Chapter XX
Major-General Rivers, C.B.—better known as Bumps, from his seat on a horse—was fond of describing himself as “a soldier of the old school.”
“I’m a practical man, sir,” he was wont to declare, “hard knocks and plenty of ’em for me; that’s the way we won our battles in the past—and we’ll do again in the future, mark my words—not by poring over books and mugging away at map reading.”
This prophecy of the gallant General may or may not have been correct; his liking for hard knocks also was doubtless genuine, though unfortunately it had never been put to the test, actual fighting not having come Bumps’s way, but the theory is certainly a convenient one for those who possess neither the ability nor inclination for study. He relied on himself solely; his views on warfare were his own and borrowed from no man, and though at times they were somewhat at variance with those of accepted authorities on the Art of War, who shall say that Bumps was not right when he declared that the opinions of Napoleon, Wellington, and others were as obsolete as the uniforms they wore?
One thing was very certain, however, and that was that Rivers would tolerate no opposition, nor allow his infallibility to be questioned. Some generals there were, he knew, who prefaced their remarks by “My opinion is.” Not so Bumps; he despised such a concession as weakness; his criticisms on military operations were no expressions of opinion, but statements of facts, and, with this conviction in his mind, no one was so scathing in condemnation of, or sarcastic in comments on, what he believed to be mistakes in strategy or tactics as Bumps. Indeed, he was an excellent instance of the truth of the saying that, whereas few men think, all will have opinions.
Further, like most general officers whose service has been passed almost exclusively with infantry, he held especially strong views on the subject of cavalry. Engineers and artillery he left alone, they could floor him with abstruse details concerning cubic contents and breech-blocks, but with the mounted arm there were no such annoying technicalities. He knew all about them, he considered, and indeed it was a cherished article of faith with him that, had not Fate ordained his march through life to be in large square-toed boots instead of a seat in a saddle, his career would have been that of a Seidlitz or Murat—that is to say, if he had ever heard of these warriors, which unfortunately he had not.
For Hector Graeme, as has before been mentioned, General Rivers had a particular aversion, not that he admitted this, for hatred means equality, and never would he have allowed the existence of such between himself and a junior. Nevertheless, hate him he did, with that virulent form of hatred a man bestows on one to whom, though superior in rank, he is inferior in the very qualifications of which that rank is the sign manual.
Graeme was his subordinate, and, as such, theoretically bound to accept his dictum and teaching on matters military, while practically, as he well knew, Graeme did nothing of the kind, but on the contrary treated his lessons with an almost open contempt, never missing an opportunity of showing up his instructor and exposing his absurdities to all present; indeed, an argument between the two was productive of much innocent enjoyment to seniors and juniors, with the one exception of Graeme’s colonel, Royle, to whom such moments were full of heart-felt anguish.
To-day, however, a supreme effort had been made by Bumps to crush once and for always this insolent questioner of his infallibility, and it was with a glow of anticipatory triumph in his heart, revealed by the twinkle in his small grey eyes, that he now beheld Hector’s arrival on the scene.
He returned his salute graciously, and said “Morning, Graeme,” a civility awakening instant suspicion in Hector’s mind and a muttered “What’s Napoleon up to now, I wonder, and what the deuce is the matter with Royle? He looks half dead with funk.”
“A little late,” continued the General; “almost time to start. All your force is waiting for you to lead them to—victory.”
“All, sir?” answered Graeme, looking round. “I don’t see the infantry. There are the guns, a section (two) of them, and the cavalry, three squadrons. Those waggons, too, are meant to represent a convoy, I suppose, but no sign of the ‘feet.’ Am I to take on eight hundred infantry”—there was only that number, as Graeme was naturally aware, in the station—“with three squadrons, two hundred and eighty men in all?” and Hector laughed, a suspicion of the plot dawning upon him. He was to be given an impossible task, was he? Right, then; so much the greater score when he won, as he certainly would.
“You’ll know all about it in good time, I’ve no doubt, Colonel Graeme,” answered the other; “but you ought not to think of odds, you know. Dear me, a cavalry officer frightened of infantry—this is something new.”
“Not at all, sir. I only wanted to know what was against me. A somewhat usual knowledge, I believe, for a commander to possess.”
“The General has just told you, Graeme,” put in Royle hastily, “that you’ll know all about it in good time. Why can’t you wait till them?”
Royle was not quite at his best this morning. Always frightened of a General, he was especially terrified of Bumps; and though ordinarily he had confidence enough in Hector—indeed, he sought his advice on all regimental questions—since seeing the scheme21 his nerve had left him. Graeme would certainly be defeated, he felt, and on him would fall the blame; for, as he was responsible for the training of his officers, their downfall meant his own.
Official censure was the one thing most dreaded by Royle, and, though he had escaped it so far, the catastrophe was in sight at last. The sword hung but by a hair, that hair being Graeme’s ability to placate; and now, in sheer sport, it seemed that person was making the blade to dance over his head, till the hair must undoubtedly snap in a moment.
He looked imploringly at Graeme as he spoke, and was conscious of a faint sensation of relief, for his subordinate’s face was confident as ever. Why could he not feel the same?
“I beg your pardon, sir,” answered Hector; “I have no wish to be unduly curious. One thing, however, I should like to ask, if I may, who’s commanding the opposite side?”
“Certainly you may know that, Graeme,” said Bumps, watching him; “it’s Colonel Wicklow.” And once more Hector laughed, for his opponent was a Staff College graduate, and reputed one of the smartest officers at that time in South Africa.
“Thank you, sir,” he replied; “I’m much obliged to you for giving me a chance of defeating such a distinguished officer.”
“I hope you may,” snapped the General; “but it’s time you saw the scheme; here it is,” drawing a long blue envelope from his pocket and handing it to Graeme, at the same time again closely watching him, the twinkle deepening in his eyes.
Hector, however, did not open it there, but walked some hundred yards away, where he seated himself behind a large boulder. He then took out his case, lighted a cigarette, and, having removed his helmet so that the sun beat full on his face, leisurely proceeded to open the envelope.
“As I thought,” he muttered; “the plot at last revealed; he’s got it up for me this time and no mistake. But no matter; there must be some way out, and I’ll find it.”
He stretched himself flat on the ground, the cigarette between his teeth, and, closing his eyes, passed into semi-unconsciousness. A voice began to whisper in his ear.
The following was the scheme. Hector’s force, composed of the 1st Lancers and two guns, was directed to escort a convoy of waggons to Tafelberg Farm, a distance of about six miles. Between him and his destination lay a high rugged ridge, the only openings in which were two narrow passes two miles apart, and by now assuredly guarded by Colonel Wicklow with his eight hundred infantrymen. Other way round there was none, save by a detour of some fifteen miles, and, even if the distance had not made such a turning movement prohibitive, the country on that side had been carefully marked “out of bounds.”
The ridge itself Hector knew well, knew also that, save by the two passes, neither waggons nor even horses could hope to cross throughout its length; for many times on his solitary rides he had made the attempt on his Basuto pony, but had always been forced to desist. Only on hands and knees could a man scale those rocky sides, and even then the task was difficult, more particularly about midway between the two passes, where the ridge reached its highest point and was well-nigh precipitous.
This, then, was his task: the crossing of a mountain barrier, impassable for waggons and mounted troops—of which his force was composed—the two gates being guarded and held by infantry. Truly, General Rivers had been successful in his object.
Suddenly Hector stirred, sat up, and gazed for a moment vacantly around him; then, springing to his feet, stood rocking dizzily. Slowly the mists cleared from before his eyes, and they lit up; a flame of red appeared in his cheeks: his knees ceased from trembling, and he was awake—with the solution of the problem clear before him.
Taking out his glasses, he carefully scrutinised the distant ridge, each stone of which could be seen through the powerful Zeiss. He noted the figures of men lining the rocks at the sides of the passes, and then lowering the glasses, remained motionless, thinking rapidly.
“Kinley,” he called, “Major Kinley.”
“That’s the first thing,” he muttered, “remove him from command of the cavalry”—this position, being next senior to himself, Porky was now occupying, Royle being detailed as umpire, and he in command of the side—“He’ll sell me to a certainty if I don’t.”
“Kinley,” he called again, no answer to his first summons being forthcoming, and at length after some minutes’ waiting, Kinley having had to be aroused from his slumbers, that person appeared, rubbing his eyes.
“Well, old chap,” he said yawning, “bit of a teaser this, eh? Johnson’s just told me about it, but never mind, I’ve got an idea; tell you what it is if you like.”
“Thank you, Porky, I should; can’t make head or tail of it myself. You ride with me and we’ll talk it over together.”
“Right-o—glad to escape the dust. But what about the bloomin’ regiment? I’m in command, you know.”
“Hand it over to Graves, we’ll send him on ahead while you and I sit with the guns and watch. Ask him to come here, will you—the rest as well.”
Porky departed, returning some few minutes later followed by the other officers of Graeme’s army. These proceeded to range themselves in a half circle before their leader, their faces showing varying degrees of interest; for, though to the majority field days had long since lost their charm, there was always a chance of something sensational happening when under their present commander, not to mention the practical certainty of a row between him and Bumps.
Nor were their expectations disappointed to-day, for of the many mad schemes in which, under his leadership, they had previously participated, the one now propounded surpassed them all in sheer lunacy, and their faces grew bright with interest as they listened to the plan laid before them.
“Here’s the game, gentlemen,” he began, “we’ve got to get that lot of carts to Tafelberg Farm. Between us and it lies an impassable ridge, only two openings, both held, as you’ll see if you look, by infantry and guns. No way through—or so thinks Bumps.” Here Graeme paused to allow the impossibility of the task to sink into his hearers’ minds; for this was his way, to make out that a thing was impossible and then to show his audience how easy it really was for him. It was a touch of theatrical display in which he, like some other and more distinguished commanders, delighted.
“He’s out as usual, though, is Bumps,” he continued; “for the convoys are going through all right and will be at the farm in three hours from now. Against me is that most distinguished officer Colonel Wicklow, who, as you know, is a Staff College graduate. Now, at that abode of learning they read books, and those books teach them that the way to defend a ridge is not to spread troops all along it, but to hold the passes strongly, and keep one or two reserves somewhere in rear, ready to come up to the threatened point. That, gentlemen, is what my opponent is now doing, and on his so doing I make my plan.
“Here it is. The cavalry under you, Graves—Porky remains to advise me—will start off and head straight for the western opening. Then, when they begin to shoot, and Wicklow’s reserves have started to reinforce that point, as they will, thinking we’re going to rush the pass, you’ll turn half right and go, hard as God will let you, for the centre of the ridge, that peak there. At its foot you’ll dismount, swarm up it, there’ll be nothing but a picket on top—the reserve by that time will be a mile away—and having settled them, work along the ridge to the left, and come down on the western opening from above, and knock that lot out too. Then Jehu,” pointing to the transport officer, “and I will bring on the carts and run them through and away to Tafelberg Farm. The guns will bang away as soon as the cavalry starts from here, their target the western opening. That’s to keep up the delusion of attacking them. Now, you’ve got it. Get away and be off.”
All but Porky saluted and hurried away. “Stand to your horses!” was shouted, and, at the sound, sleeping figures rose up from the ground and busied themselves with bridle and loosened girth. “Mount!” was called once more, followed by “Walk march!” and then suddenly “Halt!” from many voices, and the clattering mass came to a standstill.
“What the devil are they halting for?” said Graeme. “Go and see, Porky, tell them to shove on. Oh Lord, if it ain’t that old idiot who’s stopped them! Here’s Johnson coming too,” as Bumps’s A.D.C. came hurrying up. “What is it, Johnson?”
“The General’s compliments, sir, and Major Kinley’s to command the cavalry,” was the answer.
Graeme uttered an oath, and consternation was displayed on Porky’s face, for here was a bombshell indeed. The latter, as usual, was the first to speak.
“Look here, old chap, I’m not for this at all. Taking on mountains with cavalry! Ain’t goats, you know.”
“What the hell do you mean, you fool? You never said a word just now when you heard the scheme.”
“I know I didn’t; but then, you see, I wasn’t responsible—but Graves. It’s another pair of shoes now. If it comes off, all very well; but if it don’t, it’s me who gets damned, not him. You know what Bumps is about cavalry.”
“Oh, go to blazes! I don’t act to Bumps nor anyone else. Get away to your squadron, and don’t talk.”
“For heaven’s sake come with us, then. You see, Graeme, if you’re there, you get the damning, as is only right. It’s your scheme.”
“Of course I’m coming. D’you think I’d let a turnip-headed... Oh, come on. Trumpeter, my horse,” and Graeme mounted and was hurrying away, when again Johnson was seen approaching.
“The General’s compliments, sir,” he said, “and he wishes you to stay with him. The cavalry under Major Kinley is to go on at once and...” And then the A.D.C. stopped astonished, his ears listening to a flow of language such as struck his simple soul with genuine admiration.
“You can tell your something something General,” he concluded, “to draw his something something face on a something something blackboard and take a something something sponge and spit on it and——”
“Will you obey orders, sir,” interrupted a quavering voice, and Royle rode up beside him. “For God’s sake,” reverting to pleading, as he caught Graeme’s eye, “for all our sakes, don’t put the General’s back up.”
Hector glared at him for a moment; his mouth opened and then shut with a snap.
“Very well,” he said, “I’ll come. Only don’t blame me for what’s going to happen; or rather do, if you like, I don’t care,” and thereupon he dismounted, and, handing his horse over to the trumpeter, walked away to where Bumps was sitting.
“Now, Colonel Graeme,” said the latter affably, “we want to hear your plans; but first, I must tell you, you were wrong in proposing to lead the cavalry. As commander of a mixed force, your place is with the guns. You’ve told Major Kinley, I presume, what you meant to do?”
“I’ve tried to.”
“Tried to, what do you mean? Either you have or have not, which is it?”
“I repeat, I’ve tried to; but my plan requires me in person to lead.”
“By that you mean, I suppose, a field officer in your regiment is incapable? What do you say to that, Colonel Royle?”
“I don’t know what Graeme means, sir, I’m sure, Major Kinley’s a most excellent officer,” answered Royle, who but yesterday had lamented Porky’s total want of intelligence to Hector himself.
“I confess that is also my opinion,” said Bumps, “he’s an officer, with ideas, too, is Kinley, and what’s more is both modest and unassuming. Always ready to learn, doesn’t think he knows better than his superiors. But about your plans, what are they, Graeme?”
“To attack that ridge where it’s highest,” answered Hector.
“Really, and how, may I ask, charge it with cavalry?”
“That’s my idea.”
“Graeme, you don’t, you can’t mean that,” from Royle. “Sir,” turning to the smiling Bumps, “I can assure you this is directly contrary to my teaching.”
“And mine too, Colonel.”
“I meant yours, sir. Why, it was only the other day, after your last lecture on cavalry, that I had all my officers up, and impressed upon them how right you were when you said—said——” Here Royle was brought to a standstill, memory failing him.
“Say no more, Colonel, I believe you; but there are some people too clever to learn. Ah, they’re off! Sit down here, Graeme, and watch. I think, possibly, in the next few minutes you may learn something, or the experience of forty-five years goes for nothing.”
“A mule that had been through all the wars of Frederick still remained a mule,” muttered Graeme, and, sitting down, lighted a cigarette and closed his eyes.
That disaster was imminent he knew well, but now cared nothing. Let Bumps have his silly triumph if he liked. His own plan had been right, of that he was intuitively certain, and that was all that mattered to him; it would fail, of course, as it was, but that was to be expected, Porky being in charge.
Sitting there, he could foretell, knowing that officer, what was in his mind as he rode along, almost to the words he was now uttering to Graves galloping beside him.
“Hanged if I get a telling off,” he was saying, “for Graeme or anyone else; my plan’s much sounder, and will pull him through, and then he’ll be glad he didn’t run his own rotten scheme. Look ye, Graves, we’ll make for the centre of the ridge now, straight away, that’ll entice those blokes away from the pass, and then we’ll turn and be through it like winking. It’s the same as his plan, only the other way round.”
In vain did Graves, who possessed intelligence, protest. Porky was firm, and carried out his scheme, or rather the first part of it, for in the last he was not so successful.
On they headed for the ridge, Wicklow watching them through his glasses as they came, and for a moment doubt arose in his mind, soon quelled, however, for his Staff College teaching told him that cavalry do not attempt the crossing of precipitous mountains. “It’s a transparent ruse,” he reflected, “to draw me away from the passes, their only hope,” and he called up his reserves till each entrance was guarded by close on four hundred men.
A cry arose of “Here they are!” Cartridges rattled in breech-blocks, and Wicklow’s heart was joyful within him, when, a cloud of dust preceding them, a straggling mass of horsemen burst upon them. The storm broke, but on they came, for Porky was valiant and by now reckless, till at last, with guns thudding in their faces and withering fire from Maxim and rifle pouring in upon them, even he became convinced of the futility of further advance, and halted his cursing, sulky-faced regiment in the centre of the pass. A loud shout of laughter greeted them from the infantrymen looking down from the rocks on either side.
“We’re in for it, Graves,” he calmly observed, “but a damning is no new thing to me.” Then Porky proceeded to light his pipe, and, seating himself on a stone beside the path, waited for the wrath to come.
“A pretty piece of business,” said the General, as he lumbered across the veldt towards the scene of disaster, “very pretty indeed! Oh for heaven’s sake keep up beside me, Colonel Royle, and stop talking to Graeme, you can do that afterwards.”
“Yes, sir; very sorry, sir,” gasped Royle, rushing his horse up and cannoning into the General in his haste. “oh, I beg ten thousand pardons, sir, and you were saying——”
“How the devil can I say anything when you damn near knock me over? Hold up, confound you!” pulling at his horse’s mouth, as the animal skipped cleverly over the hole of an ant-bear. “Nasty clumsy brute to give a general officer. Who chose him—you?”22
“No, sir, Colonel Graeme, sir——”
“Damme,” roared the General, “it’s always Colonel Graeme, pray, does he command the 1st Lancers or do you?”
“I do, of course, sir; but Graeme, being the second in command, I usually leave such matters to him. I thought he was to be relied on, sir; but after to-day I see——”
“I hope you do, a nice show up for your regiment, to-day’s performance. Now, perhaps, you’ll believe what I’ve always said about this officer.”
“Indeed I do, sir, and if you like, sir, there are the Confidential Reports to go in soon, sir, and——”
“Do your own dirty work, Colonel,” snapped the General, who found this servility even more exasperating than Graeme’s insolence. “I should advise you to remember, however, that you’ve always cracked the fellow up till now; made him out a sort of Julius Cæsar.”
“But, sir, that was before I knew, sir. Now, sir, that my eyes are opened, thanks to you, I see my mistake, and——”
“Oh, do you? Well, here we are. Sound the officers’ call, Trumpeter.”
“Gad, but your trumpeters want practice,” he snarled, as the man, infected by the general demoralisation, blew a cracky, discordant blast, “and look there, see the way your officers are lounging up, like a lot of ducks shuffling along. For the Lord’s sake, go and march ’em here yourself properly. All present? Hum, yours too, Wicklow? Sit down there, please, closer, damn it! I don’t want to shout.”
“Now, gentlemen—when you’ve finished arguing with Captain Graves, Major Kinley, thank you—I think we’ve had a most instructive morning, we’ve learnt, or I trust most of you have, how cavalry should... not be handled. The scheme, I allow, was perhaps a little too difficult for the ‘Blue’23 commander; but even so, that’s no excuse for the insane performance it has just been our privilege to witness. No attempt at scouting, no reports sent in, merely a blind, headlong rush to destruction. May I ask, Colonel Graeme, on what information you acted? As far as I know, you had not the slightest idea of what was in front of you.”
“There were two companies of infantry, with two guns, holding either pass. In rear, four companies in reserve,” was the careless answer.
There was a murmur from the officers of Wicklow’s force—the diagnosis was correct.
“Really?” said Bumps. “Stop whispering there, will you! What do you say to that, Colonel Wicklow?”
“It’s correct, sir,” he answered, “except that my reserves came up as soon as the attack developed; they were there in time to repel the cavalry charge.”
“There you are, Graeme; four more companies than you thought. However, you’ve paid the penalty of disregarding my own and your Colonel’s teaching, and there’s no more to be said. I hope it will be a lesson to you in the future to be a little less cocksure. It’s a fault which has brought many a better soldier than you to grief. And now I’ll tell you what you ought to have done. First, you should have sent out patrols and scouted.”
“To find out what I already knew, sir?”
“Kindly refrain from interrupting; besides, you did not know; it has just been proved. And then, having ascertained the enemy’s dispositions, reported to me that the task was beyond you.”
“I understood, sir, we were supposed to be on active service conditions?” said Graeme.
“So you were, sir, what of it?”
“As far as I know, sir, there are no umpires on active service.” At this remark a stir of anticipation ran through the audience, despite disaster, Graeme was again not going to fail them.
“Umpires, sir, what do you mean, sir? I’m speaking of the officer who would be your senior, and to whom, consequently, it would be your duty to report.”
“In which case, being my senior and on the spot, wouldn’t he have made the plan and given the orders?” The stir thereupon developed into ill-concealed mirth, at sight of which Bumps’s foot went down.
“I’m not here to answer foolish questions, Graeme, nor yet to argue; kindly bear that in mind. I’ve told you what you ought to have done, and there’s an end of it. One thing more, however, I should like to say, and that is, I in no way blame Major Kinley, though it’s true his action resulted in disaster. He was given an impossible task, and very rightly declined to run his head against a mountain ridge, and instead did the best he could under the circumstances. He showed initiative, at any rate—the great quality in a cavalry officer—and dash, though, perhaps, a slight want of judgment. That is all, gentlemen, good-day. You ride home with me, Colonel Royle; I wish to speak to you.” The General rose, and, mounting his horse, was soon lurching away over the veldt lunchwards.
Graeme rode back alone, no one showing any inclination to accompany him. He was down now, and the strong man or animal down is a being whom all smaller creatures shun; for such is the penalty those who claim pre-eminence over their fellows have to pay if but for a moment they fail to support their claim. For though to all living creatures a lord is essential, nevertheless they hate that lord and the dominion he imposes, and, once fallen, are on him like wolves on a disabled leader. Only in the case of hereditary kingship is it different—then it is the place and not the individual to which they bow.
This came home to Graeme as he rode homewards. Yesterday—this morning even—his brother officers, though disliking and perhaps fearing him, would nevertheless have followed his lead and accepted without question his dictum on military matters; but now, thanks to a mere field day disaster, or, rather, to the utterance of a Bumps, all this had changed, and his former unbroken sequence of successes had been obliterated from their minds.
While he was thus reflecting, the clatter of hoofs sounded on the track behind him, and Wicklow rode up, stopping for a moment as he passed.
“Hullo, Graeme,” he said; “rotten job they gave you this morning, no man living could have done it. Funny, though, at one time I thought you were going to pull it off, but I think my reserves might have got there in time. They hadn’t started for the passes when you headed for my centre. There was only a picket of six men on top, but of course I knew you wouldn’t do an unsound thing like that; besides your horses couldn’t have got over.”
“Supposing I’d dismounted and swarmed up, then moved along the ridge and come down on you from above?”
“Glad you didn’t, it’s I who’d have had the damning then—not you. Bye-bye, I’m off to lunch,” and Wicklow rode on, leaving Graeme the bitterer at the knowledge of what ought to have been and had not.
A feeling of despondency came over him, a sense of futility, one of those black moods to which the self-reliant, and consequently solitary, are at times prone. What was the good of it all, he asked himself, this laborious building up of a name, which the slightest mistake of a subordinate or momentary ill-luck could destroy in a moment. Even worse, perhaps, was the crass stupidity of those by whom he was surrounded; their total inability to see matters that to his eyes were as clear as daylight. He knew there was not one of those officers present at to-day’s operations who had an inkling of the motives that had prompted him to act as he had done. To them his plan had been a wild gamble, which with luck might come off, but only with luck; whilst he had known—even without the confirmation of Wicklow’s words—the success of that plan had been certain, based as it was on his knowledge of human nature, which never changes and never can change.
Oh, to get away from it all, abandon this thankless profession, and leave the army to the ruin it courted by the retention in high places of such as Bumps! Then there suddenly flashed upon him the remembrance of the telegram that had been despatched in the morning, and till now forgotten; for in the concentration of purpose usual with him there was only room for one thought in his mind at a time.
A sigh of relief burst from his lips.
“Thank heaven,” he muttered, “I did it; fool that I was to wait so long.” And thereupon, suddenly exhilarated at the thought of speedy release, he struck spurs to his horse and rode on, until he reached his quarters, before which a soldier in uniform was standing, awaiting him.
“Hullo, Lobb,” said Hector, surprised at the apparition, the man being a trooper from his own late squadron, “what are you doing here, where’s Murphy?”
“Beggy pardin, sir, Murphy’s ’ad a haccident; ’orse come down with ’im this morning and broke ’is arm, and the Sergeant-Major sent me to do first servant to you in ’is absence.”
“Where is he?” shouted Hector.
“‘Oo, Murphy, sir? In ’orspital, sir; they took ’im there strite, compound fracture, I’ve ’eard, sir, the bone——” But Hector was already galloping away to the hospital, with a sudden desperate anxiety in his mind.
“Murphy, did you send that telegram?” he burst out, rushing up to the bed upon which the sufferer was lying.
“Beggy pardin, sir, I——”
“Did you send it?”
“No, sir; ’ere it is,” and Murphy drew a crumpled sheet of paper from under the pillow. “Very sorry, sir.” But once more Hector was gone, and five minutes later had reached the telegraph office, where, pushing aside other applicants for attention, he thrust the paper beneath the grating.
“When will this reach Duikerpoort?” he demanded.
“Couldn’t say,” answered the clerk, with the nonchalance that a manly Colonial independence seems to demand; “perhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow morning.”
“It must get there to-night, d’you hear?”
“Oh, must it? You’re in a hurry, you are! Oh, beg pardon, sir,” as Graeme suddenly appeared behind him, having burst open the door marked “Private” and entered. “I’ll send it off at once; it will be all right, I think, if the line’s not blocked. Good-day, sir.”
Hector rode slowly back to barracks, where till nightfall he wandered about aimlessly, his mind racked with this strange newborn anxiety and the impotent desire to act.
“Dinner—not going to dinner,” he replied to Lobbs’s reminder that the dress trumpet had sounded and the hour of eight was close at hand. “Bring me a bottle of champagne here; that’s all I want. Another damnable night,” he muttered, the meal of liquor consumed, “only nine now, twelve hours at least before I can get an answer. I think I’ll send for my pony and spend the night on the veldt.” He walked to the door, and as he did so, nine o’clock struck. Then a strange thing happened, for with the ceasing of the strokes the fever of restlessness suddenly left him, and in its place he felt perfect peace and calm. For half an hour longer he remained contentedly resting in his chair, his eyelids gradually growing heavier, and then sleepily undressing he lay down on the bed and was almost instantly asleep. Nor through the night hours did he move, but slept dreamlessly on, till a hot deluge in his face awoke him to the fact that early morning tea had arrived, and also that it was Private Lobb, and not the experienced Murphy, who had brought him that tea.
“Beggy pardin, sir,” said the perspiring soldier, rushing for a towel and proceeding to mop the soaking bedclothes and incidentally Hector’s face, “very sorry, sir; caught my foot; can’t think ’ow it happened; ’ere’s a tallygram for you, sir,” and Lobb fled hastily from the room. A faint rustle of paper was heard from within and then all was silent save for the ticking of the clock.
“Lobb.”
“Sir?” and in rushed the soldier. Once more he unfortunately “caught his foot,” this time against the water-jug, which breaking at the impact let out a flood of water over the wooden floor.
“Beggy pardin, sir, I’m sure,” began Lobb, in an agony, and then stopped, for his master was speaking to him, and at the sound of the voice and look in the eyes of the speaker the disaster was forthwith forgotten.
“Never mind that now, Lobb, but go at once and tell the Adjutant to come here, and then fetch a Cape cart. Ten minutes I give you; don’t be longer,” and Hector rose from his bed and sat smiling at Lobb, a smile that sent the latter flying from the room, leaving Hector alone.
Still smiling, he unfolded the paper in his hand and remained curiously regarding the charcoal-written words: “Stara dead.”
Notes
21 A printed paper, given to each opposing leader, though naturally differing in each case. On these papers is described an imaginary military situation, followed by the task to be carried out, the actual execution of this being, of course, left to the respective commanders.
22 It is usual for the general and his staff, when not bringing their own horses with them, to be mounted by the cavalry regiment in the station they are visiting. Amiability is a sine qua non in the quadrupeds selected for this honour.
23 On field days one side is usually designated the “Blue,” the other the “Red.”