The Kopje Garrison: A Story of the Boer War
“And did you?” cried Dickenson.
“Of course I did. I wanted to carry him to the rear, poor fellow.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Dickenson.
“Well, don’t shout. What an excitable beggar you are?”
“Go on, then. You keep giving it to me in little bits. What then?”
“Oh, I got him on my back, and it was horrible His wound bled so.”
“But you carried him?”
“Yes, ever so far; till that happened.”
“Yes! What?”
Lennox touched his neck, and his hearer literally ground his teeth in rage.
“Will – you – speak out?” he cried.
“Will you take things a little more coolly?” said Lennox quietly. “Didn’t Emden say I was to be kept quiet?”
“Of course; of course,” said Dickenson hurriedly. “But you don’t know, old chap, what I’m suffering. I’m in a raging thirst for the truth – I want to take one big draught, and you keep on giving me tiny drops in a doll’s teaspoon.”
“It’s because I hate talking about it. I don’t want to brag about carrying a wounded man on my back with a pack of Boers on horseback chivvying me. Besides, I’m a bit misty over what did happen. An upset like that takes it out of a fellow. Since I’ve been lying here this morning thinking it over the wonder to me is that I’m still alive.”
Dickenson pressed his teeth together, making a brave effort to keep back the words which strove to escape, and he was rewarded for his reticence by his comrade continuing quietly:
“It all happened in a twinkling. Roby was balanced on my back, and I was trying to get away from the retreating Boers, sword in one hand, revolver in the other; and I kept two off who passed me by pointing my pistol at them, when another came down with a rush, made a snatch at the lanyard, and, almost before I could realise what was happening, poor Roby was down and I was jerked off my feet and dragged along the rough ground, bumping, choking, and strangling. For the brute had made a snatch at my revolver, caught the lanyard, and held on, with the slip-noose tight between the collar of my jacket and my chin, and his pony cantering hard. I can just remember the idea flashing to my brain that this must be something like the lassoing of an animal by a cowboy or one of those South American half-breeds, and then I was seeing dazzling lights and clouds that seemed to be tinged with blood; and after that all was dark for I can’t tell how long, before I began to come to, and found myself right away on the veldt, with the sun beating down upon my head, and a raging thirst nearly driving me mad. I suppose I was mad, or nearly so,” continued Lennox after a brief pause, “for my head was all in a whirl, and I kept on seeing Boers dragging me over the veldt by the neck, and hearing horses galloping round me, all of which was fancy, of course; for at times I was sensible, and knew that I was lying somewhere out in the great veldt where all was silent, the horses I heard being in my head. Then I seemed to go to sleep and dream that I was being dragged by the neck again, on and on for ever.”
“Horrible,” panted Dickenson.
“Yes, old fellow, it was rather nasty; but I suppose a great part of it was fancy, and even now I can’t get it into shape, for everything was so dull and dreamy and confused. All I can tell you more is, that I woke up once, feeling a little more sensible, and began to feel about me. Then I knew that my sword was by my side and my hand numb and throbbing, for the sword-knot was tight about my wrist. I managed to get that loosened, and after a good deal of difficulty sheathed my sword, after which I began to feel for my revolver, and got hold of the cord, which passed through my hand till I felt that it was broken – snapped off or cut. That was all I could do then, and I suppose I fainted. But I must have come to again and struggled up, moved by a blind sort of instinct to get back to Groenfontein. I say I suppose that, for all the rest is a muddle of dreams and confusion. The doctor says you and a party came and found me wandering about in the dark, and of course I must have been making some blind kind of effort to get back to camp. I say, old fellow, I ought to have been dead, I suppose?”
“Of course you ought, sir,” said the doctor, stepping in to lay a hand upon the poor fellow’s brow. “Humph! Not so feverish as you ought to be, chattering like that.”
“Then you’ve heard, doctor?” cried Dickenson excitedly.
“I heard talking, sir, where there ought to be none,” replied the doctor sharply.
“But did you hear that your precious theory was all wrong?”
“No, sir; I did not,” said the doctor sharply. “I based my theory upon what seemed to be facts, and facts they were. I told you that my patient here was suffering from the tightening of a ligature about his neck.”
“And quite correct, too, doctor,” said Lennox, holding out his hand. “I suppose if that lanyard had not broken I shouldn’t be alive here to talk about it.”
“Your theory, my dear boy, is as correct as mine,” said the doctor, taking his patient’s hand, but not to shake it, for he proceeded to feel Lennox’s pulse in the most business-like manner, nodding his head with satisfaction.
“Much better than I expected,” he said. “But you must be quiet now. I was horrified when I came by and heard such a jabbering going on. Let’s see: where are your duds?”
He went to the corner of the hut, where the orderly had placed the patient’s uniform, everything as neatly folded as if it had been new instead of tattered and torn; while above, on a peg, hung belts, sword, pouches, and the strong cord-like lanyard stiffened and strained about the noose and slipping knots, while the other end was broken and frayed where the spring snap had been.
“Humph!” said the doctor. “I wonder this cord didn’t snap at once with the drag made upon it. All the same I don’t suppose you were dragged very far.”
He looked at his patient inquiringly, but Lennox shook his head slowly.
“It may have been for half-an-hour, doctor, or only for a minute. I can’t tell.”
“Probabilities are in favour of the minute, sir,” said the doctor. “Well, it’s a strange case. I never had but one injury in my experience approaching it, and that was when an artillery driver was dragged over the plain by his horses. A shell burst close to the team, and this man somehow got the reins twisted about his neck, and he was dragged for about a mile before he was released.”
“Much hurt?” said Dickenson.
“Yes,” said the doctor, with a short nod of the head. “He was very much hurt indeed.”
“And I was not, doctor?” said Lennox, smiling.
“Oh no, not in the least,” said the doctor sarcastically. “You only wanted your face washed and you’d have been all right in a few hours, no doubt. I’ve done nothing for you. The old story. Why, let me tell you, sir, when you were brought in I began to wonder whether I was going to pull you round.”
“As you have, doctor, and I am most grateful.”
Lennox held out both hands as he spoke, his right being still swollen and painful; and this time the doctor took them non-professionally, to hold them for a few moments.
“Of course you are, my dear boy, and I’m heartily glad to see you getting on so well; but, upon my word, I do sometimes feel ready to abuse some of our rough ones. I save their lives, and they take it all as a matter of course – give one not the slightest credit. But there, from sheer ignorance of course. You’re getting right fast, and I’ll tell you why: it’s because you’re in a fine, vigorous state of health. You fellows have no chance of over-indulging yourselves in eating and drinking.”
“Not a bit, doctor,” said Dickenson, making a wry face.
“Oh yes, I know,” said the doctor. “You have to go through a good many privations, but you’re none the worse. Primeval man used to have hard work to live; civilised man is pampered and spoiled with luxuries.”
“Especially civilised man engaged in the South African campaign against the Boers,” said Dickenson, while his comrade’s eyes lit up with mirth.
“Sneer away, my fine fellow; but though it’s precious unpleasant, fasting does no man any harm. Now, look here, sir; if we were in barracks at home you fellows would be indulging in mess dinners and wines and cigars, and sodas and brandies, and some of you in liqueurs, and you wouldn’t be half so well, not in half such good training, as you are now.”
“The doctor hates a good cigar, Drew, and loathes wine,” said Dickenson sarcastically.
“No, he doesn’t, boys; the doctor’s as weak as most men are when they have plenty of good things before them. But my theory’s right. Now, look at the men. Poor fellows! they’ve had a hard time of it; but look at them when they are wounded. I tell you, sir, that I open my eyes widely and stare at the cures I make of awful wounds. I might think it was all due to my professional experience, but I’m not such an idiot. It’s all due to the healthy state the men are in, and the glorious climate.”
“And what about the fever, doctor?” said Lennox.
“Ah, that’s another thing, my dear boy. When the poor fellows are shut up in a horribly crowded, unhealthy camp, and are forced to drink water that is nothing less than poisonous, they go down fast. So they would anywhere. But see how we’ve got on here – the camp kept clean, and an abundant supply of delicious water bubbling out of that kopje. Then – Bless my heart! I forbade talking, and here I am giving you fellows a lecture on hygiene. – Come along with me, Dickenson. – You, Lennox, go to sleep if you can. No more talking to-day.”
The doctor literally drove Dickenson before him, and hooked him by the arm as soon as they were outside.
“I’m very glad we settled for that idea of mine to be private, Dickenson, my dear boy. But it did look horribly like it.”
“Perhaps,” said the young man. “But you give it up now?”
“Certainly,” said the doctor.
“And you give up the idea too about his running away?”
“Of course.”
“Then the sooner you give Roby something that will bring him to his senses the better.”
“I wish I could; but the poor fellow seems to have got it stamped into his brain.”
“Yes; and the worst of it is he doesn’t talk like a man touched in the head.”
“No, he does not; though he is, without doubt.”
“Can’t you talk quietly to the chief? There’s he and the major and Edwards take it all as a matter of course. They don’t give poor old Drew the credit for all that he has done since we were here, but believe all the evil. It’s abominable.”
“Esprit de corps, Dickenson, my lad.”
“Yes, that’s all right enough; but they turn silent and cold as soon as the poor fellow’s name is mentioned; while that isn’t the worst of it.”
“What is, then?” said the doctor.
“The men sing the tune their officers have pitched, and that miserable sneak, Corporal May, sings chorus. Oh! it’s bad, sir; bad. Fancy: there was the poor fellow knocked over when trying to save his captain’s life, and the man he helped to save turns upon him like this.”
“Yes, it is bad,” said the doctor; “but, like many more bad things, it dies out.”
“What! the credit of being a coward, doctor? No; it grows. Ur-r-r!” growled the speaker. “I should like to ram all that Corporal May has said down his throat. He’d find it nastier physic than any you ever gave him, doctor. I say, I’m not a vindictive fellow, but when I keep hearing these things about a man I like, it makes me boil. Do you think there’s any chance of the corporal getting worse?”
“No,” said the doctor sternly; “he hasn’t much the matter with him, only a few bruises. But if he did die it would be worse still for poor Lennox.”
“No! How?”
“Because he’d leave the poison behind him. There, I’ll do all I can with the colonel; but all the officers believe Roby, and that Lennox was seized with a fit of panic. There’s only one way for him to clear it away.”
“Exchange? How can he?”
“Exchange? Nonsense! Get strong, return to his company, and show every one that he is not the coward they think.”
“There’s something in that, certainly,” said Dickenson sadly; “but he’ll want opportunities. Suppose he had the chance to save the major’s life; how do we know that he too wouldn’t set it about that Lennox was more cowardly still? Saving lives doesn’t seem to pay.”
“Nonsense, my lad! You’re speaking bitterly now.”
“Enough to make me, sir. It isn’t only Roby; Lennox saved Corporal May as well.”
“Never mind that. You tell Lennox to try again. Third time, they say, never fails.”
“Humph!” said Dickenson. “Well, we shall see.”
“Yes,” said the doctor; “we shall see.”
Chapter Thirty Four.
The Mud that Stuck
“It’s a bad business, Mr Lennox,” said the colonel sternly, some weeks later, when matters looked very dreary again in the camp, for the supplies of provisions had once more begun to grow very short, and the constant strain of petty attacks had affected officers and men to a degree that made them morose and bitter in the extreme.
“But surely, sir, you don’t believe this of me?” said Lennox, flushing.
“As a man, no, Mr Lennox; but as your commanding officer I am placed in a very awkward position. The captain of your company makes the most terrible charge against you that could be made against a young officer.”
“But under what circumstances? He was suffering from a serious injury to the head; he was delirious at the time.”
“But he is not delirious now, Mr Lennox, and that which he accused you of in a state of wild frenzy he maintains, now that he is recovering fast, in cold blood.”
“Yes, sir; it seems cold-blooded enough after what I did for him.”
“Unfortunately he maintains that this is all an invention on your part.”
“And my being dragged away for some distance by one of the Boers, sir?”
“Yes; he declares that he was not insensible for some time after his hurt, and that had what you say occurred he must have seen it.”
“Then it is his word against mine, sir?” said Lennox.
“Unfortunately it is not, Lennox,” said the colonel gravely. “If it were only that I should feel very differently situated. Your conduct during the war has been so gallant that, without the slightest hesitation, I should side with you and set down all that Captain Roby has said to a hallucination caused by the injury to his head. But, you see, there is the testimony of Corporal May, who declares that he witnessed your conduct – conduct which I feel bound to say seems, when weighed by your previous actions, perfectly inexplicable.”
“Then I am to consider, sir, on the testimony of this man, that I am unworthy of holding a commission in Her Majesty’s service?” said Lennox bitterly.
“Stop,” said the colonel. “Don’t be rash, and say things of which you may repent, Lennox.”
“An innocent man defending himself against such a charge, sir, cannot always weigh his words. Look at my position, sir. I am fit now to return to my duty, and I find a marked coldness on the part of my brother officers and a peculiarity in the looks of the men which shows me plainly enough that they believe it true.”
“I have noticed it myself,” said the colonel, “save in two instances. Mr Dickenson is downright in his defence of you; and I freely tell you for your comfort that the bravest non-commissioned officer in the regiment, when I was speaking to him on the subject, laughed the charge to scorn, and – confound him! – he had the insolence to tell me he’d as soon believe that I would run away as believe it of you.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Lennox, with his eyes brightening. “Sergeant James?”
“Yes; Sergeant James. A fine, staunch fellow, Lennox. He’ll have his commission by-and-by if I can help it on.”
“Well, sir,” said Lennox slowly, “I suppose it is of no use to fight against fate. Am I to consider myself under arrest?”
“Certainly not,” said the colonel firmly. “This is no time for dealing with such a matter. I have enough on my hands to keep the enemy at a distance, and I want every one’s help. But as soon as we are relieved – if we ever are – I am bound, unless Captain Roby and the corporal retract all they have said and attribute it to delirium – I am bound, I say, to call the attention of my superiors to the matter. I shall do so unwillingly, but I must. Out of respect to your brother officers, and for your sake as well, I cannot let this matter slide. It would be blasting your career as a soldier – for you could not retain your commission in this regiment.”
“No, sir,” said Lennox slowly, “nor exchange into another. But it seems hard, sir.”
“Yes, Lennox, speaking to you not as your colonel but as a friend, terribly hard.”
“Then the sooner I am arrested and tried by court-martial, sir, the better. I was ready to return to my duty, but to go on with every one in the regiment looking upon me as a coward is more than I could bear.” The colonel was silent. “Have I your leave, sir, to go back to my quarters?” said Lennox at last.
“Not yet,” said the colonel. “Look here, Lennox; this wretched charge has been made, and I cannot tell my officers and men what they shall and what they shall not believe. An inquiry must take place – by-and-by. Till it is held, the task rests with you to prove to your brother officers and the men that they have misjudged you.”
“And to you, sir,” said Lennox coldly.
“I do not judge you yet, Lennox,” said the colonel gravely. “I am waiting.”
“And how am I to prove, sir, that I am not what they think me?”
The colonel shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly.
“You need not go and publish what I say, Lennox,” he replied; “but I have very good reason to believe that the Boers are heartily sick of waiting for us to surrender, and that they have received orders to make an end of our resistance.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“They have been receiving reinforcements, and the blacks bring word in that they have now two more guns. There will be plenty of chances for you to show that you are no coward, and that before many hours are past.”
“Do you mean, sir, that I can take my place in the company?”
“I do.”
“Thank you, sir. Something within me seems to urge me to hold aloof, for the coldness I have experienced since the doctor said I was fit for service is unbearable.”
“Would not standing upon your dignity, Lennox, and letting your comrades face the enemy, look worse than manfully taking your place side by side with the men who are going forward to risk wounds or death?”
“Yes, sir; much,” said Lennox, flushing. “I will live it down.”
“Shake hands, Lennox,” said the colonel, holding out his own. “Now I feel that you have been misjudged. Those were the words of a brave man. Mind this: the matter must be properly heard by-and-by, but let it remain in abeyance. Go and live it down.”
The young officer had something more to say, but the words would not come; and the colonel, after a glance at him, turned to a despatch he had been writing, and began to read it over as if in ignorance of his visitor’s emotion.
“Oh, by the way, Lennox, one word before you go. About this man May. Have you ever given him any cause to dislike you?”
“No, sir, I think not. I must own to always having felt a dislike to him.”
“Indeed,” said the colonel sharply. “Why?”
“I would rather you did not ask me, sir.”
“Speak out, man!” said the colonel sternly.
“Well, sir, I have never liked him since he obtained his promotion.”
“Why?”
“I did not think he deserved it so well as some of the other men of his standing.”
“Humph! Let me see; he was promoted on Captain Roby’s recommendation.”
“Yes, sir; he was always a favourite with his captain.”
“Have you been a bit tyrannical – overbearing?”
“I have only done my duty by him, sir. Certainly I have been rather sharp with him when I have noticed a disposition on his part to hang back.”
“Perhaps he has never forgiven you for saving his life,” said the colonel, smiling.
“Oh, surely not, sir.”
“I don’t know,” said the colonel. “But think a minute.”
“I was certainly very sharp with him that time when we explored the cavern, for that was one of the occasions when he hung back as if scared. But no, no, sir; I will not suspect the man of accusing me as he has through spite. He believes he saw me run, no doubt. But I did not.”
“There, Lennox, you’ve had a long interview, and I have my despatch to write up. I have plenty to worry my head without your miserable business. Now, no rashness, mind; but I shall expect to hear of you leading your men in the very front.”
“If they will follow me, sir, I shall be there,” said Lennox quietly. “If they will not, I shall go alone.”
Chapter Thirty Five.
Company at Dinner
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to have it out with the chief?” said Dickenson, encountering his comrade directly he had left the colonel’s quarters.
“Because you told me never to mention the wretched business again.”
“Did I? Oh, that was when I was in a wax. Well, what does the old man say?”
“That I am to go on as if nothing had happened.”
“That’s good. Well, what else?”
“Take my place in my company, and wait till we’re relieved, and then be ready for a court-martial.”
“That’s good too, for no one can prove you guilty. What else?”
“Keep well in the front, and get myself killed as soon as I can.”
“If he said that, he’s a brute!” cried Dickenson. “Gammon! I don’t believe the old man would say such a thing. But look here, I’m precious glad. This means you’re going to live it down.”
Lennox nodded. “Here,” he said, “let’s go into our hut.”
“No, not yet. I want to walk up and down in the fresh air a bit.”
“But the sun is terribly hot.”
“Do you good,” said Dickenson abruptly. “Let’s go right to the end and back three or four times.”
“Bah!” said Lennox. “You want to do this so as to ostentatiously show that you mean to keep friends with me.”
“Suppose I do. I’ve a right to, haven’t I?”
“Not to give me pain. It does. Help me to live it down quietly.”
“Very well; if you like it better. But I say, you’ll show up in the mess-room to-night?”
“Why should I?”
“Because the place is wretched and the fare’s – beastly. There, that doesn’t sound nice, but I must say it.”
“I had rather stay away. It would only provoke what I should feel cruelly, and I could not resent it.”
“No, but I could; and if any one insults you by sending you to Coventry, I’ll provoke him. I suppose I mustn’t punch my superior officer’s head, but off duty I can tell him what I think of him, and I’ll let him have it hot and strong.”
“Then I shall stay away.”
“No, you sha’n’t. I will instead.”
“That would be worse, Bob. Look here; I want you to help me to live this charge down, to treat it with quiet contempt. If you make yourself so fierce a partisan you will keep the wound sore and prevent it from healing up.”
“Very well, then; I’ll give it a good chance. There, I promise you I won’t show my temper a bit; only play fair.”
“In what way?”
“Don’t turn upon me afterwards and call me a coward for not taking your part.”
“Never fear. I don’t want you to get into hot water for my sake.”
“My dear boy,” said Dickenson, chuckling like a cuckoo in a coppice in early spring, “that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in hot water now with everybody, and have been ever since.”
“I am sorry.”
“And I am glad – jolly glad. Oh, don’t I wish there was duelling still!”
“Haven’t you killed enough men to satisfy you?” said Lennox sadly.
“More than enough. I don’t want to kill brother officers, only to give them lessons in manly faith. But bother that! I say: you promise to come and take your place this evening?”
“Yes; I promise,” said Lennox quietly.
“Then I’ll tell you something. Roby’s coming too.”
“Roby!”
“Yes; for the first time since he got his wound.”
Lennox was silent.
“There, I’m not going to try and teach you, old fellow,” continued Dickenson; “but if I were you I should ignore everything, unless the boys do as they should do – meet you like men.”
“Well,” said Lennox, “we shall see.”
That dinner-time came all too soon for Lennox, who had sat in his shabby quarters thinking how wondrously quiet everything was, and whether after what the colonel had hinted it was the calm preceding the storm.
“Come along,” cried Dickenson, thrusting his head into the hut.
Lennox felt his heart sink as he thought of the coming meeting, for this was the first time he had approached the mess-room since the night of the attack upon the kopje. He winced, too, a little as he passed two sentries, who seemed, he thought, to look curiously at him. But the next moment his companion’s rather boisterous prattle fell upon deaf ears, for just in front, on their way to the mess-room, were Roby and the doctor walking arm in arm, and then they disappeared through the door.
