The Kopje Garrison: A Story of the Boer War

Chapter Twenty Eight.

A Find

Dickenson walked frowning away from the hospital hut, thinking of the manner in which Roby had shifted the charge of cowardice from his shoulders to Lennox’s, and a sigh of misery escaped from his breast as he made for the side of the bubbling stream.

“Poor fellow!” he said to himself. “I’m afraid that he’s where being called coward or brave man won’t affect him.”

He reached the beautiful, clear stream, lay down and drank like some wild animal, and then began bathing his temples, the water setting him thinking of Lennox’s adventures by its source, and clearing his head so much that when he rose at last and began to walk back to his quarters he felt wonderfully refreshed.

This state of feeling increased to such a degree that when he once more lay down after taking off his hot jacket, the heat from the roof, the buzzing of the flies, and the noises out in the village square mingled together into a whole that seemed slumber-inviting, and in less than ten minutes he was plunged in a deep, heavy, restful sleep, which seemed to him to have lasted about a quarter of a hour, when he was touched upon the shoulder by a firm hand, and sprang up to gaze at the light of a lantern and at nothing else.

“Close upon starting-time, sir,” said the sergeant out of the darkness behind the lamp.

For a few moments Dickenson was silent, and the sergeant spoke again.

“Time to rouse up, sir.”

“Yes, of course,” said the young officer, getting slowly upon his feet, and having hard work to suppress a groan.

“Bit stiff, sir?”

“Yes; arm and back. I can hardly move. But it will soon go off.”

“Oh yes, sir. It was that big stone nipping you after the blow-up.”

“I expect so,” said Dickenson, struggling into his jacket. “Ha! It’s getting better already. Where are the ponies?”

“Round by the tethering-line, sir; but you’ve got to have a bit of supper first.”

“Oh, I want no supper. I’ve no appetite now.”

“Armoured train won’t work, sir, without filling up the furnace,” said the sergeant sternly; “and the ponies are not quite ready.”

“You promised to have them ready, sergeant.”

“So I did, sir; but we want all we can out of them to-night. We may have to ride for our lives; so I managed to beg a feed of mealies apiece for them. There’s a snack of hot meat ready in the mess hut, sir, and the colonel would like to see you before you start.”

“Yes,” said Dickenson, finishing buckling on his sword, and slipping the lanyard cord of his revolver about his neck.

He hurried then to the mess-room, where a piece of well-broiled steak, freshly cut from one of the oxen, was brought by the cook, emitting an aroma agreeable enough; but it did not tempt the young officer, whose one idea was to mount and ride away for the kopje. Certainly it was not only like fresh meat – very tough – but it possessed the toughness of years piled-up by an ox whose life had been passed helping to drag a tow-rope on trek. So half of it was left, and the young man sought the colonel’s quarters.

“Ha!” he said. “Ready to start, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I must leave all to your discretion, Dickenson,” he said. “Recollect you promised me that if there was any sign of the kopje being still occupied you would stop at once and return.”

“Yes; I have not forgotten, sir.”

“That’s enough, then. Keep your eyes well open for danger. I’d give anything to recover Lennox, but I cannot afford to give the lives of more of my men.”

Dickenson frowned.

“You mean, sir, that you do not believe he is still alive.”

“I don’t know what to say, Dickenson,” said the colonel, beginning to walk up and down the hut. “You have heard this ugly report?”

“Yes, sir; and I don’t believe it.”

“I cannot believe it,” said the colonel; “but Captain Roby keeps on repeating it to the doctor and the major; while that man who was wounded, too, endorses all his captain says. It sounds monstrous.”

“Don’t believe it, sir,” cried Dickenson excitedly.

“I have told you that I cannot believe it,” said the colonel; “but Mr Lennox is missing, and it looks horribly corroborative of Roby’s tale. There, go and find him – if you can. We can’t add that to our other misfortunes; it would be a disgrace to us all.”

“You mean, sir,” said Dickenson coldly, “if Drew Lennox had – has – well, I suppose I must say it – run away?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, sir, I don’t feel in the least afraid. He is either a prisoner, lying badly wounded somewhere about the kopje, or – dead.”

He said the last word in a husky tone, and then started violently.

“What is it, man?” cried the colonel excitedly, for the young officer seemed as if he were suffering from some violent spasm. “Are you hurt?”

“Something seemed to hurt me, sir,” said the young man; “but it was only a thought.”

“A thought?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “I was wondering whether it was possible.”

“Whether what was possible?” said the colonel impatiently. “Don’t speak in riddles, man.”

“No, sir. It came like a flash. Suppose the poor fellow was somewhere near the spot where we exploded the ammunition?”

“Fancy,” said the colonel coldly. “There must have been plenty of places round about the part you attacked without Lennox being there. There, lose no time; find him, and bring him back.”

“He half believes that wretched story put about by Roby,” said Dickenson to himself as he walked stiffly away, depressed in mind as well as body, and anything but fit for his journey, as he began to feel more and more. But he made an effort, stepped out boldly in spite of a sharp, catching pain, and answered briskly to the sentries’ challenges as he passed into the light shed by the lanterns here and there.

“Ready, sir?” said a voice suddenly.

“Yes; quite. The sooner we’re off the better.”

“The ponies are waiting, sir; and I’ve got the password, and know exactly where the outposts are if I can hit them off in the dark, for it’s twice as black as it was last night.”

“Then it will be a bad time for our search.”

“Search, sir?” said the sergeant bluntly. “We’re going to do no searching to-night.”

“What!” cried Dickenson.

“It’s impossible, sir. All we can do is to get as close as we can to the kopje and find out whether the enemy is still there. Then we must wait for daylight. If the place is clear, it will be all easy going; if the Boers are still there we must have a hasty ride round, if we can, before we are discovered.”

“Very well,” said Dickenson slowly as they walked on to the lines where the ponies were tethered, mounted, and went off at a walk, the sergeant and Dickenson side by side and the two men close behind; while the slight, cob-like Bechuana ponies upon which they were mounted seemed to need no guiding, but kept to the track which brought them again upon outposts, where their riders were challenged, gave the word, and then went steadily on at a walk right away across the open veldt.

“Ponies know their way, sir,” said the sergeant after they had ridden about a mile. “I’ll be bound to say, if we let them, they’ll take us right by that patch of scrub where the enemy had his surprise, and then go straight away for the kopje.”

“So much the better, sergeant,” said Dickenson, who spoke unwillingly, his body full of pain as his mind was of thought.

“Will you give the order for us to load?”

“Load?” said Dickenson in a tone expressing his surprise. “Oh! of course;” and he gave the necessary command, taking the rifle handed to him by one of the men as they rode on. “I was thinking of our chances of finding the Boers out scouting. I suppose it is quite possible that we may run against a patrol.”

“More than likely, sir. They’ll be eager enough to find out some way of paying back what we gave them to-day.”

“Of course, and – What does this mean?” whispered Dickenson, for his pony stopped short, as did the others, the sergeant’s mount uttering a sharp, challenging neigh and beginning to fidget.

“Means danger, sir,” whispered the sergeant. “We loaded none too soon.”

There was nothing for it but to sit fast, peering into the wall of darkness that surrounded them, trying vainly to make out the approaching danger, every man listening intently. Fully ten minutes elapsed, and not a sound was heard. The ponies, well-trained by the Boers to stand, remained for a time perfectly motionless, till all at once, just as Dickenson was about to whisper to the sergeant that their mounts had probably only been startled by some wild animal of the desert, one of them impatiently stretched out its neck (drawing the hand holding the reins forward), snuffed at the earth, and began to crop at the stunted brush through which they were passing. The others immediately followed suit, and, letting them have their own way, the party sat once more listening in vain.

Then came a surprise. All at once, from what Dickenson judged to be some fifty feet away, there was the peculiar ruff! ruff! ruff! ruff! of some one walking slowly through the low scrub, which there was not unlike walking over a heather-covered track.

“Stand,” cried the lieutenant sharply, “or we fire.”

“No. Hold hard,” cried a familiar voice. “Who goes there? Dickenson, is that you?”

“Lennox! Thank Heaven!”

The steps quickened till he who made them came staggering up to the lieutenant’s pony, at which he caught, but reached short, stumbled, and fell.

The sergeant was off his pony in a moment, handing the reins to a companion, and helping the lost man to rise.

“Are you all right?” said Dickenson excitedly as he reached down, felt for, and firmly grasped his friend’s wet, cold hand.

“All right?” said Lennox bitterly. “Well, as all right as a man can be who was about to lie down utterly exhausted, when he heard your pony.”

“But are you wounded?”

“No; only been nearly strangled and torn to pieces. But don’t ask me questions. Water!” A water-bottle was handed to the poor fellow, and they heard him drink with avidity. Then ceasing for a short space, he said, “I was just going to lie down and give it up, for I was completely lost.” He began drinking again, and then, with a deep breath of relief: “Whose is this?”

“Mine, sir,” said the sergeant, and he took the bottle from the trembling outstretched hand which offered it.

“Thankye, sergeant,” sighed the exhausted man. “It does one good to hear your voice again. Are we far from Groenfontein?”

“About three miles,” said Dickenson.

“Ah!” said Lennox, with a groan. “Then I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can,” said Dickenson warmly. “Here, hold on by the nag’s mane while I dismount. We’ll get you into the saddle, and walk the pony home.”

“Excuse me, sir; I’m dismounted,” said the sergeant, “and I’d rather walk, please.”

“Thank you, James,” said Dickenson. “I’ll take your offer, for I’m nearly done up myself.”

“You keep still, then, sir. – Dismount, my lads, and help to get Mr Lennox into the saddle. – Rest on me, sir; I’ve got you. Sure you’re not wounded, sir?”

There was no reply; but the sergeant, who had passed his arm round his young officer’s waist, felt him subside, and if the hold had not been tightened he would have sunk to the ground.

“Got him?” cried Dickenson.

“Yes, sir; all right. Fainted.”

“Fainted?”

“Yes, sir. Regular exhaustion, I suppose. We’ll get him into the saddle, and I think the best way will be for me to got up behind and hold him on, for he’s regularly given up now that he has fallen among friends.”

“But the pony: will it carry you both?”

“Oh yes, sir – at a walk. They’re plucky little beasts, sir. But we’ve got him, sir, and that’s what I didn’t expect. I suppose we mustn’t cheer?”

“Cheer? No,” said Dickenson excitedly. “Look here, sergeant; I’m a bit crippled, but I’ll have him in front of me.”

“But he’s on my pony now, sir, with the lads holding him. Had we better drag him down again? He’s precious limp, sir; and I’m afraid he’s hurt worse than he said.”

“Very well; keep as you are,” said Dickenson hurriedly; and, almost unseen, the sergeant mounted behind his charge and began to feel about him for the best way of making the poor fellow as comfortable as possible.

“He’s got his sword all right, sir, but his revolver’s gone. Stop a moment,” continued the sergeant, fumbling in the darkness; “there’s the lanyard, but his hat’s gone too. There, I’ve got him nicely now. Mount, my lads.”

There was a rustling sound as the men sprang into their saddles again.

“Ready?” said Dickenson.

“Yes, sir.”

“Stop a moment. How are we to find our way back?”

“We shall have to trust to the ponies, sir,” said the sergeant. “Let’s see; we have turned their heads round over this job. We must leave it to them; they’ll find their way back, thinking they’re going to get some more mealies. Trust them for that.”

“Forward at a walk!” said Dickenson. “Tut, tut, sergeant! It’s as black as pitch. If a breeze would only spring up.”

“Dessay it will, sir, before long.”

“How does Mr Lennox seem?”

“Head’s resting on my clasped hands, sir, and he’s sleeping like a baby – regular fagged out.”

It was a slow and toilsome march; but the party were in the highest of spirits, and, in the hope of seeing the lights at Groenfontein at the end of an hour or so, they kept on, only pausing now and again to listen for danger and to rearrange Lennox, whose silence began to alarm his friend. But the sergeant assured him that the poor fellow was sleeping heavily, and they went on again with a dark mental cloud coming over Dickenson’s exhilaration as he thought of the unpleasant news that awaited his friend.

“But a word from him will set that right,” he said to himself. “Poor fellow! He must be done up to sleep like that. Why, he never even asked how we got on after the fight.”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

In Difficulties

On and on at the ponies’ slow walk through the short scrub or over the bare plain, with the clever little animals seeming to instinctively avoid every stone that was invisible to the riders in the intense darkness. Every now and then a halt was made, one of which their steeds immediately took advantage by beginning to browse on such tender shoots as took their fancy, and again and again the whispered questions were asked:

“How does he seem, sergeant?”

“Fast asleep, sir.”

“Hadn’t you better let one of the men take your place?”

“Oh no, sir; I’m all right, and so’s he.”

“Can either of you hear anything?”

“No, sir; only the ponies cropping the bush.” Then a faint, “We ought to be getting near home, sergeant.”