CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.
LEFT BEHIND.
Even though the rescue party failed in its object in so far that norescue was effected, still, it is more than probable that it was thesaving of Denham's life--for the present; for it had drawn off thesavages and had given the wounded man time, when he recoveredconsciousness, to crawl into the most secure hiding-place he could find.This was in the thick of a clump of bushes, whose overhanging boughsformed a sort of natural pavilion.
In the darkness and general _melee_ his fall had been unperceived, or hewould have been cut to pieces then and there. He had lost his rifle,but still had his revolver and cartridges. That was something. Yet,when all was said and done, here was he alone, in the heart of a nowhostile country, every hand against him did he but show himselfanywhere, without food or means of procuring any, for even did he meetwith game he dared not fire a shot for fear of attracting the attentionof his enemies.
It was with vast relief that he discovered that his injury, thoughpainful, was not serious. He could only conjecture that he had receiveda numbing blow just behind the left shoulder from a heavy knobkerriehurled with tremendous force, and such indeed was the case. At first itseemed as though his shoulder was broken. It had swelled as though itwould burst his coat, but it was only a contusion, though a severe andpainful one.
Lying low in the welcome darkness of his hiding-place he could heardeep-toned voices all round him, some quite near. The impi had returnedfrom its pursuit of the rescue party, and was searching for its dead andwounded. Here was a fresh element of danger. What if they should lightupon him? Then the only course left open would be to sell his life asdearly as possible.
He could hear voices now quite close to his hiding-place. They werecoming straight for him. Crouching there in the gloom, hardly daring tobreathe, he unbuttoned his holster. It was empty! In the excruciatingpain of his injury he had not noticed its unusual lightness. The pistolwas gone. He had dropped it when falling from the horse. He wastotally unarmed, and to that extent utterly helpless.
Not ten yards from his hiding-place the voices stopped. He could hearsome swift ejaculations, then a groan, then another and deeper one. Hehad not made sufficient progress, under Verna's tuition, to be able tomake out what was being said, but he gathered that they had found awounded comrade. Heavens! but what if the latter had seen or heard him,and should put them on his track, perhaps under the impression that hewas one of themselves and needed succour?
Then something dug him as with a sharp sting, then another, thenanother. It was as though burning needles were being thrust into him,but he dared not move. Then another. It was literally maddening. Heconjectured he had got into the vicinity of a nest of black ants, but hecould not lie still thus to be devoured alive. They had managed somehowto get inside his clothing, nor dared he move either to crush ordislodge them; and the incident brought back stories he had heard fromBen Halse and others of the old-time way of torturing those accused ofwitchcraft: spreadeagling them over an ants' nest to be eaten alive.The thought was not a pleasant one, bearing in mind his ownhelplessness, and now, did he fall into the hands of those without, suchmight conceivably be his own fate.
The voices had ceased. He heard a peculiar sound, then a rumbling noiseas of a heavy body struggling upon the earth in the agonies of death.Then the voices were raised again, but now receding. Soon they weresilent altogether.
Given a little exertion, and South Africa, by reason of the dryness ofits atmosphere, is one of the most thirsty climates in the world,wherefore, now a burning thirst which had been growing upon Denhamreached maddening point. At all costs he must slake it, but how--where?He knew that the Gilwana River made a bend which would bring it up toabout a mile from the scene of the fight. Was it safe to venture forth?Well, he must risk it.
All seemed quiet now. The moon was rising, and he remembered how atthat time barely twenty-four hours ago he and Ben Halse had given thealarm which ushered in the fight at Minton's store. Since then anotherstubborn fight, and now here was he, a helpless fugitive, who morelikely than not would be a dead one at any moment.
A few yards and he nearly stumbled over something lying there. It was adead body. Stooping over it in the gathering moonlight, Denham made outthat it was that of a Zulu of good proportions. It was horribly mangledabout both legs, the result of a Dum-dum bullet, but there was a stab inthe chest from which blood was still oozing. Now he knew the meaning ofthe mysterious sounds he had heard. The man had been killed by hiscomrades, probably at his own request, because he was too badly injuredto make it worthwhile carrying him off the field.
He turned away from the corpse in repulsion and horror, and as he did sothe whites of the sightless eyeballs seemed to roll round as if tofollow him. He felt faint and weak. There was a little whisky in hisflask, and this, although of no use at all for thirst-quenchingpurposes, was good as a "pick-me-up." At last the purling ripple of theriver sounded through the still dawn in front. Another effort and thebank is gained.
The bank, yes. But the stream flowing down yonder between this and theother clay bank cannot be reached from here, short of diving into it,but the lay and nature of the soil points to dangerous quicksandsunderlying that smoothly flowing reach. With a curse of bitterdisappointment, his strength weakening with every step, he turns away,to spend another half-hour in scrambling through dongas and thorns andlong grass till an accessible point may be found, and all to theaccompaniment of the musical water rippling merrily in his ears.
At last! Shelving down to the water's edge, a beautiful smooth grassysward, overhung by forest trees. The fugitive throws himself on thebrink and takes a long, long, cool drink, and it is cool at the hourbefore sunrise. Then, infinitely refreshed, he sits up.
What is there in this flow of river, in the silence of the forest, thatbrings back another memory, the memory of a repulsive, agonised face; ofthe last shriek as the wretch is dragged under? He himself is now inwell-nigh as hopeless a case. Again between himself and Verna has comeFate. Can it be that this tribute is to be exacted from him for thatother's blood? Exhausted, despairing, he sits there on the river bank.Well may he despair. Unarmed and foodless, how shall he ever succeed infinding his way back to safety?
What is that? The sound of voices coming along the river bank, and withit the unmistakable rattle of assegai-hafts. Wildly he looks around.There is nowhere to hide. In a minute they will be upon him. Ha! theriver!
Just below, the current swirled between high banks, which in one placeoverhung. By gaining this point--and he was a powerful swimmer--hemight lie _perdu_, half in, half out of the water. They would not thinkof looking for him there. Famished, weakened, aching from the dull painin his shoulder, he let himself into the water, and swimming noiselesslydownstream gained the desired haven just as some fifty Zulus, in fullwar-trappings, came out on the spot where but now he had been sitting.He could hear the sound of their deep voices, but they did not seemraised in any unusual tone of curiosity or excitement.
He was half in, half out of the water, clinging to a pile of brushwoodthat had been wedged in there. A ripple out on the smooth surface ofthe stream evoked another thought. Crocodiles! Heavens! had that samehorrible fate been reserved for himself?
Minutes seemed hours. The water was cold in the early morning, and hewas half numbed. Then he saw the Zulus cross the drift, holding theirshields and assegais high above the water. One tall, finely built manled. Him he thought he recognised. Surely it was Sapazani.
Sapazani! The chief was on the friendliest terms with Ben Halse.Everything moved him to come forth and claim his protection, and then amore subtle instinct warned him not to. He remembered how he himselfhad been held in durance at the instance of that very chief, and the airof mystery that seemed to have hung over that extraordinary proceeding.They were not at war then, and he had been released. Now they were atwar. No, he would not venture.
He waited until some time after all sound
s of them had died away, thenslid into the water again and swam quietly, and with a long side stroke,upstream to where he had entered. But before he was half-way somethingstartling happened. The crash of a rifle--evidently from the high bankabove him, together with a peculiar thud, followed immediately by thelashing and churning of the water just behind him. He looked back.Some large creature was struggling on the surface in its furious deaththroes. He shuddered. It was better to fall into the hands of thesavages and take his chance than to consign himself to such a certainand horrible death as this. So in despair he emerged from the water, tofind himself confronted by two men--a white man and a Zulu.
An indescribable revulsion of joy and security ran through him, nor wasit dashed when he recognised the very mysterious recluse who had shownhim hospitality on the night following the tragedy in that other river.The other was Mandevu.
"This time you yourself were about to become food for crocodiles," saidthe former in a grim, expressionless way, as he emerged dripping fromthe stream.
"Wasn't I? Well, you saved my life once, and I throw myself upon yourhelp to save it again."
"Why should I save it again?"
"Why should you have saved it once, if not again?"
"Not once, twice already, if you only knew it."
Denham stared at him for a moment.
"Ah!" he said, as if a new light had dawned upon him. Then, in hisfrank, open, taking way, "Save it a third time, then, before you do so afourth, for at present I'm simply starving."
"That's soon remedied." He said a word to Mandevu, and in a minute ortwo the latter returned, leading a strong, serviceable-looking horse,and Denham's eyes grew positively wolfish as they rested upon some breadand biltong which was unpacked from a saddle bag. "Now sit there in thesun and you'll be dry in half-an-hour."
The normal hard and cruel expression had given way to a sort ofhumanised softness in the brown, sun-tanned face of the stranger as hewatched Denham sitting there in the newly risen sun, voraciouslydevouring that which was set before him. At last he said--
"You are a man of your word, Denham."
"Oh, you know my name," said the other cheerfully. Some instinctrestrained him from suggesting that the advantage was all on one side.
"You have kept the condition which I placed upon you. Not even to BenHalse's daughter did you break it."
"Now how do you know that?" And the question and the straight, frankglance accompanying it would have convinced the other, if he had neededconvincing, that this was so.
"That doesn't matter. I do know it. If I did not, you would not havewalked away from Sapazani's place so easily. In fact, you would neverhave got away from it at all."
"I am sure I owe you an endless debt of gratitude," answered Denhamearnestly. "The only thing is I don't believe you will ever give me achance of showing it."
"But I will; I am going to give you just such a chance before we part.But that will keep. Now--when are you going to marry Ben Halse'sdaughter?"
Denham stared, then burst into a joyous laugh.
"When? As soon as ever I can, by God!"
The stranger looked at him curiously.
"Do you know why I have helped you?" he said.
"Not in the least."
"On that account, and--on another. You were made for each other, and Icould see it. _I know_."
There was that in the tone, in the expression of the man's face, thatwent to Denham's heart. He, then, had a sacred memory, which hadremained green all these years. Some telepathic thought seemed toconvey this. He put forth his band and the other took it.
"May I ask," he said, "if you devote life to befriending people insimilar circumstances?"
The other laughed--the dry, mirthless laugh which was the only form ofmerriment in which he ever seemed to indulge.
"No, indeed. Once only, under similar circumstances. That was duringthe trouble in Matabeleland."
"By Jove!"
Then fell an interval of silence, which neither seemed in a hurry tobreak. The sun mounted higher and higher, and grew hot. At length themysterious stranger drew a parcel from his inner pocket. It was of nosize, but carefully done up in waterproof wrappings.
"You have given me your word," he said, "and you have kept it--I mean asto having met me at all. You can account for your escape, as may occurto you, but no word, no hint about me. Another condition I must imposeupon you, and that is that you take no further part in the fightinghere, but proceed straight to England, and deliver the contents of thispacket in the quarter whither they are addressed. But the packet is notto be opened until you are on English soil. Do you agree?"
"Most certainly. Why, I owe you everything, even life."
"Even life, as you say. And not even to the girl you love must youdivulge the knowledge of my existence--the secrets between man and manare just as inviolable as those between man and woman. Well, you willbe taken under safe guidance--absolutely safe, have no fear--toEzulwini, but you will have to travel by byways, and therefore slowly.You see, I have watched every step you have taken ever since you cameinto the country, because I had marked you down as the one man who couldcarry out my purpose, and you will do it. Now, if you are rested, youcan take this horse, and Mandevu will guide you to where you will findan efficient escort."
"But--I can't talk very well. And then, if we are attacked by a whiteforce, what then? I only ask so as to know what to do."
"Neither matters, and you will not be attacked. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Then farewell. We shall never meet again, but I know you will carryout everything."
"That I will. Good-bye."
They clasped hands, and as Denham rode away from the spot he wonderedwhether he had been dreaming. At the top of the rise he looked back.The other had disappeared.
"Come, _Nkose_!" said Mandevu, his tall form striding on in front at thepace of the horse's fast walk.
CHAPTER THIRTY.
"CURTAIN."
The Nodwengu Hotel at Ezulwini was in such a state of turn-out andgeneral excitement as had never occurred within the walls of that notvery antique establishment. The big central room, ordinarily used forconcerts or dances or public meetings, was crammed with laid-out tableswherever a plate and knife and fork could be crowded in, while thesmaller one, the dining-room under conditions of everyday life, wasentirely handed over to the bottle department. All this, however, didnot herald a royal visit--only a wedding.
"See here, Mrs Shelford," said Denham, looking in for a moment upon thescene, where the pretty and popular hostess was seeing to this, that andthe other with all her characteristic thoroughness. "You'll have notime to get into that exceedingly fetching frock I caught a glimpse ofthe other day if you don't leave all this to somebody else."
"Oh yes, I shall. But you know what I told you the day you came--youcan't leave everything to Kafirs. By the way, I suppose you've hadenough of the Kafirs now?"
"For a time, yes. But--I think they're interesting. Sapazani, forinstance?" waggishly.
"The brute! Good thing he was shot. Well, I suppose we shall never seeyou out here again."
"I'm not so sure about that. Didn't I find Verna here--right here, inthis very house? And isn't that why I in particular wanted her marriedhere, among the people she knows, and who know her, rather than inDurban or some other strange place?"
"Yes, you did find her here, didn't you? Well, now, Mr Denham, you'veno business here yourself this morning--until you come back in state.So go away now till then."
"No fear," said a jovial voice in the doorway. "Mr Denham'scoming round to have a glass with myself and some of his oldfellow-campaigners, round the corner."
"Look here, Mr Shelford, remember the serious business sticking out,"said Denham merrily.
"And as for the campaigners, all the campaigning I seem to have done wasto slink away and hide."
"Yes, of course. But they've a different tale to tell. But if youdon't want t
o come you'll better do the same now, because these chapswill get you there by force."
"Oh well, I can't afford to offer resistance to the police, so heregoes."
The bar was crowded, mostly with police. Denham's arrival was hailedwith a shout of acclamation, and he and his bride were duly toasted witha good-fellowship which, if a bit noisy, was still genuinely sincere.These fine fellows were all due to start for the seat of hostilitiesagain that evening, but, if some of them were a bit "wobbly" now, theywould be all right, and fit, and hard as ever, when the time came, neverfear.
From that lively scene to the quiet of the hospital was a strangecontrast. Denham slipped away opportunely and soon, for he had a visitto make.
"How's Stride to-day, doctor?" meeting the District surgeon at theentrance.
"Going on slowly, but well. Don't excite him, will you?"
"No; I think he'd like to say good-bye. What do you think?"
"As long as he doesn't get excited," was the rather dubious answer."Come along."
The hospital at Ezulwini was rather full just then with victims of therebellion, still in full swing, and the nurses were busy morning, noonand night. Everything about the place was so bright and cheerful thatthe casual visitor almost wanted to be an inmate for a time. Even theoperating-room looked inviting, and more suggestive of cool drinks thanof bloodshed. Not here was it, however, that they were to find HarryStride.
"Well, Stride, old chap, how are you getting on?" said Denham, takingthe sick man's listless hand.
"Oh, I don't know; they say I'll pull through, but I'm taking a darnlong time about it. And I wanted to go and pump some more lead intothose swine, and it'll be all over while I'm lying here."
"Well, better be lying here than lying _there_," said Denham,
"Right-oh! And that's where I should be lying if it hadn't been foryou," answered the other earnestly.
"Oh, that's all in the tug-of-war," rejoined Denham. "We don't countthat at all. You'd have done the same for me--we'd all have done thesame for each other, of course. But I couldn't clear out without sayinggood-bye, and seeing how you were getting on."
"You're awfully good, Denham; but I don't believe I should have done thesame if the positions were reversed."
"Yes, you would. And look here, Stride, you needn't think that Ihaven't sympathised with you all through. How could I have helped doingso from the very circumstances themselves?"
Stride was silent for a few moments. Then he said--
"I believe I've behaved like a cur, Denham. If you really did what we--what I suspected, I'm certain that you were justified. Since I've beenlying here I've been thinking things over."
"Well, in that case you may take it from me that it was justified,"answered Denham gravely.
"I'll swear it was. Well, it's awfully good of you to find time to lookin upon me this morning of all days, and I appreciate it."
Denham was moved.
"Look here," he said, dropping his hand upon that of the other, "I mustgo now, time presses. But, Stride, old chap, I want you to promise mesomething, and that is that if ever you are in want of a friend you willremember you have the best of that article here. For instance,prospecting is precarious work, and, I'm told, often very hand-to-mouth.Now, I happen to be one of those fortunate people who is frequently ina position to be of use to his fellow-creatures, and if ever you findyourself in any strait you must apply to me. There are often fairlycomfortable bunks I can slide people into. Now, will you?"
"Yes, I will. You are awfully good, Denham."
"That's settled. So now good-bye, and don't get well until it's toolate to go and get yourself half killed over again."
A hearty handshake, a pleasant nod and a smile, and Denham was gone.But Stride called him back.
"You'll give--her--my every good wish?"
"Certainly, old chap, certainly."
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The arrival of the missing man had been a source of boundless surprise.How on earth had he, a stranger, been able to make his way across thatlong distance of hostile country? Why, it would have taxed to theuttermost the experience and resources of any one among themselves, wasthe consensus of opinion. The thing was a mystery, and at such Denhamleft it. He supposed he was born lucky and with a bump of topography,was how he accounted for it in his easy-going way. But never by word orhint did he let drop anything as to the real agency which had got himthrough, not even to Verna.
And she? Well, to-day was her wedding day.
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The pretty little church at Ezulwini was crammed. Sub-Inspector Dering,incidentally due to leave for the seat of war that evening, acted bestman, and subsequently, at the big spread at the Nodwengu Hotel, in thecourse of his speech pointed out that having helped to "kill" one goodman that morning he was due to go off and get another good man killed,himself to wit, that evening, but that he deserved for coming in toolate to pick the combination of rose and lily of the whole country forhimself; which hit evoked vast laughter and applause, and thefestivities flowed on.
"Father," said Verna, in the interval before leaving. "Father, dear oldfather, what will you do without me? Shall you go back home or what?"
Her tears were falling as she held him round the neck, gazing wistfullyinto the strong, weather-beaten face, which in spite of her presentgreat happiness it wrung her heart to realise she should see no more, atany rate, for some time to come.
"No, not yet, anyhow. I shall go and take part in this scuffle," heanswered. "Perhaps, later on, I'll come and help knock over some ofDenham's pheasants in the old country, if he's agreeable."
"If he's agreeable? What's that, Halse?" repeated Denham, who had justthen come in. "Why, the sooner you like, the sooner the better for us.Come now. We'll have a jolly voyage all together."
"No; I'll see this scrap through first," was the trader's reply, givenwith characteristic terseness. "Later on, perhaps."
Then there was a tremendous "send off," and thereafter the bulk ofEzulwini--male--spent the rest of the day and evening proposing thehealths of the departed bride and bridegroom.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
ENVOI.
The leafy summer day was at its close--and Horlestone Manor was in oneof the leafiest parts of leafy England. Through its cool gardens in thecloudless sunset strolled two people.
"I wonder if you'll ever long for the good old wild surroundings amongall this tameness, darling," one of them was saying.
"Tameness! Why, it's Paradise!"
"Paradise! Wait until you see it in winter. You'll yearn for theLumisana when you're shivering with three feet of snow piled up roundthe house."
"No, I won't. If I do I'll go and stare at the big koodoo head and the_indhlondhlo_. Let's have another look at them now."
They strolled through the passage that led to Denham's large andspacious museum. The great head looked down upon them from a prominentspace, where it was throned all by itself. Beneath hung aninscription--
"Shot by Verna Denham, Lumisana Forest, Zululand."
Then the date.
"We shall have to turn that inscription face to the wall if James orHallam or Downes come to give us their promised look-up," laughedDenham.
"Oh, we'll tell them to look the other way." Then, growing serious:"Strange how so many of the things here should have been instrumental inbringing us our life's happiness. It was through them we cametogether."
"It was, thank God," he rejoined, equally serious.
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Finis.
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Forging the Blades: A Tale of the Zulu Rebellion Page 29