Chapter XI
Laden with trophies, bright-faced and triumphant, the column started on its way back to civilisation, and in ten days’ time, to the strains of the local band, sent forward to meet it, was marching proudly through the poplar-lined street of Gethsemane. This town is inhabited mostly by Colonial Dutch, whose loyalty or the reverse rose or fell according as the fortunes of war inclined to one or the other contending party.
The death of Van der Tann and capture of his commando having brought about a fall in Dutch stock, they were now loyal British subjects, and consequently from every hotel, private dwelling-place, and shop the gay bunting streamed. Functionaries, in civic robes, came forward to greet their preservers with hands outstretched in welcome, as they bade them enter and feast themselves on the good things made ready in their honour.
Nor were the prisoners forgotten, a forbidding wire-enclosed zeriba having been prepared in their honour, and here, the whole town turning out to watch the operation, they were speedily deposited, and left till such time as the authorities saw fit to arrange for their removal to Cape Town.
A time of relaxation ensued, the officers revelling in late hours, clean shirts, and the social delights of tennis, croquet party, and dance; the men in unlimited beer, tobacco, and well-nigh nightly “sing-songs.”
Colonel Bradford made speeches, roared lion-like at social entertainments, and spoke of the British flag, and the well-known loyalty of Gethsemane inhabitants, sentiments greeted with loud and unanimous applause by his hearers.
On all faces were smiles, in all hearts joy, save in the case of Hector Graeme, who was, as usual, in antagonism with his fellows. “Confound it, man,” said Bradford to him one morning, Hector having been more than usually unresponsive to his Chief’s good-humour, “what an ungracious fellow you are, one would think, by Gad, you were sorry instead of glad at our recent success, why, last night at dinner you were infernally rude to the Mayor. I tell you I don’t like it, Graeme, and, what’s more, I won’t have it,” and Bradford stalked away in dudgeon, another black mark registered in his mind against his unsatisfactory A.D.C.
Had it not been for Major Godwin, events would long before this have come to a head between the two, for, since the capture of the commando, Hector had once more relapsed into his former irritating ways of slackness and inattention; and had, moreover, recently added another fault to the list, that of almost continual absence, passing his days, to the neglect of his Chief, in long solitary rides about the surrounding country.
This in itself was not distasteful to the Colonel, rather was it a relief, for his former feelings of annoyance at Hector’s ignorance and casualness had of late become replaced by another—that of dislike, even hatred, for his subordinate. He felt that peculiarly bitter hatred we feel for those to whom, in a moment of expansion, we have revealed some jealously-hidden weakness, and who have responded to the revelation by a counter-display of strength, comforting possibly at the time, but becoming an intolerable and rankling memory once that hour is passed and security attained. To all save Hector—and perhaps one other—Bradford was a hero, one who had accomplished the hitherto impossible, and daily the longing grew, not so much to get rid of this one witness of his hour of humiliation—for that, for reasons of his own, he shrank from doing—as to crush him, stamp on him, and load him with obloquy. This he did to the full extent of his power, depriving Graeme of the smallest show of independence, ruthlessly snubbing him, and countermanding even such orders as in his position he was entitled to give, fearful lest they should be construed by those outside into his management by a subordinate, and that this suspicion would finally culminate in the belief that it was not he, but Hector, who had in reality brought about the recent capture.
If Bradford, on his part, cherished these feelings towards his aide, Hector was even more bitter against his Chief, the main reason for this being the Colonel’s refusal to acknowledge or even allude to the services rendered to him by Hector on that momentous occasion. “Damn it,” he muttered, watching the hero’s gracious acceptation of congratulations on one occasion, “it was I, not you, who caught the beggar; but for me, you would have slunk back with your tail between your legs, and instead of addresses and flags, it’s hooting would have met you from this same loyal town of Gethsemane. Lord,” yawning and turning away, “how infernal slow that honours’ list is in appearing, six weeks, at least, since the names went in. I wonder what they’ll do for me? Brevet, I suppose, and probably a D.S.O. as well; can’t very well do less, they might give me a column too, and then, Bradford, you ass, you can run your own show, and we’ll see what sort of success you’ll have. Gad, what a show-up it will be for the impostor, doing all right when I’m there, but coming to grief once I’m gone,” and Hector, comforted at the thought, called for his horse and rode away into the mountains.
At last the long looked-for honours’ list arrived, in which Bradford’s name appeared as a Major-General and C.B., and Godwin’s as Lieut.-Colonel and C.M.G. Many others were rewarded with Brevets and D.S.O.’s—amongst the latter being Rufford, of the Veldt Rifles. Of Hector Graeme, however, there was no mention, peruse and reperuse the list as he might; and, incredulity at last giving way to certainty, his face grew suddenly livid, and a look came into his eyes, which caused Godwin, who, with Bradford, was in the room, to spring up, and, seizing Hector by the arm, lead him outside, before the words trembling on his lips were uttered. “I know, I know,” he said hastily, “but don’t be a fool, Graeme; there’s time enough yet. Go for a ride; curse the veldt if you like, but not the...” Hector, obeying him, went, and riding fiercely away into the mountain flung himself down on the ground, where he lay, a prey to one of those secret wild fits of passion, the first he had given way to for four years—in his room at Fort Hussein.
Limp and white-faced, he returned to his quarters, to find Godwin awaiting him; and a long conversation followed, the first of many, for the long-nosed man had taken a liking to Graeme, one of those occasionally awakened—which are almost invariably strong and lasting—by the universally unpopular. This liking, however, was in no way returned by its object, who considered the other a bore, the more so as he was continually harping upon one subject, that of the necessity of military reading to a soldier, a pursuit for which Hector had no liking, especially for the class of literature recommended by Godwin.
“Two things are necessary to make a leader,” his self-appointed counsellor would urge, his pale-green eyes lighting up with enthusiasm as he spoke, “one the natural qualities of character, which cannot be acquired; the other, knowledge of one’s profession, which can, by books. The qualities—I may be wrong, of course—I think you have; you’re certainly aggressive, the great thing; but the knowledge you have not; indeed, you’re one of the most ignorant officers it has ever been my fortune to meet. And you may be the strongest man in the world, Graeme,” he concluded, “but, if you can’t box, the fellow, with half your strength, who can will knock you out in the first round.”
“Not necessarily,” was the answer, “the cleverest professors with the gloves are often useless in the ring. Their hearts are wrong, they don’t mean smashing their men, and never lead, only wait to be knocked out. And it’s just the same, I imagine, in war. Take this last show, for instance; you know as well as I do, Godwin, that——”
“That but for the—information you brought in that night,” interrupted the latter hastily, “Van der Tann would probably still be at large. That, of course, is a matter, Graeme, I must decline to discuss, and if you take my earnest advice you’ll forget the episode as quickly as you can. Believe me, you’ll ruin your career if you don’t. But what you say, about the finest boxer being useless in the ring, proves nothing beyond the fact that character is the most essential of the two things I spoke of. Make the two boxers equal, or, as that’s impossible, make them nearly equal in that respect, and the victory goes to the one with most science. Take Blücher, for instance, as strong a character as there has ever been, but, because he was ignorant, he lost army after army till Gneisenau took him in hand, and, acting as his brain, told him what to do. He, a general, Graeme, had to rely on another man’s knowledge; he admitted it himself when he said, ‘Ah, Gneisenau, what a general I should have been had I only read!’”
“I’d read fast enough, Godwin,” said Graeme, “if I’d got any incentive to do so. It’s recognition I want; give me a start, I’ll do the rest.”
“Bah!” replied the other, “some men go without recognition all their lives, and still struggle on. And it may come yet, who knows? Be prepared for it when it does, that’s my point; don’t handicap yourself with ignorance. Now, I’ve got nothing to do for an hour, and if you like I’ll——”
“Oh, thank you very much, Godwin; it’s awfully good of you, but I’m afraid I can’t stay now. There’s my pony waiting outside, another time I shall be delighted,” and here the conversation, as such conversations invariably did, ended in nothing.
Then a fresh disaster befell Hector, his one friend being called home to take up an appointment at the War Office, and with his departure the rapid decline of Graeme’s fortunes began. With no mediator to intervene between them, Bradford’s treatment of his A.D.C. became daily harsher, till at length his animosity began to be remarked on, and to give rise to the very comment he was so morbidly anxious to avoid; the juniors wondered how Hector could put up with his Chief’s bullying; the seniors, why the General persisted in retaining on his staff an officer who, by his own showing, was so altogether incompetent and objectionable.
Bradford, accordingly, found himself in a quandary, for were he to dismiss Hector now, he might find his way to the staff of some other column leader, who—jealous as were most at that time of their kind—would be only too ready to listen to a tale belittling Bradford’s recent achievements; while, on the other hand, did he keep Hector where he was, the suspicion would certainly arise that he had his reasons for doing so, those reasons being that his A.D.C. knew too much to be allowed to leave.
His whole frame of mind was an instance of the curious childishness that saps the intelligence of men, often deemed the strongest, who, while listening to the admiration expressed by the public for some edifice constructed by their hands, are all the time conscious of a flaw in its foundations, which at any minute may cause the building, and with it its architect’s reputation, to crumble before their eyes. None of the spectators know of the flaw—probably never will know—but the architect does, and the alarming, though quite natural, cracking of the new edifice is to his mind the voice of the flaw, shouting its existence to all present. He hears it, they must too; and the slightest word—a careless suggestion uttered without reason or meaning—tells him that all is discovered, and he will be proclaimed an impostor.
Thus it was with Bradford. The most casual observation anent Hector and his doings on the fateful night would throw him into a fever of anxiety, the culminating point being reached on the occasion of a visit from the Commander-in-Chief to Gethsemane, when, in the course of conversation, he remarked that his host’s A.D.C. certainly cultivated a somewhat remarkable style of dress, but to which, from what he had heard, other staff officers, notably Gneisenau, were similarly addicted. It was an unfortunate remark, and on hearing it Bradford grew hot with agitation. Gneisenau? He, then, was Blücher, and the Commander-in-Chief knew everything. Someone must have talked; someone in the column—probably Graeme himself. At the last thought a fury of hatred seized him, and, his distinguished guest having departed, he summoned Hector to his room, where he accused him point-blank of gossiping about him, his Chief. Graeme denied it. Bradford called him a liar, upon which Hector’s pent-up rage broke loose, and he told Bradford what he thought of him.
With horrid accuracy he dissected his General’s mind before his eyes, holding up the pieces for him to see, and concluded with a direct accusation of jealousy of one to whom alone he owed his recent honours and reputation.
“Yes,” he said finally, “I lied that night, I own it, I did it to save you, and it did. It was the only way to get you on; you were all for going back, but I made up my mind you should not. Now you have it.” He stopped, panting.
“Your... quarters... sir... consider yourself...”
“Only too glad, and I’ll tell the court-martial the whole story,” answered Hector, going.
“Come back.”
“Ah!”
“I said, ‘consider yourself dismissed.’ Don’t come near me again, d’ye hear?”
“Where am I to go?”
“I’ll arrange that, go.” Hector went, leaving Bradford white and shaken, as he saw in his mind’s eye his late A.D.C. hurrying from Mess to Mess, and stripping, as he went, all his new-born reputation from him. Like most mental visions, it was altogether baseless, for, whatever other faults Hector possessed, pettiness was not among the number, and despite his threat to reveal all at the court-martial, he would, nevertheless, had such taken place, kept scornfully silent on the subject.
Bradford, however, had little or no understanding of human nature or character, and consequently sat where he was for hours, fearing to go out lest he should read in men’s faces the knowledge of his own undoing. At last, wearily rising, he moved across to the writing-table, and, sitting down, proceeded to indite a letter to Headquarters, in which he stated that, for purely personal reasons, he was desirous of changing his A.D.C., and asked that his present one might be transferred to a post elsewhere.
He suggested the Transport, an unpleasant smile on his face as he wrote, and having finished the letter sealed it, and summoned the orderly, whose face he watched narrowly as he handed him the document. With sinking heart, he noted a cloud on the man’s face, the consequence, it may be observed, of a misunderstanding with Martha, the Mayor’s parlour-maid.
The result of the letter was Hector’s appointment as transport officer to a small column working in the Transvaal, and to that place he departed, after a short leave-taking with his late Chief, who wished him good luck in his new venture, and regretted that the arrival of a nephew from England necessitated Hector’s removal. He also regretted any differences they might have had, and—and he hoped that—that...
“I am not a gossip,” answered Graeme coldly, “though you were good enough to accuse me of it once, nor am I small,” and, ignoring the outstretched hand, he turned his back on his well-wisher.
Mounting the Cape cart, he drove off, and a few hours afterwards was in the train jolting on his way north. In the novel rôle of transport officer, however, he proved himself even more unsatisfactory than in that of A.D.C.; indeed, thanks to him, the column he served well-nigh starved, and this fact, in the form of a peculiarly damaging report from its leader, having been brought to the notice of the authorities, Hector was relieved of his duties, and relegated to a stool in a commissariat office.
With the decline of his fortunes, his ineptitude seemed to increase. A further and even more damaging report having been received, Hector again started on his travels, and this time for the last and lowest stage of all—a blockhouse on the lines of communication. The months passed, the War slowly dragged to its close, but no further notice from authority did Graeme receive; and with the flitting of the days his sense of grievance and injustice increased, till his whole mind was consumed with bitterness and hatred of his kind.
At times he even meditated, should the chance occur, the throwing in of his lot with the enemy, and taking what revenge he could on his persecutors; but, fortunately for him, the chance did not occur—no enemy showing themselves within a hundred miles of his dreary abode. Day after day he sat staring moodily out on the bare brown hills and monotonous stretch of scrub-clad veldt, praying for the enemy to appear; but in vain, and at last this hope died. Another scheme took its place in his mind, that of leaving the army, once the War was over, and joining that of some other nation, his eventual aim being the leading of that army against his own country-men.
It would be a delight, indeed, he thought, to show to those who now ignored him what manner of man it was they had dared so to treat. How he would crush them, gloat over them, remind them of the despised transport officer and commissariat clerk; and perhaps, if fortune were kind, Bradford might be in command against him, Bradford brought in a prisoner before him. He wouldn’t hurt the creature, oh no, he would be rather nice to him, and let him go, asking as a favour that he should continue to lead the opposing forces, so as to make his task the easier.
How mad they would all be, traitor they would call him, and so he would be, and glory in it and their hatred. Even Lucy would turn from him; no, she wouldn’t, though. Lucy would be heartbroken, but never turn; and after all she would have had her wish, for she wanted him to retire. She was as bitter as he about the injustice he had received. He took from his pocket her last letter, and read it again, and as he did so his face assumed the puzzled expression it always wore on the perusal of her letters. “Again no mention of the child,” he muttered; “nothing but the postscript, ‘Ruby, poor mite, is well enough.’ Well, it’s mail-day to-day, perhaps she will say more. There is the mail too,” watching a small cloud of dust rapidly approaching along the sandy track. “Here, you,” to the orderly, who had now reached the blockhouse, and was handing a bundle of papers and letters to the Sergeant, “bring mine out here. Hum! three; one I don’t know, one from Lucy, and a London paper, addressed to me in her handwriting. I wonder what for, home news does not interest me at all.”
Faintly curious, he stripped off the wrapper, and, unfolding the newspaper, ran his eye over the pages, till at length he found the marked paragraph he expected. For a moment he stood staring; then his face grew suddenly scarlet, and a shout of jubilation burst forth from his lips. Sergeant Newcome and the men, running out to ascertain the cause, beheld their erstwhile apathetic officer throw his helmet into the air, rush at it as it reached the ground, and dance upon the headpiece till it lay a mangled mass of khaki and cardboard. “Orderly,” he shouted to the retreating figure of the postman, “come here, take this fiver, and order up beer from the commissariat, gallons of it; we’ll make a night of it, Newcome, my friend, or rather you and the men shall, while I do sentry go.”
“Sir?” said the astonished Sergeant, while the men stared vacantly at the transformed figure before them.
“Read that,” shouted Hector, handing him the paper; “not there, you fool, oh, give it to me then, and listen.” He read:
“‘To be Brevet Lieut. Colonel.
“‘Hector Archibald Graeme, Major’”—Hector’s majority was but two months old—“‘1st Lancers.’”
“A bloody Colonel, d’ye hear that, Newcome? Now go. I’m off to that kopje, and if you come near me I’ll brain you!”
Hector, the paper in his hand, hurried away, and, reaching the kopje, flung himself down, his heart singing and pulses leaping with exultation. Gone, dispelled in one brief moment were the rancour and bitterness of the last twelve months; and in their place, though but ephemeral, was a feeling of kindliness towards those very military authorities, schemes for whose downfall had so recently been occupying his mind. They had made amends, tardy, it was true, but nevertheless they had made them; they had recognised his merit at last, and that in no unsubstantial way.
Colonel Graeme—he a Colonel, snap his fingers now he could and would at all, Peter Carson amongst the number, Peter, who had always been so damned superior over his seniority to him, and yes, by the Lord, he would be senior to Royle, now a fortnight old Colonel. No, he wouldn’t though; Royle’s promotion had been antedated, which brought him on top by a few months. “Swindle, that antedating is,” he muttered, a cloud coming over the shining sky of his happiness; “takes half the pleasure away. They might have given me a D.S.O. too while they were about it; three ribbons is a beggarly show for a Colonel, must have five or six at least. I ought to have five too, if I’d had my rights: the V.C. for that Mortlock business; the Jubilee, which would have gone with it; the frontier and the two they are certain to give over this. Never mind, I’ll soon add to my three. I’ll volunteer for every blessed show; they won’t refuse me; they daren’t now I’m known.
“Lucy ought to be pleased too; it’s a lift for her as well, and, oho, won’t her old uncle, the General, be furious? Thought me a waster, did he? Well, it will show her that what I always said, and she refused to believe, was right, that he’s a prejudiced old fool. Hang it, I think I’m more pleased at scoring off him than anything else. By the way, my other letters, I’d forgotten them, let’s see what Lucy says first.
“Hum, hum, ‘So glad, so very pleased. I always knew it would come in time, and how much nicer to retire as a Colonel.’ What, I retire, and settle down like a cabbage in a field, now that I’ve just begun? No, Lucy, not for the wide world; that idea is dead; you had your chance, and wouldn’t take it. Funny to think how I might have missed it though; one word from her that night at Chillata, or even the next morning, and I’d have stayed, I wanted to, too, I wished to sink myself in husband and father, though I’m hanged if I can understand it now. Ah, Lucy, there are bigger things in store for me, now. A Colonel, what’s a Colonel, after all? But, to go on...
“‘The very loveliest place in Norfolk, an old hall, just what you’ve always wanted—’ yes, but not now, Lucy—’2,000 acres rough shooting, partridges, ducks, and a golf-links close by. Oh, do please make haste to retire and come home.’—Partridges... ducks... a golf-links... Bah!—‘Ruby, poor mite, is anxious for your coming...’”
Again the puzzled look came into his eyes. “Why always ‘poor’?” he muttered, “it irritates me rather; I’ve no doubt she’s the same as other children, fat and bouncing. ‘Daddy’ I suppose she’ll call me, want me to play bears, tree at Christmas, and all the rest of it. Doesn’t appeal to me at all, I’m afraid, though, in my folly, I thought it would at one time. Now for the other letter, hullo,” turning it over, and looking at the signature, “it’s from Godwin, what on earth can he have to write to me about?” He began to read:
“MY DEAR GRAEME.
“It’s come at last you see—congratulations. I, regret to have heard of your recent successive misfortunes, but, as they are entirely your own fault, I confess to feeling no pity for you. If a man not only refuses to learn the rudiments of his profession, but, in addition, takes a curious pleasure in putting up his superiors’ backs, he must expect to go to the wall. I hope, however, that eight months in a blockhouse may have been beneficial, and now that you have been so unexpectedly fortunate you will change your ways, and also read. ‘If I had only read, Gneisenau, what a general I should have been!’ Write these words out and, stick them up on your looking-glass, where, I should say, they run the best chance of being seen.
“Yours, EDWIN GOODWIN.
“On reflection it may occur to you that the tardiness of recognition in your case may not be without its advantages.”
Hector sat staring at the postscript and then suddenly a light broke in upon him. “Kept it back, I see,” he muttered, “till I was a Major, thus giving me double promotion. Lord, but they must think something of me to do that, I wonder who it was? Godwin, I suppose. He wasn’t quite such a fool as the rest; he could see what they couldn’t. How the old fellow, though, hammers on about reading. I’ve done pretty well without it, so far, and yet I don’t know—he might be right. Hang it, I’ve a good mind to give the thing a trial; there’s nothing else to do here, and the War may go on for months. I’ll send for some books to Cape Town. I’ll do it now, by Jove!” And, one of those sudden imperative desires coming over him, he left the kopje, and, hurrying back to the blockhouse, wrote out an order for all the military books he could think of, sending it off by mounted orderly the same afternoon, special messengers being daily despatched to the post-office till the literature ordered arrived.
From that time the transformation of Hector’s blockhouse apartment into a library, and himself into a book-worm, proceeded apace; weekly consignments of military works thenceforth arrived, and, the heart having been torn out of them, were thrown aside and looked at no more.
In his youth Graeme had been sickly, and on that account had not been sent to a public, or even a private, school, his mental training having been entrusted to governesses and tutors, whose instructions were on no account to force the lad’s inclinations, with the result that he grew up practically uneducated. He had managed to scrape through the necessary army examinations, but this was due rather to a certain “crammer’s” uncanny knowledge of his art than to any proficiency on the part of the pupil, and a few months after the undergoing of his ordeal Hector’s mind had once more relapsed into its former happy state of ignorance, in which condition it had remained till the present time.
Fortunately for him, the mental ground thus left fallow had never been weakened by the rank growth springing from the assiduous reading of novels, and the soil was ready and hungry for such seeds as he might choose to sow. In a very few months—though yawning at times over their dulness—he had easily mastered the contents of the dry and unimaginative text-books. This done and duty satisfied, he thereupon indulged to the full his own peculiar bent for character study, as exemplified in the biographies of the world’s great commanders.
These he read from cover to cover, no longer yawning, but eagerly taking in the smallest details; indeed, it was chiefly on the trivial incidents of childish life—revealing, nevertheless, the true unalterable character of the subject—that Hector would dwell, marking as he went the paragraphs in which these particulars were described.
Now, to read with the object of acquiring information is one thing; but to read in order to discover a resemblance between yourself and the subject of a biography is quite another, and a most dangerous one, especially for those to whose nature the abnormal appeals, the inevitable result being an unconscious desire to make the resemblance complete, even to the smallest and most objectionable details.
This is what Graeme now began to do. Since he had received recognition, and with it the birth of ambition, he had become firmly convinced that he was destined to join the ranks of the great, and the more he read about them the surer and more exultant he grew, for in the story of their lives he recognised a hundred traits of character similar to his own, particularly in their oddities and eccentricities, on which his mind eagerly seized.
There were some among them, it is true, in whom no sign of himself was to be met with, these the eminently sane and methodical characters; but such he passed over as lacking in the true fire of genius, and their biographies, once scanned, were thrown aside and looked at no more. Of the others, however, there was one in whose character he especially delighted, that one being Prince Suvarov, the great Russian.
His power over his soldiers, eccentricity of attire, recklessness of consequences, and, above all, the ingrained determination to attack and never wait on the defensive, all these characteristics he felt himself to possess; and inasmuch as Suvarov not only scorned to conceal, but gloried in, the revelation of mental peculiarity, so now did Hector do the same, giving full rein to that passion for difference from his fellows which hitherto, chiefly from the wish to please Lucy—to whom such was anathema—he had to a certain extent concealed.
The immediate result of this was, as usual, in the army, the bestowal of a nickname, Graeme soon becoming known as “Mad Jack,” a designation which stuck to him till the day of his death. This, far from annoying its recipient, delighted him, and fired by the sensation he was causing he went further. One of his habits, that of riding down the line of blockhouses in a state of nature save for a towel, having come to the ears of the General commanding the district, the result was a sharp reproof and request that Colonel Graeme would in future comport himself as an officer and a gentleman.
To this Hector replied in rhyme, which so infuriated its recipient that he reported the matter to Headquarters, and for a time Graeme’s career was in serious jeopardy. Providentially, at this crisis the enemy at last thought fit to put in an appearance, their assembly at a farmhouse three miles distant, with the avowed object of capturing Hector, who as a colonel was worth something, being reported to the latter by an English farmer living in the district.
Thereupon, without waiting for the expected onslaught, and in defiance of standing orders, Graeme called up the garrison of every blockhouse under his command. Leaving these empty save of scarecrow dummies, he sallied forth the same night, and surprised and captured the sleeping commando at dawn.
The following day happening to be Palm Sunday, he despatched his prisoners to District Headquarters under an escort decorated with long grass and reeds, his despatch, giving an account of the affair, being couched in the form of a hymn. This the escort were forced to practise for an hour before starting on their mission, their Chief conducting their efforts with his knobkerrie, with which he threatened instant death to any man who sang out of tune or laughed. His labours were in vain, however, for, despite the most stringent orders and threats of dire punishment did they disobey his orders, the escort’s courage failed them at the eleventh hour, and the prisoners were handed over in silence by a crimson-faced, grass-decorated subaltern.
For this exploit Hector received nothing except a reproof for impertinent levity, and, the War shortly after coming to an end, he was despatched to Blauboschfontein, to await the arrival of his regiment. This took place some few weeks later. Royle was in command, and over him Graeme soon established a complete ascendency. Carson, the one man who might have proved an obstacle in his path, having retired shortly before, disgusted at the regiment’s non-participation in the War. Hector thus succeeded to the position of second-in-command—that is, nominally, for to all intents and purposes he reigned supreme.
He conducted the training of the troops; introduced startling innovations; and, in short, did what he liked, his confidence in himself and contempt for superiors growing daily. A constant and, to his fellows, unaccountable sequence of successes in field-days and manoeuvres followed, Hector’s methods when confronted by an adversary being so unusual as to render useless the ordinary stereotyped means of defence, and though generals and other superior persons shook their heads and talked of wild schemes, still these plans somehow always came off, despite their gloomy prophecies.
Graeme’s schemes were not quite the wild ones they were supposed to be, but, on the contrary, were formed on a perfectly sound basis, namely, on his knowledge of his opponent’s peculiar character, and thus proved the safest. Well he knew the process of the ordinary military mind and its adherence to text-book principles. These and the answering moves they understood, and were consequently never confronted with them, being paralysed at the outset by a cut to which no text-book gave the correct parry.
Give him the wild, hairbrained adversary, however—and on one occasion such a foe was put up against him with a view to his discomfiture, by General Banks, officer commanding the district, and his bitter enemy—and straightway Hector’s tactics became of the most ordinary and stereotyped description, the result on the occasion in question being the rout of the harebrained one without his opponent having moved from his original position.
Graeme moreover, by now, knew his text-books as well as and probably better than, his most learned adversaries, and was consequently well aware of the risks he ran, and from which quarter danger was likely to come; and, this being so, half the peril he incurred was gone.
Altogether Graeme prospered, and was happier in Blauboschfontein than he had ever been before; and with happiness came physical well-being and health, things that had been practically unknown to him till now.
He loved the country too, spending hours roaming about the veldt till nightfall, when, with cheeks aglow and eyes alert he would return to his quarters and bury himself in his reading till dinner. A most respectable meal consumed—for him—he would seek his room once more, read again for an hour, and then tumble into bed and sleep dreamlessly till dawn. With reveille he was up, and away to the riding maneges to take his place amongst the young horsemen, a situation for which, to speak truth, Graeme was not qualified, being as a rider deficient in both “hands” and patience.
All this time Lucy’s letters were weekly growing more insistent for his return. Did he not want to see her again, she wrote? The house too, Cuddingfold Hall, she had taken, relying on his coming, though only for a year, in case he should not like it. She had, however, the option of a long lease, though goodness knew when another prospective tenant might appear. If he did not, after all, now wish to retire, and from his last letters it seemed he did not, at least he could come home on leave; they would not refuse him that after three years’ absence.
Lucy’s appeals remained disregarded, and probably would have remained so but for another event that took place about this time, namely, the sudden death of his father. Hector thus becoming owner of a small property in Scotland.
The announcement of the death was accompanied by a letter from his lawyers, requesting his immediate presence at home; and though this also was for a time ignored, Messrs. Quill & Screw became so urgent in their demands—hinting at serious pecuniary loss did he fail to return at once—that Graeme was at length forced to comply, and submitted an application for six months’ leave of absence.
This was gladly forwarded by Colonel Royle, who had secret hankerings after the control of his own regiment, and equally gladly approved by General Banks, who jumped at the chance of getting rid of Hector, if only for a time; and a week later, his passage secured, Graeme was comfortably seated in a first-class compartment of the famous train de luxe, on his way to Capetown, where the mail steamer, Dunrobin Castle, 12,000 tons, was already waiting alongside the quay.