The Kopje Garrison: A Story of the Boer War

About a couple of hundred yards ahead was a scattered patch of the pleasant form of South African growth known locally, from its catching qualities, as the Wait-a-bit-thorn, and as rapidly as they could go Dickenson led his men to that, finding, as he expected, just enough cover in the midst of a perfectly bare plain, if not to shelter lying-down men, at least to blur and confuse the enemy’s marksmen. Here he gave the order, “Dismount!” Lennox was laid flat upon his back, to lie without motion, and each man took the best shelter he could; while the ponies, not being trained like the modern trooper to lie down, were left to graze and take care of themselves.

The Boers came galloping on, to find, on a small scale, how much difference there was between attacking in the open and defending a well-sheltered position. But they had it yet to learn; and, evidently anticipating an easy victory, they galloped forward bravely enough, fully intending to hold the party up and expecting surrender at once.

Dickenson waited till they were well within range before giving the order to fire, adding sternly the instruction that not a single cartridge was to be wasted, no shot being fired till the holder of the rifle felt sure.

The order was succeeded by utter silence, broken only by the thudding of hoofs, and then crack! from the sergeant’s piece, a puff of greyish-white smoke, and one of the enemy’s ponies went down upon its knees, pitching the rider over its head, and rolled over upon one side, kicking wildly, and trying twice before it was able to rise to its feet, when it stood, poor beast! with hanging head; while its rider was seen crawling away, to stop at last and begin firing.

Crack! again, and one of the Boers fell forward on the neck of his mount and dropped his rifle, while his frightened pony galloped on, swerving off to the right.

Crack! crack! two more shots were fired without apparent effect, and then two more at intervals, each with good, or bad, effect. In one case the rider threw up his arms and, as his pony tore on, fell over sidewise, to drop with his foot tight in the stirrup, and was dragged about a hundred yards before he was freed and his mount galloped away.

The other shot took effect upon a pony, which stopped dead, to stand shivering, in spite of the way in which the Boer belaboured it with his rifle, seeming to pound at it with the butt to force it along. But it was all in vain – the poor brute’s war was over, and it slowly subsided, its rider springing off sidewise, to drop on one knee, as he tried to shelter himself behind the animal; but he was not quick enough, for Dickenson’s rifle was resting upon a tuft of thorn, perfectly steady, as he covered his enemy. Crack! and another tiny puff of smoke. The noise and the greyish vapour were nothings out in that vast veldt, but they meant the exit of a man from the troublous scene.

They meant more; for, as he saw the effect, the leader of the Boers shouted an order, and his men swerved off right and left, presenting their ponies’ flanks to the British marksmen, who fired rapidly now, and with so good aim that two more ponies were badly hit, their riders leaping off to begin running after their comrades as hard as they could, while a third man fell over to one side, lay still for a few moments, and then struggled into a sitting position and held up his hands.

“Don’t fire at him!” cried Dickenson excitedly, and none too soon, for one of the men was taking aim.

“Ha!” said the sergeant grimly as the Boers galloped back. “That’ll take some of the bounce out of the gentlemen. One of them told us that our men didn’t know how to shoot. I dare say if we’d had their training we might be able to bring down springboks as well as they can.”

“Yes; capital, capital, my lads! – Well, sergeant, I think we may go on again.”

“No, sir, no!” cried the man excitedly. “They don’t know when they’re beaten. Look at that.”

For as he spoke the two little parties joined up again into one, sprang off their ponies, and imitated Dickenson’s manoeuvre, lying down and beginning to shoot at long-range.

“I don’t think they’ll hurt us at that distance, sergeant,” said Dickenson.

“They’ll hurt us if they can hit us, sir,” replied the man; “but it’s a long way, and with their hands all of a shake from such a bit as they’ve just gone through.”

All the same, though, the bullets began to whistle overhead; then one struck the ground about ten yards in front of the sergeant and ricocheted, passing so near that the whiz was startling.

“That was well meant,” he said coolly; “but I don’t believe the chap who sent it could do it again.”

“Look at that poor fellow,” said Dickenson suddenly.

“’Fraid of being hit by us or them, sir,” replied the sergeant. “Not a very pleasant place.”

For the Boer who had thrown up his hands in token of surrender had begun to crawl slowly and painfully to their right, evidently to get well out of the line of fire. The man was evidently hit badly, for he kept on sinking down flat on his face, and four times over a curious sensation of regret came over Dickenson, mingled with a desire to go to his help with such surgical aid as he could supply. But each time, just as he was going to suggest it to the sergeant, the man rose on all fours again and crawled farther away.

“I don’t think he’s much hurt, sir. Going pretty strong now.”

The sergeant had hardly spoken before Dickenson uttered an ejaculation, for the wounded man suddenly dropped down flat again and rolled over, showing as one hand came into sight that he still grasped his rifle; and then he was completely hidden, as if he had sunk into some slight depression.

“Dead!” sighed Dickenson solemnly.

“Looks like it, sir,” said the sergeant quietly.

“Or exhausted by his efforts,” said Dickenson. “Look here, sergeant, a man’s a man.”

“‘For a’ that, and a’ that,’ as the song says,” muttered the sergeant to himself.

“Whether he’s one of our men or an enemy. I can’t lie here, able to help, without going to his help.”

“No, no, sir; you mustn’t stir,” cried the sergeant excitedly. “If you begin to move there’ll be a shower of bullets cutting up the ground about you. It’s a good hundred and fifty yards to crawl.”

“I can’t help that,” said Dickenson quietly. “I must do it.”

“But think of yourself, sir,” said the sergeant.

“A man in my position can’t think of himself, sergeant.”

“Well, think of us, sir.”

“I shall, sergeant.”

“Ha!” cried the sergeant, in a tone full of exultation. “And think of your friend, sir. He wants help as bad as that chap, and you ought to think of him first.”

For just then they heard Lennox talking hurriedly, and on Dickenson looking back over his shoulder he could see his comrade’s hands moving in the air, as if he were preparing to struggle up.

Dickenson began to turn hurriedly to creep back to where Lennox lay, with one of the ponies grazing calmly enough close by, when the hands fell again, and the young officer lay perfectly still.

“He has dropped to sleep again, and may be quiet for an hour. Sergeant, I’m going to crawl out to that wounded Boer.”

“Very well, sir; you’re my officer, and my duty is to obey. I’m very sorry, Mr Dickenson. It’s a good two hundred yards, sir, and I believe it’s a bit of slimmery. He crawled there to be out of shot.”

Whiz-z-z! crack! A puff of smoke and then a rush of hoofs, for the pony which had been grazing so calmly close by where Lennox lay went tearing over the veldt for about fifty yards, when, with two of its companions trotting after it as if to see what was the matter, it pitched suddenly upon its head, rolled over with its legs kicking as if it were galloping in the air, and then they fell and all was over, the two others turning and trotting back, to begin grazing once again.

“That’s bad,” said Dickenson sadly. “We couldn’t spare that pony. Why, sergeant, they can shoot! I didn’t think they could have done it at this range.”

“What! not at two hundred yards, sir?”

“Two hundred, man? It’s a thousand.”

“Why, you don’t see it, sir,” cried the sergeant excitedly. “It wasn’t the enemy out yonder sent that bullet home.”

“Not the enemy out there?” cried Dickenson.

“No, sir. It was your dead man who fired that shot.”

“What?”

“Don’t feel so sorry for him, sir, do you, now?”

As the sergeant was asking this question, the soldier who lay off to their left, and who had not discharged his piece for some time, fired simultaneously with a shot which came from the direction where the wounded Boer lay.

“Ah!” cried the sergeant excitedly. “Can you see him from there?”

“No,” growled the man; “but I saw something move, and let go on the chance of hitting him, but only cut up the sand.”

“Don’t take your eye from the spot, my lad,” cried Dickenson sharply. “Never mind a fresh cartridge. Trust to your magazine.”

“Yes, sir; that’s what I’m doing,” was the reply.

“Hadn’t we all better do the same, sir?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes,” said Dickenson angrily.

“I doubt whether we can keep his fire down, though, sir. He’s got us now.”

“Not yet – the brute!” cried Dickenson through his teeth.

“He’ll have the other two safe, sir.”

“Other two?” cried Dickenson wonderingly.

“What! don’t you see, sir? There’s another of the ponies hit.”

“Good gracious!” cried Dickenson, in such a homely, grandmotherly style that, in spite of their perilous position, the sergeant could not help smiling.

But his face was as hard as an iron mask directly, as he saw the look of anguish in his young officer’s face, Dickenson having just seen the second pony standing with drooping head and all four legs widely separated, rocking to and fro for a few moments, before dropping heavily, perfectly dead.

Crack! came again from the same place, and another of the grazing ponies flung up its head, neighing shrilly, before springing forward to gallop for a couple of hundred yards and then fall.

And crack! again, and its following puff of smoke, making the fourth pony start and begin to limp for a few yards with its off foreleg broken; and crack! once more, and the sound of a sharp rap caused by another bullet striking the suffering beast right in the middle of the shoulder-blade, when it dropped dead instantly, pierced through the heart.

“Best shot yet, sir,” said the sergeant grimly; “put the poor beast out of its misery. Now,” he muttered to himself, “we know what we’ve got to expect if we don’t stop his little game.”

“Every man watch below where the smoke rose,” said Dickenson slowly and sternly. “That man can’t see without exposing himself in some way. Yes; be on the alert. Look! he’s pressing the sand away to right and left with the barrel of his rifle. Mind, don’t fire till you’ve got a thoroughly good chance.”

No one spoke, but all lay flat upon their chests, watching the moving right and left of a gun-barrel which was directed towards them, but pointing so that if fired a bullet would have gone over their heads. It was hard to see; but the sun glinted from its polished surface from time to time, and moment by moment they noted that it was becoming more horizontal.

Every man’s sight was strained to the utmost; every nerve was on the quiver; so that not one of the four felt that he could trust himself to shoot when the crucial moment came.

It came more quickly than they expected; for, after a few moments of intense strain, the barrel was suddenly depressed, till through the clear air the watchers distinctly saw a tiny hole and nothing more. Then all at once the sun glinted from something else – a something that flashed brightly for one instant, and was then obscured by smoke – the smoke that darted from the little, just perceptible orifice of the small-bore Mauser and that which shot out from four British rifles, to combine into one slowly rising cloud; while as the commingled reports of five rifles, friendly and inimical, died away, to the surprise of Dickenson and his men they saw the figure of a big swarthy Boer staggering towards them with both hands pressed to his face. The next moment he was lying just in front of his hiding-place, stretched out – dead.