of the kraal.
Until the stormers came within four hundred yards their advance was covered by the machine guns (for another had joined in the fray), and consequently the scanty defenders dare not risk exposure; but the moment the covering fire had to cease lest it should cause casualties amongst the advancing troops the Rhodesians opened rapid fire at almost point blank range.
The front attack stopped dead, the Askaris in open order falling in heaps before the accurate fire of the trained Rhodesians. Despite the efforts of their officers to advance the native troops refused to stand. Bolting they were followed by galling volleys until the resumption of the deadly machine-fire compelled the defenders to take cover.
The rear attack was a more formidable affair, in spite of the fact that the enemy force was considerably smaller than that of the frontal assault. Met by fewer rifles, for only a mere handful of white men could be told off on that side of the kraal, the Askaris contrived to reach the palisade. It was here that the native auxiliaries proved their worth, for with stones, arrows and throwing spears they put up such a formidable defence that at close quarters these primitive weapons held their own against the rifles and bayonets of the German black troops.
For several moments the contest swayed with varying success until more Rhodesians, who could now be spared from the front on which the main assault had been repulsed, doubled up and made such good use of their rifles that the enemy broke and fled, leaving behind forty or fifty of their number lying dead in front of the stockade.
"Guess they've had enough," remarked Rupert Wilmshurst, who notwithstanding his weak state had played a strong part in the defence.
"Doubt it," replied his brother. "Perhaps they won't make another frontal attack while daylight lasts, but when it's dark they'll try their luck."
The hours passed slowly. Occasional bursts of machine-gun fire punctuated the continuous rifle-firing from the men concealed in the bush. It was a prodigious waste of ammunition without any good result, for the white men were too hardened to be shaken by the moral effect of bullets whizzing overhead, while the native warriors, taking the pattern set by their allies, showed no signs of fear or panic.
"If we only had a machine-gun," thought Dudley. "By Jove, I've a mind to have a shot at bringing in one of those brutes after dark."
He broached the matter to the patrol commander, who gave permission to any of his men to volunteer for the hazardous enterprise. There was no lack of aspirants, for practically every man expressed his wish to take part in the sortie. Finally the subaltern chose three Rhodesians and his Haussa sergeant.
Taking a compass bearing of the position of one of the machine-guns, for the cloud of steam arising from its overheated water-jacket disclosed its place of concealment, Wilmshurst made a careful note of the fact for subsequent use. There was, of course, the possibility of the machine-gun being moved as soon as night fell, but that was a risk that the sallying party must be prepared to chance.
Darkness came, but the desultory hostile fire was still maintained, the bush being pin-pricked with the vivid flashes from the rifles. It was now a nerve-racking ordeal, for more than once the defenders issued from their trench and manned the outer palisade under the erroneous impression that another attack was developing.
"It's a jolly good thing for us that they haven't any bombs," remarked the patrol-commander. "I don't fancy our blacks would stand up to them. By Jove! the villagers have shown any amount of pluck."
"They know that if the kraal's taken, their lives won't be worth a brass farthing," rejoined one of the men.
"Don't know so much about that," added another. "They had a chance to let us down and save their hides, but they weren't having any."
A meteor-like trail of reddish light whizzing through the air interrupted the argument. Anxiously the defenders watched the course of the missile, guessing but not knowing exactly what it was, until with a crash it alighted upon the palm thatched roof of a hut about in the centre of the kraal.
Several men rushed to the spot, regardless of the flying bullets, with the intent on of tearing away the smouldering missile, but before they could reach the hut the dull red glow gave place to a vivid bluish flame. The mobile weapon was an incendiary rocket.
In a minute the hut was a mass of flames, the sparks communicating the fire to the flimsily-constructed buildings adjoining it.
Strenuously the defenders, both white and black, sought to confine the devouring element to certain limits by pulling down the huts in the vicinity, but other incendiary rockets followed in rapid succession, while the fire of the machine-guns redoubled in violence.
The fire-fighters made excellent targets in the fierce light, their forms being silhouetted against the blazing huts, yet their losses were comparatively few, for the machine guns were badly laid. Nevertheless, before the men could take cover two Rhodesians were badly wounded, a dozen villagers killed and thirty odd seriously injured.
In the midst of this turmoil Dudley, whose attention was centred upon the enemy, detected a large body of men deploying from the bush. Simultaneously other formidable detachments advanced upon the kraal on all sides, showing up distinctly in the terrific glare of the burning huts. To add to the horror of the scene native women and children were shrieking in terror, and the horses and cattle were neighing and bellowing as they instinctively realised the peril that threatened them from the rapidly spreading flames.
But for the presence of their black allies the troopers would have mounted and ridden straight at their assailants, running a good chance of cutting their way out by weight of numbers and the speed of their horses; but no thought of abandoning the natives to their fate entered the heads of their allies. It would be a fight to a finish.
Leaving the conflagration to take its course every available man hastened to the palisade. Rapid independent fire delayed but failed to check the charge of ferocious, wildly shouting Askaris, whose courage had been worked up by promises of rewards if successful, and dire punishment in the event of failure. Full in the blaze of light the horde of black faces gave the defenders the impression that they were confronting a swarm of demons.
On both sides rifles cracked, steel crossed steel. Again spears and arrows came into play, while some of the defenders hurled blazing faggots with great effect upon the German levies. Yells, shouts and shrieks of pain mingled with the rattle of musketry and the roar of the burning huts.
Both sides fought stubbornly and furiously, but with this difference: the defenders of the kraal were staking their existence upon the result, the attackers, although under severe penalties in the event of failure, were not confronted with the supreme decision that awaited their foes.
Taking a favourable opportunity Wilmshurst and his squad climbed over the palisade at a point where no attack was being made, and dropping to the ground doubled in the direction of the now silent machine gun. It was a daring stroke, as it temporarily weakened the little garrison, where every rifle counted; but in the event of the raid proving successful the possession of the deadly weapon would make all the difference between victory and defeat.
Overtaking and avoiding numbers of wounded Askaris and a fair sprinkling of Germans painfully making their way back to their lines the raiders covered the intervening eight hundred yards in double time. At the edge of the scrub the subaltern halted his men in order that they might recover their breath.
They had discarded their rifles. Dudley and the Rhodesians were armed with revolvers, Bela Moshi carrying an automatic pistol, formerly the possession of a now defunct Hun, and a long, heavy, keen-edged knife resembling the Mexican machete. Each man knew exactly what was required of him, and, what was more, he was capable of carrying it out.
Creeping through the bush and outwitting a couple of Askari sentries posted on the right front of the machine gun position the raiders came in sight of their coveted prize.
The gun team was standing easy chattering furiously, and paying scant attention to the progress of their comrades in the assault. Bela Moshi afterwards declared that they were squabbling over the possession of a small keg of rum, which was to them a far more important business than the attack upon the kraal. Their European non-commissioned officer was absent, otherwise the laxity of discipline would not have been taking place.
Apparently there were no infantry reserves. If there were, they were posted at a considerable distance from the machine gun position. It was, therefore, expedient to make a surprise attack with fire-arms, since the noise was immaterial as far as alarming the supports, and very efficacious in throwing the machine gunners into a state of demoralization.
Of the six Askaris forming the detachment five dropped at the first volley; the sixth, after first rolling on the ground, sprang into the bush, followed by a couple of shots the effect of which was not known.
Smartly Bela Moshi picked up the gun and tripod; a Rhodesian corporal and a trooper seized the box containing the ammunition. Then, preceded by a sergeant and followed by Wilmshurst and the remaining man, the raiders bore off their trophy.
Followed by the ineffectual fire of the two sentries the squad doubled. By the sounds in the rear it was evident that the alarm had been communicated to the reserves, as the hurried patter of bare feet and the excited orders of the German section commanders announced that the men were aware of the loss of the machine gun. Musketry fire was opened upon the retiring raiders, but in the darkness the shots whizzed harmlessly overhead.
The haphazard fire was, however, taking toll amongst the attackers who, already casualties, were crawling or walking back from the palisade. A German officer, hit in the left arm, blundered right upon the captured weapon and its escort. For the moment he was puzzled, knowing that orders had been issued for the machine-gun party to remain in their original position. Then, distinguishing the British uniform, he drew a pistol and shouted to the party to surrender.
"Surrender yourself!" exclaimed the Rhodesian sergeant, raising his revolver.
The Hun's reply was a shot that nicked the lobe of the non-com.'s right ear. Almost immediately the latter returned the compliment, shooting the German dead on the spot.
"Sorry," muttered the Rhodesian apologetically, for he had respect for a brave foe. "You asked for it, Fritz."
The next instant Beta Moshi stumbled, the subaltern only just contriving to avoid tripping over his prostrate body. Thinking that the Haussa sergeant was hit one of the covering party began to raise the machine-gun from the ground, but the Haussa was holding it tightly in his arms.
Almost overthrowing the Rhodesian Bela Moshi regained his feet, swung the trophy over his shoulder and resumed his pace.
The returning party were only just in time. Already a formidable number of Askaris had broken through the stubbornly-defended palisade, and by sheer weight were forcing their opponents back.
Faced by hordes of German levies and with the line of burning huts preventing further retirement the defenders of the kraal were in a very tight corner indeed.