The Lust of Hate, Guy Newell Boothby [essential books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Guy Newell Boothby
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This desire to ascertain how my friends were getting on was,
however, nearly my undoing; for if I had been more intent upon my own
concerns, I should have seen a man wriggling along on the ground
towards me. Just, however, as he was about to hurl his assegai I
caught sight of him, and brought my rifle to the shoulder. Seeing
this, he rose to his feet with a jump, and hurled his spear. I dodged
with the quickness of lightning, and heard it strike the tire of the
wheel behind me. At the same instant I covered him and pulled the
trigger. To my horror the rifle did not go off. I had fired my nine
shots, and the magazine was empty. But my wits did not desert me for
long. Before the savage had time to clamber on to the wheel and raise
his knob-kerrie, I was within striking distance, and, swinging my
rifle by the barrel high into the air, brought the butt down upon his
head with a crash that might have been heard yards away. It crushed
in his skull like an egg-shell, and he fell like a log and never
moved again.
As he went down a sudden peace descended upon the field, and for a
moment or two every man wondered what had happened. The smoke quickly
cleared away, and when it did we saw that the foe had retired. I
accordingly clambered back to my old position, and looked about me.
My throat was like a lime kiln, and my eyes were dry as dust. But I
was not going to take any refreshment, though a bucket stood quite
close to me, until I had refilled my rifle. This done, I crossed to
the bucket, filled the mug and drank its contents with a relish such
as I had never known in my life before. When I had handed it to
another man, I turned about and endeavoured to take stock of our
company. From where I stood I could see two men stretched out upon
the ground. The one nearest me I knew instantly. It was Mackinnon,
and a single glance was sufficient to tell me that he was dead. The
other I could not for the moment identify. Mr. Maybourne, I was
relieved to see, was unhurt save for a wound on his left hand, which
he explained he had received in a hand-to-hand encounter in his
corner.
“We’ve taught the brutes a lesson in all conscience,” he said. “I
don’t fancy they’ll be as eager next time. How many men have we
lost?”
In order to find out, we walked quickly round our defences,
encouraging the garrison as we went, and bidding them replenish the
magazines of their rifles while they had the chance.
On the other side of the house we discovered Agnes, busily engaged
binding up the wounds of those who had been hurt. She was deadly
pale, but her bravery was not a bit diminished. When we got back to
our own quarters we had counted three dead men, two placed hors de
combat by their wounds, and five more or less cut and scratched.
Of the enemy we estimated that at least a hundred had fallen before
our rifles, never to rise again.
For something like half-an-hour we stood at our posts, waiting to
be attacked, but the foe showed no sign of moving. I was just
wondering what the next move would be when I heard a shout from the
right. I gripped my rifle and peered ahead of me, but there was
nothing to be seen save the foe crouching behind their shelters in
the distance.
“What is it?” I cried to my right-hand neighbour. “What do they
see?”
“A horseman,” he replied, “and coming in our direction.”
“Is he mad?” I cried, “or doesn’t he see his danger?”
My informant did not reply, and a moment later I saw for myself
the person referred to. He was mounted on a grey horse, and was
riding as fast as his animal could travel in our direction. I turned
my eyes away from him for a moment. When I looked again I saw a man
rise from behind a bush and hurl a spear at him. The cruel weapon was
thrown with unerring aim and struck the horse just behind the saddle.
He leapt into the air, and then with a scream of agony that could be
heard quite plainly where we all stood watching, dashed frantically
towards us. He had not, however, gone a hundred yards before he put
his foot into a hole, and fell with a crash to the ground, to lie
there motionless. His neck was broken, so we discovered later.
From where I stood, to the place where the man and beast lay, was
scarcely eighty yards; thence, on to the spot where the enemy were in
ambush, not more than a hundred. For some reason—why, I shall never
be able to explain—an irresistible desire to save the injured man
came over me. I could not have resisted it, even had I wished to do
so. Accordingly, I placed my rifle against the axle, sprang upon the
box of the waggon wheel, vaulted over, and ran as hard as I could go
towards the victim of the accident. Ahead of me I could distinctly
see the nodding plumes of the foe as they crouched behind their
enormous shields. They did not, however, move, and I was thus enabled
to reach the man’s side, and to take him in my arms unmolested. I had
not gone ten yards on my return journey, however, before I heard
their yells, and knew that they were after me. Fortunately, I had
nearly a hundred and twenty yards start; but I had a heavy man to
carry, and was quite out of breath. However, I was not going to be
beaten, so putting out every ounce of strength I boasted in my body,
I raced on. By the time I reached the waggons again, the foe were not
fifty yards behind me. A couple of assegais whistled passed my ears
as I climbed over the wheel and dropped my burden on the ground, but
fortunately neither hit me. So exhausted was I that for a moment I
leant against the waggon, unable to move. But the instinct of
self-preservation gave me strength, and picking up my rifle I let
drive blindly at the nearest of the foe who was already on the wheel
before me. I saw the man’s forehead open out like a cracked walnut as
my shot caught it, and a moment later he fell forward on the
tyre—dead. I threw him off in time to shoot the next man as he took
his place. Of the following five minutes my only recollection is a
sense of overpowering heat; a throat and mouth parched like the sands
of the Great Sahara; a rifle growing every moment hotter in my hand,
and dominating all the necessity of stemming, at any cost, the crowd
of black humanity that seemed to be overwhelming me. How long the
fight lasted I cannot say. But at last a cheer from the other side of
the laager reached me, and almost at the same instant the enemy
turned tail and fled for their lives. Then, with an empty rifle at my
feet, a dripping cutlass in one hand, and a still smoking revolver in
the other, I leant against the waggon and laughed hysterically till I
fell fainting to the ground.
CHAPTER XII. THE END.
WHEN I recovered consciousness I found a stranger dressed in
uniform kneeling beside me. What was more singular still I was not
under the waggon as before, but was lying surrounded by a dozen or so
of my comrades in the verandah of my own house. Agnes was kneeling
beside me, and her father was holding a basin of water at my
feet.
“There is nothing at all to be alarmed about, my dear young lady,”
the man in uniform was saying as he felt my pulse. “Your friend here
will live to fight another day, or a hundred other days for that
matter. By this time tomorrow he’ll be as well as ever.” Then,
turning to me, he asked: “how do you feel now?”
I replied that I felt much stronger; and then, looking up at Mr.
Maybourne, enquired if we had beaten off the enemy.
“They have been utterly routed,” replied the gentleman I
addressed. “The credit, however, is due to Captain Haviland and his
men; but for their timely arrival I fear we should have been done
for. Flesh and blood could not have stood the strain another half
hour.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said the doctor, “for such I afterwards
discovered he was, all the credit is due to yourselves; and, by
George, you deserve it. A finer stand was never made in this country,
or for that matter in any other.”
After a few minutes’ rest and another sip of brandy, I managed to
get on to my feet. It was a sad sight I had before me. Stretched out
in rows beyond the verandah rails were the bodies of the gallant
fellows who had been killed—twelve in number. On rough beds placed
in the verandah itself and also in the house were the wounded; while
on the plain all round beyond the laager might have been seen the
bodies of the Matabele dead. On the left of the house the regiment of
mounted infantry, who had so opportunely come to our assistance, were
unsaddling after chasing the enemy, and preparing to camp.
After I had had a few moments’ conversation with the doctor, Mr.
Maybourne and Agnes came up to me again, and congratulated me on
having saved the stranger’s life. The praise they gave me was
altogether undeserved, for, as I have already explained, I had done
the thing on the spur of the moment without for an instant
considering the danger to which I had exposed myself. When they had
finished I enquired where the man was, and in reply they led me into
the house.
“The doctor says it is quite a hopeless case,” said Agnes, turning
to me in the doorway; “the poor fellow must have injured his spine
when his horse fell with him.”
I followed her into the room which had once been my own sleeping
apartment. It was now filled with wounded. The man I had brought in
lay upon a mattress in the corner by the window, and, with Agnes
beside me, I went across to him. Once there I looked down at his
face, and then, with a cry that even on pain of death I could not
have kept back, I fell against the wall, as Agnes afterwards told me,
pallid to the very lips. I don’t know how to tell you who I saw
there; I don’t know how to make you believe it, or how to enable you
to appreciate my feelings. One thing was certain, lying on the bed
before me, his head bandaged up, and a bushy beard clothing the lower
half of his face, was no less a person than Richard Bartrand—my
old enemy and the man I believed myself to have murdered in London so
many months before. I could hardly believe my eyes; I stared at
him and then looked away—only to look back again half expecting to
find him gone. Could this be any mistake? I asked myself. Could it be
only a deceiving likeness, or an hallucination of an overtaxed brain?
Hardly knowing what I did I dragged Agnes by the wrist out of the
house to a quiet corner, where I leant against the wall feeling as if
I were going to
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