In double quick time Wilmshurst's party hurried over the stockade at the same place where they had clambered out a short time previously.
Setting the tripod of the captured gun upon the raised bank at the rear of the palisade the Rhodesians fitted a belt of ammunition and promptly opened fire. Enfilading the attackers the effect of the totally unexpected hail of bullets was stupendous. The dense masses of Askaris simply melted. Only those nearest to the garrison escaped the machine-gun fire, since it was impossible to traverse further to the right without hitting friend as well as foe. Before the first belt of ammunition had been expended most of the men who had gained a footing in the village werehors de combat.
The assault was by no means over. Strong reserves were thrown into the breach, taking advantage of the lull in the firing. Working coolly and rapidly the machine-gunners fitted a new belt, but the difficulty now arose that the weapon could not be trained over the palisade, which, owing to its irregular form, screened the massed assailants.
Lifting the weapon and resting it upon the top of the stockade Bela Moshi shouted to the corporal to jump on his shoulders. In this difficult position the machine-gun reopened fire, but before twenty-five rounds had been fired the weapon jammed.
The gun was served by three men only—the Rhodesian sergeant and corporal and Bela Moshi. The rest of the party, including Wilmshurst, had hurried off to reinforce the sorely-tried men engaged hand to hand with the Askaris in the breach. Of the three only the corporal knew much about the internal mechanism of a German machine-gun, and in the ruddy, flickering light his task was greatly complicated.
Again the weapon was hoisted on the Haussa's broad shoulders. This time the mechanism acted without a hitch. The Askaris broke and fled, leaving a third of their number on the ground, while those who had gained a footing within the kraal lost heart and threw down their arms.
Nevertheless the danger was by no means over. At two other points the kraal had been entered, the defenders being forced back until two-thirds of the village was in the hands of the foe. The fiercely-burning huts now formed an effectual defence, the survivors of the garrison having concentrated in a space in the form of a segment of a circle, a portion of the palisade comprising the arc and the line of flaming huts the chord. For the present the barrage of fire was impassable, but what would happen when the conflagration burnt itself out remained a matter for anxious speculation.
Rhodesians and blacks worked together to dig a trench and construct a parapet. It was a strenuous task, for in order to give as much space as possible to the already congested defenders the new defence work had been pushed as far forward as the strength of the flames permitted. The while desultory long-distance firing was indulged in by the discomfited foe, the bullets pinging against the hard ground or flying with a sharp "siss" overhead.
While this work was in progress the corporal hurried up and addressed Wilmshurst.
"Your nigger sergeant's hit, sir," he reported.
The subaltern made his way to the spot where the machine-gun had been placed out of the line of hostile fire, since a single bullet might put it out of action. Lying upon the ground with his head propped against the ammunition box was Bela Moshi.
The Haussa was barely conscious. He recognised his young officer and gave a determined but ineffective attempt to smile. Already one of the men had cut away Bela Moshi's tunic, revealing a bullet wound on the right side of the chest. Even as Dudley placed his water-bottle to the sergeant's lips the Haussa's eyes closed and he lost consciousness.
"What do you make of it?" asked Dudley, addressing the man attending to the patient.
"He's as like to snuff it, sir," he replied. "Can't tell exactly—and it's a tough job to tackle with only a field-service dressing."
"When was he hit?" continued the subaltern.
"That's a mystery, sir," was the answer. "We'd brought the gun under cover—there wasn't a chance of being hit by direct fire, you'll understand—and the black seemed to crumple up suddenly. Never said a word, but just pitched on his face. I'll do my level best for him, sir."
Leaving his water-bottle—and water was a scarce commodity, as the supply within the kraal had been overrun by the fire—Dudley made his way to the gap in the palisade, where other units were hard at work digging a ditch across the exposed opening. Here he came face to face with his brother, whose left arm was bandaged and in a sling.
"Copped it, you see, Dudley," remarked Rupert. "If there's any trouble knocking about I'm bound to stand in. But I guess I did my whack before I was knocked out," he added grimly. "Managed to work off sixty rounds, and when we started I found myself wondering if I had the strength to pick up a rifle."
"What have you got?" asked his brother.
"Bayonet thrust," was the reply. "We were jammed up anyhow, but the fellow who gave it me won't try the trick on any one else. Have you any water?"
Dudley shook his head.
"Sorry," he replied.
"Seems a scarcity of it," continued Rupert. "All the men's water-bottles are bone-dry, and it's hot work tackling a kraal fire. The niggers, too, are clamouring for water."
"The fire's burning itself out, I fancy," remarked Dudley. "Before dawn we ought to be able to get to the well. Now I must do my whack."
Taking a spade of native workmanship from the hands of an exhausted trooper the subaltern set to work with a will, for much had to be done in a very short space of time. It was a case of excavating under extreme difficulties, for apart from the smoke and heat from the blazing huts bullets were dropping frequently and at random upon that part of the kraal still held by the hard-pressed but as yet unconquerable garrison.
Throughout the rest of the night the enemy made no attempt to renew the assault. With the dawn the worst of the task of shortening the line was accomplished, and the jaded men threw themselves down to rest, until every available position immune from rifle fire was covered with khaki and black figures sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.
There was little rest for Dudley Wilmshurst and the patrol-commander. Having visited the sentries they examined the defences in order to discover if there were any weak points that had escaped notice during the hours of darkness.
With the exception of half a dozen huts every building comprising the kraal was reduced to a heap of charred wood and ashes, from which smoke was rising sullenly in the still air. The stockade adjoining had shared the same fate, and had it not been for the earthworks constructed during the night the rear of the defences would have been completely open to direct rifle fire. At present the heat of the smouldering embers was too great to allow any attempt to procure water from the well that was situated almost in the centre of the kraal, close to the site of the headman's hut.
The captured machine gun was still under cover, ready to be rushed to any point where an attack might develop, but the trouble that confronted the team was the fact that the water in the jacket had evaporated and no more was at present procurable. The supply of rifle ammunition, too, was running perilously short. In view of the liability of the machine gun to jam after a few rounds, Wilmshurst would have had no hesitation in using the cartridges from the belt had the gun been a Maxim. But here he was beaten, for the difference in British and German small-arms ammunition makes an interchange impossible.
The next best thing was to arrange existing stocks, so that a few troopers had plenty of .303 ammunition. The others, supplying themselves with rifles and cartridges taken from the hundreds of German dead, were then in a position to give a good account of themselves should the enemy again attack at close quarters.
Having completed his present duties Wilmshurst made his way to the hut where Bela Moshi had been taken after his wound had been dressed. The building, consisting of bamboo walls and palm-leaf thatch, had been converted into a hospital and made bullet proof by piling up earth against the sides to a height of about six feet. Above that the bamboos and the roof were riddled with bullets, making it a hazardous business for any one to stand upright.
In the limited space were two Rhodesians suffering from gunshot wounds. Almost every other man of the patrol had been hit, but one and all made light of their injuries, and after receiving attention had resumed their places in the defence. Over thirty villagers had been badly wounded, but these were receiving the attention of their fellows, since, for some unexplained reason, they were reluctant to have their wounds dressed by their white allies.
"Going on famously, sir," announced the Rhodesian corporal, who, having played a gallant part in the defence, had returned to his errand of mercy. "I've extracted the bullet; it had lodged only a quarter of an inch under the skin and close to the right of his backbone. I don't fancy the lungs are touched. He'll pull through if any of us do."
"That's great!" exclaimed Wilmshurst, overjoyed that his devoted Haussa sergeant stood a good chance of recovery. "You ought to have been a doctor, corporal."
"I was very near it, sir," was the reply. "Had two years at Bart's and then chucked up the idea and came to Rhodesia. But this is somewhat remarkable; what do you make of it, sir?"
The corporal held up for inspection the bullet that had narrowly escaped putting an end to Bela Moshi.
"Automatic pistol bullet, by Jove!" exclaimed the subaltern, handling the piece of nickel.
"Yes, sir," continued the corporal, "and the Haussa has been muttering while he was coming to. Putting two and two together, so to speak, I fancy he stopped the bullet that grazed our sergeant's ear when we were bringing in the gun."
"Ah, yes; Bela Moshi did fall, but he was quickly on his feet again," remarked Wilmshurst.
"With a bullet that had all but just passed completely through his body," added the Rhodesian. "And after that he acted as a platform—he had a man standing on his shoulders for nearly a quarter of an hour—and only collapsed after the attack had been broken. There's vitality and pluck for you, sir!"
"And if we come out of this business alive I'll see that Bela Moshi's case is reported to the proper quarter," declared Dudley.
"The only thing against him is the want of water," said the corporal. "I'd risk getting plugged for the sake of a couple of bottles of water. How about the well, sir?"
"We're having a shot at it as soon as possible," replied the subaltern, and picking up his water-bottle, he left the hut.
The urgency of the matter decided Dudley. If humanly possible he meant to make the attempt forthwith. A glance at the still smouldering débris told him pretty plainly that it was a dangerous if not impossible undertaking, but for the sake of his Haussa sergeant the subaltern determined to procure the precious fluid.
He sought out his brother, but Rupert was sound asleep. Rupert was the only person he wanted to inform of his projected expedition, but that course was denied him.
With the bottle slung across his shoulder and a native jar—holding about a gallon—in each hand, Dudley leapt into the trench and scaled the parapet before the few men who were in the vicinity were aware of his intention. Then drawing a deep breath, like a diver about to make a plunge, he dashed into the belt of smoke-laden air.
At every pace his boots kicked up showers of white ashes. The heat penetrated the thick soles, it singed his hair and scorched his face and hands. He felt himself wondering why he was such a fool as to try conclusions with a mass of hot embers ... why wasn't he content to wait another two hours or so, when the heat would have greatly decreased. Supposing he lost his bearings in the smoke and couldn't find the well after all?
These and a dozen other deprecatory thoughts flashed across his mind as he stumbled onwards. He had had but a brief knowledge of the plan of the kraal previous to the fire. He remembered that the well stood in the centre of a fairly open space. There, at any rate, would he find a comparatively safe oasis in the desert of hot embers.
"By Jove, that was a narrow one!" he soliloquised as a bullet—one of many shot at a venture—whizzed dangerously close to his ears and knocked up a number of small fougasses as it ricochetted in the embers.
He wanted to breathe. Already the air was on the point of being exhausted in his lungs, yet he durst not gasp for breath. Another twenty yards ... or was it forty? He was hardly sure of his whereabouts.... Mentally he enquired if he had been making a detour instead of keeping in a straight line. Maintaining direction in a haze of smoke was far more difficult, he reflected, than in a fog, especially when there was a time limit fixed for the performance.
Almost before he was aware of it Wilmshurst literally blundered upon an open expanse where the short grass had been burnt off close to the ground. Surrounded by a barrage of bluish vapour that rose from irregular mounds of débris, the subaltern was able to breathe comparatively fresh air.
Ahead was the well, its windlass of hard teak charred but otherwise uninjured. It was a different case with the rope. The fibre had smouldered badly; it would be unwise to attempt to raise the heavy bucket by it.
Cutting adrift a length of the coir rope the subaltern bent it to the neck of one of the jars and drew up the vessel full of liquid. The water was loathsome in appearance, its surface being covered with ash and fragments of charcoal of various sizes. Prudence, as taught by long months of practical experience on the Coast, urged the young officer to resist the desire to slake his burning thirst. No water unless boiled and filtered can be drunk by Europeans without grave risks of deadly disease. But Wilmshurst now threw caution to the winds.
With avidity he filled the joined palms of his hands with the brackish and otherwise unpalatable liquid and raised it to his lips. He drank deeply, unmindful of millions of unseen germs in his almost frantic efforts to relieve the pangs of his parched throat.
Then completing his stock of hardly-gained water Wilmshurst turned to retrace his way, aware that during his stay a steady breeze had suddenly sprung up. Under its influence the dangers of the passage through the embers were greatly increased, for, fanned by the wind, numerous mounds of débris had flared up again, while the volume of smoke had spread in density, blowing straight into his face.
For some moments Dudley stood irresolute; then seized by a sudden inspiration he ran down wind, plunging through the charred wreckage. He was going directly away from that part of the kraal still held by his comrades. His new direction led towards a part of the hostile investing lines, but he preferred to run the risk of being sniped at six hundred yards to fighting his way through the now steadily burning débris.
As he expected, his passage through this part of the devastated village was relatively easy. Being the first of the huts to take fire this section had almost burnt itself out. Occasionally he had to dodge round a heap of still burning timber. The heat was almost unbearable, while the smoke penetrating his lungs made him gasp and cough violently; so much so, that twice he had to place his precious water-jars on the ground and clutch at his throat in his distress.
At length a line of blackened, calcined posts told him that he had emerged from the kraal, and that he was on the line formerly occupied by the stockade. For another fifty or sixty yards he held on, until the smoke cleared considerably; then changing direction, he began to circumvent the abandoned line of defence until he came to the still held position.
It was not long before several bullets, whizzing perilously close, warned him that the enemy had spotted him through the eddying wreaths of vapour. Others, striking the earth with a dull thud, ricochetted within a few inches of his feet.
Bending, until his jars were almost bumping on the ground, the subaltern summoned his remaining energies in a final spurt and doubled almost recklessly towards his goal.
Through the smoke he heard the sharp challenge of one of the sentries. He tried to reply, but no sound came from his parched throat. The man raised his rifle, when his sergeant, recognising the dishevelled, swaying form of Second-Lieutenant Wilmshurst, ordered the man to recover arms. Then a white mist swam before the subaltern's eyes, and, retaining sufficient presence of mind to place the hardly-won jars of water upon the ground, he stumbled inertly into the arms of the Rhodesian sergeant.
It was not long before Wilmshurst regained consciousness, to find that his precious stock of water was being boiled under the direction of the patrol-corporal. With admirable restraint the men, knowing that the subaltern had risked a horrible death for the sake of his black sergeant, had put the whole of the liquid to boil, insisting that a fair distribution would be made when the water was fit for drinking. A little over two gallons was not much among so many, but it would just assuage their thirst until the steadily-declining heat of the smouldering ruins permitted access to the well.
Producing his pump-filter, for Bela Moshi had taken particular pains to leave it in a safe place before the sortie, the subaltern strained the liquid. It was warm and insipid, yet it was now free from contamination, and Bela Moshi drank it with avidity.
A suspicion of his broad smile flitted across his face as he took the life-giving draught.
"You tink me lib for die, sah?" he enquired whimsically.
"No fear!" replied Wilmshurst, knowing that to a remarkable degree a "nigger" can control his ability to live or die. He had known of a black man who, grievously upset in a quarrel, declared that he was going to die, and promptly lying down and turning his face to the ground, the man was a corpse within half an hour. "You get well one time quick, or me berry angry."
The subaltern's reply reminded him of a doting parent talking to a small child in baby language. Bela Moshi was a mere child in certain respects, and the mild threat had its effect. "Den me tink me lib, sah," he said.
With this assurance Wilmshurst left to snatch a few hours' much-needed rest. The bulk of the white men comprising the garrison were behind the earthworks. Occasional sharp bursts of rifle firing came from the bush, but no reply was made by the defenders of the kraal. Ammunition was too scarce and precious to be thrown away at haphazard firing upon an unseen foe. The Germans' remaining machine gun was unaccountably silent. Perhaps it had failed, after the manner of automatic weapons. On the other hand, although the captured machine-gun was liable to jam after a few rounds, owing to its having become overheated, the Huns were ignorant of the fact, and thus the practically useless weapon was a strong moral factor in favour of its captors.
Dudley slept for a solid four hours, to awake considerably refreshed to find that some one had spread a double ground-sheet above him, so as to form a tent, for the sun was now directly overhead.
"Hullo, Rupert!" he exclaimed, upon seeing his brother. "How goes it?"
"Feeling quite my old self," was the reply. "A fellow can buck up even in present circumstances after being penned up by a mob of rascally Huns."
"What happened to you?" asked Dudley.
Rupert shrugged his bent shoulders.
"Don't ask me," he replied. "Some day I'll tell you—if we get out of this scrap."
"Did you hear what became of Robert MacGregor?" persisted Dudley.
"A thundering good old pal!" declared his brother heartily. "If he'd not been obliged to go back to Rhodesia I don't think I would have been landed in a German prison. I'd give a lot to shake old Bob by the hand again."
The subaltern regarded his brother intently. Rupert, he saw, was speaking quite naturally and without any trace of sarcasm. It was clear that he had not the slightest idea of the double, nay multi-dyed treachery of Ulrich von Gobendorff.
"Dash it all!" he soliloquised. "I can't enlighten old Rupert just now. Revelations must come later—if, as he remarked, we do come out of this business alive."
About four o'clock in the afternoon the irritating rifle fire ceased. Fifteen minutes passed without a shot winging its way from the dense scrub; and although one or two of the defenders boldly stood upon the parapet to draw the enemy, their tempting position brought no response.
"Guess we'll hike out and bring in some water," declared one. "No time like the present, and we are as dry as a bone."
"Very good," agreed the patrol-commander. "Only look sharp about it. This lull in the firing may mean that the Boches are up to some of their knavish tricks."
Accordingly five men, each carrying four jars, set off to the well. The dangers that Wilmshurst had encountered were now over, and in a short space of time the five returned. Although they had been in full view of the enemy positions throughout, their progress had not been molested by so much as a single shot.
"The blighters are saving it up for us for to-night," declared a trooper. "Wonder if a couple of us could steal through their lines and make our way to the main column? A few squadrons would make Fritz sit up."
"No use unless we were mounted," objected another; "and a fellow couldn't hope to dash through their lines at full gallop. He'd be chock full of bullets before he got within fifty yards of them."
"I'd risk it, anyway," asserted the first speaker. "Either mounted or dismounted I reckon I'd do it as soon as it gets dark. But I'm hanged if I can understand why Fritz is so horribly quiet and well-behaved."
"That's what we'd all like to know," added the sergeant. "I'm that curious that I fancy taking a stroll that way myself."
Shortly afterwards a party of villagers were collected and set to work to bury the bodies of those who had fallen in the futile assault. The natives, contrary to expectation, performed their tasks without let or hindrance from the enemy, although the men engaged in the work offered a tempting target.
With the fall of darkness the mental attention of the garrison became acute. At every slight or unaccountable sound the men strained eyes and ears and grasped their rifles to meet an imaginary rush. Just before midnight a shot rang out, the flash of the rifle being clearly discernible at a point immediately fronting the scene of the most formidable attack on the previous night.
"They're coming, boys!" exclaimed the patrol-commander. "Ten rounds rapid when I give the word, then independent firing. Don't waste a single shot."
Only the click of the rifle-bolts and the quick breathing of the men broke the stillness. Even the natives, awed by the impending assault, were silent as they handled their bows and long-hafted spears.
"Hear anything?" whispered the patrol-commander, edging close to Wilmshurst.
"Nothing," replied the subaltern.
"They're coming, sir," exclaimed a deep voice.
The subaltern raised his binoculars and swept the intervening space. The powerful night-glasses revealed no sign of the approaching enemy.
Again a flash, followed by the sharp report of a rifle, the bullet knocking splinters from one of the cross-pieces of the stockade—and then utter silence.
"Dashed if I can stick this!" declared Wilmshurst. "I'll go out and see what's doing. With luck I'll be back in an hour."
"Very good," agreed the Rhodesian patrol-commander. "Give the word 'Buluwayo' for the countersign. Good luck!"
Without loss of time the subaltern started on his mission of investigation. Once clear of the kraal he realised a sense of loneliness. He would have given almost all he possessed for the companionship of his trusty Bela Moshi. Then, shaking off the instinctive depression, he devoted his thoughts to the work on hand.
He was taking a different route from the one he had followed on the occasion of the capture of the machine-gun. It was unfamiliar ground, flat and totally devoid of cover. Ahead lay a line of dark shadows that marked the commencement of the encircling bush. It was only slightly over a quarter of a mile away, but the distance seemed interminable as he slowly and cautiously held on.
Once he stood stock still, his heart beating violently. Ten yards ahead a man lay prone on the short grass. The faint starlight glinted on the barrel of a rifle, which was pointed straight at the lone subaltern.
Momentarily Wilmshurst expected to see the blinding flash of the rifle. The fellow was a long time lingering over the sights, he thought. The young officer moved a couple of paces to the right. The sinister muzzle seemed to be following him, tantalisingly menacing.
Acting upon a sudden impulse Wilmshurst flung himself flat on the ground. After a pause he raised his head and looked towards the sniper, for such he took him to be. The man had not stirred. His rifle was cocking upwards at an acute angle to the ground, "I believe a dead Hun has given me cold feet," muttered the subaltern, and creeping stealthily he made a wide detour round the rigidly immovable figure. Then, satisfied up to a certain point, he crawled towards the motionless object.
It was an Askari. The man was one of the first to be shot during the onslaught. He had fallen face downwards, but still grasped his rifle in such a position that there was good reason for mistaking him for a sniper.
From this point Wilmshurst resumed his outward journey, proceeding on hands and knees and halting at frequent intervals to place his ear to the ground. He could detect no audible evidences of the foe. Never before, in the course of two separate campaigns against native troops officered by Germans, had he known such absolute silence amongst the black rank and file.
On and on he crawled, grimly soliloquising that much more of this mode of progression would make him imagine that he was a new type of serpent, for as he approached the outer fringe of scrub he literally moved on his stomach.
Proceeding thus he passed between two large thorn bushes. Beyond was a slight artificial depression in the ground, on the bottom of which were hundreds of metal cartridge cases.
By the peculiar pungent odour he knew that they had been fired within the last twelve hours. Some were trodden into the loose earth, which bore numerous indications of having been trampled both with boots and bare feet.
"By Jove!" he thought. "Fritz has cleared out."
Even as the idea flashed across his mind a rifle-shot rang out on his left.
Promptly Wilmshurst flattened himself to the ground, and waited breathlessly for further developments. The weird silence was maintained save for the distant croaking of bullfrogs in a marsh.
"Booby trap!" he declared, and cautiously groped around to find out if he had incautiously touched a fine wire. At a radius of his extended arm he found nothing of that nature. Perhaps, after all, a sniper was concealed in the bushes on his left, for the bullet had not been directed at him.
Bent upon investigating the mystery Wilmshurst crept round the intervening bushes. Before he had traversed thirty yards his head came in contact with the stock of a rifle. The weapon was lashed to a couple of stout bamboos. Fastened to the trigger was a short piece of wire, to which in turn was tied a length of raw hide. The subaltern gave a chuckle of satisfaction. His discovery confirmed his surmise that the investing force had raised the siege, leaving rifles so arranged that they would fire automatically after various intervals in order to convey the erroneous impression that the bush was still held in force.
The raw hide cords had been placed in position during the heat of the day. After dark the heavy dew moistened the hide and caused it to contract until the tension upon the trigger was sufficient to release the bolt action and detonate the cartridges.
A similar ruse, embodying more ingenuity, had been practised by the British troops during the successful evacuation of the Gallipoli peninsula; but in this case the fixed rifles were fired by means of a small trickle of water dropping from an upper receptacle into a lower one. To the latter was tied a cord, the other end of which was fastened to the trigger. As soon as half a gallon of liquid entered the lower tin can, resulting in a pressure of about seven pounds on the trigger, the rifle was fired.
"And there are plenty of discarded tins lying about," thought Wilmshurst. "It seems strange that methodical Fritz should waste a good raw-hide thong when simpler and more efficacious means are available, unless—ah! I wonder if it was a lack of water that made them clear out?"
Wilmshurst was nothing if not thorough. Before returning with the joyful news to the kraal he meant to satisfy himself that the Huns had abandoned all their positions. It would be a bad business if, on the strength of the young officer's report, the patrol left the village and attempted to rejoin the main body only to find themselves suddenly attacked in the open by vastly numerically superior forces.
Checking his direction from time to time by means of his luminous compass Dudley penetrated nearly a mile into the bush. Everywhere there were evidences that the enemy had retired in the direction of the Karewenda Hills, while the not distant sounds of wild animals showed that the bush was clear of anything of the nature of numerous parties of human beings.
Satisfied on this point the subaltern was about to retrace his way when he heard a stealthy footfall on the dew-soddened ground within a few paces of the spot where he stood.
Softly and deliberately Wilmshurst dropped to the earth, screened by the broad leaves of a cactus. He could hardly believe the evidence of his senses when, almost within arm's length, appeared the foremost of a single file of Haussas—men not only of his own battalion but of his platoon.
Checking the natural exuberance of his wildly delighted men Wilmshurst obtained the information that the battalion, acting in conjunction with a Punjabi infantry regiment and a couple of squadrons of Light Horse, was about to deliver a surprise attack upon the enemy. Once again the wily Hun had disappointed the British forces. By means of native scouts the Germans had learnt of the approach of the relieving forces, and without waiting to exchange shots the former had effected a prompt and skilfully-conducted retirement.
Accompanied by one of the Haussas Wilmshurst hastened to inform his commanding officer of the state of affairs. On the way he found big Spofforth with the advance-guard. The latter greeted his missing chum cordially.
"You're a lucky blighter!" he exclaimed, as he critically surveyed Dudley's ragged and dishevelled appearance. "You always manage to see some fun. Here are we, after two days' hard marching, sold completely, and not a chance to fire a shot. Well, what have you been doing?"
"I'll tell you later," replied Wilmshurst. "I must report to the C.O. Briefly, we've missed von Gobendorff, but we've had one of the toughest little scraps I've ever experienced."
Colonel Quarrier was both delighted and disappointed with his junior officer's report. His satisfaction at the news of the successful defence of the kraal was unbounded; but his brow darkened when he learnt of the escape of Ulrich von Gobendorff.
"We heard from native sources that you were in a tight corner, Mr. Wilmshurst," he remarked in conclusion. "How the news got through in so short a time is one of those unsolved mysteries appertaining to the inhabitants of Central Africa. We pushed ahead with a column hoping to catch Fritz sitting; but we were done. Well, ought you to rejoin your temporary unit? If you prefer you can remain till dawn, for I do not intend to move further till then. We don't want any exchange of shots by mistake."
"I'll return, sir," replied the subaltern. "The men will be bucked to hear the good news. I shouldn't wonder if they aren't getting a bit anxious, for I was due back an hour ago."
Without mishap the subaltern traversed the intervening stretch of scrub, crossed the open space and gained the kraal, where, as he had expected, the good news was hailed with enthusiasm. For the first time since the investment of the village the defenders were able to snatch a few hours' undisturbed sleep unaccompanied by the intermittent reports of rifles and the constant expectation of being called to arms.
Dawn was breaking when a squadron of Rhodesian Light Horse cantered up to the bullet-torn stockade, their arrival being hailed with three cheers by the undaunted patrol and a deafening clamour from the natives, who had played no inconspicuous part in the defence of the kraal. Twenty minutes later the Waffs marched in, followed by an Indian battalion, which bivouacked in the open.
"Here we remain—so the C.O. says," declared Danvers, as the four platoon-commanders of "A" Company gathered together in a native hut temporarily converted into the mess. "It's a step nearer the Karewenda Hills, and there, according to accounts, Fritz will make a last stand."
"Unless he prefers Cape Town," added Spofforth, and the five officers laughed at the jest. "As things are going it reminds me of that kid's game 'Ring-a-ring-o'-Roses'—simply barging round and round and getting no forrarder."
"Dashed smart chap that servant of yours, Wilmshurst," remarked Laxdale, after the subaltern had related the story of Bela Moshi's devotion. "And how is he progressing?"
"Splendidly, according to Dr. Barkley's latest report," replied Dudley. "If any fellow deserves the D.C.M. it's he."
"And a little bird whispered to me," continued Laxdale, "that a certain member of the antient and accepted order of the Lone Star Crush did a jolly risky thing—fetching water under enemy fire."
Wilmshurst coloured hotly.
"Rot!" he ejaculated. "Fritz couldn't see me. They were putting up a lot of small arms ammunition, of course. No, that's nothing; almost forgot about it, in fact."
But if Wilmshurst had dismissed the incident from his mind the water had not forgotten him. The poisonous germs in the non-filtered liquid were doing their lethal work, and that evening the subaltern was down with a severe bout of malaria.
In a covered dhoolie Wilmshurst was sent down to a hospital base-camp. With him went Rupert, who, on the setting in of the reaction following his release, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Within a couple of months Dudley was back with his battalion. Many times he bitterly reproached himself for being out of action for that period simply because he did not exercise sufficient restraint when he drank the tainted water. He realised that he alone was to blame, while most of the trouble fell upon the shoulders of his brother platoon-commanders, who already had their full share of work and responsibility.
He found the battalion at a place twenty miles further away from the Karewenda Hills than the kraal where he had played so conspicuous a part in its defence.
"You needn't have been so rattled about it, old boy," declared Spofforth. "You've missed none of the fun, for the simple reason that there hasn't been any. A fortnight ago we were within sight of Twashi. There was a Belgian column operating on the north-west side. It looked as if we were going to do something great, when we had to retire through lack of provisions. It appears that a few Huns got away and started playing the deuce with our lines of communication; put the kybosh on a couple of convoys and generally made things unpleasant."
"Rather," agreed Laxdale. "I've been hungry many a time, but now I know what it means to have to tighten one's belt. I'll qualify for the Army Light-weight Championship yet."
"A week ago I seriously thought of going on exhibition as a living skeleton," remarked Danvers. "You've been jolly lucky, Wilmshurst; you're as fat as a prize turkey-cock. They've been stuffing you down at the base."
"At any rate I'll soon work it down to normal," rejoined Wilmshurst. "Any company news?"
"Nothing much," replied Spofforth. "Two casualties in your platoon. Bela Moshi is still away (hard lines, thought Wilmshurst), but the recommendation for the D.C.M. has gone through. The black sinner will be as proud as a dog with two tails when he gets the medal."
Within a week of Dudley's rejoining, the column was again in position to resume offensive operations. Well guarded convoys had arrived, including a much-needed ammunition column, while with the advent of the rainy season the difficulty of feeding the horses and mules was considerably reduced.
The troops advanced on a broad front, the Waffs in the centre, a Punjabi battalion on the right and a Pathan regiment on the left. Light Horse and Indian Lancers operated on both flanks, while a battery of mountain guns acted in support of the infantry.
For the last three weeks a strong Belgian column had been sitting on the banks of the Tuti, a river flowing in a south-westerly direction behind the Karewenda Hills and joining the Kiwa fifty miles S.S.W. of M'ganga. By holding the fords the Belgians effectually cut off the retreat of the Huns from Twashi, and the latter being fully aware of that unpleasant fact were confronted with one of two alternatives—to fight it out or surrender.
Four days' steady marching brought the British column within striking distance of the outermost lines of defence. The difficult nature of the ground made it impossible to run the position. A frontal attack had to be delivered in order to pierce the line, but before this could be done the intervening ground had to be carefully reconnoitred, as many of the defences had been thrown up during the last few days, Fritz working with feverish energy when he found himself cornered.
During the course of the day four Germans approached the outlying piquets and made signs that they wished to surrender. Blindfolded they were escorted to headquarters and subjected to a rigorous examination. They admitted frankly that supplies both of food and ammunition were running short and that the Askaris were restless and showing signs of mutiny. The prisoners also gave details of the position of some of the German advance works, stating that they were but lightly held. Each man being showed a military map he indicated the position of the defence in question; and, what was more, the descriptions coincided with each other.
"It would be well, however, not to take too much for granted, sir," remarked the adjutant to Colonel Quarrier after the Germans had been removed. "This surrender business may be a put-up job to throw dust in our eyes. Their yarn has a sort of carefully-practised savour about it."
"Perhaps you are right," agreed the C.O. of the Waffs. "It would be as well to be content with a feint upon this section of the defences in case there is a labyrinth of mines. What sort of ground is this?"
He pointed with a pencil to the map spread out in front of him. The adjutant looked, frowned and tugged at his moustache.
"I really cannot say, sir," he replied at length. "If the map is correct——"
"I refer to the actual terrain," interrupted Colonel Quarrier. "Look here, Manners; if it is fairly undulating, and not too steep on the north-eastern side, it ought to be admirably suited for acoup-de-main. Frontal, of course, but that is inevitable."
"Just so, sir," murmured the adjutant. Colonel Quarrier deliberately folded up the map. "Very well," he said in conclusion. "Send a reliable officer out. I want an accurate report. Whom can you suggest?"
Captain Manners pondered.
"There's Mr. Spofforth, sir——"
"Too jolly lanky for the job," objected the colonel.
"Mr. Danvers——"
"Took lowest marks at map-reading," continued the critical C.O. "A smart officer in every other respect."
"Mr. Laxdale——"
"Lacks caution," declared Colonel Quarrier. "No pun intended. A good man in a rush at the head of his platoon, but for individual work—Who's next?"
"Mr. Wilmshurst, sir."
"Only just out of hospital," was the C.O.'s dictum.
"But fit and as keen as mustard, sir," persisted the adjutant for two reasons. He was getting a bit bored at having his recommendations summarily "choked off"; he also knew that Dudley Wilmshurst was, apart from being a soldier, a scout by instinct, and that he had plenty of experience of the conditions of life in the bush.
"Very well, then," declared the C.O. "Broach the subject to him privately, Manners. If he jumps at it, send him to me."
Ten minutes later Second-Lieutenant Dudley Wilmshurst "jumped."
The subaltern decided to go out alone. One man stood a far better chance of escaping detection than two; so greatly to the dismay of every Haussa in his platoon he faced the difficult task single handed.
Mounted on a nimble pony and carrying rifle and ammunition, revolver, binoculars, map and compass Wilmshurst was bent upon conserving his energies during the ride across the previously reconnoitred ground. On new terrain he would tether his steed and proceed on foot.
The air was still and sultry. Away to the north great black clouds piled themselves up in sombre masses, indigo-coloured with edges of watery green and flaming copper. Against the dark background the distant horizon stood out clear and distinct, owing to the exaggerated refractory conditions of the atmosphere.
"A regular deluge before long," decided Dudley.
He viewed the approaching storm with equanimity. The clearness of the atmosphere rendered his task lighter, while the change of weather would tend to keep the Askaris within their lines. Even German military despotism could not conquer the native levies' dread of a thunderstorm. Finally the darkness and rain on the bursting of the storm would enable him to get back without so much chance of being spotted, for on reconnoitring it is on the return journey that casualties to the scouts happen most frequently.
The subaltern's sole protection from the rain was a waterproof ground sheet. Originally fawn-coloured it had been liberally camouflaged with bizarre circles, squares and triangles painted in a medley of colouring. At five hundred yards the wearer was practically invisible, the "colour-scheme" blending with the surrounding ground in a most effective manner. For the present the ground sheet, wrapped into a small compass, was strapped in front of the pommel of the saddle.
Making his way past the outlying piquets Wilmshurst rode steadily. The ground was undulating, the general tendency being a gentle rise. During the last few days the hitherto dry and parched land had been covered with rapidly growing vegetation, vivid green grasses shooting up to an average height of eighteen inches and transforming the open ground into a state strongly resembling the prairies of the New World.
Crowds ofaasvogels, gathered around the carcass of a mule, rose on the subaltern's approach, uttering discordant cries as they flew away from their interrupted meal. It was unfortunate but unavoidable, and had Wilmshurst been within a couple of miles of a hostile post the aerial commotion would have "given him away."
Checking his map with various prominent landmarks the subaltern arrived at the limit of his ride, a clump of sub-tropical trees that crowned a horseshoe-shaped hill.
"That's all right so far," thought Dudley, comparing the contour of the hill with the plan. "Now comes the unknown."
His military map showed an absolute desert as far as detail was concerned. Topographical knowledge was practically at zero judging by the almost blank portion of paper representing the ground between the subaltern and the twin spurs of the Karewenda Hills against which Colonel Quarrier proposed making their actual frontal attack. It was Wilmshurst's task to cross this unknown ground, finding out the best route for troops to advance in column of route without being detected, and a suitable place for extending in open order prior to the final phases of the assault.
Tethering his pony by means of a long hide-rope—for out of consideration for the animal he forbore to hobble it, since there was a possibility that he might not be able to return to it, Wilmshurst fastened the rolled ground-sheet over his shoulder after the manner of a bandolier, and holding his rifle ready for instant action began his seven-mile trek. In order to baffle the enemy scouts should they be out, Dudley wore a pair of flat-soled boots to the feet of which were fixed a dummy pair of soles and heels in the reverse way. Any one picking up the spoor would be under the erroneous belief that the wearer was walking in the opposite direction to the actual one.
"Judging by my footsteps I must be a pigeon-toed blighter," soliloquised Wilmshurst, as he noted the turned-in prints in the soft ground. "I must look out to that, or I'll give the show away."
On and on he went, making his way from one point of cover to another, yet without seeing or hearing the faintest sign of the German patrols. It was not a reassuring business, for scouts might be in the vicinity, and a scout unseen is a far greater menace than one who incautiously betrays his presence.
Following the course of a donga he found that the narrow valley formed an admirable means for a column to advance if protected by flankers, but after tracing it for the best part of two miles Wilmshurst discovered that it terminated abruptly, merging into a vast open plain.
Cautiously the subaltern crept up the sloping face of the donga until his head was just above the edge of the level ground. By the aid of the glasses he made a prolonged and cautious survey. Eight hundred yards on his right front were swarms of vultures busily engaged in their revolting pastime; at a similar distance on the left were fourspringbokgrazing unconcernedly. Both signs tended to prove that there were no human beings about, for in the case of thespringboktheir keen scent enabled them to detect the presence of the hunter to such an extent that it was a difficult matter to get within easy range of them.
Having taken a series of compass bearings and entered a few details on his map Wilmshurst started off for a kopje midway between theaasvogelsand thespringbok. Although he took the greatest pains to keep out of sight the nimble quadrupeds suddenly bolted, flying like the wind. A few seconds later the vultures rose from their interrupted repast, flying almost immediately over the prone form of the subaltern.
"Fishy—very," mused Wilmshurst. "What made theaasvogelsfly this way? I'll sit tight and await developments."
For the best part of half an hour he remained perfectly quiet, not even risking to use his binoculars, lest the reflected light might attract the attention of a hostile scout. By this time the storm was drawing nearer—slowly but surely. As yet no rain had fallen. There were the indigo-coloured clouds ahead; behind the sky was one unbroken expanse of dirty yellow haze. It reminded Wilmshurst of the efforts of an amateur painter trying to "lay on" a coat of yellow paint with a tar-stained brush. Far away to the north came the reverberations of a peal of thunder. It was Nature's signal to the wary to take cover.
Finding at the end of thirty minutes that nothing happened to indicate the presence of an enemy, for theaasvogelshad returned to their carrion feast, Wilmshurst essayed the remaining portion of his interrupted advance. The kopje, he decided, was to be the extreme limit of his reconnoitring expedition. From it he ought to be able to form a tolerably accurate idea of the nature of the terrain up to the base of the natural bastions of the Karewenda Hills.
Wilmshurst had taken only half a dozen steps when a rifle shot rang out. Practically simultaneously with the shrill whistle of the bullet something seemed to hit the subaltern on the left shoulder like a blow from a hammer.
"That's done it," was his mental exclamation. "Stopped one this time, by Jove!"
And spinning round twice he dropped to the ground.
Feeling horribly sick and faint Dudley sat up. He found that he was lying in a slight hollow, the surrounding ground being sufficiently high to afford good cover, while ahead and on the right were bushes of long-spiked thorn.
Satisfied on the point of concealment Dudley next devoted his attention to his wound. Ripping open the sleeve of his coat he discovered that a bullet had passed completely through his left arm just below the shoulder. There was very little loss of blood, showing that the missile had missed the principal veins and arteries, but whether it had smashed a bone was still a matter of uncertainty.
Applying a first-aid dressing to the best of his ability, Wilmshurst prepared to "grin and bear it." He realised that developments would be mostly a contest of patience. The sniper was anxious to know the actual result of his shot, but too cautious to close until he felt certain that he had killed his victim. Wilmshurst, anxious to "get his own back," also knew that premature action would spell disaster. All he could do was to sit tight and hope that his enemy would leave his lair.
Slowly the minutes passed. The numbing sensation of the wound was giving place to hot, stabbing pain, while in spite of the sultriness of the air a cold sweat oozed from the young officer's forehead.
"Dash it all!" he soliloquised. "Hope I'm not going to faint or do something silly."
He bent forward until his head rested on his knees. In a few minutes the feeling of vertigo passed. A draught from his water-bottle had the effect of temporarily quenching the burning pain that gripped his throat.
"That's better," he declared, and straightway set to work to carefully blacken the foresight of his rifle, adjust the wind-gauge (for the first of a steady cross-wind had sprung up) and set the sights to six hundreds yards.
"Not so bad with the use of one arm only," he muttered complaisantly. "Hullo, here's the rain!"
With the typical fierceness of a tropical storm the rain beat down. Hailstones as big as a walnut thudded the ground, rebounding a foot or so in the air until all around was blotted out by the terrific downpour. Underneath the waterproof sheet Dudley lay, knowing that there was no chance of the sniper venturing from his lair while this battery of nature's weapons was in action. It was almost pitch-black, save for the phosphorescent-like light emanating from the falling rain. Occasional vivid flashes of lightning o'erspread the sky, followed by rumbling peals of thunder.
Taking particular pains to keep his rifle dry Wilmshurst lay close until the initial downpour had passed. Then, acting as promptly as his crippled condition would allow, he laid the muzzle of the weapon on a fork of one of the bushes. As he expected he found that he could take aim without much risk of being spotted, since the bush formed an efficient screen.
Still no sign of the sniper. Wilmshurst had no definite idea of the fellow's position. He could only surmise, basing his assumption on the report of the rifle, that he was either on the kopje ahead or else concealed behind one of the boulders on its side.
"Fritz knows how to play a waiting game too, I see," muttered Wilmshurst, as he deliberately wiped off a globule of water that had dropped upon the backsight of his rifle. "Hope he won't keep me waiting about till after midnight. I must stick it till he shows up."
The wounded subaltern bore no animosity towards the man who had shot him. In a true soldierly spirit he realised that the Hun had acted like a sportsman. It was merely a question of which scout was the sharper and Wilmshurst had been caught napping. Really he wanted to congratulate Fritz upon his excellent shot, but before qualifying his wishes on that score he must get his own back—shot for shot.
A thin haze of bluish smoke rose from a depression in the ground, and, caught by the wind, eddied into obscurity.
"Silly juggins!" exclaimed Wilmshurst. "Bad habit smoking when you're supposed to been perdu. Now I know where to look for you."
The Hun was evidently arriving at a conclusion that he had "downed his man," but with the intention of waiting a little longer he was not able to resist the inclination of smoking a pipe.
Bringing the butt of his rifle to his shoulder Wilmshurst lingered over the sights—not with the idea of firing at a wreath of smoke, but to test his ability to "pull off" gently. To his surprise he found that the throbbing pain in his left shoulder had little or no effect upon his steadiness of aim. Provided Fritz showed himself the subaltern felt almost certain of scoring an "inner" if not a "bull."
In a quarter of an hour the puffs of smoke ceased. Wilmshurst had a mental vision of the Hun knocking out the ashes on the heel of his boot and placing the pipe away in his pocket.
"Now he'll be moving," thought Dudley.
His surmise proved correct, for first the upper part of the head and then the face and shoulders of a man appeared above a ridge of ground.
Wilmshurst stirred neither hand nor foot, lest in spite of the screen afforded by the bush his movements might be noticed by the alert scout.
Followed a few long-drawn moments of suspense as the scout made a careful survey by means of his field-glasses. Apparently satisfied he replaced the binoculars and carrying his rifle at the trail prepared to descend the knoll.
Deliberately and cautiously Wilmshurst glanced along the sights of his rifle. He would wait, he decided, until Fritz was some distance from his lair. It would give him a chance to get in a couple of shots if the first perchance should miss.
With his body from the waist upwards showing clearly against the copper-hued clouds the Hun offered a splendid target.
Gently the subaltern's finger crept to the trigger. In his interest in his foe he forgot the stinging, throbbing pain. The rifle, supported by the fork of the tree, was as steady as a rock.
Just as Wilmshurst was about to press the trigger a lurid blinding flash seemed to leap from the ground immediately on his front. With the echoes of an appalling crash that shook the solid earth ringing in his ears Dudley found himself gazing blankly ahead but seeing nothing. Dazzled by the sudden intensity of light, deafened by the concussion, he was conscious of a vile, sulphurous odour assailing his nostrils.
Gradually the mist decreased until he was able to see with comparative ease. His first thought was for his rifle; he was agreeably surprised to find that it was intact, for it seemed marvellous that the lightning had missed the steel barrel.
Then he looked in the direction of his enemy. The Hun was lying prone, his head pillowed on his arm. The other, curiously enough, was projecting obliquely in the air. All around the grass was burning, while already the luckless man's uniform was smouldering.
Abandoning all thought of concealment in his desire to aid his foe Wilmshurst sprang to his feet, and supporting his useless left arm by his right doubled towards the spot where the man had dropped.
As he drew near he saw that the German's rifle had been hurled quite ten yards. The barrel was partly wrenched from the stock, and for a distance of about a foot from the muzzle the steel had been split, revealing the glittering rifling.
Taking in these details at a glance Dudley gained the side of the prostrate man. One look was sufficient to show that the Hun had been killed outright.
"Hard lines, Fritz," exclaimed Wilmshurst aloud. "I'm glad I didn't have to pot you."
Something prompted him to grasp the dead man by his shoulder and turn him over on his back. As he did so, Dudley gave vent to an involuntary ejaculation of surprise.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's von Gobendorff."
It was close on sunset when Wilmshurst, racked with pain, returned to the bivouac. Willing hands assisted him from the saddle, yet, firmly declining to submit to the attentions of the medical officer until he completed his task, the wounded subaltern made a lucid report and submitted his maps for inspection.
Next morning he was sent down to the base hospital, protesting the while that the wound was not serious enough to keep him away from his platoon just as the fun was commencing.
A fortnight later, while Wilmshurst was convalescing at Kilwa, he was surprised by a deputation of officers of his regiment—Spofforth, Danvers, Laxdale, and three or four more.
"How goes it, old man?" exclaimed Spofforth, the leader of the deputation. "You've something to show for your little dust-up."
"I have," admitted Dudley. "A clean puncture through the arm. But what are you fellows doing here? You don't mean to say that the business is over?"
"By something I mean the M.C.," continued Jock Spofforth, ignoring Wilmshurst's questions. "It's in to-day's orders, so we're here to offer congrats. The battalion's doing well—a D.S.O., two M.C.'s and five D.C.M.'s; not a bad record, eh, what?"
"Yes, the show's over as far as we are concerned," added Laxdale. "We marched in yesterday. It was a jolly satisfactory piece of work that final attack on Fritz's position."
"Sorry I hadn't a hand in it," remarked Wilmshurst.
"You did, old man," protested Spofforth. "Those maps of yours—they were simply it. We just romped home, as it were. But buck up and don't look so down in the mouth. One would fancy you didn't cotton on to the Military Cross. And here's news. We are expecting orders for Mesopotamia, so that ought to cheer you up."
And Wilmshurst, M.C., of the Frontier Force, cheered up accordingly.