the camp of the frontier armed and mounted police at the kangala lay wrapped in the stillness of profound slumber.
it was the darkest hour of night—that before the dawn. even that would not have been dark, for the moon had not yet set, but a thick mist lay upon the land, blotting out everything in its confusing, bewildering folds; damp too, so that the shivering men, sleeping on their arms, disposed at their posts instead of within the comparative snugness of their kennel-like patrol tents, needed but little rousing in the event of the expected happening. but strict orders for silence had been issued, also that no light was to be struck on any pretext whatever; wherefore these shivering ones were perforce denied the solace of the warm and comforting pipe. the troop-horses on the picket lines were beginning to bestir themselves, as an occasional snort and stamp would testify.
the commandant came out of one of the huts which had been erected for the use of the officers; he had not slept in it, any more than that night had any man under his command, officer or private trooper. he glanced upward, as the lightening of the mist showed a pale, wrack-swept moon, then held up against the latter something that looked uncommonly like an ordinary large-sized pickle-bottle. no newly invented projectile was this, however, it being in fact just what it looked, and it contained something nondescript of the lizard tribe, reposing motionless on the harmless-looking chemical which constituted the jar a miniature lethal chamber. for the cool, self-possessed officer in command of the frontier force was known to science as an enthusiastic naturalist, as we have already pointed out.
he did not start in the least at the sound of an almost imperceptible tread behind him.
“that you, greenoak?” was all he said, without taking his attention off the jar. “my specimen’s dead by now. i think, though, i’ll put him inside the hut in case of accidents.” then, reappearing, “well? i suppose we shall be hard at it in an hour?”
“less than that,” replied harley greenoak. “listen!”
out in the mist the shrill, long-drawn, laughing bay of a jackal rang out, then again. it was answered by another, on the opposite side of the camp, and about at the same distance from it.
“that doesn’t seem to ring quite true, does it?” said greenoak.
“no, it doesn’t. and there’s a mathematical precision about it unusual among the beasts of the field,” was the answer.
greenoak nodded.
“right you are, commandant,” he said. “listen. the mathematical calculation keeps up.”
for, on the other front came the same sound at exactly the same distance in that direction. it was answered by the two who had first given tongue, but now all these three voices seemed to be receding. this ordinary nocturnal sound would have attracted the attention—we dare say—of no other there present, but to the keen experienced ears of the commandant and the up-country hunter the note, as the latter had said, did not ring true.
the camp was situated upon an open plateau, with a sparse mimosa growth beginning about a hundred yards from the defences, and stretching away to much thicker bush half a mile further on the south front and the two corresponding sides. here the ground sloped away to a low range of hills, distant enough, however, not to command the position. on the north, or rear, the ground was almost entirely open. a low sod wall and a shallow trench surrounded the camp on all sides, and had been constructed in a square formation. the ammunition supply, now abundant, thanks to harley greenoak and the bravery of the express-riders, was securely disposed, and, at the same time, readily get-at-able. only one of the two seven-pounders constituting the police artillery battery was present—the other being away on service elsewhere—and this was trained so as to protect the south front.
in obedience to orders, quickly and noiselessly issued, every man was now at his post. the excitement was tense, painful. most of those present had never been in action, a proportion had never even witnessed the taking of human life in any form. but they were well officered, and by none better than by their commandant. he, utterly calm and self-contained, his helmet towering nearly a head above the group of officers surrounding him, stood, stroking his long beard; and, as he uttered a dry witticism or two in an undertone in response to their remarks, his thoughts running about equally on the work in front, and the latest “specimen” he had captured, was as a very pillar of strength to some of the untried younger men there present.
“by george, the chief’s splendid!” exclaimed dick selmes, who, in his eagerness, was right in among the front rank of the fighters.
“silence there!” came the whispered but sharp mandate of a sergeant. “oh, it’s mr selmes? well, if you’re not in the ranks you are for the present,” he added meaningly.
dick apologised and shut up. he was in such a state of suppressed excitement that it was all he could do to keep silence.
now the dawn was lightening, and with it the mist. harley greenoak whispered a word or two to the commandant. both stood listening intently, and, in a moment, the officer in charge of the seven-pounder moved swiftly from the group. a red flash belched forth dully through the mist, together with a resonant roar, and with the bursting of the shrapnel, some six hundred yards away on the front face of the position, came sharp, startled yells of dismay and of agony. harley greenoak’s fine, well-nigh supernatural sense of hearing had told him that at this front were massed a considerable body of the savage enemy.
grimly, justifiably elate, the gunners in a trice had rammed home the next charge. and then with the widening dawn, the mist rolled back like a curtain, and this is what it revealed.
the thicker bush line, barely half a mile distant, was pouring forth dense masses of kafirs. they seemed to swarm like disturbed red ants; and now, with a tremendous and vibrating roar, the whole of this formidable array swept forward upon the police camp.
“seems to me we’re taking on all the kafirs in africa,” said inspector chambers, lowering his glass. “thousands and thousands anyhow.”
the commandant issued some orders, characteristically laconic and few. he and harley greenoak were the only two men present who betrayed absolutely no sign of any excitement.
the swarming assailants had halved the distance now, and their front ranks, dropping into cover, began opening a furious fire upon the camp. two troopers were hit, but not fatally. then the seven-pounder spoke again, and with the reverberating boom the bursting shrapnel fell beautifully over a point where the savages were massed thickest. but, so far from dismaying them, it had the effect of urging them on to the attack, so as to get it over as quickly as possible, which was just what the commandant intended should happen.
those in the enemy’s firing-line leaped up and charged forward in skirmishing order, dropping into cover every now and then to deliver a rapid volley. so far, from the police camp not a rifleshot had been fired. only the seven-pounder boomed as quickly as it could be loaded, every time dropping its shrapnel where likely to prove most effective.
in crescent formation the front line of the savages had now reached within three hundred yards of the camp. they had ceased all shouting, and were coming on in silence; grim, naked figures, save for their fantastic war-adornments. then the police carbines barked. the men had been especially enjoined to fire low, and in the result, at such close range, the blow to the onrushing enemy was felt, and as the first discharge was quickly followed by another and another, his ranks staggered, swayed this way and that, then dropped down into cover again.
this was the opportunity of the assailed and, incidentally, of harley greenoak. for cover was very scant so near the camp, and when two men got behind a stone or ant-heap that would not have sheltered one, why, the bullets had a pitiless knack of finding them out. utterly demoralised, the skirmishers crawled away to a remoter point where the bush grew thicker, and for upwards of an hour kept up a straggling fire. but they never repeated their first rush. the back of the fight seemed to have been broken by the terrible execution done during that same rush. at last, utterly panic-stricken, they fled.
now a. troop was ordered to complete the blow by a pursuit; under so experienced an officer as inspector chambers there was no chance of it being drawn too far. and we may be sure that dick selmes did not remain behind.
for the first time now he realised the sights and horrors of a battlefield. wherever he looked it was to behold some stark and gory corpse, even piles of them where the deadly shrapnel had done its work. wounded kafirs too, groaning and twisting in their pain—ugh! it was horrible! but, as the police came up with the rear masses of the flying enemy, the fierce excitement revived. the horrors were forgotten.
