Concerning the perils of the rapids he decided to take his chances. It was just possible that the Birwas had lied, hoping to deter him from his purpose. That they were fairly experienced in the art of canoeing was evident by the way in which they skilfully avoided the numerous hippopotami, their broad-bladed paddles entering the water without the faintest suspicion of a splash.

Whenever, as frequently happened, the canoe passed a native village von Gobendorff, no doubt with the loss of a certain amount of prestige, took up a position at full length at the bottom of the canoe, strictly warning his boatmen that they were to maintain absolute silence as far as his presence was concerned.

The canoe had barely passed a small collection of huts when the two Birwas began to jabber vociferously, pointing at an object a hundred yards ahead.

"Why this noise?" demanded von Gobendorff, who understood the cause of the conversation. "You have passed dozens of 'river-cows' before?"

"This one is awake and furious," replied one of the natives. "We sought to keep to the bank, and the animal has seen us."

The Hun sat up and drew his pistol. A brief glance on either hand showed that there were no signs of escape by running the canoe ashore. The banks were here quite twenty feet in height, precipitous and topped with dense vegetation. There was deep water close to land, while in mid-stream a mud-bank just showed above the swirling current.

"Go on!" he ordered.

The men plied their paddles vigorously. Although the heavily-constructed canoe was incapable of any great speed, and was also undermanned, the commotion of the paddles and the frantic shouts of the two blacks made up for the lack of manoeuvring powers. The hippo dived. The canoe shot past.

Von Gobendorff breathed freely, but he was too premature. The hippopotamus reappeared amidst a smother of foam. Its wide-open jaws closed up on the gunwale of the dug-out.

The canoe listed dangerously. The Birwas still further endangered its stability by standing upright and raining absolutely ineffectual blows with their paddles upon the armour-plated head of the amphibian. The air in the vicinity of the heeling craft was thick with spray and flying fragments of woodwork.

Raising his pistol von Gobendorff placed the muzzle within an inch of the hippo's right eye, and fired two shots in quick succession. Then, without waiting to observe the effect, he put two bullets into the animal's left eye.

With a stupendous jerk that dipped the badly shattered gunwale under the water the hippo relaxed its grip and disappeared. Whether mortally wounded or not there were no means of ascertaining, but the brute was seen no more.

Throwing their paddles into the bottom of the canoe the two natives, crouching on the uninjured side to keep the jagged hole above the surface, plied their gourds frantically in order to get rid of the quantity of water that had poured over the gunwale. This task having been completed von Gobendorff noticed with a certain amount of apprehension that the freeboards betwixt the edge of the gaping hole and the water was less than four inches.

In the excitement of the encounter the Hun had overlooked the fact that already the canoe was within the influence of the rapids. The Birwas had spoken truly—there were cataracts; what was more there was now no means of avoiding them.

The banks on either hand were still steep and precipitous, while, undermanned, the heavy canoe could not be propelled against the stream, the speed of which exceeded five miles per hour and was steadily increasing as the rapids drew nearer and nearer.

The thunder of the foaming water could now be heard distinctly, as the canoe, held in the inexorable grip of the swirling torrent, swayed towards the danger. The two natives realised their peril. Their black faces were suffused with an ashy grey hue; their eyes were wide open with fear.

"Paddle backwards!" ordered von Gobendorff, knowing that to attempt to turn the canoe would mean both loss of time and increased chances of being immediately swamped.

With every muscle strained to its utmost capacity the Birwas strove desperately to back up-stream. Anxiously von Gobendorff kept his eyes fixed upon a mark in the bank. For a few minutes he watched—then he muttered curses under his breath. The canoe was slowly yet surely losing ground. He was fully aware that, apart from its damaged condition, the cumbersome craft stood no possible chance of escape in the maelstrom-like eddies of the rapids, unless by sheer good fortune combined with the skill of the two natives the canoe could be made to avoid the jagged rocks between which the waters of the Kiwa rushed.

Suddenly the German caught sight of a huge teak-tree that, having been uprooted, was trailing over the banks. It was a faint chance, but von Gobendorff decided to risk it.

Raising his hand he pointed towards the tree-trunk. Already the roar of the water made it impossible for the Birwas to hear him speak. The men nodded and again began to ply their paddles vigorously, keeping close to the border between the main stream and a back-eddy by this part of the right bank.

With a quick turn of his broad blade the bowman urged the canoe's bows diagonally against the mass of timber. Caught by the full force of the current the dug-out swung round, crashed against the tree and, listing, was immediately swamped by the inrush of water.

Von Gobendorff leapt to safety. With cat-like agility he swarmed up the inclined bank. Here he stood and waited, watching the efforts of the two natives to save themselves.

The bowman had succeeded in getting astride the massive log and was endeavouring to extricate his companion from the peril that threatened him, for the other had been thrown out of the canoe and was pinned between the tree and the side of the water-logged craft.

In spite of the Birwa's most strenuous efforts the trapped man was unable to extricate himself from the vice-like grip, for edges of the jagged hole in the canoe's side were pressing hard against his thigh, while the canoe itself, forced against the tree-trunk by the swiftly-running current, could not be moved in spite of the combined efforts of the two blacks.

A third man would have made all the difference. The trapped Birwa raised his eyes appealingly to the white man, but von Gobendorff stirred not so much as a little finger.

The Hun, having no further use for the natives, was merely awaiting the catastrophe that would effectually cover his tracks. Without the need of further aid from the Birwas he was now within measurable distance of the Karewenda Hills. Another six hours ought to find him in at least the temporary shelter of the German fortified post of Twashi.

With a sardonic expression on his face von Gobendorff waited and watched. For a full five minutes the grim struggle was maintained. The trapped Birwa's strength was fast failing. Already greatly exhausted by his strenuous work with the paddle he was rapidly collapsing under the strain.

Suddenly he relaxed his grip. The water-logged canoe dipped, and was swept under the tree, taking with it the doomed native, whose last despairing cry was drowned in the roar of the rushing river. For a few moments the surviving Birwa remained kneeling on the inclined mass of timber, trembling in every limb, then, slowly and with every sign of temerity he began to make his way up the trunk to dry land.

Raising his pistol the Hun fired straight at the man's head. The Birwa's arms collapsed, he fell at full length upon the rounded mass of timber, and, slipping sideways, toppled inertly into the foaming torrent.

"Hamba gachle!" exclaimed von Gobendorff, using a Zulu expression that he had picked up in his many and diverse wanderings through South and Central Africa. "Dead men tell no tales, and you were in my way."

Then, recharging the magazine of his automatic pistol, the German turned, and, setting his face towards the north-west, strode rapidly towards the Karewenda Hills.



CHAPTER XIV.

ON THE TRACK

"Mr. Wilmshurst, I shall require you to proceed on special service," said Colonel Quarrier.

"Very good, sir," replied Dudley promptly, and awaited the C.O.'s instructions.

It was the evening of the fall of M'ganga. The prisoners had been collected and were about to be sent under escort to Kilwa. Fully under the impression that he was to be detailed for this monotonous but necessary duty Wilmshurst had reported himself to his colonel, but to his intense satisfaction he soon found that such was not the C.O.'s intention.

"Concerning this MacGregor-Gobendorff fellow," continued Colonel Quarrier. "It seems as if he has slipped through our fingers. We have been robbed of much of the satisfaction of capturing the position on that account. The Rhodesian Light Horse patrols are all back and report no luck as far as the capture of von Gobendorff is concerned, and the same applies to the Indian troops. From some of the prisoners we learnt that the fellow slipped away during the preliminary bombardment, and that he was not mounted. I have arranged with Colonel Mopesson, of the Light Horse, for a mounted patrol to be sent in pursuit, and since it is desirable for some one to identify the Hun—it sounds like counting our chickens before they are hatched, by the bye—I propose that you accompany the Rhodesians."

"Yes, sir," replied the subaltern.

"Very good. You have half an hour to make preparations," resumed the C.O. "Take a batman with you—a man who can ride well. You will rejoin your battalion at Kossa in three days' time, circumstances permitting."

Wilmshurst saluted and withdrew to make his brief preparations. Having given Tari Barl instructions to pack his kit the subaltern sent for Sergeant Bela Moshi.

"Find me a man who can ride well," he said.

A broad grin overspread the Haussa non-com.'s face.

"No go for look, sah," he replied. "Me know one time quick. Good man; him ride like de wind."

"Then bring him here," continued Wilmshurst.

"Him here, sah—me, Bela Moshi."

"I didn't know that you could ride," remarked the subaltern dubiously, fancying that Bela Moshi in his desire to accompany him was inventing a fairy tale concerning his equestrian abilities.

"Me one-time groom in Freetown, sah," declared Bela Moshi. "Me lib for ride any old hoss till him bust."

"I'll try you," announced Wilmshurst. "If you are wasting my time look out for squalls."

At the lines where the horses were picketed the Haussa picked out a powerful-looking brute—a "salted" Cape horse which had shown considerable temper at previous times.

Vaulting upon the animal Bela Moshi rode it barebacked, urging it at a gallop and finishing by taking a formidable obstacle in the shape of a cactus-bush.

"How can do, sah?" he asked.

"Good enough," replied Wilmshurst. "Cut off and pack your kit. We have only ten minutes."

Well within the time specified the Haussa was ready for the trek, his kit consisting of a blanket, rifle and ammunition, a haversack and his cooking utensils. In addition he carried his master's water-filter and a light waterproof tent weighing together with the socketed poles a little over two pounds.

"Good luck, old man!" exclaimed Spofforth, as his brother subaltern rode off to join the patrol. "Kindest regards to MacGregor when you meet him. Tell him how awfully delighted all of us will be to see him."

Wilmshurst's new comrades were all men of the Rhodesian farmer type, well set-up, sturdy, independent and resourceful—a band of chums voluntarily taken from their homesteads to render them immune from invasion by tackling the Hun on his own ground.

All were splendidly mounted on horses inured to the miasmic climate, "led" animals carrying their necessary equipment. Each man knew how to take care of himself. He knew only the elementary principles of drill, but was none the less a very tough proposition for a Hun to tackle. Skilled in woodcraft and travelling, able to cover great distances with the minimum of fatigue, and capable of going on short rations without loss of efficiency the Rhodesians were ideal men for the work on hand. One and all had a score to wipe off; though few, if any, had fallen in with von Gobendorff they deeply resented the Hun's audacity in posing as a Rhodesian, while those who were of Scots descent and bore Scottish names were highly indignant at the idea of a German adopting the honourable and ancient cognomen of MacGregor.

Through the far-flung Pathan outposts they passed and rode into the night. Scores of Askaris, who had thrown away their arms, signified their willingness to surrender. Some were questioned concerning the flight of von Gobendorff, their replies confirming the reports of the prisoners taken at M'ganga; and the surrendered men were ordered to return and give themselves up to the Indian troops, since the main objective of the patrol was the pursuit of the spy, von Gobendorff.

That night the patrol bivouacked a short distance from a native kraal, the inhabitants of which gave them a warm, demonstrative and noisy welcome, at the same time providing them with a goat, plenty of mealies and water. Enquiries elicited the information that a party of villagers had seen a white man hurrying through the bush, and fortunately had not given any indication of their presence. According to the natives' report the fugitive was making in a north-westerly direction.

"He'll have his work cut out to cross the Kiwa," declared the sergeant of the patrol. "The river's pretty full just now and swarms of hippos. I doubt whether he'll tackle it at night."

"In that case we'll boot and saddle an hour before sunrise," declared Wilmshurst. "My man, Bela Moshi, will be able to follow the spoor like a cat.... Oh, yes, light as many fires as you like. Von Gobendorff is too far away to see the glare."

The night passed quietly. Although there were wild animals prowling round they kept a respectful distance. Men in pairs took turn in keeping watch, their comrades lying wrapped in blankets, with their feet towards the fire, each with his loaded rifle by his side.

After a good meal, consisting of roast goat's-flesh, millet bread and hot chocolate, the trek was resumed, the Haussa following the spoor with the sagacity and skill of a sleuth-hound until it was light enough to enable the Rhodesians to follow up the trail.

After a distance of five miles had been covered the patrol halted in perplexity, for, seemingly from nowhere another spoor joined that of the one they were following. There were distinct imprints of two men walking—one wearing veldt-schoen, the other the heavy marching boot supplied to the German colonial units.

The latter was of slightly recent origin, as witnessed by the fact that here and there the footprints of the boots had partly obliterated those of the veldt-schoen.

"It strikes me we've only just tumbled on the right spoor," declared a Rhodesian. "Of the two I should imagine von Gobendorff was wearing military boots. I suppose you didn't happen to notice what he wore while he was attached to the Waffs?"

"Boots and gaiters," replied Wilmshurst. "But, of course, that was some time ago."

"And boots are scarce in this show," rejoined the other tentatively. "When a man gets used to wearing a certain pair he's not likely to discard them in a hurry. I'll bet that is von Gobendorff's trail."

"And the other?" asked Dudley.

"A nigger might be wearing veldt-schoen," suggested another Rhodesian. "Perhaps he looted them, and in his natural vanity, decided to put them on instead of slinging them round his neck. In my experience I find that a native 'boy' will wear veldt-schoen, but he'll draw the line at boots."

"In any case," remarked Wilmshurst, "the two spoors lead the same way, so we'll carry on."

Half a mile further the tracks separated, the older ones continuing straight on, those of the boots breaking away to the left.

After a brief debate the pursuers decided to follow the latter spoor. This they followed for another four miles until it vanished on an expanse of hard, sun-baked ground.

"We're close to the Kiwa," announced one of the patrol, who had pushed on ahead for fifty yards. "There's a kraal over yonder, and I can see the water between the trees."

Into the native village the pursuers rode, to hear a tale of woe from the headman. An armed German had passed through not an hour previously. He had demanded food and native beer; he had made no attempt to pay for the articles, and out of sheer mischief had set fire to a hut. Commandeering a canoe he had compelled the natives to ferry him across the river, and the four blacks who manned the craft had just returned with the news that he had gone into the bush.

"What was the German like?" asked a Rhodesian, who spoke the language of the natives with the utmost fluency.

The headman began to give an elaborate and detailed description, but it was soon evident that the pursuers were on the wrong track.

"Dash it all!" exclaimed Wilmshurst impetuously. "We've lost the fellow—what's that, Bela Moshi?"

"Go ober dem water one-time quick, sah; den you catch Bosh-bosh as him go for run away."

"That's a smart idea," declared Dudley, never backward in giving credit for other persons' ideas.

"Quite good," agreed the section commander of the patrol. "Over we go; the horses will have to swim."

Borrowing a couple of canoes the pursuers stepped into the cumbersome craft, four men in each had their loaded rifles ready to fire at any hippos that might attack the horses; the others, grasping the reins of the well-trained animals, guided them across.

The passage of the Kiwa—which was here about one hundred and twenty yards in breadth—was performed without mishap, in spite of the fact that the current ran at a speed of two knots, for the spot where the crossing was effected was two miles below the rapids that had all but claimed von Gobendorff as a victim.

Just as the second canoe was running aground one of the natives uttered a cry of surprise, and pointed to a water-logged dug-out drifting broadside on down stream. It was a prize well worth having, and without waiting to put Wilmshurst and the rest of the passengers ashore the blacks paddled out and secured the derelict.

"Golly, sah!" exclaimed the Haussa sergeant. "Him canoe have one-time man alive. Now him dead as mutton."

Lying on the bottom of the canoe with his head raised above the water was a native. As the rescuing craft ran alongside the man opened his eyes.

The call of humanity having a prior claim to the importance of the pursuit Wilmshurst and the Rhodesians rendered all the aid in their power to revive the badly-wounded man. Examination showed that he had been shot at close range by a small-bore high velocity bullet. The missile had scraped his right ear, and entering at the shoulder had emerged just above the third rib. It was a nasty wound, but with ordinary attention it ought not to prove fatal.

Finding that he was being well treated the injured man recovered sufficiently to explain what had occurred. There was no mistaking the description of his assailant—also another crime had been added to the list against Ulrich von Gobendorff, that of attempted murder.

"So the blighter is making for Twashi," remarked Wilmshurst, consulting his field service map. "That's well up in the Karewenda Hills. We may head him off even yet."

Mounting, the patrol, their energies quickened by the evidence of this latest Hunnish atrocity, set off at a gallop across the comparatively open country betwixt the Kiwa and the base of the Karewenda Hills. Woe betide von Gobendorff should he be spotted by one of the lynx-eyed Rhodesians.



CHAPTER XV

RESCUED

It was well into the dry season. As far as the eye could reach lay an expanse of sun-baked ground dotted with scrub and parched grass, terminating in the rugged outlines of the Karewenda Geberge. In the clear African atmosphere the hills, although a good forty miles distant, looked no more than ten or twelve miles away. With a powerful telescope an outpost on the high ground ought to be able to spot the khaki-clad horsemen as they spurred across the bush.

The patrol had no immediate intention of following the fugitive's spoor. Their idea was to cut off his retreat by keeping on a parallel route until they had out-distanced him, and then, by extending to the right, to achieve their object. It was a game of hide-and-seek on a large scale—a contest of wits. Around the spot where the Hun was supposed to be an extended cordon was being formed. It was up to him to break through—if he could, but once detected he stood little chance against a well-mounted patrol composed of some of the crack shots of Rhodesia.

"We've cut across his spoor," announced one of the men. "Jones has just semaphored through. We've nabbed him this time."

The order was passed from man to man for the investing horsemen to contract the enfolding circle. Each man, his rifle ready for instant use, trotted towards an imaginary centre, the while keeping his eyes on the alert for signs of the fugitive.

Then, without warning, a column of smoke, beaten down by the strong northerly wind, rose from the scrub at a point a good two miles off. In a very short space of time the cloud increased in density of volume, moving with the rapidity of a trotting horse.

At the signal the patrol closed. The situation was serious, for not only were the chances of a successful pursuit knocked on the head, but there was the danger of the men being overtaken by the flames.

"Start another fire down wind," suggested one of the Rhodesians.

"The horses won't stand it," objected another. "They're getting jumpy already."

The man spoke truly. The animals, scenting danger, were becoming restless. The order was therefore given to mount, and the patrol galloped back in the direction of the Kiwa River, never drawing rein until they reached a ford two miles below the spot where they had crossed earlier in the day.

So swift was the advance of the bush-fire that the scrub on the furthermost bank was ablaze within twenty minutes of the time when the patrol recrossed the river, while right and left for miles the ground was covered with fiercely roaring flames. Clouds of black and brownish smoke swept across the stream, red hot embers mingling with the eddying vapour.

The patrol held their ground, keeping their horses under control by adopting the expedient of covering the horses' heads with blankets. With the possibility of the bush on their side of the river taking fire this was the safest course to pursue short of a forty mile ride across difficult country with the devouring element hard at their heels.

Mingled with the roar of the flames came the frequent crashes of falling trees, and the hiss of blazing embers as they fell into the water. The heat was terrific, while at times the smoke was so dense and suffocating that the men had the greatest difficulty to breathe. Elephants, bush-cows, rhinoceri and swarms of smaller animals, stampeded by the flames, plunged panic-stricken into the river, taking no notice of the men as they dashed past them.

For two hours the ordeal lasted, then, having consumed everything of a combustible nature the fire burnt itself out. Almost miraculously the flames had failed to gain a hold upon the scrub on the nearmost bank. The river had formed the furthermost limit, but across the stream as far as the eye could reach there was nothing to be seen but an expanse of blackened thorn-bushes, from which a faint bluish vapour rose in the now still and sultry air.

"Nothing more doing to-day, boys," declared the leader of the patrol. "We'll bivouac close to the village and try our luck to-morrow. Ground will be cool enough by then, I reckon."

"Von Gobendorff won't stand much chance in that," remarked another, indicating the devastated ground. "We may find his remains. That'll be some satisfaction."

"Unless he started the fire," added Wilmshurst.

"But we were surrounding his hiding-place," declared the first speaker.

"We believe we were," continued the subaltern. "It's just likely that we missed his spoor, and that he was to windward of us. The fire may have started spontaneously, but it's my belief that von Gobendorff fired the grass."

At daybreak on the following morning the patrol recrossed the river. With a heavy dew still upon the ground the devastated track gave the horses no inconvenience, although the air was heavy with the pungent smell of charred wood. In extended order they followed the track which the fugitive had been reported to have taken until they arrived at the further-most limit of the fire.

Each man as he closed in the centre made the same report—nothing had been seen of the body of the much-sought-after Hun.

"We've drawn a blank, it seems," remarked Wilmshurst. "There's nothing for it but to carry on until either we overtake him or come in touch with the enemy patrols. We've a clear twenty-four hours before we rejoin our regiment."

Mile after mile the patrol rode, but not the faintest trace of von Gobendorff's line of flight was to be seen. Whether he was alive or dead was a mystery yet unsolved.

Towards midday they arrived at a kraal situated in a vast semi-circular expanse of open ground bounded on three sides by scarps of the Karewenda Hills. The greatest caution was now necessary, the task of the patrol, failing von Gobendorff's capture, being to find out whether the lower slopes of the hill were held in force or only lightly so. If possible there was to be an avoidance of an exchange of shots with hostile outposts, but in any case the Rhodesians were to withdraw at the first sign of opposition.

The headman of the kraal, like most of his kind, was very communicative. Already the natives were appreciating the change of masters, for under German rule their lot was a hard one, forced labour and scanty or often no remuneration being the order of things.

He had seen no one answering to von Gobendorff's description, but he gave other information. The Germans were withdrawing their forces to a position on the northern slopes of the hills, and had already destroyed two guns which they were unable to remove from an abandoned redoubt about five miles to the east of the kraal. He also said that a German patrol escorting a white prisoner had passed along a native path at less than a mile of the village only an hour or so previously.

Questioned further the headman replied that the prisoner was not a "warrior"—meaning that he was not dressed in military uniform—and that for several months past he had been kept in captivity in the now abandoned fort. Several of the villagers had seen him when they went to dig earthworks for the Huns. In their hurried retirement the Germans had overlooked the fact that they had a prisoner, and the patrol had been sent back to bring him in.

"How many men?" asked Wilmshurst, one of the Rhodesians translating the question and its reply.

"Four white soldiers and ten Askaris, O chief," replied the headman.

"Good enough," exclaimed Wilmshurst. "We ought to be able to settle that crowd and release the prisoner."

The headman willingly allowed two natives to point out to the patrol the path which the Huns had taken. A reference to the map showed that, allowing the hostile patrol two hours' start, an ambush could be arranged at a spot four miles distant where the path crossed a spruit. It was unpleasantly close to one of the still occupied enemy outposts, but with quickness and decision the coup ought to be accomplished without much difficulty.

The native guides, although on foot, had no trouble to keep up with the mounted men, and when the latter arrived at the place chosen for the surprise they found that the Germans were not yet in sight.

Dismounted and accompanied by Bela Moshi Wilmshurst made his way along the side of the track until he came in touch with the hostile party. The Huns, suspecting nothing, were resting. Two Askaris had been posted as sentries, but they, too, were lax, little thinking that there was any danger of a surprise. The prisoner was seated at the base of a large tree, another Askari mounting guard over him. His back was turned in Wilmshurst's direction, but the subaltern was able to discern that the unfortunate man was practically bald-headed and wore a thick, straggling beard.

Up to that moment Dudley had been buoyed up by the hope that the prisoner might be his brother Rupert, but at the sight of the bent and aged figure his anticipations were shattered.

"We'll have him out of their clutches, at all events," he soliloquised as he cautiously signed to Bela Moshi to withdraw.

Regaining the patrol Wilmshurst explained how matters stood, and a decision was quickly formed to attack immediately, taking advantage of the lax state of the hostile party, without waiting for them to approach the previously selected spot for the ambush.

Dismounting and leaving their trained horses under the charge of a piquet the men cautiously made their way through the scrub until they were within eighty yards of the still unsuspecting Huns.

Extending the Rhodesians took up their desired position on a semi-circular formation, enabling each one to fire should necessity arise without the risk of hitting one of his own party, at the same time making it almost a matter of impossibility for the ambushed Huns to break away without being shot down.

A whistle sounded. Up sprang the curved line of khaki-clad troopers, each man covering one of the enemy with his rifle, while a stern order to surrender immediately was given to the completely astonished Germans.

The Askaris obeyed the command without demur, but the Germans were made of stiffer material. Throwing themselves at full length they grasped their rifles.

It was a signal for the Rhodesians to open fire—and the Huns paid the penalty. In less than a minute the action was over. The Askaris were unarmed and ordered to take themselves off, their rifles having been broken and the bolts removed.

Wilmshurst hastened to the prisoner, who at the opening fire had rolled on the ground by the side of a fallen tree. The subaltern found him lying face downwards, unable to rise, his wrists and ankles being secured by thongs of raw hide.

With a couple of strokes of his knife Dudley severed the bonds and assisted the released captive to his feet, for the man was so exhausted that he was incapable of standing unsupported.

"You're all right now," said the subaltern reassuringly. "Can you sit in a saddle for——"

"Good heavens!—Dudley!" exclaimed the gaunt and haggard prisoner.

It was Wilmshurst's turn to be dumfounded. He stepped back a pace and looked the rescued man Intently in the face. Was it possible that this human wreck was his once well-set-up and powerfully-built brother?

"Rupert!" he exclaimed dubiously.

"That's me," rejoined the other. "Rather, what's left of me."

"Found an old pal?" enquired the patrol-commander, as the Rhodesians crowded round the object of their recent operations.

"My brother," replied Dudley.

"Good business," was the hearty rejoinder. "But we must be moving. We've alarmed every enemy post within five miles of us."

The patrol hurried back to the spot where they had left their horses, Bela Moshi settling the question of how the physically weakened Rupert Wilmshurst was to be moved by lifting him in his strong arms.

"Nothing ob him, sah," confided the Haussa. "Him weight of one-time porter load."

It was an exaggeration of speech on the Haussa's part, for the nominal burden of a Coast porter is roughly sixty pounds, but Rupert's weight had decreased from a normal "twelve seven" to a little over seven stones.

With the utmost dispatch the patrol remounted. Bela Moshi gave up his steed to "Massa Wimst's brudder" and rode one of the led horses. In single file the men retraced their course, maintaining a steady trot.

As they entered the kraal where the headman had given them such important information they found the natives in a state of agitated turmoil. The Huns had by some means discovered that these "black subjects of his Imperial Majesty the German Emperor" had entertained a hostile patrol, for within twenty minutes of the departure of Wilmshurst and his companions a party of Askaris, commanded by a German officer, had visited the village. By way of punishment half a dozen huts had been burnt and an indemnity of fifty goats and a hundred litres of corn demanded, the headman and five other principal inhabitants being seized as hostages.

So great was the faith of the blacks in the "white soldiers of King George" that they rose en masse, liberated the hostages and drove the Askaris from their village. But the trouble was far from over, for native scouts reported a concentration of German troops on the south-eastern side of the village, while other Askari battalions were debouching from the north-east, having been hurriedly sent from one of the fortified posts on the Karewenda Hills.

"And so our line of retreat is cut," remarked Dudley. "Very well; we'll have to fight to a finish."



CHAPTER XVI

'GAINST HEAVY ODDS

The Rhodesians were men of few words. They were men of action; of the same blood as the gallant party who, under Major Wilson, fought against thousands of Matabele until the last cartridge had been fired and the last man fell with his face to the foe under the keen stabbing-spears of Lobengula's warriors.

The enemies that were threatening them were of a worse type. The Askaris, naturally ferocious, were under German command, and the German, whenever he is confident that he is on the winning side, exhibited all the brutality and cruelty of his Hunnish ancestors. Attila was a scourge; his modern descendants are simply imitators who, having the thin veneer of civilisation, combine science with bestial brutality in their methods of waging war.

Two of the troopers who were acquainted with the native dialect proceeded to place the village under a rough form of organisation. In spite of the severe restrictions laid upon the natives by their German taskmasters—amongst others they were not allowed to carry arms—the blacks managed to produce long-secreted numbers of spears, bows and arrows and a few antiquated smooth-bore muskets.

Men were sent into the bush to cut down thorns and sharpened stakes. These were set up in front of the existing stockade, the inner side of which was still further strengthened by earth thrown up from a trench three feet from its base. "Panjies" or sharpened bamboos were set obliquely from the foot of the stockade, on the outside, to check a rush at close quarters; the stockade itself, forming no protection against modern rifle-fire, was to be used merely as an obstacle, the defenders seeking cover in the ditch and behind the embankment formed from the excavated material.

Hardly were these preparations completed when the shrill notes of a bugle rang out, and a mounted officer, followed by a native orderly bearing a white flag, appeared from the cover afforded by the bush.

Evidently the Huns had more faith in the Briton's respect for the flag of truce than they had regard for that emblem in the hands of their foes, for after a brief pause the officer, finding that his appearance was not greeted with a volley of rifle-bullets, trotted boldly towards the closed gate of the stockade.

"Halt!" ordered the Rhodesian officer, when the German drew within audible distance. "Deliver your message."

The German, standing in his stirrups, shouted a demand for the instant surrender of the garrison, promising honourable treatment if the terms were complied with, and stating that the investing troops were fully aware of the weak numbers of the British patrol.

"You might have spared yourself the trouble, Herr Offizier," replied the patrol commander. "We mean to stick it."

"Vat you mean by 'stick it'?" demanded the envoy.

"To fight it out," was the grim reply. "Come on; we're ready."

The German made no further remark to the Rhodesian, but began an harangue in the native dialect, inciting the blacks to turn against their white allies, promising immunity and rewards.

"Stop that!" shouted the patrol commander sternly, raising his voice above the angry murmur of the villagers. "Another word and the flag of truce will not protect you."

The Hun scowled sardonically, and out of sheer bravado resumed his incitement to the natives to surrender.

Picking up a rifle the Rhodesian took careful aim at the horse's chest at point-blank range. The weapon barked. For a moment neither horse nor rider stirred, then without warning the animal's forelegs collapsed, throwing the Hun headlong in the dust.

The terrified orderly wheeled, and casting aside the white flag, rode at full gallop to the shelter of the bush, his hasty and undignified retreat being carried out without let or hindrance on the part of the defenders of the kraal.

The German officer lay where he fell, the dead steed pinning him down as it lay on its side with its hind, off-side leg rigidly extended at an oblique angle to the ground. Partly stunned by his fall the officer tried ineffectually to rise; then after a while he relaxed and lay motionless in the broiling sun with swarms of mosquitoes buzzing round the prostrate horse and rider.

Apart from the advantage of having a prisoner in their possession the call of humanity urged the defenders to release and bring in the injured Hun. The barricaded gate was thrown open, and two troopers ran to effect the work of mercy. Even as they bent over the prostrate officer and dragged aside the animal's carcass a ragged fire burst from the bush at a distance of five hundred yards. Bullets ricochetted from the dusty ground or whizzed unpleasantly close to the men's ears; but coolly they proceeded with their task, and, unscathed, regained the shelter of the stockade, bearing their prisoner between them.

"It's von Bohme, second-in-command of the Kelji Post," declared Rupert Wilmshurst. He was too chivalrous to relate the indignities and hardships he had suffered at the hands of this Hun in particular. "They abandoned the post yesterday. Unless I'm mistaken they've a couple of machine guns with them."

"Any field guns?" asked Dudley anxiously.

"Not to my knowledge," replied his brother.

"Thank heaven for that!" rejoined the subaltern fervently. "Well, how do you feel?"

"Able to use a rifle," answered Rupert grimly.

A heavy hostile fire was being maintained from three sides, the bullets either flying high—one of the characteristic faults of African native troops—or else knocking splinters from the timbers forming the palisade. The defenders, lying close, made no attempt to reply, for the attackers were adept at taking cover and offered no target to the former's fire. Presently, as Rupert Wilmshurst had predicted, came the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun, and a swathe of bullets traversed the open ground in front of the defences, rising until the hail of nickel simply cut a gap in the palisade like a scythe against the ripe corn.

Between the huts some villagers engaged in driving their goats to a more secure spot came under the machine-gun fire, two men being killed and four wounded, the herd suffering severely; but these were the only casualties, the defenders, both white and black, keeping admirable cover.

For a quarter of an hour the one-sided action was maintained, then still under the covering fire of the machine gun a battalion of Askaris advanced at the double in company formation en echelon. Simultaneously a half-battalion debouched on the opposite side of the kraal.

Until the stormers came within four hundred yards their advance was covered by the machine guns (for another had joined in the fray), and consequently the scanty defenders dare not risk exposure; but the moment the covering fire had to cease lest it should cause casualties amongst the advancing troops the Rhodesians opened rapid fire at almost point blank range.

The front attack stopped dead, the Askaris in open order falling in heaps before the accurate fire of the trained Rhodesians. Despite the efforts of their officers to advance the native troops refused to stand. Bolting they were followed by galling volleys until the resumption of the deadly machine-fire compelled the defenders to take cover.

The rear attack was a more formidable affair, in spite of the fact that the enemy force was considerably smaller than that of the frontal assault. Met by fewer rifles, for only a mere handful of white men could be told off on that side of the kraal, the Askaris contrived to reach the palisade. It was here that the native auxiliaries proved their worth, for with stones, arrows and throwing spears they put up such a formidable defence that at close quarters these primitive weapons held their own against the rifles and bayonets of the German black troops.

For several moments the contest swayed with varying success until more Rhodesians, who could now be spared from the front on which the main assault had been repulsed, doubled up and made such good use of their rifles that the enemy broke and fled, leaving behind forty or fifty of their number lying dead in front of the stockade.

"Guess they've had enough," remarked Rupert Wilmshurst, who notwithstanding his weak state had played a strong part in the defence.

"Doubt it," replied his brother. "Perhaps they won't make another frontal attack while daylight lasts, but when it's dark they'll try their luck."

The hours passed slowly. Occasional bursts of machine-gun fire punctuated the continuous rifle-firing from the men concealed in the bush. It was a prodigious waste of ammunition without any good result, for the white men were too hardened to be shaken by the moral effect of bullets whizzing overhead, while the native warriors, taking the pattern set by their allies, showed no signs of fear or panic.

"If we only had a machine-gun," thought Dudley. "By Jove, I've a mind to have a shot at bringing in one of those brutes after dark."

He broached the matter to the patrol commander, who gave permission to any of his men to volunteer for the hazardous enterprise. There was no lack of aspirants, for practically every man expressed his wish to take part in the sortie. Finally the subaltern chose three Rhodesians and his Haussa sergeant.

Taking a compass bearing of the position of one of the machine-guns, for the cloud of steam arising from its overheated water-jacket disclosed its place of concealment, Wilmshurst made a careful note of the fact for subsequent use. There was, of course, the possibility of the machine-gun being moved as soon as night fell, but that was a risk that the sallying party must be prepared to chance.

Darkness came, but the desultory hostile fire was still maintained, the bush being pin-pricked with the vivid flashes from the rifles. It was now a nerve-racking ordeal, for more than once the defenders issued from their trench and manned the outer palisade under the erroneous impression that another attack was developing.

"It's a jolly good thing for us that they haven't any bombs," remarked the patrol-commander. "I don't fancy our blacks would stand up to them. By Jove! the villagers have shown any amount of pluck."

"They know that if the kraal's taken, their lives won't be worth a brass farthing," rejoined one of the men.

"Don't know so much about that," added another. "They had a chance to let us down and save their hides, but they weren't having any."

A meteor-like trail of reddish light whizzing through the air interrupted the argument. Anxiously the defenders watched the course of the missile, guessing but not knowing exactly what it was, until with a crash it alighted upon the palm thatched roof of a hut about in the centre of the kraal.

Several men rushed to the spot, regardless of the flying bullets, with the intent on of tearing away the smouldering missile, but before they could reach the hut the dull red glow gave place to a vivid bluish flame. The mobile weapon was an incendiary rocket.

In a minute the hut was a mass of flames, the sparks communicating the fire to the flimsily-constructed buildings adjoining it.

Strenuously the defenders, both white and black, sought to confine the devouring element to certain limits by pulling down the huts in the vicinity, but other incendiary rockets followed in rapid succession, while the fire of the machine-guns redoubled in violence.

The fire-fighters made excellent targets in the fierce light, their forms being silhouetted against the blazing huts, yet their losses were comparatively few, for the machine guns were badly laid. Nevertheless, before the men could take cover two Rhodesians were badly wounded, a dozen villagers killed and thirty odd seriously injured.

In the midst of this turmoil Dudley, whose attention was centred upon the enemy, detected a large body of men deploying from the bush. Simultaneously other formidable detachments advanced upon the kraal on all sides, showing up distinctly in the terrific glare of the burning huts. To add to the horror of the scene native women and children were shrieking in terror, and the horses and cattle were neighing and bellowing as they instinctively realised the peril that threatened them from the rapidly spreading flames.

But for the presence of their black allies the troopers would have mounted and ridden straight at their assailants, running a good chance of cutting their way out by weight of numbers and the speed of their horses; but no thought of abandoning the natives to their fate entered the heads of their allies. It would be a fight to a finish.

Leaving the conflagration to take its course every available man hastened to the palisade. Rapid independent fire delayed but failed to check the charge of ferocious, wildly shouting Askaris, whose courage had been worked up by promises of rewards if successful, and dire punishment in the event of failure. Full in the blaze of light the horde of black faces gave the defenders the impression that they were confronting a swarm of demons.

On both sides rifles cracked, steel crossed steel. Again spears and arrows came into play, while some of the defenders hurled blazing faggots with great effect upon the German levies. Yells, shouts and shrieks of pain mingled with the rattle of musketry and the roar of the burning huts.

Both sides fought stubbornly and furiously, but with this difference: the defenders of the kraal were staking their existence upon the result, the attackers, although under severe penalties in the event of failure, were not confronted with the supreme decision that awaited their foes.

Taking a favourable opportunity Wilmshurst and his squad climbed over the palisade at a point where no attack was being made, and dropping to the ground doubled in the direction of the now silent machine gun. It was a daring stroke, as it temporarily weakened the little garrison, where every rifle counted; but in the event of the raid proving successful the possession of the deadly weapon would make all the difference between victory and defeat.

Overtaking and avoiding numbers of wounded Askaris and a fair sprinkling of Germans painfully making their way back to their lines the raiders covered the intervening eight hundred yards in double time. At the edge of the scrub the subaltern halted his men in order that they might recover their breath.

They had discarded their rifles. Dudley and the Rhodesians were armed with revolvers, Bela Moshi carrying an automatic pistol, formerly the possession of a now defunct Hun, and a long, heavy, keen-edged knife resembling the Mexican machete. Each man knew exactly what was required of him, and, what was more, he was capable of carrying it out.

Creeping through the bush and outwitting a couple of Askari sentries posted on the right front of the machine gun position the raiders came in sight of their coveted prize.

The gun team was standing easy chattering furiously, and paying scant attention to the progress of their comrades in the assault. Bela Moshi afterwards declared that they were squabbling over the possession of a small keg of rum, which was to them a far more important business than the attack upon the kraal. Their European non-commissioned officer was absent, otherwise the laxity of discipline would not have been taking place.

Apparently there were no infantry reserves. If there were, they were posted at a considerable distance from the machine gun position. It was, therefore, expedient to make a surprise attack with fire-arms, since the noise was immaterial as far as alarming the supports, and very efficacious in throwing the machine gunners into a state of demoralization.

Of the six Askaris forming the detachment five dropped at the first volley; the sixth, after first rolling on the ground, sprang into the bush, followed by a couple of shots the effect of which was not known.

Smartly Bela Moshi picked up the gun and tripod; a Rhodesian corporal and a trooper seized the box containing the ammunition. Then, preceded by a sergeant and followed by Wilmshurst and the remaining man, the raiders bore off their trophy.

Followed by the ineffectual fire of the two sentries the squad doubled. By the sounds in the rear it was evident that the alarm had been communicated to the reserves, as the hurried patter of bare feet and the excited orders of the German section commanders announced that the men were aware of the loss of the machine gun. Musketry fire was opened upon the retiring raiders, but in the darkness the shots whizzed harmlessly overhead.

The haphazard fire was, however, taking toll amongst the attackers who, already casualties, were crawling or walking back from the palisade. A German officer, hit in the left arm, blundered right upon the captured weapon and its escort. For the moment he was puzzled, knowing that orders had been issued for the machine-gun party to remain in their original position. Then, distinguishing the British uniform, he drew a pistol and shouted to the party to surrender.

"Surrender yourself!" exclaimed the Rhodesian sergeant, raising his revolver.

The Hun's reply was a shot that nicked the lobe of the non-com.'s right ear. Almost immediately the latter returned the compliment, shooting the German dead on the spot.

"Sorry," muttered the Rhodesian apologetically, for he had respect for a brave foe. "You asked for it, Fritz."

The next instant Beta Moshi stumbled, the subaltern only just contriving to avoid tripping over his prostrate body. Thinking that the Haussa sergeant was hit one of the covering party began to raise the machine-gun from the ground, but the Haussa was holding it tightly in his arms.

Almost overthrowing the Rhodesian Bela Moshi regained his feet, swung the trophy over his shoulder and resumed his pace.

The returning party were only just in time. Already a formidable number of Askaris had broken through the stubbornly-defended palisade, and by sheer weight were forcing their opponents back.

Faced by hordes of German levies and with the line of burning huts preventing further retirement the defenders of the kraal were in a very tight corner indeed.



CHAPTER XVII

WATER!

In double quick time Wilmshurst's party hurried over the stockade at the same place where they had clambered out a short time previously.

Setting the tripod of the captured gun upon the raised bank at the rear of the palisade the Rhodesians fitted a belt of ammunition and promptly opened fire. Enfilading the attackers the effect of the totally unexpected hail of bullets was stupendous. The dense masses of Askaris simply melted. Only those nearest to the garrison escaped the machine-gun fire, since it was impossible to traverse further to the right without hitting friend as well as foe. Before the first belt of ammunition had been expended most of the men who had gained a footing in the village were hors de combat.

The assault was by no means over. Strong reserves were thrown into the breach, taking advantage of the lull in the firing. Working coolly and rapidly the machine-gunners fitted a new belt, but the difficulty now arose that the weapon could not be trained over the palisade, which, owing to its irregular form, screened the massed assailants.

Lifting the weapon and resting it upon the top of the stockade Bela Moshi shouted to the corporal to jump on his shoulders. In this difficult position the machine-gun reopened fire, but before twenty-five rounds had been fired the weapon jammed.

The gun was served by three men only—the Rhodesian sergeant and corporal and Bela Moshi. The rest of the party, including Wilmshurst, had hurried off to reinforce the sorely-tried men engaged hand to hand with the Askaris in the breach. Of the three only the corporal knew much about the internal mechanism of a German machine-gun, and in the ruddy, flickering light his task was greatly complicated.

Again the weapon was hoisted on the Haussa's broad shoulders. This time the mechanism acted without a hitch. The Askaris broke and fled, leaving a third of their number on the ground, while those who had gained a footing within the kraal lost heart and threw down their arms.

Nevertheless the danger was by no means over. At two other points the kraal had been entered, the defenders being forced back until two-thirds of the village was in the hands of the foe. The fiercely-burning huts now formed an effectual defence, the survivors of the garrison having concentrated in a space in the form of a segment of a circle, a portion of the palisade comprising the arc and the line of flaming huts the chord. For the present the barrage of fire was impassable, but what would happen when the conflagration burnt itself out remained a matter for anxious speculation.

Rhodesians and blacks worked together to dig a trench and construct a parapet. It was a strenuous task, for in order to give as much space as possible to the already congested defenders the new defence work had been pushed as far forward as the strength of the flames permitted. The while desultory long-distance firing was indulged in by the discomfited foe, the bullets pinging against the hard ground or flying with a sharp "siss" overhead.

While this work was in progress the corporal hurried up and addressed Wilmshurst.

"Your nigger sergeant's hit, sir," he reported.

The subaltern made his way to the spot where the machine-gun had been placed out of the line of hostile fire, since a single bullet might put it out of action. Lying upon the ground with his head propped against the ammunition box was Bela Moshi.

The Haussa was barely conscious. He recognised his young officer and gave a determined but ineffective attempt to smile. Already one of the men had cut away Bela Moshi's tunic, revealing a bullet wound on the right side of the chest. Even as Dudley placed his water-bottle to the sergeant's lips the Haussa's eyes closed and he lost consciousness.

"What do you make of it?" asked Dudley, addressing the man attending to the patient.

"He's as like to snuff it, sir," he replied. "Can't tell exactly—and it's a tough job to tackle with only a field-service dressing."

"When was he hit?" continued the subaltern.

"That's a mystery, sir," was the answer. "We'd brought the gun under cover—there wasn't a chance of being hit by direct fire, you'll understand—and the black seemed to crumple up suddenly. Never said a word, but just pitched on his face. I'll do my level best for him, sir."

Leaving his water-bottle—and water was a scarce commodity, as the supply within the kraal had been overrun by the fire—Dudley made his way to the gap in the palisade, where other units were hard at work digging a ditch across the exposed opening. Here he came face to face with his brother, whose left arm was bandaged and in a sling.

"Copped it, you see, Dudley," remarked Rupert. "If there's any trouble knocking about I'm bound to stand in. But I guess I did my whack before I was knocked out," he added grimly. "Managed to work off sixty rounds, and when we started I found myself wondering if I had the strength to pick up a rifle."

"What have you got?" asked his brother.

"Bayonet thrust," was the reply. "We were jammed up anyhow, but the fellow who gave it me won't try the trick on any one else. Have you any water?"

Dudley shook his head.

"Sorry," he replied.

"Seems a scarcity of it," continued Rupert. "All the men's water-bottles are bone-dry, and it's hot work tackling a kraal fire. The niggers, too, are clamouring for water."

"The fire's burning itself out, I fancy," remarked Dudley. "Before dawn we ought to be able to get to the well. Now I must do my whack."

Taking a spade of native workmanship from the hands of an exhausted trooper the subaltern set to work with a will, for much had to be done in a very short space of time. It was a case of excavating under extreme difficulties, for apart from the smoke and heat from the blazing huts bullets were dropping frequently and at random upon that part of the kraal still held by the hard-pressed but as yet unconquerable garrison.

Throughout the rest of the night the enemy made no attempt to renew the assault. With the dawn the worst of the task of shortening the line was accomplished, and the jaded men threw themselves down to rest, until every available position immune from rifle fire was covered with khaki and black figures sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.

There was little rest for Dudley Wilmshurst and the patrol-commander. Having visited the sentries they examined the defences in order to discover if there were any weak points that had escaped notice during the hours of darkness.

With the exception of half a dozen huts every building comprising the kraal was reduced to a heap of charred wood and ashes, from which smoke was rising sullenly in the still air. The stockade adjoining had shared the same fate, and had it not been for the earthworks constructed during the night the rear of the defences would have been completely open to direct rifle fire. At present the heat of the smouldering embers was too great to allow any attempt to procure water from the well that was situated almost in the centre of the kraal, close to the site of the headman's hut.

The captured machine gun was still under cover, ready to be rushed to any point where an attack might develop, but the trouble that confronted the team was the fact that the water in the jacket had evaporated and no more was at present procurable. The supply of rifle ammunition, too, was running perilously short. In view of the liability of the machine gun to jam after a few rounds, Wilmshurst would have had no hesitation in using the cartridges from the belt had the gun been a Maxim. But here he was beaten, for the difference in British and German small-arms ammunition makes an interchange impossible.

The next best thing was to arrange existing stocks, so that a few troopers had plenty of .303 ammunition. The others, supplying themselves with rifles and cartridges taken from the hundreds of German dead, were then in a position to give a good account of themselves should the enemy again attack at close quarters.

Having completed his present duties Wilmshurst made his way to the hut where Bela Moshi had been taken after his wound had been dressed. The building, consisting of bamboo walls and palm-leaf thatch, had been converted into a hospital and made bullet proof by piling up earth against the sides to a height of about six feet. Above that the bamboos and the roof were riddled with bullets, making it a hazardous business for any one to stand upright.

In the limited space were two Rhodesians suffering from gunshot wounds. Almost every other man of the patrol had been hit, but one and all made light of their injuries, and after receiving attention had resumed their places in the defence. Over thirty villagers had been badly wounded, but these were receiving the attention of their fellows, since, for some unexplained reason, they were reluctant to have their wounds dressed by their white allies.

"Going on famously, sir," announced the Rhodesian corporal, who, having played a gallant part in the defence, had returned to his errand of mercy. "I've extracted the bullet; it had lodged only a quarter of an inch under the skin and close to the right of his backbone. I don't fancy the lungs are touched. He'll pull through if any of us do."

"That's great!" exclaimed Wilmshurst, overjoyed that his devoted Haussa sergeant stood a good chance of recovery. "You ought to have been a doctor, corporal."

"I was very near it, sir," was the reply. "Had two years at Bart's and then chucked up the idea and came to Rhodesia. But this is somewhat remarkable; what do you make of it, sir?"

The corporal held up for inspection the bullet that had narrowly escaped putting an end to Bela Moshi.

"Automatic pistol bullet, by Jove!" exclaimed the subaltern, handling the piece of nickel.

"Yes, sir," continued the corporal, "and the Haussa has been muttering while he was coming to. Putting two and two together, so to speak, I fancy he stopped the bullet that grazed our sergeant's ear when we were bringing in the gun."

"Ah, yes; Bela Moshi did fall, but he was quickly on his feet again," remarked Wilmshurst.

"With a bullet that had all but just passed completely through his body," added the Rhodesian. "And after that he acted as a platform—he had a man standing on his shoulders for nearly a quarter of an hour—and only collapsed after the attack had been broken. There's vitality and pluck for you, sir!"

"And if we come out of this business alive I'll see that Bela Moshi's case is reported to the proper quarter," declared Dudley.

"The only thing against him is the want of water," said the corporal. "I'd risk getting plugged for the sake of a couple of bottles of water. How about the well, sir?"

"We're having a shot at it as soon as possible," replied the subaltern, and picking up his water-bottle, he left the hut.

The urgency of the matter decided Dudley. If humanly possible he meant to make the attempt forthwith. A glance at the still smouldering debris told him pretty plainly that it was a dangerous if not impossible undertaking, but for the sake of his Haussa sergeant the subaltern determined to procure the precious fluid.

He sought out his brother, but Rupert was sound asleep. Rupert was the only person he wanted to inform of his projected expedition, but that course was denied him.

With the bottle slung across his shoulder and a native jar—holding about a gallon—in each hand, Dudley leapt into the trench and scaled the parapet before the few men who were in the vicinity were aware of his intention. Then drawing a deep breath, like a diver about to make a plunge, he dashed into the belt of smoke-laden air.

At every pace his boots kicked up showers of white ashes. The heat penetrated the thick soles, it singed his hair and scorched his face and hands. He felt himself wondering why he was such a fool as to try conclusions with a mass of hot embers ... why wasn't he content to wait another two hours or so, when the heat would have greatly decreased. Supposing he lost his bearings in the smoke and couldn't find the well after all?

These and a dozen other deprecatory thoughts flashed across his mind as he stumbled onwards. He had had but a brief knowledge of the plan of the kraal previous to the fire. He remembered that the well stood in the centre of a fairly open space. There, at any rate, would he find a comparatively safe oasis in the desert of hot embers.

"By Jove, that was a narrow one!" he soliloquised as a bullet—one of many shot at a venture—whizzed dangerously close to his ears and knocked up a number of small fougasses as it ricochetted in the embers.

He wanted to breathe. Already the air was on the point of being exhausted in his lungs, yet he durst not gasp for breath. Another twenty yards ... or was it forty? He was hardly sure of his whereabouts.... Mentally he enquired if he had been making a detour instead of keeping in a straight line. Maintaining direction in a haze of smoke was far more difficult, he reflected, than in a fog, especially when there was a time limit fixed for the performance.

Almost before he was aware of it Wilmshurst literally blundered upon an open expanse where the short grass had been burnt off close to the ground. Surrounded by a barrage of bluish vapour that rose from irregular mounds of debris, the subaltern was able to breathe comparatively fresh air.

Ahead was the well, its windlass of hard teak charred but otherwise uninjured. It was a different case with the rope. The fibre had smouldered badly; it would be unwise to attempt to raise the heavy bucket by it.

Cutting adrift a length of the coir rope the subaltern bent it to the neck of one of the jars and drew up the vessel full of liquid. The water was loathsome in appearance, its surface being covered with ash and fragments of charcoal of various sizes. Prudence, as taught by long months of practical experience on the Coast, urged the young officer to resist the desire to slake his burning thirst. No water unless boiled and filtered can be drunk by Europeans without grave risks of deadly disease. But Wilmshurst now threw caution to the winds.

With avidity he filled the joined palms of his hands with the brackish and otherwise unpalatable liquid and raised it to his lips. He drank deeply, unmindful of millions of unseen germs in his almost frantic efforts to relieve the pangs of his parched throat.

Then completing his stock of hardly-gained water Wilmshurst turned to retrace his way, aware that during his stay a steady breeze had suddenly sprung up. Under its influence the dangers of the passage through the embers were greatly increased, for, fanned by the wind, numerous mounds of debris had flared up again, while the volume of smoke had spread in density, blowing straight into his face.

For some moments Dudley stood irresolute; then seized by a sudden inspiration he ran down wind, plunging through the charred wreckage. He was going directly away from that part of the kraal still held by his comrades. His new direction led towards a part of the hostile investing lines, but he preferred to run the risk of being sniped at six hundred yards to fighting his way through the now steadily burning debris.

As he expected, his passage through this part of the devastated village was relatively easy. Being the first of the huts to take fire this section had almost burnt itself out. Occasionally he had to dodge round a heap of still burning timber. The heat was almost unbearable, while the smoke penetrating his lungs made him gasp and cough violently; so much so, that twice he had to place his precious water-jars on the ground and clutch at his throat in his distress.

At length a line of blackened, calcined posts told him that he had emerged from the kraal, and that he was on the line formerly occupied by the stockade. For another fifty or sixty yards he held on, until the smoke cleared considerably; then changing direction, he began to circumvent the abandoned line of defence until he came to the still held position.

It was not long before several bullets, whizzing perilously close, warned him that the enemy had spotted him through the eddying wreaths of vapour. Others, striking the earth with a dull thud, ricochetted within a few inches of his feet.

Bending, until his jars were almost bumping on the ground, the subaltern summoned his remaining energies in a final spurt and doubled almost recklessly towards his goal.

Through the smoke he heard the sharp challenge of one of the sentries. He tried to reply, but no sound came from his parched throat. The man raised his rifle, when his sergeant, recognising the dishevelled, swaying form of Second-Lieutenant Wilmshurst, ordered the man to recover arms. Then a white mist swam before the subaltern's eyes, and, retaining sufficient presence of mind to place the hardly-won jars of water upon the ground, he stumbled inertly into the arms of the Rhodesian sergeant.



CHAPTER XVIII

IM THE ENEMY'S POSITION

It was not long before Wilmshurst regained consciousness, to find that his precious stock of water was being boiled under the direction of the patrol-corporal. With admirable restraint the men, knowing that the subaltern had risked a horrible death for the sake of his black sergeant, had put the whole of the liquid to boil, insisting that a fair distribution would be made when the water was fit for drinking. A little over two gallons was not much among so many, but it would just assuage their thirst until the steadily-declining heat of the smouldering ruins permitted access to the well.

Producing his pump-filter, for Bela Moshi had taken particular pains to leave it in a safe place before the sortie, the subaltern strained the liquid. It was warm and insipid, yet it was now free from contamination, and Bela Moshi drank it with avidity.

A suspicion of his broad smile flitted across his face as he took the life-giving draught.

"You tink me lib for die, sah?" he enquired whimsically.

"No fear!" replied Wilmshurst, knowing that to a remarkable degree a "nigger" can control his ability to live or die. He had known of a black man who, grievously upset in a quarrel, declared that he was going to die, and promptly lying down and turning his face to the ground, the man was a corpse within half an hour. "You get well one time quick, or me berry angry."

The subaltern's reply reminded him of a doting parent talking to a small child in baby language. Bela Moshi was a mere child in certain respects, and the mild threat had its effect. "Den me tink me lib, sah," he said.

With this assurance Wilmshurst left to snatch a few hours' much-needed rest. The bulk of the white men comprising the garrison were behind the earthworks. Occasional sharp bursts of rifle firing came from the bush, but no reply was made by the defenders of the kraal. Ammunition was too scarce and precious to be thrown away at haphazard firing upon an unseen foe. The Germans' remaining machine gun was unaccountably silent. Perhaps it had failed, after the manner of automatic weapons. On the other hand, although the captured machine-gun was liable to jam after a few rounds, owing to its having become overheated, the Huns were ignorant of the fact, and thus the practically useless weapon was a strong moral factor in favour of its captors.

Dudley slept for a solid four hours, to awake considerably refreshed to find that some one had spread a double ground-sheet above him, so as to form a tent, for the sun was now directly overhead.

"Hullo, Rupert!" he exclaimed, upon seeing his brother. "How goes it?"

"Feeling quite my old self," was the reply. "A fellow can buck up even in present circumstances after being penned up by a mob of rascally Huns."

"What happened to you?" asked Dudley.

Rupert shrugged his bent shoulders.

"Don't ask me," he replied. "Some day I'll tell you—if we get out of this scrap."

"Did you hear what became of Robert MacGregor?" persisted Dudley.

"A thundering good old pal!" declared his brother heartily. "If he'd not been obliged to go back to Rhodesia I don't think I would have been landed in a German prison. I'd give a lot to shake old Bob by the hand again."

The subaltern regarded his brother intently. Rupert, he saw, was speaking quite naturally and without any trace of sarcasm. It was clear that he had not the slightest idea of the double, nay multi-dyed treachery of Ulrich von Gobendorff.

"Dash it all!" he soliloquised. "I can't enlighten old Rupert just now. Revelations must come later—if, as he remarked, we do come out of this business alive."

About four o'clock in the afternoon the irritating rifle fire ceased. Fifteen minutes passed without a shot winging its way from the dense scrub; and although one or two of the defenders boldly stood upon the parapet to draw the enemy, their tempting position brought no response.

"Guess we'll hike out and bring in some water," declared one. "No time like the present, and we are as dry as a bone."

"Very good," agreed the patrol-commander. "Only look sharp about it. This lull in the firing may mean that the Boches are up to some of their knavish tricks."

Accordingly five men, each carrying four jars, set off to the well. The dangers that Wilmshurst had encountered were now over, and in a short space of time the five returned. Although they had been in full view of the enemy positions throughout, their progress had not been molested by so much as a single shot.

"The blighters are saving it up for us for to-night," declared a trooper. "Wonder if a couple of us could steal through their lines and make our way to the main column? A few squadrons would make Fritz sit up."

"No use unless we were mounted," objected another; "and a fellow couldn't hope to dash through their lines at full gallop. He'd be chock full of bullets before he got within fifty yards of them."

"I'd risk it, anyway," asserted the first speaker. "Either mounted or dismounted I reckon I'd do it as soon as it gets dark. But I'm hanged if I can understand why Fritz is so horribly quiet and well-behaved."

"That's what we'd all like to know," added the sergeant. "I'm that curious that I fancy taking a stroll that way myself."

Shortly afterwards a party of villagers were collected and set to work to bury the bodies of those who had fallen in the futile assault. The natives, contrary to expectation, performed their tasks without let or hindrance from the enemy, although the men engaged in the work offered a tempting target.

With the fall of darkness the mental attention of the garrison became acute. At every slight or unaccountable sound the men strained eyes and ears and grasped their rifles to meet an imaginary rush. Just before midnight a shot rang out, the flash of the rifle being clearly discernible at a point immediately fronting the scene of the most formidable attack on the previous night.

"They're coming, boys!" exclaimed the patrol-commander. "Ten rounds rapid when I give the word, then independent firing. Don't waste a single shot."

Only the click of the rifle-bolts and the quick breathing of the men broke the stillness. Even the natives, awed by the impending assault, were silent as they handled their bows and long-hafted spears.

"Hear anything?" whispered the patrol-commander, edging close to Wilmshurst.

"Nothing," replied the subaltern.

"They're coming, sir," exclaimed a deep voice.

The subaltern raised his binoculars and swept the intervening space. The powerful night-glasses revealed no sign of the approaching enemy.

Again a flash, followed by the sharp report of a rifle, the bullet knocking splinters from one of the cross-pieces of the stockade—and then utter silence.

"Dashed if I can stick this!" declared Wilmshurst. "I'll go out and sec what's doing. With luck I'll be back in an hour."

"Very good," agreed the Rhodesian patrol-commander. "Give the word 'Buluwayo' for the countersign. Good luck!"

Without loss of time the subaltern started on his mission of investigation. Once clear of the kraal he realised a sense of loneliness. He would have given almost all he possessed for the companionship of his trusty Bela Moshi. Then, shaking off the instinctive depression, he devoted his thoughts to the work on hand.

He was taking a different route from the one he had followed on the occasion of the capture of the machine-gun. It was unfamiliar ground, flat and totally devoid of cover. Ahead lay a line of dark shadows that marked the commencement of the encircling bush. It was only slightly over a quarter of a mile away, but the distance seemed interminable as he slowly and cautiously held on.

Once he stood stock still, his heart beating violently. Ten yards ahead a man lay prone on the short grass. The faint starlight glinted on the barrel of a rifle, which was pointed straight at the lone subaltern.

Momentarily Wilmshurst expected to see the blinding flash of the rifle. The fellow was a long time lingering over the sights, he thought. The young officer moved a couple of paces to the right. The sinister muzzle seemed to be following him, tantalisingly menacing.

Acting upon a sudden impulse Wilmshurst flung himself flat on the ground. After a pause he raised his head and looked towards the sniper, for such he took him to be. The man had not stirred. His rifle was cocking upwards at an acute angle to the ground, "I believe a dead Hun has given me cold feet," muttered the subaltern, and creeping stealthily he made a wide detour round the rigidly immovable figure. Then, satisfied up to a certain point, he crawled towards the motionless object.

It was an Askari. The man was one of the first to be shot during the onslaught. He had fallen face downwards, but still grasped his rifle in such a position that there was good reason for mistaking him for a sniper.

From this point Wilmshurst resumed his outward journey, proceeding on hands and knees and halting at frequent intervals to place his ear to the ground. He could detect no audible evidences of the foe. Never before, in the course of two separate campaigns against native troops officered by Germans, had he known such absolute silence amongst the black rank and file.

On and on he crawled, grimly soliloquising that much more of this mode of progression would make him imagine that he was a new type of serpent, for as he approached the outer fringe of scrub he literally moved on his stomach.

Proceeding thus he passed between two large thorn bushes. Beyond was a slight artificial depression in the ground, on the bottom of which were hundreds of metal cartridge cases.

By the peculiar pungent odour he knew that they had been fired within the last twelve hours. Some were trodden into the loose earth, which bore numerous indications of having been trampled both with boots and bare feet.

"By Jove!" he thought. "Fritz has cleared out."

Even as the idea flashed across his mind a rifle-shot rang out on his left.

Promptly Wilmshurst flattened himself to the ground, and waited breathlessly for further developments. The weird silence was maintained save for the distant croaking of bullfrogs in a marsh.

"Booby trap!" he declared, and cautiously groped around to find out if he had incautiously touched a fine wire. At a radius of his extended arm he found nothing of that nature. Perhaps, after all, a sniper was concealed in the bushes on his left, for the bullet had not been directed at him.

Bent upon investigating the mystery Wilmshurst crept round the intervening bushes. Before he had traversed thirty yards his head came in contact with the stock of a rifle. The weapon was lashed to a couple of stout bamboos. Fastened to the trigger was a short piece of wire, to which in turn was tied a length of raw hide. The subaltern gave a chuckle of satisfaction. His discovery confirmed his surmise that the investing force had raised the siege, leaving rifles so arranged that they would fire automatically after various intervals in order to convey the erroneous impression that the bush was still held in force.

The raw hide cords had been placed in position during the heat of the day. After dark the heavy dew moistened the hide and caused it to contract until the tension upon the trigger was sufficient to release the bolt action and detonate the cartridges.

A similar ruse, embodying more ingenuity, had been practised by the British troops during the successful evacuation of the Gallipoli peninsula; but in this case the fixed rifles were fired by means of a small trickle of water dropping from an upper receptacle into a lower one. To the latter was tied a cord, the other end of which was fastened to the trigger. As soon as half a gallon of liquid entered the lower tin can, resulting in a pressure of about seven pounds on the trigger, the rifle was fired.

"And there are plenty of discarded tins lying about," thought Wilmshurst. "It seems strange that methodical Fritz should waste a good raw-hide thong when simpler and more efficacious means are available, unless—ah! I wonder if it was a lack of water that made them clear out?"

Wilmshurst was nothing if not thorough. Before returning with the joyful news to the kraal he meant to satisfy himself that the Huns had abandoned all their positions. It would be a bad business if, on the strength of the young officer's report, the patrol left the village and attempted to rejoin the main body only to find themselves suddenly attacked in the open by vastly numerically superior forces.

Checking his direction from time to time by means of his luminous compass Dudley penetrated nearly a mile into the bush. Everywhere there were evidences that the enemy had retired in the direction of the Karewenda Hills, while the not distant sounds of wild animals showed that the bush was clear of anything of the nature of numerous parties of human beings.

Satisfied on this point the subaltern was about to retrace his way when he heard a stealthy footfall on the dew-soddened ground within a few paces of the spot where he stood.

Softly and deliberately Wilmshurst dropped to the earth, screened by the broad leaves of a cactus. He could hardly believe the evidence of his senses when, almost within arm's length, appeared the foremost of a single file of Haussas—men not only of his own battalion but of his platoon.



CHAPTER XIX

CORNERED AT LAST

Checking the natural exuberance of his wildly delighted men Wilmshurst obtained the information that the battalion, acting in conjunction with a Punjabi infantry regiment and a couple of squadrons of Light Horse, was about to deliver a surprise attack upon the enemy. Once again the wily Hun had disappointed the British forces. By means of native scouts the Germans had learnt of the approach of the relieving forces, and without waiting to exchange shots the former had effected a prompt and skilfully-conducted retirement.

Accompanied by one of the Haussas Wilmshurst hastened to inform his commanding officer of the state of affairs. On the way he found big Spofforth with the advance-guard. The latter greeted his missing chum cordially.

"You're a lucky blighter!" he exclaimed, as he critically surveyed Dudley's ragged and dishevelled appearance. "You always manage to see some fun. Here are we, after two days' hard marching, sold completely, and not a chance to fire a shot. Well, what have you been doing?"

"I'll tell you later," replied Wilmshurst. "I must report to the C.O. Briefly, we've missed von Gobendorff, but we've had one of the toughest little scraps I've ever experienced."

Colonel Quarrier was both delighted and disappointed with his junior officer's report. His satisfaction at the news of the successful defence of the kraal was unbounded; but his brow darkened when he learnt of the escape of Ulrich von Gobendorff.

"We heard from native sources that you were in a tight corner, Mr. Wilmshurst," he remarked in conclusion. "How the news got through in so short a time is one of those unsolved mysteries appertaining to the inhabitants of Central Africa. We pushed ahead with a column hoping to catch Fritz sitting; but we were done. Well, ought you to rejoin your temporary unit? If you prefer you can remain till dawn, for I do not intend to move further till then. We don't want any exchange of shots by mistake."

"I'll return, sir," replied the subaltern. "The men will be bucked to hear the good news. I shouldn't wonder if they aren't getting a bit anxious, for I was due back an hour ago."

Without mishap the subaltern traversed the intervening stretch of scrub, crossed the open space and gained the kraal, where, as he had expected, the good news was hailed with enthusiasm. For the first time since the investment of the village the defenders were able to snatch a few hours' undisturbed sleep unaccompanied by the intermittent reports of rifles and the constant expectation of being called to arms.

Dawn was breaking when a squadron of Rhodesian Light Horse cantered up to the bullet-torn stockade, their arrival being hailed with three cheers by the undaunted patrol and a deafening clamour from the natives, who had played no inconspicuous part in the defence of the kraal. Twenty minutes later the Waffs marched in, followed by an Indian battalion, which bivouacked in the open.

"Here we remain—so the C.O. says," declared Danvers, as the four platoon-commanders of "A" Company gathered together in a native hut temporarily converted into the mess. "It's a step nearer the Karewenda Hills, and there, according to accounts, Fritz will make a last stand."

"Unless he prefers Cape Town," added Spofforth, and the five officers laughed at the jest. "As things are going it reminds me of that kid's game 'Ring-a-ring-o'-Roses'—simply barging round and round and getting no forrarder."

"Dashed smart chap that servant of yours, Wilmshurst," remarked Laxdale, after the subaltern had related the story of Bela Moshi's devotion. "And how is he progressing?"

"Splendidly, according to Dr. Barkley's latest report," replied Dudley. "If any fellow deserves the D.C.M. it's he."

"And a little bird whispered to me," continued Laxdale, "that a certain member of the antient and accepted order of the Lone Star Crush did a jolly risky thing—fetching water under enemy fire."

Wilmshurst coloured hotly.

"Rot!" he ejaculated. "Fritz couldn't see me. They were putting up a lot of small arms ammunition, of course. No, that's nothing; almost forgot about it, in fact."

But if Wilmshurst had dismissed the incident from his mind the water had not forgotten him. The poisonous germs in the non-filtered liquid were doing their lethal work, and that evening the subaltern was down with a severe bout of malaria.

In a covered dhoolie Wilmshurst was sent down to a hospital base-camp. With him went Rupert, who, on the setting in of the reaction following his release, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Within a couple of months Dudley was back with his battalion. Many times he bitterly reproached himself for being out of action for that period simply because he did not exercise sufficient restraint when he drank the tainted water. He realised that he alone was to blame, while most of the trouble fell upon the shoulders of his brother platoon-commanders, who already had their full share of work and responsibility.

He found the battalion at a place twenty miles further away from the Karewenda Hills than the kraal where he had played so conspicuous a part in its defence.

"You needn't have been so rattled about it, old boy," declared Spofforth. "You've missed none of the fun, for the simple reason that there hasn't been any. A fortnight ago we were within sight of Twashi. There was a Belgian column operating on the north-west side. It looked as if we were going to do something great, when we had to retire through lack of provisions. It appears that a few Huns got away and started playing the deuce with our lines of communication; put the kybosh on a couple of convoys and generally made things unpleasant."

"Rather," agreed Laxdale. "I've been hungry many a time, but now I know what it means to have to tighten one's belt. I'll qualify for the Army Light-weight Championship yet."

"A week ago I seriously thought of going on exhibition as a living skeleton," remarked Danvers. "You've been jolly lucky, Wilmshurst; you're as fat as a prize turkey-cock. They've been stuffing you down at the base."

"At any rate I'll soon work it down to normal," rejoined Wilmshurst. "Any company news?"

"Nothing much," replied Spofforth. "Two casualties in your platoon. Bela Moshi is still away (hard lines, thought Wilmshurst), but the recommendation for the D.C.M. has gone through. The black sinner will be as proud as a dog with two tails when he gets the medal."

Within a week of Dudley's rejoining, the column was again in position to resume offensive operations. Well guarded convoys had arrived, including a much-needed ammunition column, while with the advent of the rainy season the difficulty of feeding the horses and mules was considerably reduced.

The troops advanced on a broad front, the Waffs in the centre, a Punjabi battalion on the right and a Pathan regiment on the left. Light Horse and Indian Lancers operated on both flanks, while a battery of mountain guns acted in support of the infantry.

For the last three weeks a strong Belgian column had been sitting on the banks of the Tuti, a river flowing in a south-westerly direction behind the Karewenda Hills and joining the Kiwa fifty miles S.S.W. of M'ganga. By holding the fords the Belgians effectually cut off the retreat of the Huns from Twashi, and the latter being fully aware of that unpleasant fact were confronted with one of two alternatives—to fight it out or surrender.

Four days' steady marching brought the British column within striking distance of the outermost lines of defence. The difficult nature of the ground made it impossible to run the position. A frontal attack had to be delivered in order to pierce the line, but before this could be done the intervening ground had to be carefully reconnoitred, as many of the defences had been thrown up during the last few days, Fritz working with feverish energy when he found himself cornered.

During the course of the day four Germans approached the outlying piquets and made signs that they wished to surrender. Blindfolded they were escorted to headquarters and subjected to a rigorous examination. They admitted frankly that supplies both of food and ammunition were running short and that the Askaris were restless and showing signs of mutiny. The prisoners also gave details of the position of some of the German advance works, stating that they were but lightly held. Each man being showed a military map he indicated the position of the defence in question; and, what was more, the descriptions coincided with each other.

"It would be well, however, not to take too much for granted, sir," remarked the adjutant to Colonel Quarrier after the Germans had been removed. "This surrender business may be a put-up job to throw dust in our eyes. Their yarn has a sort of carefully-practised savour about it."

"Perhaps you are right," agreed the C.O. of the Waffs. "It would be as well to be content with a feint upon this section of the defences in case there is a labyrinth of mines. What sort of ground is this?"

He pointed with a pencil to the map spread out in front of him. The adjutant looked, frowned and tugged at his moustache.

"I really cannot say, sir," he replied at length. "If the map is correct——"

"I refer to the actual terrain," interrupted Colonel Quarrier. "Look here, Manners; if it is fairly undulating, and not too steep on the north-eastern side, it ought to be admirably suited for a coup-de-main. Frontal, of course, but that is inevitable."

"Just so, sir," murmured the adjutant. Colonel Quarrier deliberately folded up the map. "Very well," he said in conclusion. "Send a reliable officer out. I want an accurate report. Whom can you suggest?"

Captain Manners pondered.

"There's Mr. Spofforth, sir——"

"Too jolly lanky for the job," objected the colonel.

"Mr. Danvers——"

"Took lowest marks at map-reading," continued the critical C.O. "A smart officer in every other respect."

"Mr. Laxdale——"

"Lacks caution," declared Colonel Quarrier. "No pun intended. A good man in a rush at the head of his platoon, but for individual work—Who's next?"

"Mr. Wilmshurst, sir."

"Only just out of hospital," was the C.O.'s dictum.

"But fit and as keen as mustard, sir," persisted the adjutant for two reasons. He was getting a bit bored at having his recommendations summarily "choked off"; he also knew that Dudley Wilmshurst was, apart from being a soldier, a scout by instinct, and that he had plenty of experience of the conditions of life in the bush.

"Very well, then," declared the C.O. "Broach the subject to him privately, Manners. If he jumps at it, send him to me."

Ten minutes later Second-Lieutenant Dudley Wilmshurst "jumped."



CHAPTER XX

QUITS

The subaltern decided to go out alone. One man stood a far better chance of escaping detection than two; so greatly to the dismay of every Haussa in his platoon he faced the difficult task single handed.

Mounted on a nimble pony and carrying rifle and ammunition, revolver, binoculars, map and compass Wilmshurst was bent upon conserving his energies during the ride across the previously reconnoitred ground. On new terrain he would tether his steed and proceed on foot.

The air was still and sultry. Away to the north great black clouds piled themselves up in sombre masses, indigo-coloured with edges of watery green and flaming copper. Against the dark background the distant horizon stood out clear and distinct, owing to the exaggerated refractory conditions of the atmosphere.

"A regular deluge before long," decided Dudley.

He viewed the approaching storm with equanimity. The clearness of the atmosphere rendered his task lighter, while the change of weather would tend to keep the Askaris within their lines. Even German military despotism could not conquer the native levies' dread of a thunderstorm. Finally the darkness and rain on the bursting of the storm would enable him to get back without so much chance of being spotted, for on reconnoitring it is on the return journey that casualties to the scouts happen most frequently.

The subaltern's sole protection from the rain was a waterproof ground sheet. Originally fawn-coloured it had been liberally camouflaged with bizarre circles, squares and triangles painted in a medley of colouring. At five hundred yards the wearer was practically invisible, the "colour-scheme" blending with the surrounding ground in a most effective manner. For the present the ground sheet, wrapped into a small compass, was strapped in front of the pommel of the saddle.

Making his way past the outlying piquets Wilmshurst rode steadily. The ground was undulating, the general tendency being a gentle rise. During the last few days the hitherto dry and parched land had been covered with rapidly growing vegetation, vivid green grasses shooting up to an average height of eighteen inches and transforming the open ground into a state strongly resembling the prairies of the New World.

Crowds of aasvogels, gathered around the carcass of a mule, rose on the subaltern's approach, uttering discordant cries as they flew away from their interrupted meal. It was unfortunate but unavoidable, and had Wilmshurst been within a couple of miles of a hostile post the aerial commotion would have "given him away."