"Well, and who says I'm not?" retorted Payne. "Can't a fellow drive into the village for the day without having trekked?"

"Oh, for the day!" repeated the first speaker, significantly. "Then, my good fellow, let me recommend you to remain. After that last affair we shall have old Kreli coming straight across to give as a look up, he'll be so c.o.c.k-a-hoop."

"Wish he would," growled another. "We'd give him particular toko."

"What last affair?" said Payne, half antic.i.p.ating the answer. "Has there been a fight?"

"I should jes' think there had. A few of the Police and a lot of Fingoes were tackled by the Gcalekas; but you must have heard!"

"No, I haven't; not a word."

"Well, then," went on the other, brightening up as a man will do when he is the first to impart to you a big bit of news; "the thing was this. A lot of Gcalekas--five thousand, they say--were going across to thrash the Fingoes, and the Police were ordered out to support the Fingoes.

They met, and the gun opened fire--one of them seven-pounders they were practising here with t'other day. It appears that they made very good shootin', and mowed down the Kafirs like smoke; and then somehow or other the gun broke down, and, by George, sir, before you could say 'knife' the Fingoes turned tail and ran--bolted clean. Well, of course it wasn't to be expected a few Police--a mere handful as it were--How many were there, Jim?" broke off the narrator, turning to a companion.

"About one hundred and sixty."

"Yes. Well, it wasn't to be expected they could stand against five thousand of Kreli's chaps; and they didn't. The order was given to retire, and then it became a job to catch the horses, and, as the Kafirs charged them, they were obliged to run for it. Some who couldn't catch their horses were killed--six--six privates and a sub-inspector; and now old Kreli's c.o.c.k of the walk--for the time being."

"Where was the row?" asked Claverton.

"Well, it was at a place called Guadana--just on the boundary of the Idutywa Reserve."

"When was it--yesterday?" inquired Payne.

"No--day before. I'm expecting a chap round here directly who's straight from up there. Come in and liquor, and we'll get him to tell us all about it."

"The day before yesterday!" echoed Payne, opening his eyes wide--and he and Claverton looked meaningly at each other--for it was on the evening of that very day that the old Kafir had come to them with his stealthy warning, and the dread Fire Trumpet had blazed forth on the Kei hills, signalling to the expectant tribes within the colonial boundary, the news of their brethren's victory. And it was on the following day that they two had so nearly carried the war into the enemy's country in pursuit of the stolen cattle, all unconscious, then, of the mad rashness of the undertaking--an undertaking, which, had it been carried out, would a.s.suredly have cost them their lives.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE ATTACK ON THE "GREAT PLACE."

It is night. Night, that is to say, for all practical purposes, though strict chronological accuracy might compel us to define it as morning; for nearly three hours have elapsed since midnight. But, be that as it may, at present it is as dark as the nethermost shades, as one of that long, silent file of hors.e.m.e.n, wending its way through the gloom, remarks to a comrade.

A chill breeze stirs the raw atmosphere, and sweeps before it puffs of misty vapour which have been resting thickly alike upon hill-top and low-lying bottom. Overhead a few sickly stars shine forth through the flying scud, to be quickly veiled again, and replaced by another spangled patch. And, advancing at a foot-pace, comes line upon line of mounted men, moving through the darkness like the phantom hors.e.m.e.n of some eerie legend. Very little talking is there in the ranks. m.u.f.fled in their overcoats and with hats slouched over their faces the men ride on, stolid, and meditative, and little inclined for conversation in the damp, raw air which has a corresponding effect upon their spirits, even if orders had not been issued for quiet and caution; for it is a night march in the heart of the enemy's country.

It is difficult to distinguish face or feature of any description in the profundity of the gloom; but now and again the dull silence and the dead monotonous tramp of hoofs is relieved by the clank of arms and the jingle of a bit; or the smothered imprecation of some one whose horse has stumbled in the darkness, as he holds up the careless animal, who gives a snort of alarm. And the march continues on through the night, till at last the gloom shows signs of lightening, and we begin to make out the aspect of this bellicose-looking cavalcade advancing over the hills and dales of savage Gcalekaland. We see a number of roughly-clad, bearded men, mostly attired in serviceable corduroy and with a gaily-coloured handkerchief twined round their slouch hats, mounted on tough, wiry steeds. On their saddles are strapped blankets or mackintoshes and for arms each man carries a rifle of some sort--from the Government Snider, to the double-barrelled weapon in ordinary frontier use, rifled and smooth-barrel for varying distance or quarry.

Not a few have revolvers also; and broad, heavy belts, holding at least two hundred rounds of cartridge, are buckled round them or slung over their shoulders. Many of which bullets will, I trow, find their mark in the dusky bodies of the savage enemy before the day is very far advanced. This is a corps of Irregular Horse, frontiersmen all of them.

Another side of the column we see, in the gathering dawn, is composed of mounted volunteers--townsmen--whose gay uniforms, cavalry sabres, and glittering accoutrements, show out in contrast to the more sombre trappings of the corps first noticed. Yet of the two it is not difficult to predict which the enemy would rather meet in battle.

Another ingredient in this martial array is the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police, two or three troops of which useful force, looking ready and soldier-like in their helmets and sober uniforms, flank the march-- these are armed with short carbine and revolver. And lo, moving along, drawn by several stout horses, black and rakish-looking in the uncertain light, are the field-pieces, with their attendant gunners--a smart and efficient selection of men.

The object of the expedition may be divulged by a sc.r.a.p of the conversation of one of its members.

"So we shall smoke the old fox out of his own earth at last," is saying a st.u.r.dy young fellow in the ranks of the Irregular Horse.

"Ha, ha! Shall we? You don't suppose old Kreli is sitting at home waiting for us, do you?" is his comrade's reply. "Why, he's miles off, I expect."

"Bet you he isn't," cut in a third. "Bet you one to five in half-crowns we n.o.bble old Kreli to-day."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the first speaker. "Jack's so sure of his bet that he wants all the odds in his favour."

"Well, well, yes," rejoined the other, briskly. "We must have a bet on, you know, just as a matter of form. But you'll have to hand over, Hicks, my boy. You laid me long odds when we started that we shouldn't burn Kreli's Great Place before Christmas, and--"

"And we haven't," interrupted Hicks. "There's many a slip, you know, and we are not there yet; and the commander may take it into his head to--"

"Ssh-h! Silence there forward, please?"

The two disputants subsided. They were very near the scene of operations now, and almost immediately a halt was called. Beneath, in a hollow, lay the "Great Place," a large collection of huts--well placed for convenience and comfort, but extremely badly for purposes of defence--on a bend of the Xora River, whose clear waters flowed gurgling past. Overshadowing the village on the one side was a great krantz, and around lay pleasant slopes of rolling pasture, relieved here and there by patches of mimosa thorns. All was wrapped in the most profound silence as the day broke. The inhabitants of the village slumbered unsuspectingly; and if the old chief was there it was extremely likely that the attacking column, drawing a cordon round the place, would have him fast shut within the trap. Meanwhile the said column rested upon its oars, and grumbled.

"What the devil _are_ we waiting for?" fumed Hicks. "The n.i.g.g.e.rs'll all get away before we get so much as a long shot at them. And a fellow mayn't even have a pipe while he's waiting."

"Keep cool, old man," replied Armitage. "Or ask Captain Jim."

"Captain Jim," being none other than our old friend Jim Brathwaite, who, with characteristic energy, the moment war was fairly declared, had set to work to raise a select corps of his own--not a difficult proceeding, for men flocked from all parts to take service under a leader so popular and so well known for dash and daring--and in three days he had enrolled nearly a hundred picked men. This corps comprised all of our old Seringa Vale friends, and, being mainly of local origin, its members knew and trusted thoroughly each other and their leaders.

"Ah, now we shall hear something," went on Hicks, as a Police orderly was seen to ride up and confer with their leader. "The advance, I expect."

"Or the retreat," suggested another, cynically. "Just as likely the one as the other, from all accounts."

"Hallo. There's the enemy, by Jupiter!" cried another young fellow.

All turned. A dark column was seen rapidly advancing up the hill in their rear, and more than one heart beat quicker as its owner watched the approach of this new factor in the state of affairs.

"Not it," said Naylor, quietly. "It's the Fingoes for whom we've been waiting all this time. Now we shall be able to go forward."

An exclamation of wrath went along the line.

"Lazy brutes!"

"Waiting for _them_, indeed!" and so on.

"Now, men," said Naylor, who was second in command, "here's the programme. We are to attack on the right with the Kaffrarian fellows.

At the sound of the bugle we advance, in skirmishing order, according to the number of Kafirs in the kraal, and the fight they show. If possible, we are to surround them. Now--mount!"

The last order had not to be given twice, and in a moment the whole troop was moving round behind the hills, to take up their allotted position--where they waited, each man, rifle in hand, burning with impatience to begin. Scarce a sound was audible in that quiet vale; now and then a small bird fluttered up from the gra.s.s with a piping twitter, once a great black ringhals rustled away, half inflating his hood in surprised wrath at the unwonted disturbance, but even of this abhorred foe the men took no notice. They were after heavier game to-day--the heaviest of all--human game. And the mist rolled back over the bills.

Suddenly a shot rings out on the morning air, then another and another.

And now, on every face is an expression of the most eager expectancy, and every one grips his rifle. The hands of some of the younger men, who have never been in action before, begin to shake; but not with fear.

There is something intensely exciting in this silent waiting, and they are only longing to begin. Then a volume of white-blue smoke spouts forth from a point above, a heavy boom, a hurtling rush through the air, and the shrapnel bursts with a screech and a detonation right over the nearest cl.u.s.ter of huts. At the same time the bugle-notes peal out from the hill-top loud and clear--the signal for the attack to begin.

And the kraal wears the appearance of a disturbed ants' nest. From everywhere and nowhere, apparently, dark forms are starting up, and the whole place is alive with fierce warriors, and shining gun-barrels, and bristling a.s.segais; and puffs of smoke among the thatch huts, and many an ugly "whiz" in the ears of the attacking force, show that the Kafirs have opened a tolerably smart fire in return.

Crack--crack--crack! echo the rifles of the a.s.sailants, as the jets of flame, which in an advancing line play upon the doomed village, draw nearer and nearer--the sharpshooters taking advantage of every bit of cover during their approach. And over and above the rattle of small-arms booms out the thunderous roar of cannon, losing itself in a hundred echoes on the wall of the great cliff opposite, and again and again bursts the screeching sh.e.l.l over that swarm of human beings, and very soon the groans of the stricken and the maimed and the dying begin to mingle with the fierce war-shouts of the Gcaleka warriors. These, indeed, are beginning to fall thick and fast, but still their bullets and bits of potleg [Note 1] whistle about the ears of the attacking party.

"Now, men!" cries Jim Brathwaite. "One more volley and then at them.

Ready!"