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Chapter Thirty.
Out of the Whirl
“Ujojo!”
“Nkose?”
And the chief of the guard went over to where lay his former master.
“You did well to keep those Abantwana Mlimo off me last night. They might have pricked me with a poisoned blade, or have done anything.” The speaker little guessed he had hit the actual mark. “And now, Ujojo – why are you fighting?”
The man laughed, turning aside his head.
“Nkose, I have been taking care of your cattle for you,” he said. “I have them, all but three, and those the people took, wanting meat. Afterwards I will return them.”
“But – if you thought I was blown up with the house?”
“I could not think that, Nkose. Anyone else yes – but – well, the cattle are there.”
“You will not be the loser, Ujojo, no, nor Zwabeka. Now, when am I to be allowed to depart?”
“Nkose is sick.”
“No; I am well now.”
It seemed like it. Hope once more rekindled – powerfully rekindled – seemed to have infused the sufferer with new life. His bruised leg was still terribly stiff and painful, but the fever had almost left him. That is a peculiarity of this up-country malaria. A man may be shivering under eight blankets in the evening and the next morning be standing about in his shirt loading up his waggons or donkeys. Lamont, chatting thus with his guard on the morning after his visit from Zwabeka, felt almost as if he had never had anything the matter with him in his life.
“There is the doctor, Nkose,” said Ujojo, with a sweep of the hand beneath.
Zwabeka’s runners had been swift. Crossing the stony hollow was a horseman, and in a minute or two further Lamont and Father Mathias were shaking hands cordially.
“Why we never expected to meet like this again, did we?” said the latter. “Now show me where you have hurt your leg – you have hurt it, I am told. You know, I have a medical diploma in my own country.”
“Then you have a double-barrelled sphere of usefulness, Father. But – how on earth did you get up among Madula’s people? Why, the whole country is in a blaze.”
“I was called to see a poor white man who was dying. He was a sort of a trader among them, and they were friendly with him, and protected him when the rising began. He sent for me, assuring me that I should be safeguarded until I was back in any township or post I should elect.”
“And you put your head into a hornet’s nest on that slender assurance?”
The other smiled.
“Why, yes; it is part of my commission. Would you shrink from going to the rescue of someone, Mr Lamont, because the odds were largely against you?”
It was Lamont’s turn to smile now, and that grimly, remembering the odds that had been against him in ‘going to the rescue of someone.’
“The poor man died, but I was just in time,” went on the priest. “Then I stayed on and doctored some of the people who were suffering from ordinary ailments, and indeed from wounds. As for danger, they would not have harmed me.”
“No, not if you made yourself useful in that line. I recollect at Zwabeka’s that memorable time, I boomed you sky high as a tremendous isanusi, but they wouldn’t more than half believe it then.”
Father Mathias laughed, then, going outside to where he had left his horse, he detached the saddlebag, and returned.
“I have not so much luggage as the last time we met – but I have a useful medicine chest here. I shall give you something to reduce that fever, then I shall attend to the leg. You have let it fall into a very sore state. The wonder is, it is not one great veldt sore.”
While being thus tended with deft surgical skill, Lamont proceeded to narrate all that had befallen within his own experience of the rising. He kept the plum of his news until the last.
“Why, then, I congratulate you heartily, Mr Lamont,” said the priest. “You are indeed fortunate.”
“I quite agree, and now I am wondering when old Zwabeka is going to keep his word, and turn us loose out of this. You can imagine how I am chafing over it.”
Father Mathias smiled to himself, as he contrasted the tense feverish earnestness of his friend now, with the cool, impassive, utterly indifferent demeanour that had characterised him on the last occasion of their meeting. Suddenly a dismal, long-drawn, nasal sound beneath, interrupted them. A number of dark figures were crossing the hollow in a kind of dance, wailing forth their abominable chant.
“It’s those infernal Abantwana Mlimo,” said Lamont angrily. “The brutes have been agitating to get me into their hands to cut my throat, or worse, all the time. Stirring up the crowd too. If we don’t get away from here soon, they may carry things their own way.”
There was worse to come. Following upon the heels of the contorting sorcerers, came a number of warriors – from the interest with which those already on the ground jumped up to stare at them, obviously new arrivals. On they came, pouring forward in an open column, their number seemed to be unending; and now these too, clashing their sticks upon their shields, began to take up the song of the Abantwana Mlimo. Lamont listened eagerly as it swelled higher and louder, then turned to his companion, his face dark with bitterness.
“Just as I said, too late now. They are clamouring for our lives, egged on of course by those infernal sorcerers; and they’ll get what they want, too, for Zwabeka is nothing like strong enough to defy a number like that.”
The situation from one of relief and hope had become appalling. Below, these human beasts, hundreds and hundreds of them, stamping their feet, roaring, waving their tufted shields, flashing their blades, as they bellowed forth, in a kind of improvised rhythm, their bloodthirsty petition. Others, too, were joining them; but above all the shrill, yelling voices of the sorcerers rose high and unflagging. Any moment the wild rout might break out of hand, and then —
“Well, Father, I have sunk your ship with mine,” said Lamont bitterly. “If you hadn’t come here to look after me you’d have been safe at Madula’s now.”
“Yes? But where safety and duty take different paths, we must follow the latter,” was the tranquil reply.
Lamont looked at him with admiration. Here was a man of the pattern of the old-time saint and martyr, if ever there was one, he thought.
“I am done for, but it is possible they may not harm you,” he said. “If you see – her – again, tell her you saw the last of me.”
The frightful racket of the blood-song had become deafening now. A glance forth served to show that many of the clamouring rout had faced round, and were flourishing shields and weapons in the direction of their retreat.
“It may be any minute now,” he went on. Then, vehemently, “Father, I would like to die in Clare’s faith.”
“And if you live, would you live in it?”
“To the end of my days. I have been thinking a good deal about things since I have been lying here.”
The two were looking each other straight in the face. That of the priest had brightened as though by a semi-supernatural irradiation.
“It may not be too late now,” he said.
It was not. Something was done – not much, but sufficient. Something was said – not much, but sufficient under the circumstances, as sufficient indeed as though that pile of boulders had been a cathedral. And no sooner was that so than the whole roaring, stamping rout came surging up to the opening.
But, barring the said opening, stood ten men with levelled guns, foremost among them the faithful Ujojo.
“Back!” cried the latter in stentorian tones. “You only enter here over us dead ones. But you will enter over even more of your own dead ones first.”
The crowd halted, so fierce and resolute was the aspect of Zwabeka’s guards. Some vociferated one thing, some another. Some cried that they would not harm the white doctor, but the man who had done such terrible execution against them. U’ Lamonti – him they must and would put to death; while others shouted that no difference should be made between either, that all whites should be stamped from the land, for had not Umlimo said it. And the abominable sorcerers, hanging on the outskirts of the crowd, took up this cue and worked it for all it was worth.
“Hear now!” cried Ujojo. “Zwabeka is my father and chief. He placed me here saying, ‘Suffer none to enter.’ If you can find the chief and induce him to say to me, ‘Let those men enter’ – then ye enter – not otherwise.”
For a moment the rout looked staggered, then the uproar redoubled. As a matter of fact Zwabeka was at that moment about four miles away across the mountains, and, of course, in complete ignorance of the demonstration which was going on at his camp.
“I have an idea, but a desperate one,” said Lamont. “It may be worth something if only to gain a little time. Ho, amadoda!” he called out, advancing near the entrance, though not showing himself. “Remember what happened to those who would have plundered my house. Well, the white doctor and I have enough of the same evil múti to blow half this mountain away ten times over. Where will ye be then? But we, and these few men who are obeying their chief, will come to no harm. We and they will come through it safe, even as I did before, and those that were with me.”
The effect of this statement was greater than its propounder had dared to hope. The awful effects of the explosion at Lamont’s farm had been sounded throughout the length and breadth of the nation. The clamour, which had been deafening, was suddenly hushed, only finding vent in a buzzing murmur. The bloodthirsty fervour of the crowd seemed to have sizzled.
“May I use anything I find in your medicine chest, Father,” said Lamont hurriedly. “Thanks. Ah, this will do. It may be advisable to set up a preliminary scare.”
He selected nothing more formidable than an ordinary medicine measure, a ball of cotton wool, and a strand of magnesium wire. Then he advanced to the entrance and for the first time showed himself.
“Fear nothing, Ujojo. You and your men are safe,” he murmured. Then, aloud: “Now! Will ye all go? You weary us.”
The uncanny looking glass, inverted, caught the light. Upon the upturned bottom of the glass he had placed the ball of wool. Now, as in full view of them all he ignited the magnesium wire, flashing it within the inverted glass, the whole crowd, with the fear of the former explosion before its eyes, could stand it no longer. It backed, stumbled – then half turned.
“We withdraw, Lamonti, we withdraw,” cried a voice.
“Withdraw then. This fire is nearly burnt out. Then follows the rending of the earth.”
Swiftly, almost at a run, the badly frightened crowd, which a moment since had been bellowing for his blood, moved away, not halting to look back until it had reached a very respectable distance indeed. With difficulty Lamont restrained a hysterical roar of laughter.
“A near thing, Father,” he said to his companion. “But for that idea of mine they would have rushed the place. We are not out of the wood yet though. Hallo – what new excitement can be in the wind now?”
For among those who had just been giving trouble a new hubbub had arisen, but this time their retreat was not its object, for glances were turned in the opposite direction, and now among the varying vociferations could be descried the word ‘Amakiwa.’ And then, away beyond the stony ridge, rose the muffled, dropping roar of firearms. One of these two white men the sound thrilled like the thrill of harp-strings.
Beneath, in the hollow, excitement became intense on every hand. Groups of warriors springing from nowhere, armed, were moving off in the direction of the sound; the large body by which they had just been threatened had already gone. Again and again that dropping volley – somewhat nearer – and now from a new direction – and this time quite near, a renewed roar.
“D’you hear that?” cried Lamont, eager with repressed excitement. “We could almost join these, only we don’t know how many Matabele there may be between us and them.”
Ujojo and the other guards were no more impervious to the prevailing excitement. They were pointing eagerly, this way and that way, and taking in all the different points at which warriors were posted among the rocks to give the invaders a warm reception. That a large force of whites was advancing was manifest by the heaviness of the fire, which was now heard on the three open sides of the place.
A little more of this, and still nearer and nearer drew the three lines of fire, the nearest of all being that on their own side; and now, warriors, by twos and threes, rifle in hand, were seen flitting by, clearly in full retreat or to take up some new position. And, around these, spits of dust from the invaders’ bullets were already beginning to rise.
“Nkose! It is time for us to leave now,” called out Ujojo. “Your people will be here directly.”
“Good, Ujojo. After the war, all those who have guarded me shall have five cows apiece for to-day’s work. Now go!”
“Nkose! Baba!” they shouted with hand uplifted. Then they went.
“I’m thinking out our best plan, Father,” said Lamont. “If we show ourselves too soon we might get shot in mistake for Matabele. The only thing is to – ”
“Give it the schepsels, give it ’em! Give ’em hell!” sung out a voice just beneath. And renewed firing broke forth, presumably on the rear of the retreating guards.
“That’s Peters,” pronounced Lamont. “Ahoy, there! Peters!” he bellowed.
Peters stood stock-still for a moment – stared – listened. “It’s him!” he roared. “It’s him! Wyndham. Here! we’ve found him! We came out to do it – and – we’ve done it. How are you, my dear old chap,” as the quondam prisoner and invalid emerged from his late prison and hospital, walking with surprising vigour. “Oh, but this is too good, too darn good for anything!”
“Let go, Peters. Dash it, man, you hurt,” cried Lamont, ruefully contemplating his half-crushed knuckles. “Or turn some of it on to Father Mathias here. His doctoring skill has pulled me round, I can tell you.”
“How are you, sir. Delighted to see you again,” went on Peters. “We came out to find Lamont. Swore we wouldn’t go back till we had. Isn’t that so, boys?”
“Rather,” answered the others, who had come up. “How are you, captain,” and “Glad to see you safe and sound,” and a dozen other hearty greetings were showered upon him.
“Peters,” he said in a low tone, drawing him apart. “What news? – You know.”
“I can’t give you any, Lamont, beyond the day you disappeared. You see we came straight away from Kezane. Miss Vidal was marvellously plucky, but not a man jack of us but could see she was half broken-hearted. She wanted to come with us.”
“Did she?” said the other huskily.
“Didn’t she! Well, of course that wouldn’t do. She went back to Gandela.”
“And I’m going to do ditto – to-night. You can raise me a horse, Peters?”
“No, I can’t; and I wouldn’t if I could. By the way, have you any idea where you are?”
“Now I think of it, I haven’t.”
“Eastern end of the Matopo. So you see the sort of country – and the extent of it – between this and Gandela. And it just swarms with rebels.”
Lamont admitted the sense of this, but it was hard to be patient. Meanwhile the battle, or skirmish, – in which they had ceased to take any further interest, – had rolled farther and farther away, and was slackening off altogether.
When the force went into camp for the night, great was the dissatisfaction expressed over Peters’ proposed defection. The latter was adamant.
“I’ve come out with one object now,” he said, “and I’ve attained it. We must get back to Gandela at once, where Lamont has some very pressing business. Then we’re going to start a corps of our own. In fact, that’s all cut and dried. Eh, Wyndham?”
Wyndham agreed, and it was arranged they should start at dawn. Father Mathias elected to remain with the expedition. His knowledge of surgery might be useful, he urged, and indeed subsequent events proved it to be very useful indeed, and the intrepidity of the doctor-priest, and his unflagging care for the wounded and the dying, even under the hottest of fire, won for him the admiration of all, not only on that expedition but throughout the entire campaign.
Peters’ party duly reached Gandela – not without incident, for on one occasion it had to fight its way through. And then there were great rejoicings, and a reunion which was too sacred for us to meddle with. Then, too, came about the formation of that hard-bitten corps, ‘Lamont Tigers,’ and tigers indeed the savage enemy was destined to find them, until eventually he sullenly laid down his arms at the Matopo Peace. And with their departure, pain and black anxiety deepened down once more – but – such was the common lot.
Epilogue
“Heard the latest, Violet?” said Squire Courtland, as they got up from lunch.
“There are so many latests,” was the reply, somewhat acidly made.
“So there are. But this is a local ‘latest,’ and touches a nearish neighbour. What do you think of Lamont?”
“I never do think of him,” she answered, even more acidly.
“Well, he’s coming home. His place is being done up, and they’ve got people working at it night and day. He’s not only made a big name for himself as a fighter, but he appears to have struck a gold mine into the bargain, and now he’s cleared off all the encumbrances and is having the place put into tip-top order. What do you think of that?”
“I don’t think anything of it either way. In fact the matter has no earthly interest for me whatever,” snapped Violet, with her nose in the air.
“Not? That’s lucky. You did make a mess of your chances there, Violet, and no mistake.”
“Did I? I don’t know that I agree, and at any rate it’s all ancient history, and like most ancient history rather flat and stale and humdrum. Anyway the whole subject has lost all interest for me.”
Squire Courtland looked at his daughter, with a mischievous pucker round his eyes.
“What instinctive liars all women are,” he was saying to himself.
Violet made some excuse, and took herself out of his presence. She had to, or her temper would have got the upper hand: result – a stormy scene, recrimination on her part; cold, withering sarcasm on that of her father; then rancour and bitterness for days. She knew he had never forgiven her for breaking off her engagement with Lamont; less, that she had done so than her manner of doing it. And the worst of it was, he seemed determined never to allow her to forget it; and now the man was coming back – coming to settle down at his ancestral home, almost, so to say, next door to them. And – he was bringing with him a bride.
He had been quick to console himself, she reflected, her lips curling with bitterness – oh yes, quite quick. Only two years. Two years to this very day. But two years mean a great deal to a man of action; and following his career in the newspapers, as she had done, this one, whom she had thrown over, was very much a man of action indeed. For herself – well, her intimates had noticed a very considerable change in Violet Courtland. She had gone through her seasons and social functions, but somehow she had done so listlessly. All her adorers, whom formerly she had patted and made sit up and fetch and carry, she now snubbed ruthlessly, including more than one eligible; and what had formerly afforded her keen enjoyment she now went through perfunctorily.
During the war in Matabeleland she had developed a feverish thirst for reading newspapers, and about them she had found Lamont’s name pretty frequently strewn in connection with that disastrous rising and a certain dare-devil corps known as Lamont’s Tigers, from the fight at the Kezane Store onwards. But ever he seemed to be the leader of this or that desperate venture, wherein the rescue of some outlying, half-armed band, comprising women and children, was the object, and that against large odds. And this saviour of his countrymen – and women – from the horrors of savage massacre, was the man whom she, Violet Courtland, had denounced that very day two years ago, had denounced in public, with every expression of aversion and disgust, as a coward.
She had not been able to escape from the sound of his name. At the dinner-table, in the ballroom – everywhere – his deeds came under discussion and comment; and that in one key – admiration. Moreover, certain newspaper men began to rake up two or three of his doings during the former war in the same wild country, causing Violet Courtland’s eyes to open very wide as she recalled the scene by the mere, and how she had driven this very man from her as a coward.
Two years ago that very day! Strange that exactly the same conditions should prevail: the same hard frost; the same silver sparkle on the bare trees; even the same Christmas Eve bells practising their carillon at intervals. A wave of association it might have been that moved Violet to take her skates, and start for the frozen mere. She was alone now, but she would be sure to find somebody there – the rector’s girls perhaps, and a few others.
She has judged correctly. The surface of Courtland Mere is covered with a smooth and glassy sheet. The ring of the skates is melodious upon the air, and gliding forms dart hither and thither: but these are few – only four, in fact – for the mere is not yet thrown open, and the ice, undulating freely, here and there with an ominous crack, is none too safe even for these four.
“Come back, Violet,” cries a girl’s clear voice. “You’re too far out. It’s awfully thin there. Do you hear?” – as a couple of warning cracks dart along the heaving surface.
“Yes, do come back, Miss Courtland,” echoes the only man in the party. “You’re near the spring hole. Do come back. It’s beastly dangerous.”
Violet Courtland throws back her head and laughs defiantly, circling ever nearer to the fatal spot. One, seeing but unseen, amid the undergrowth beneath the black pines, takes in the picture – the warm kiss of the frosty air upon the flower-like face, framed so seductively in its winter furs; the curve of the red lips, laughing mischievously; the sparkle in the large clear eyes, as the answer is shrilled back —
“Not for me. I’m light enough to go over even the spring hole itself. Oh – h – !”
For, with these words, the ice wave beneath her gliding feet rises and falls like a sheet in the breeze. A crack, and then another – then a horrid shattering sound as of shivered glass. The water, forced through the cracks, spurts upward in blade-like lines, and, with hardly time to utter a shriek, Violet disappears, feet downwards, beneath the surface. A great slab of blue ice, momentarily dislodged, heaves endways upward, then settles down above the head of the girl. The grim mere has literally swallowed its prey.
Those who behold are petrified with horror. Full a hundred yards are they from the disaster, but the man skims straight for the spot. He can do nothing, for he is heavy of build, and the ice will give way beneath his weight long before he reaches her. It will only mean one more victim. But almost instantaneously with the catastrophe a startling thing happens.
A man dashes from beneath the pines, and with a loud warning shout to the others to keep away, he flings himself upon the ice, and, lying flat, propels himself straight for the deadly spring hole, which is here but a score of yards from the bank. Now he is fighting his way through the heaving, crackling ice – now he disappears as if gives way beneath him. Now he is up again; then once more, with a hiss and a splash and the splintering of glass-like ice, he is beneath the surface again. Those on the bank are turned to stone. Will he – will they – never come up? Ah – h!
A head shoots above the surface – two heads! Panting, nearly winded with his terrible exertion and the deadly cold numbing his veins, Piers Lamont is treading water, supporting Violet in a state of semi-unconsciousness; but powerful and wiry as he is, it is all he can do to keep her head above the surface.
“Soames!” he shouts, recognising the man, “there are some chopped poles lying there just inside the trees. Run, man, and throw some out. You girls run for help – keeper’s lodge the nearest. And yell – yell for all you know how,” he pants gaspingly, for the exertion of speech has frightfully sapped his remaining strength.
“God – will they be all day!” he groans through his blue and shaking lips. He can hear Soames tearing through the wood – then things become mixed. The familiar landscape is whirling round. Now he is beheaded – no, it is only the cold ice-edge against his neck. Now he is charging an enemy, using Violet, held in front of him, as a shield. Oh yes, of course he is a coward, for did not she say so – here – on this very spot? And – Something comes whizzing at him. A spear – and he is unarmed. Well, he will grasp it. No, it eludes him. Another! He has it – grasped hard and fast. “Hold tight, old man! Now, are you ready?” yells a voice from the bank.
“Ready? Yes – shoot away!”
And Lamont, with his half-unconscious charge, is hauled to the bank, he gripping with death-like force the end of the fir-pole, under the impression that he is warding off a hostile spear from his heart. Once on firm ground though, and relieved of the strain, he soon recovers himself.
“Put her between the sheets and give her something hot,” he enjoins. “Quick, not a moment to lose. I’m off to try the same prescription myself. So long – but it was a near thing.”
Those who came up had been present on that other occasion that day two years ago, and remembered it vividly – remembered this man’s answer, “I daresay I can risk my life for an adequate motive.” Here, then, he had literally fulfilled his words. And – now he was married.
Clare – no longer Vidal – about to start for a drive, looking lovelier than ever in the sharp English winter air, and the dainty furs which set off the beautiful face, was mightily astonished to behold her proprietor sprinting up the avenue, looking, as he asserted he felt, like a half-drowned rat.
“Had an adventure?” he panted. “Must first get dry, then tell you all about it.”
“Oh, I’m dying to hear. The carriage can go back now. I shall not go out this afternoon.”
Half an hour later she was hearing about the accident at the spring hole.
“You ran a great risk,” she said. “Piers, did you never think of me when you took your life in your hands?”
“Very much so. But I couldn’t stand by and leave her to drown, could I?”
“Of course not I was only trying you. But – tell me. Did it bring back just a little of the old feeling? Not a wee tiny echo of it?”
He took her hands in his.
“Not the faintest shadow, darling. You believed in me from the very first – that other one did not. And besides – ”
“And besides – what?”
“You are infinitely the more beautiful of the two.”
“I shan’t be that long if you go on giving me what you men call ‘swelled head’,” she answered brightly. “Look. There’s the post African mail day too.”
“So it is,” taking up the letters which were brought in. “Here’s a great screed from Peters. Full of the mine, I suppose.”
We heard Squire Courtland refer to Lamont having struck a gold mine. As an actual fact he had, and it had come about in rather a peculiar way. After peace was restored he and Peters had made their way out to the farm, to see how things were looking; but the enormous hole blown out of the ground where the house had stood astonished even them. It was while fossicking in this that the keen eye of the professional prospector was at once attracted. A few more quick strokes with the pick, and the yellow treasures of the earth lay revealed. Up went Peters’ hat high in the air, and from his throat a roaring hooray.
“We can put on our jackets now,” he said. “We’re rich men for life.”
“It may be only a ‘pocket,’” was the more cautious comment of the other.
“Pocket or not – there’s enough stuff there to get us a fat offer from any syndicate. But there’s more. Well, didn’t I tell you we’d make our fortunes here.”
“Yes, but who’d have thought we should have to blow up the old shack to do it?”
They had realised on it well – uncommonly well – declared those who knew; and at once Lamont had set to work to clear off the encumbrances on his ancestral home.
“Peters threatens to run across to see us, if we promise not to make him wear a top-hat and a long-tailed coat. I’ve often told him he can wear anything he likes. Hallo, here’s a yarn from Ancram. Christmas cards too – um – um. ‘Kind regards to Mrs Lamont.’”
“It was good of you to get him that berth, Piers. He behaved very meanly to you at first, I thought.”
“He couldn’t help it. He’s built that way. And even then – if the poor devil got so desperately ‘stony’ – when you see a chance of putting him on his legs again, you naturally take it.”
“You do. You are always setting somebody on his legs again.”
“Ah! ah!” – holding up a warning finger. “Who is likely to suffer from ‘swelled head’ now?”
“Well, it seems to me you are going to get no rest on earth. You spent about six months pulling everybody out of holes, and now no sooner do we get here for good than you start in the same line again,” said Clare softly.
“It’s different, dearest. On that side one got them out of hot water; on this side one gets them out of cold – oh, very!” with a shiver at the recollection of his recent ice-bath.
Pearly and grey the Christmas gloaming deepens, a few stars peep frostily out, and in the gloom of the fir-woods an owl is hooting melodiously. And the stillness, with the peace of the hour, is sweet to these two, as it rests upon them.