The Kopje Garrison: A Story of the Boer War

Chapter Twenty Five.

Another Explosion

The wounded men – a couple of dozen all told, many of the injuries being only slight – were rapidly lifted into the light wagons while the horses and mules were given water, and all went well, the more slightly hurt cheering and joking their bearers, and making light of their injuries in the excitement of the triumph.

“Mind my head, boys,” said one; “it’s been knocked crooked.”

“And my leg’s loose, you clumsy beggar; it’s there somewhere. Don’t leave it behind.”

“I say, Joey, I’ve got a hole right through me; ain’t it a lark!”

“Here, you, sir! Take care; that’s my best ’elmet. I want it for a piller.” And so on, and so on.

Only one man groaned dismally, and that was Corporal May.

“I say, mate; got it as bad as that?” said one of the bearers.

“Oh! worse – worse than that,” moaned the corporal. “I’m a dead man.”

“Are you, now?” said one of his fellows in the company. “I say, speak the truth, old chap; speak the truth.”

“Oh!” groaned the corporal. “Why am I here – why am I here?”

“I dunno,” said the bearer he looked at with piteous eyes. “I never was good at riddles, mate. Can’t guess. Ask me another. – There you are, lifted as gently as a babby. You’re only a slightly; I do know that.”

The corporal was borne away, still groaning, and the man who had spoken last handed him some water.

“Cheer up, corporal,” he said; “you’ll be back in the ranks in a week.”

Meanwhile the bearers were busy in the shelter where Captain Roby lay, flushed, fevered, and evidently in great pain, while his brother officers stood round him, eager to do anything to assuage his pangs and see him carefully borne to the wagon in which he was to travel.

“How are you, Roby?” said Dickenson, softly laying a powder-blackened hand upon the injured man’s arm, while the bearers stood waiting to raise him.

The question and the touch acted electrically, Roby started; his eyes opened to their full extent, showing a ring of white all round the iris; and he made an effort to rise, but sank back.

“You coward – you miserable cad!” he cried. “You saw me shot down – I implored you to help me to the rear – and you chose that time to show your cowardly hate – you, an officer. – Coward! You ran – you turned and ran to save your beggarly life – coward! – coward! Oh, if I had strength! – I’ll denounce you to the colonel. Cur! – coward! – cur! – I’ll publish it for all the world to know.”

Dickenson started at first, and then listened to the end.

“All right,” he said coolly. “Don’t forget when you write your book.”

“Lift him, my lads, gently; we have no time to spare,” said the major sternly; and as Roby was borne away, shouting hoarsely, “Coward! – cur!” Captain Edwards said sharply in a whisper, so that the men should not hear:

“Dickenson! Is this true?”

“Oh! I don’t know,” was the reply. “I recollect the bugle sounding, and then I was too busy to know what I did till it sounded ‘Cease firing!’ I know I was out of breath.”

“Take no notice,” said the major quickly. “The poor fellow’s raving. Coward! Tchah! Be ready, Dickenson. You’ve found the sergeant?”

“All ready, sir.”

In a very few minutes the ambulance-wagons were off again, with their attendants ordered to go at a steady walk, and, if an attack was made, to keep the red-cross flag well shown, and avoid the line of fire if possible.

And still there was no alarm given from the top of the kopje of the Boers’ approach.

A short time was allowed for the ambulance to get ahead, during which the officers had another look at the Boer wounded, the major ordering water to be given to the men. Next a few sheaves of abandoned rifles were cast into the wagons to be burned, and a final look was given to the preparations already made for the destruction of the camp.

At last, while the long line of captured stores was crawling over the veldt, and a great number of the other oxen which had wandered off to graze were, according to their instinct, beginning to follow their companions as if to make for Groenfontein, the order was given for the men to fall in ready for the march back.

All was soon in order, and the major turned to Dickenson, who stood aside with Sergeant James, waiting to perform their dangerous task.

“I was going to appoint four more men to fire the wagons,” said the major, “but with the preparations you have made the flames will spread rapidly, and you two can very well do it; and as soon as the fire has taken hold you can light the fuses yonder.”

“Men signalling from the top of the kopje,” said Captain Edwards.

“That means the enemy in sight,” said the major coolly. “Signal to them to come down.”

As the captain turned away to attend to his orders the major held out his hand to Dickenson.

“Do your work thoroughly,” he said gravely, “and then follow as fast as you can. I will leave pickets behind to cover you.”

Dickenson nodded, but said nothing, only stood fingering a box of matches in his pocket and watching the major hurrying down the encumbered slope of the kopje to join the men awaiting the order to march.

“Sentries on the top coming down, sir,” growled the sergeant; and Dickenson nodded again, turning to watch the two men running actively along and leaping from stone to stone, till they were pretty close to the drawn-up force, when the bugle rang out, the voices of the officers were heard, and the retiring party went off at a good swinging march.

Dickenson watched them for a few minutes without a word, while the sergeant stood with his rifle grounded and his hands resting upon the muzzle, perfectly calm and soldierly, patiently waiting for his orders, just as if he and the sergeant were to follow as a sort of rear-guard instead of to fulfil about as dangerous a task as could fall to the lot of a man, knowing too, as he did, that the enemy had been signalled as advancing – a body of men armed with the most deadly and far-reaching rifles of modern times.

“About time now, sergeant,” said Dickenson coolly.

“Yes, sir; ’bout right now, I should think.”

“I want them to have a fair start first,” continued Dickenson; “and I can’t help feeling a little uneasy about the enemy’s wounded, for there will be an awful explosion.”

“Oh, they’ll be all right, sir. Make ’em jump, perhaps, and think they’re going to be swept away.”

“I wish they were farther off,” said Dickenson; and then he uttered an ejaculation as he started aside, an example followed by the sergeant, who chuckled a little as he exclaimed:

“Wish ’em farther off, sir? So do I.”

For, following directly one after the other, two shots were fired from the shelter where the wounded Boers had been carefully laid in safety, a couple of them having evidently retained their rifles, laying them under cover till they could find an opportunity to use them.

“That’s nice and friendly, James,” said Dickenson coolly. “Forward! – under cover.”

“I feel ashamed to run, sir,” said the sergeant fiercely.

“Look sharp!” cried Dickenson, for two more bullets whistled by them. “I don’t like bolting, but it seems too bad to be shot down by the men we have been getting into safety.”

“And fidgeted about, sir,” said the sergeant grimly. “I wish you’d give me orders to chance it and go back and give those blackguards one apiece with their own rifles. It must have been them the captain meant when he was letting go about cowards and curs.”

“Very likely, poor fellow!” said Dickenson, marching coolly on till they were covered from the Boers’ fire. “There, they may fire away now to their hearts’ content,” he continued, as he halted at the end of the prepared wagons. “Wind’s just right – eh?”

“Beautiful, sir; and as soon as the blaze begins to make it hot you’ll find the breeze’ll grow stiffer. It’s a great pity, though.”

“Yes; I wish we had all this at Groenfontein.”

“So do I, sir; but wishing’s no good. I meant, though, it’s a pity it isn’t dark. We should have a splendid blaze.”

“We shall have a splendid cloud of black smoke, sergeant,” said Dickenson, taking out his box of matches. “Ready?”

“Ready, sir,” replied the sergeant, and each held his match-box as low down in the paraffin-barrel as the saturated hay would permit, struck a match, and had to drop it at once and start back, for there was a flash of the evaporating gas, followed by a puff of brownish-black, evil-odoured smoke, which floated upward directly.

“Bah! Horrible!” cried Dickenson, coughing. “My word, sergeant! there’s not much doubt about the Boers’ camp blazing.”

“Serve ’em right, sir, for using such nasty, common, dangerous paraffin. Here comes the wind, sir: what did I say?”

For the soft breeze came with a heavier puff, which made the forked tongues of flame plunging up amongst the thick smoke begin to roar, and in a very few seconds the fire was rushing through one of the tilted wagons as if it were a huge horizontal chimney.

“Did you get singed, sergeant?”

“No, sir. It just felt a bit hot. Hullo! what’s that?”

For a horrible shrieking and yelling arose from the direction of the wounded Boers.

“The crippled men,” said Dickenson. “They’re afraid they are going to be burned to death. We ought to go and shout to them that there’s nothing to fear.”

“Yes, sir, it would be nice and kind,” cried the sergeant sarcastically; “only if we tried they wouldn’t let us – they’d shoot us down before we were half-way there.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Dickenson, who stared almost in wonder at the terrific rate at which the fire was roaring up and sweeping along, threatening, as wagon after wagon caught, to cover the kopje with flame.

“Perhaps, sir,” said the sergeant, with a grim smile, “it would be a comfort to the poor fellows’ nerves if we sent up the ammunition-wagons now.”

“Whether it would or not, sergeant, we must be sharp and do it, or with these flakes of fire floating about we shall not dare to go near our fuse.”

“That’s what I’m thinking, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Forward, then;” and the pair went on at the double to the spot where the train was laid, the fuses being some distance from the ammunition-wagons, and on lower ground sheltered by great stones.

The next minute the pair were down on one knee sheltering their match-boxes from the wind behind a big rock, with the train well in view, for those who laid it had not scrupled to use an abundance of powder.

“I did not reckon about this wind,” said Dickenson. “As fast as one of us strikes a light it will be blown out.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“And we shall never get the fuse started.”

“We must try, sir.”

“Yes,” said Dickenson. “Here, it must be one man’s job to fire the train; the explosion will send off the next wagon.”

“And no mistake, sir. We ought to have had a lantern to light the fuse at. But you get lower down, sir, and I’ll set off the whole box of matches I’ve got here, chuck it into the train, and drop behind this big stone.”

“That seems to be the only way to get it done,” replied Dickenson.

“Yes, I’m sure of it, sir,” said the sergeant.

“All right, then; run down and get behind that piece of rock. I’ll do it directly.”

“No, no, sir; let me do it,” pleaded the sergeant.

“’Tention!” roared Dickenson. “Quick! No time to lose. Off at once.”

The sergeant’s lips parted as if he were about to say something, but Dickenson gave him a stern look and pointed downward towards the stone, when discipline ruled, and the man doubled away to it, grumbling and growling till he was lying down panting as if he were out of breath.

“I could have done it better myself,” he said hoarsely; and then, “Oh, poor lad, poor lad! If – if – ”

There was a sharp crack, followed by a pause filled up by the shrieking and yelling of the wounded Boers. Then the sergeant felt that he must raise his head and see how matters were going on; but he refrained, for there was a peculiar hissing noise. Dickenson had taken about twenty matches out of the box he carried, held them ready, and ignoring the fuse, he struck the bundle vigorously, stretched out his hand, which was almost licked by the flash of flame, and applied it to the thickly-laid train.

For a few moments there was no result, the wind nearly blowing out the blazing splints; but just as the young man was hesitating about getting out more matches —phitt! There was a flash as the powder caught and the flame began to run in its zigzag course right along the ground towards the nearest ammunition-wagon.

Turning sharply, Dickenson laid his hands upon a block of loose stone, vaulted over it, and dropped flat upon his face, conscious the while of the piteous cries of the wounded men.

The next instant there was a tremendous concussion, the stone giving him a violent blow, and as the sky above seemed to blaze there was a roar like thunder, then a perceptible pause, another roar, again a pause, and another roar.

Then for a few moments the young officer lay deafened and feeling stunned, till beneath the pall of smoke which hung over him he opened his eyes and saw the sergeant kneeling by his side with his lips moving.

Dickenson stared at him wonderingly, while he saw the horrified look in the man’s face and its workings as he kept on moving his lips, and finally half-raised his young officer and laid him down again.

“What’s the matter?” said Dickenson – at least he thought he did – he felt as if he had said so; but somehow he could not hear himself speak for the crashing sound of many bells ringing all together.

He did not for the moment realise what had happened, but like a flash the power of thinking came back, and drawing a deep breath, he tried to get up, but could hardly stir. Something seemed to hold him down.

“Give me your hand, sergeant,” he said, but still no words seemed to come, and he repeated what he wished to speak; but before he had completed his sentence, he grasped the fact that the sergeant’s manner had changed, for he rose up, felt behind him, looked at him again, and seemed to speak, for his lips moved.

“Are you hurt?” Dickenson said, in the same way.

The sergeant’s lips moved and he shook his head, looking the while as if he were not hurt in the least.

“Then why don’t you speak?” said Dickenson.

The man smiled and pointed to his ears.

“The explosion has deafened you?” said Dickenson dumbly, for still he could not hear a word. “What do you mean? Oh, I see.”

For the sergeant clapped him on the chest, and then placing his shoulder against the stone, he seemed to be exerting all his strength to force it uphill a little, succeeding so well that the next moment Dickenson felt himself slip, glided clear of the sergeant’s legs, and rose to his own, while the man leaped aside and the great block slipped two or three yards before it stopped.

“Then I was caught by the stone?” said Dickenson wonderingly. “I felt it move.”

He felt sure now that he had said those words; but in his confused state, suffering as he was from the shock, he could only wonder why the sergeant should begin feeling him over, and, apparently satisfied that nothing was broken, begin hurrying him along in the direction taken by the retreating force, which, now that the dense cloud of smoke was lifting, he could see steadily marching away in the distance, but with a group of about a dozen lingering behind.

Just then the sergeant stopped, unslung his rifle, placed his helmet on the top, and held it up as high as he could, till Dickenson saw a similar signal made by the party away ahead.

“They know we’re all right,” said Dickenson, still, as it seemed, dumbly: and the sergeant nodded and smiled.

“It was an awful crash. I mean they were terrible crashes, sergeant.”

There was another nod, and after a glance back the sergeant hurried him along a little faster.

“Can you – no, of course you can’t – hear whether the Boers are calling out now?”

The sergeant shook his head.

“Poor wretches!” said Dickenson. “But they were too far off to be hurt.”

The sergeant nodded.

“Here, I can’t understand this,” said Dickenson.

“You pointed to your ears and signified to me that the explosions had made you as deaf as a post.”

The sergeant turned to him, looking as if he were trying to check a broad grin, as he pointed to his officer’s ears. That made all clear.

“Why, it is I who am deaf,” cried Dickenson excitedly; and almost at the same moment something seemed to go crack, crack in his head, and his hearing had come back, with everything that followed sounding painfully loud.

“And no wonder, sir,” said the sergeant. “It was pretty sharp. My ears are singing now. Does it hurt you where you were nipped by the stone?”

“Feels a bit pinched, that’s all.”

“And you’re all right beside, sir?”

“Yes, I think so, sergeant.”

“That’s good. Well, sir, you did it.”

“What! blew up the wagons? Yes, sergeant, I suppose we’ve done our work satisfactorily. But do you think the Boers would be hurt?”

“If they were, sir, it was not bad enough to make them stop singing out for help. I heard them quite plainly after the explosions. Can you walk a little faster, sir?”

“Oh yes, I think so. I’m quite right, all but this singing noise in my ears. I say, though, what about the enemy?”

“I don’t know anything about them, sir; the kopje hides them for the present, but once they make out how few we are, I expect they’ll come on with a rush; and the worst of it is, they’re mounted. But it’ll be all right, sir. The colonel said he was sending out a covering party to help us in, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” replied Dickenson.

“Oh, we shall keep them off. They’ll begin sniping as soon as they get a chance, but they’ll never make a big attack in the open field like we’re going over now.”

A very little while after they overtook the party hanging back till they came up, Captain Edwards being with the men, ready to congratulate them on the admirable way in which their task had been carried out.

The brisk walking over the veldt in the clear, bright air rapidly dissipated Dickenson’s unpleasant sensations, and when the main body was overtaken the young officer would have felt quite himself again if it had not been for the dull, heavy sense of misery which asserted itself: for constantly now came the ever-increasing belief that he must accept the worst about his comrade, something in his depressed state seeming to repeat to him the terrible truth – that poor Drew Lennox must be dead.

He found himself at last side by side with the major, who as they went on began to question him about his friend’s disappearance, and he frowned when Dickenson gravely told him his fears.

“No, no,” said the major; “we must hope for better things than that. He’ll turn up again, Dickenson. We must not have our successful raid discounted by such a misfortune. – Eh, what’s that?”

“Boers in sight, sir,” said Sergeant James. “Mounted men coming on fast.”

“Humph! Too soon,” said the major, and he proceeded to make the best of matters. The ambulance party was signalled to hurry forward, and a message sent to the little rear-guard with the store wagons and cattle to press forward with their convoy to the fullest extent. Then, as the mounted Boers came galloping on and divided in two parties, right and left, to head off the convoy, the eager men were halted, faced outward, and, waiting their time till the galloping enemy were nearly level at about three hundred yards’ distance, so accurate a fire was brought to bear that saddles were emptied and horses went down rapidly. Five minutes of this was sufficient for the enemy, the men swerving off in a course right away from the firing lines, and, when out of reach of the bullets, beginning to retreat.

“Has that settled them?” said Captain Edwards.

“No,” said the major; “only made them savage. They’ll begin to try the range of their rifles upon us now. Open out and hurry your men on, for the scoundrels are terribly good shots.”

The speaker was quite right, for before long bullets began to sing in the air, strike up the dust, and ricochet over the heads of the men, to find a billet more than once in the trembling body of some unfortunate ox. But fighting in an open plain was not one of the Boers’ strong points; the cover was scarce, they had their horses with them, and the little British party was always on the move and getting nearer home. Several bold attempts were made to head them off, but they were thwarted again and again; but in spite of his success, the major began to grow frantic.

“Look at those blundering oxen, Dickenson,” he cried. “It’s a regular funeral pace over what will be our funerals – the brutes! We shall have to get on and leave them to their fate. I’ll try a little longer, though. I say, we must be half-way now.”

“Yes; but unfortunately there’s a fresh body of the enemy coming up at a gallop,” said Dickenson, who had paused to sweep the veldt with his field-glass. “Yes, twice as many as are out here.”

“What!” cried the major. “Well, there’s no help for it; we shall have to leave the cattle behind. Send a man forward to tell the convoy guard to halt till we come up, and let the cattle take their chance.”

“The men with the wagons too, sir?”

“No,” cried the major; “not till we’re at the last pinch. We must try and save them.”

The messenger was sent off at the double; and as the retreating party marched on, the major continued to use his glass, shaking his head in his annoyance from time to time as he saw the Boer reinforcements closing up.

“Oh!” he groaned, “if we only had a lancer regiment somewhere on our flank, just to manoeuvre and keep out of sight till their chance came for a charge. Make them run – eh, Edwards?”

“Yes,” said the captain dryly; “but unfortunately we have no lancer regiment on our flank.”

“No,” replied the major; “and we must make the best of it.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said Sergeant James to Dickenson; “but don’t it seem a pity?”

“What? To have got so far and not be able to get back unhurt?”