CHAPTER VII
THE EPISODE OF THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT
Hilda took me back with her to the embryo farm where she had
pitched her tent for the moment; a rough, wild place. It lay close
to the main road from Salisbury to Chimoio.
Setting aside the inevitable rawness and newness of all things
Rhodesian, however, the situation itself was not wholly
unpicturesque. A ramping rock or tor of granite, which I should
judge at a rough guess to extend to an acre in size, sprang
abruptly from the brown grass of the upland plain. It rose like a
huge boulder. Its summit was crowned by the covered grave of some
old Kaffir chief--a rude cairn of big stones under a thatched
awning. At the foot of this jagged and cleft rock the farmhouse
nestled--four square walls of wattle-and-daub, sheltered by its
mass from the sweeping winds of the South African plateau. A
stream brought water from a spring close by: in front of the house--
rare sight in that thirsty land--spread a garden of flowers. It
was an oasis in the desert. But the desert itself stretched grimly
all round. I could never quite decide how far the oasis was caused
by the water from the spring, and how far by Hilda's presence.
"Then you live here?" I cried, gazing round--my voice, I suppose,
betraying my latent sense of the unworthiness of the position.
"For the present," Hilda answered, smiling. "You know, Hubert, I
have no abiding city anywhere, till my Purpose is fulfilled. I
came here because Rhodesia seemed the farthest spot on earth where
a white woman just now could safely penetrate--in order to get away
from you and Sebastian."
"That is an unkind conjunction!" I exclaimed, reddening.
"But I mean it," she answered, with a wayward little nod. "I
wanted breathing-space to form fresh plans. I wanted to get clear
away for a time from all who knew me. And this promised best. . . .
But nowadays, really, one is never safe from intrusion anywhere."
"You are cruel, Hilda!"
"Oh, no. You deserve it. I asked you not to come--and you came in
spite of me. I have treated you very nicely under the circumstances,
I think. I have behaved like an angel. The question is now, what
ought I to do next? You have upset my plans so."
"Upset your plans? How?"
"Dear Hubert,"--she turned to me with an indulgent smile,--"for a
clever man, you are really TOO foolish! Can't you see that you
have betrayed my whereabouts to Sebastian? _I_ crept away
secretly, like a thief in the night, giving no name or place; and,
having the world to ransack, he might have found it hard to track
me; for HE had not YOUR clue of the Basingstoke letter--nor your
reason for seeking me. But now that YOU have followed me openly,
with your name blazoned forth in the company's passenger-lists, and
your traces left plain in hotels and stages across the map of South
Africa--why, the spoor is easy. If Sebastian cares to find us, he
can follow the scent all through without trouble."
"I never thought of that!" I cried, aghast.
She was forbearance itself. "No, I knew you would never think of
it. You are a man, you see. I counted that in. I was afraid from
the first you would wreck all by following me."
I was mutely penitent. "And yet, you forgive me, Hilda?"
Her eyes beamed tenderness. "To know all, is to forgive all," she
answered. "I have to remind you of that so often! How can I help
forgiving, when I know WHY you came--what spur it was that drove
you? But it is the future we have to think of now, not the past.
And I must wait and reflect. I have NO plan just at present."
"What are you doing at this farm?" I gazed round at it,
dissatisfied.
"I board here," Hilda answered, amused at my crestfallen face.
"But, of course, I cannot be idle; so I have found work to do. I
ride out on my bicycle to two or three isolated houses about, and
give lessons to children in this desolate place, who would
otherwise grow up ignorant. It fills my time, and supplies me with
something besides myself to think about."
"And what am _I_ to do?" I cried, oppressed with a sudden sense of
helplessness.
She laughed at me outright. "And is this the first moment that
that difficulty has occurred to you?" she asked, gaily. "You have
hurried all the way from London to Rhodesia without the slightest
idea of what you mean to do now you have got here?"
I laughed at myself in turn. "Upon my word, Hilda," I cried, "I
set out to find you. Beyond the desire to find you, I had no plan
in my head. That was an end in itself. My thoughts went no
farther."
She gazed at me half saucily. "Then don't you think, sir, the best
thing you can do, now you HAVE found me, is--to turn back and go
home again?"
"I am a man," I said, promptly, taking a firm stand. "And you are
a judge of character. If you really mean to tell me you think THAT
likely--well, I shall have a lower opinion of your insight into men
than I have been accustomed to harbour."
Her smile was not wholly without a touch of triumph.
"In that case," she went on, "I suppose the only alternative is for
you to remain here."
"That would appear to be logic," I replied. "But what can I do?
Set up in practice?"
"I don't see much opening," she answered. "If you ask my advice, I
should say there is only one thing to be done in Rhodesia just now--
turn farmer."
"It IS done," I answered, with my usual impetuosity. "Since YOU
say the word, I am a farmer already. I feel an interest in oats
that is simply absorbing. What steps ought I to take first in my
present condition?"
She looked at me, all brown with the dust of my long ride. "I
would suggest," she said slowly, "a good wash, and some dinner."
"Hilda," I cried, surveying my boots, or what was visible of them,
"that is REALLY clever of you. A wash and some dinner! So
practical, so timely! The very thing! I will see to it."
Before night fell, I had arranged everything. I was to buy the
next farm from the owner of the one where Hilda lodged; I was also
to learn the rudiments of South African agriculture from him for a
valuable consideration; and I was to lodge in his house while my
own was building. He gave me his views on the cultivation of oats.
He gave them at some length--more length than perspicuity. I knew
nothing about oats, save that they were employed in the manufacture
of porridge--which I detest; but I was to be near Hilda once more,
and I was prepared to undertake the superintendence of the oat from
its birth to its reaping if only I might be allowed to live so
close to Hilda.
The farmer and his wife were Boers, but they spoke English. Mr.
Jan Willem Klaas himself was a fine specimen of the breed--tall,
erect, broad-shouldered, and genial. Mrs. Klaas, his wife, was
mainly suggestive, in mind and person, of suet-pudding. There was
one prattling little girl of three years old, by name Sannie, a
most engaging child; and also a chubby baby.
"You are betrothed, of course?" Mrs. Klaas said to Hilda before me,
with the curious tactlessness of her race, when we made our first
arrangement.
Hilda's face flushed. "No; we are nothing to one another," she
answered--which was only true formally. "Dr. Cumberledge had a
post at the same hospital in London where I was a nurse; and he
thought he would like to try Rhodesia. That is all."
Mrs. Klaas gazed from one to other of us suspiciously. "You
English are strange!" she answered, with a complacent little shrug.
"But there--from Europe! Your ways, we know, are different."
Hilda did not attempt to explain. It would have been impossible to
make the good soul understand. Her horizon was so simple. She was
a harmless housewife, given mostly to dyspepsia and the care of her
little ones. Hilda had won her heart by unfeigned admiration for
the chubby baby. To a mother, that covers a multitude of
eccentricities, such as one expects to find in incomprehensible
English. Mrs. Klaas put up with me because she liked Hilda.
We spent some months together on Klaas's farm. It was a dreary
place, save for Hilda. The bare daub-and-wattle walls; the clumps
of misshapen and dusty prickly-pears that girt round the thatched
huts of the Kaffir workpeople; the stone-penned sheep-kraals, and
the corrugated iron roof of the bald stable for the waggon oxen--
all was as crude and ugly as a new country can make things. It
seemed to me a desecration that Hilda should live in such an
unfinished land--Hilda, whom I imagined as moving by nature through
broad English parks, with Elizabethan cottages and immemorial oaks--
Hilda, whose proper atmosphere seemed to be one of coffee-coloured
laces, ivy-clad abbeys, lichen-incrusted walls--all that is
beautiful and gracious in time-honoured civilisations.
Nevertheless, we lived on there in a meaningless sort of way--I
hardly knew why. To me it was a puzzle. When I asked Hilda, she
shook her head with her sibylline air and answered, confidently:
"You do not understand Sebastian as well as I do. We have to wait
for HIM. The next move is his. Till he plays his piece, I cannot
tell how I may have to checkmate him."
So we waited for Sebastian to advance a pawn. Meanwhile, I toyed
with South African farming--not very successfully, I must admit.
Nature did not design me for growing oats. I am no judge of oxen,
and my views on the feeding of Kaffir sheep raised broad smiles on
the black faces of my Mashona labourers.
I still lodged at Tant Mettie's, as everybody called Mrs. Klaas;
she was courtesy aunt to the community at large, while Oom Jan
Willem was its courtesy uncle. They were simple, homely folk, who
lived up to their religious principles on an unvaried diet of
stewed ox-beef and bread; they suffered much from chronic
dyspepsia, due in part, at least, no doubt, to the monotony of
their food, their life, their interests. One could hardly believe
one was still in the nineteenth century; these people had the calm,
the local seclusion of the prehistoric epoch. For them, Europe did
not exist; they knew it merely as a place where settlers came from.
What the Czar intended, what the Kaiser designed, never disturbed
their rest. A sick ox, a rattling tile on the roof, meant more to
their lives than war in Europe. The one break in the sameness of
their daily routine was family prayers; the one weekly event, going
to church at Salisbury. Still, they had a single enthusiasm. Like
everybody else for fifty miles around, they believed profoundly in
the "future of Rhodesia." When I gazed about me at the raw new
land--the weary flat of red soil and brown grasses--I felt at least
that, with a present like that, it had need of a future.
I am not by disposition a pioneer; I belong instinctively to the
old civilisations. In the midst of rudimentary towns and incipient
fields, I yearn for grey houses, a Norman church, an English
thatched cottage.
However, for Hilda's sake, I braved it out, and continued to learn
the A B C of agriculture on an unmade farm with great assiduity
from Oom Jan Willem.
We had been stopping some months at Klaas's together when business
compelled me one day to ride in to Salisbury. I had ordered some
goods for my farm from England which had at last arrived. I had
now to arrange for their conveyance from the town to my plot of
land--a portentous matter. Just as I was on the point of leaving
Klaas's, and was tightening the saddle-girth on my sturdy little
pony, Oom Jan Willem himself sidled up to me with a mysterious air,
his broad face all wrinkled with anticipatory pleasure. He placed
a sixpence in my palm, glancing about him on every side as he did
so, like a conspirator.
"What am I to buy with it?" I asked, much puzzled, and suspecting
tobacco. Tant Mettie declared he smoked too much for a church
elder.
He put his finger to his lips, nodded, and peered round.
"Lollipops for Sannie," he whispered low, at last, with a guilty
smile. "But"--he glanced about him again--"give them to me,
please, when Tant Mettie isn't looking." His nod was all mystery.
"You may rely on my discretion," I replied, throwing the time-
honoured prejudices of the profession to the winds, and well
pleased to aid and abet the simple-minded soul in his nefarious
designs against little Sannie's digestive apparatus. He patted me
on the back. "PEPPERMINT lollipops, mind!" he went on, in the same
solemn undertone. "Sannie likes them best--peppermint."
I put my foot in the stirrup, and vaulted into my saddle. "They
shall not be forgotten," I answered, with a quiet smile at this
pretty little evidence of fatherly feeling. I rode off. It was
early morning, before the heat of the day began. Hilda accompanied
me part of the way on her bicycle. She was going to the other
young farm, some eight miles off, across the red-brown plateau,
where she gave lessons daily to the ten-year old daughter of an
English settler. It was a labour of love; for settlers in Rhodesia
cannot afford to pay for what are beautifully described as
"finishing governesses"; but Hilda was of the sort who cannot eat
the bread of idleness. She had to justify herself to her kind by
finding some work to do which should vindicate her existence.
I parted from her at a point on the monotonous plain where one
rubbly road branched off from another. Then I jogged on in the
full morning sun over that scorching plain of loose red sand all
the way to Salisbury. Not a green leaf or a fresh flower anywhere.
The eye ached at the hot glare of the reflected sunlight from the
sandy level.
My business detained me several hours in the half-built town, with
its flaunting stores and its rough new offices; it was not till
towards afternoon that I could get away again on my sorrel, across
the blazing plain once more to Klaas's.
I moved on over the plateau at an easy trot, full of thoughts of
Hilda. What could be the step she expected Sebastian to take next?
She did not know, herself, she had told me; there, her faculty
failed her. But SOME step he WOULD take; and till he took it she
must rest and be watchful.
I passed the great tree that stands up like an obelisk in the midst
of the plain beyond the deserted Matabele village. I passed the
low clumps of dry karroo-bushes by the rocky kopje. I passed the
fork of the rubbly roads where I had parted from Hilda. At last, I
reached the long, rolling ridge which looks down upon Klaas's, and
could see in the slant sunlight the mud farmhouse and the
corrugated iron roof where the oxen were stabled.
The place looked more deserted, more dead-alive than ever. Not a
black boy moved in it. Even the cattle and Kaffir sheep were
nowhere to be seen. . . . But then it was always quiet; and
perhaps I noticed the obtrusive air of solitude and sleepiness even
more than usual, because I had just returned from Salisbury. All
things are comparative. After the lost loneliness of Klaas's farm,
even brand-new Salisbury seemed busy and bustling.
I hurried on, ill at ease. But Tant Mettie would, doubtless, have
a cup of tea ready for me as soon as I arrived, and Hilda would be
waiting at the gate to welcome me.
I reached the stone enclosure, and passed up through the flower-
garden. To my great surprise, Hilda was not there. As a rule, she
came to meet me, with her sunny smile. But perhaps she was tired,
or the sun on the road might have given her a headache. I
dismounted from my mare, and called one of the Kaffir boys to take
her to the stable. Nobody answered. . . . I called again. Still
silence. . . . I tied her up to the post, and strode over to the
door, astonished at the solitude. I began to feel there was
something weird and uncanny about this home-coming. Never before
had I known Klaas's so entirely deserted.
I lifted the latch and opened the door. It gave access at once to
the single plain living-room. There, all was huddled. For a
moment my eyes hardly took in the truth. There are sights so
sickening that the brain at the first shock wholly fails to realise
them.
On the stone slab floor of the low living-room Tant Mettie lay
dead. Her body was pierced through by innumerable thrusts, which I
somehow instinctively recognised as assegai wounds. By her side
lay Sannie, the little prattling girl of three, my constant
playmate, whom I had instructed in cat's-cradle, and taught the
tales of Cinderella and Red Riding Hood. My hand grasped the
lollipops in my pocket convulsively. She would never need them.
Nobody else was about. What had become of Oom Jan Willem--and the
baby?
I wandered out into the yard, sick with the sight I had already
seen. There Oom Jan Willem himself lay stretched at full length; a
bullet had pierced his left temple; his body was also riddled
through with assegai thrusts.
I saw at once what this meant. A rising of the Matabele!
I had come back from Salisbury, unknowing it, into the midst of a
revolt of bloodthirsty savages.
Yet, even if I had known, I must still have hurried home with all
speed to Klaas's--to protect Hilda.
Hilda? Where was Hilda? A breathless sinking crept over me.
I staggered out into the open. It was impossible to say what
horror might not have happened. The Matabele might even now be
lurking about the kraal--for the bodies were hardly cold. But
Hilda? Hilda? Whatever came, I must find Hilda.
Fortunately, I had my loaded revolver in my belt. Though we had
not in the least anticipated this sudden revolt--it broke like a
thunder-clap from a clear sky--the unsettled state of the country
made even women go armed about their daily avocations.
I strode on, half maddened. Beside the great block of granite
which sheltered the farm there rose one of those rocky little
hillocks of loose boulders which are locally known in South Africa
by the Dutch name of kopjes. I looked out upon it drearily. Its
round brown ironstones lay piled irregularly together, almost as if
placed there in some earlier age by the mighty hands of prehistoric
giants. My gaze on it was blank. I was thinking, not of it, but
of Hilda, Hilda.
I called the name aloud: "Hilda! Hilda! Hilda!"
As I called, to my immense surprise, one of the smooth round
boulders on the hillside seemed slowly to uncurl, and to peer about
it cautiously. Then it raised itself in the slant sunlight, put a
hand to its eyes, and gazed out upon me with a human face for a
moment. After that it descended, step by step, among the other
stones, with a white object in its arms. As the boulder uncurled
and came to life, I was aware, by degrees . . . yes, yes, it was
Hilda, with Tant Mettie's baby!
In the fierce joy of that discovery I rushed forward to her,
trembling, and clasped her in my arms. I could find no words but
"Hilda! Hilda!"
"Are they gone?" she asked, staring about her with a terrified air,
though still strangely preserving her wonted composure of manner.
"Who gone? The Matabele?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Did you see them, Hilda?"
"For a moment--with black shields and assegais, all shouting madly.
You have been to the house, Hubert? You know what has happened?"
"Yes, yes, I know--a rising. They have massacred the Klaases."
She nodded. "I came back on my bicycle, and, when I opened the
door, found Tant Mettie and little Sannie dead. Poor, sweet little
Sannie! Oom Jan was lying shot in the yard outside. I saw the
cradle overturned, and looked under it for the baby. They did not
kill her--perhaps did not notice her. I caught her up in my arms,
and rushed out to my machine, thinking to make for Salisbury, and
give the alarm to the men there. One must try to save others--and
YOU were coming, Hubert! Then I heard horses' hoofs--the Matabele
returning. They dashed back, mounted,--stolen horses from other
farms,--they have taken poor Oom Jan's,--and they have gone on,
shouting, to murder elsewhere! I flung down my machine among the
bushes as they came,--I hope they have not seen it,--and I crouched
here between the boulders, with the baby in my arms, trusting for
protection to the colour of my dress, which is just like the
ironstone."
"It is a perfect deception," I answered, admiring her instinctive
cleverness even then. "I never so much as noticed you."
"No, nor the Matabele either, for all their sharp eyes. They
passed by without stopping. I clasped the baby hard, and tried to
keep it from crying--if it had cried, all would have been lost; but
they passed just below, and swept on toward Rozenboom's. I lay
still for a while, not daring to look out. Then I raised myself
warily, and tried to listen. Just at that moment, I heard a
horse's hoofs ring out once more. I couldn't tell, of course,
whether it was YOU returning, or one of the Matabele, left behind
by the others. So I crouched again. . . . Thank God, you are
safe, Hubert!"
All this took a moment to say, or was less said than hinted. "Now,
what must we do?" I cried. "Bolt back again to Salisbury?"
"It is the only thing possible--if my machine is unhurt. They may
have taken it . . . or ridden over and broken it."
We went down to the spot, and picked it up where it lay, half-
concealed among the brittle, dry scrub of milk-bushes. I examined
the bearings carefully; though there were hoof-marks close by, it
had received no hurt. I blew up the tire, which was somewhat
flabby, and went on to untie my sturdy pony. The moment I looked
at her I saw the poor little brute was wearied out with her two
long rides in the sweltering sun. Her flanks quivered. "It is no
use," I cried, patting her, as she turned to me with appealing eyes
that asked for water. "She CAN'T go back as far as Salisbury; at
least, till she has had a feed of corn and a drink. Even then, it
will be rough on her."
"Give her bread," Hilda suggested. "That will hearten her more
than corn. There is plenty in the house; Tant Mettie baked this
morning."
I crept in reluctantly to fetch it. I also brought out from the
dresser a few raw eggs, to break into a tumbler and swallow whole;
for Hilda and I needed food almost as sorely as the poor beast
herself. There was something gruesome in thus rummaging about for
bread and meat in the dead woman's cupboard, while she herself lay
there on the floor; but one never realises how one will act in
these great emergencies until they come upon one. Hilda, still
calm with unearthly calmness, took a couple of loaves from my hand,
and began feeding the pony with them. "Go and draw water for her,"
she said, simply, "while I give her the bread; that will save time.
Every minute is precious."
I did as I was bid, not knowing each moment but that the insurgents
would return. When I came back from the spring with the bucket,
the mare had demolished the whole two loaves, and was going on upon
some grass which Hilda had plucked for her.
"She hasn't had enough, poor dear," Hilda said, patting her neck.
"A couple of loaves are penny buns to her appetite. Let her drink
the water, while I go in and fetch out the rest of the baking."
I hesitated. "You CAN'T go in there again, Hilda!" I cried.
"Wait, and let me do it."
Her white face was resolute. "Yes, I CAN," she answered. "It is a
work of necessity; and in works of necessity a woman, I think,
should flinch at nothing. Have I not seen already every varied
aspect of death at Nathaniel's?" And in she went, undaunted, to
that chamber of horrors, still clasping the baby.
The pony made short work of the remaining loaves, which she
devoured with great zest. As Hilda had predicted, they seemed to
hearten her. The food and drink, with a bucket of water dashed on
her hoofs, gave her new vigour like wine. We gulped down our eggs
in silence. Then I held Hilda's bicycle. She vaulted lightly on
to the seat, white and tired as she was, with the baby in her left
arm, and her right hand on the handle-bar.
"I must take the baby," I said.
She shook her head.
"Oh, no. I will not trust her to you."
"Hilda, I insist."
"And I insist, too. It is my place to take her."
"But can you ride so?" I asked, anxiously.
She began to pedal. "Oh, dear, yes. It is quite, quite easy. I
shall get there all right--if the Matabele don't burst upon us."
Tired as I was with my long day's work, I jumped into my saddle. I
saw I should only lose time if I disputed about the baby. My
little horse seemed to understand that something grave had
occurred; for, weary as she must have been, she set out with a will
once more over that great red level. Hilda pedalled bravely by my
side. The road was bumpy, but she was well accustomed to it. I
could have ridden faster than she went, for the baby weighted her.
Still, we rode for dear life. It was a grim experience.
All round, by this time, the horizon was dim with clouds of black
smoke which went up from burning farms and plundered homesteads.
The smoke did not rise high; it hung sullenly over the hot plain in
long smouldering masses, like the smoke of steamers on foggy days
in England. The sun was nearing the horizon; his slant red rays
lighted up the red plain, the red sand, the brown-red grasses, with
a murky, spectral glow of crimson. After those red pools of blood,
this universal burst of redness appalled one. It seemed as though
all nature had conspired in one unholy league with the Matabele.
We rode on without a word. The red sky grew redder.
"They may have sacked Salisbury!" I exclaimed at last, looking out
towards the brand-new town.
"I doubt it," Hilda answered. Her very doubt reassured me.
We began to mount a long slope. Hilda pedalled with difficulty.
Not a sound was heard save the light fall of my pony's feet on the
soft new road, and the shrill cry of the cicalas. Then, suddenly,
we started. What was that noise in our rear? Once, twice, it rang
out. The loud ping of a rifle!
Looking behind us, we saw eight or ten mounted Matabele! Stalwart
warriors they were--half naked, and riding stolen horses. They
were coming our way! They had seen us! They were pursuing us!
"Put on all speed!" I cried, in my agony. "Hilda, can you manage
it?" She pedalled with a will. But, as we mounted the slope, I
saw they were gaining upon us. A few hundred yards were all our
start. They had the descent of the opposite hill as yet in their
favour.
One man, astride on a better horse than the rest, galloped on in
front and came within range of us. He had a rifle in his hand, he
pointed it twice, and covered us. But he did not shoot. Hilda
gave a cry of relief. "Don't you see?" she exclaimed. "It is Oom
Jan Willem's rifle! That was their last cartridge. They have no
more ammunition."
I saw she was probably right; for Klaas was out of cartridges, and
was waiting for my new stock to arrive from England. If that were
correct, they must get near enough to attack us with assegais.
They are more dangerous so. I remembered what an old Boer had said
to me at Buluwayo: "The Zulu with his assegai is an enemy to be
feared; with a gun, he is a bungler."
We pounded on up the hill. It was deadly work, with those brutes
at our heels. The child on Hilda's arm was visibly wearying her.
It kept on whining. "Hilda," I cried, "that baby will lose your
life! You CANNOT go on carrying it."
She turned to me with a flash of her eyes. "What! You are a man,"
she broke out, "and you ask a woman to save her life by abandoning
a baby! Hubert, you shame me!"
I felt she was right. If she had been capable of giving it up, she
would not have been Hilda. There was but one other way left.
"Then YOU must take the pony," I called out, "and let me have the
bicycle!"
"You couldn't ride it," she called back. "It is a woman's machine,
remember."
"Yes, I could," I replied, without slowing. "It is not much too
short; and I can bend my knees a bit. Quick, quick! No words! Do
as I tell you!"
She hesitated a second. The child's weight distressed her. "We
should lose time in changing," she answered, at last, doubtful but
still pedalling, though my hand was on the rein, ready to pull up
the pony.
"Not if we manage it right. Obey orders! The moment I say 'Halt,'
I shall slacken my mare's pace. When you see me leave the saddle,
jump off instantly, you, and mount her! I will catch the machine
before it falls. Are you ready? Halt, then!"
She obeyed the word without one second's delay. I slipped off,
held the bridle, caught the bicycle, and led it instantaneously.
Then I ran beside the pony--bridle in one hand, machine in the
other--till Hilda had sprung with a light bound into the stirrup.
At that, a little leap, and I mounted the bicycle. It was all done
nimbly, in less time than the telling takes, for we are both of us
naturally quick in our movements. Hilda rode like a man, astride--
her short, bicycling skirt, unobtrusively divided in front and at
the back, made this easily possible. Looking behind me with a
hasty glance, I could see that the savages, taken aback, had reined
in to deliberate at our unwonted evolution. I feel sure that the
novelty of the iron horse, with a woman riding it, played not a
little on their superstitious fears; they suspected, no doubt, this
was some ingenious new engine of war devised against them by the
unaccountable white man; it might go off unexpectedly in their
faces at any moment. Most of them, I observed, as they halted,
carried on their backs black ox-hide shields, interlaced with white
thongs; they were armed with two or three assegais apiece and a
knobkerry.
Instead of losing time by the change, as it turned out, we had
actually gained it. Hilda was able to put on my sorrel to her full
pace, which I had not dared to do, for fear of outrunning my
companion; the wise little beast, for her part, seemed to rise to
the occasion, and to understand that we were pursued; for she
stepped out bravely. On the other hand, in spite of the low seat
and the short crank of a woman's machine, I could pedal up the
slope with more force than Hilda, for I am a practised hill-
climber; so that in both ways we gained, besides having momentarily
disconcerted and checked the enemy. Their ponies were tired, and
they rode them full tilt with savage recklessness, making them
canter up-hill, and so needlessly fatiguing them. The Matabele,
indeed, are unused to horses, and manage them but ill. It is as
foot soldiers, creeping stealthily through bush or long grass, that
they are really formidable. Only one of their mounts was tolerably
fresh, the one which had once already almost overtaken us. As we
neared the top of the slope, Hilda, glancing behind her, exclaimed,
with a sudden thrill, "He is spurting again, Hubert!"
I drew my revolver and held it in my right hand, using my left for
steering. I did not look back; time was far too precious. I set
my teeth hard. "Tell me when he draws near enough for a shot," I
said, quietly.
Hilda only nodded. Being mounted on the mare, she could see behind
her more steadily now than I could from the machine; and her eye
was trustworthy. As for the baby, rocked by the heave and fall of
the pony's withers, it had fallen asleep placidly in the very midst
of this terror!
After a second, I asked once more, with bated breath, "Is he
gaining?"
She looked back. "Yes; gaining."
A pause. "And now?"
"Still gaining. He is poising an assegai."
Ten seconds more passed in breathless suspense. The thud of their
horses' hoofs alone told me their nearness. My finger was on the
trigger. I awaited the word. "Fire!" she said at last, in a calm,
unflinching voice. "He is well within distance."
I turned half round and levelled as true as I could at the
advancing black man. He rode, nearly naked, showing all his teeth
and brandishing his assegai; the long white feathers stuck upright
in his hair gave him a wild and terrifying barbaric aspect. It was
difficult to preserve one's balance, keep the way on, and shoot,
all at the same time; but, spurred by necessity, I somehow did it.
I fired three shots in quick succession. My first bullet missed;
my second knocked the man over; my third grazed the horse. With a
ringing shriek, the Matabele fell in the road, a black writhing
mass; his horse, terrified, dashed back with maddened snorts into
the midst of the others. Its plunging disconcerted the whole party
for a minute.
We did not wait to see the rest. Taking advantage of this
momentary diversion in our favour, we rode on at full speed to the
top of the slope--I never knew before how hard I could pedal--and
began to descend at a dash into the opposite hollow.
The sun had set by this time. There is no twilight in those
latitudes. It grew dark at once. We could see now, in the plain
all round, where black clouds of smoke had rolled before, one lurid
red glare of burning houses, mixed with a sullen haze of tawny
light from the columns of prairie fire kindled by the insurgents.
We made our way still onward across the open plain without one word
towards Salisbury. The mare was giving out. She strode with a
will; but her flanks were white with froth; her breath came short;
foam flew from her nostrils.
As we mounted the next ridge, still distancing our pursuers, I saw
suddenly, on its crest, defined against the livid red sky like a
silhouette, two more mounted black men!
"It's all up, Hilda!" I cried, losing heart at last. "They are on
both sides of us now! The mare is spent; we are surrounded!"
She drew rein and gazed at them. For a moment suspense spoke in
all her attitude. Then she burst into a sudden deep sigh of
relief. "No, no," she cried; "these are friendlies!"
"How do you know?" I gasped. But I believed her.
"They are looking out this way, with hands shading their eyes
against the red glare. They are looking away from Salisbury, in
the direction of the attack. They are expecting the enemy. They
MUST be friendlies! See, see! they have caught sight of us!"
As she spoke, one of the men lifted his rifle and half pointed it.
"Don't shoot! don't shoot!" I shrieked aloud. "We are English!
English!"
The men let their rifles drop, and rode down towards us. "Who are
you?" I cried.
They saluted us, military fashion. "Matabele police, sah," the
leader answered, recognising me. "You are flying from Klaas's?"
"Yes," I answered. "They have murdered Klaas, with his wife and
child. Some of them are now following us."
The spokesman was a well-educated Cape Town negro. "All right
sah," he answered. "I have forty men here right behind de kopje.
Let dem come! We can give a good account of dem. Ride on straight
wit de lady to Salisbury!"
"The Salisbury people know of this rising, then?" I asked.
"Yes, sah. Dem know since five o'clock. Kaffir boys from Klaas's
brought in de news; and a white man escaped from Rozenboom's
confirm it. We have pickets all round. You is safe now; you can
ride on into Salisbury witout fear of de Matabele."
I rode on, relieved. Mechanically, my feet worked to and fro on
the pedals. It was a gentle down-gradient now towards the town.
I had no further need for special exertion.
Suddenly, Hilda's voice came wafted to me, as through a mist.
"What are you doing, Hubert? You'll be off in a minute!"
I started and recovered my balance with difficulty. Then I was
aware at once that one second before I had all but dropped asleep,
dog tired, on the bicycle. Worn out with my long day and with the
nervous strain, I began to doze off, with my feet still moving
round and round automatically, the moment the anxiety of the chase
was relieved, and an easy down-grade gave me a little respite.
I kept myself awake even then with difficulty. Riding on through
the lurid gloom, we reached Salisbury at last, and found the town
already crowded with refugees from the plateau. However, we
succeeded in securing two rooms at a house in the long street, and
were soon sitting down to a much-needed supper.
As we rested, an hour or two later, in the ill-furnished back room,
discussing this sudden turn of affairs with our host and some
neighbours--for, of course, all Salisbury was eager for news from
the scene of the massacres--I happened to raise my head, and saw,
to my great surprise . . . a haggard white face peering in at us
through the window.
It peered round a corner, stealthily. It was an ascetic face, very
sharp and clear-cut. It had a stately profile. The long and wiry
grizzled moustache, the deep-set, hawk-like eyes, the acute,
intense, intellectual features, all were very familiar. So was the
outer setting of long, white hair, straight and silvery as it fell,
and just curled in one wave-like inward sweep where it turned and
rested on the stooping shoulders. But the expression on the face
was even stranger than the sudden apparition. It was an expression
of keen and poignant disappointment--as of a man whom fate has
baulked of some well-planned end, his due by right, which mere
chance has evaded.
"They say there's a white man at the bottom of all this trouble,"
our host had been remarking, one second earlier. "The niggers know
too much; and where did they get their rifles? People at
Rozenboom's believe some black-livered traitor has been stirring up
the Matabele for weeks and weeks. An enemy of Rhodes's, of course,
jealous of our advance; a French agent, perhaps; but more likely
one of these confounded Transvaal Dutchmen. Depend upon it, it's
Kruger's doing."
As the words fell from his lips, I saw the face. I gave a quick
little start, then recovered my composure.
But Hilda noted it. She looked up at me hastily. She was sitting
with her back to the window, and therefore, of course, could not
see the face itself, which indeed was withdrawn with a hurried
movement, yet with a certain strange dignity, almost before I could
feel sure of having seen it. Still, she caught my startled
expression, and the gleam of surprise and recognition in my eye.
She laid one hand upon my arm. "You have seen him?" she asked
quietly, almost below her breath.
"Seen whom?"
"Sebastian."
It was useless denying it to HER. "Yes, I have seen him," I
answered, in a confidential aside.
"Just now--this moment--at the back of the house--looking in at the
window upon us?"
"You are right--as always."
She drew a deep breath. "He has played his game," she said low to
me, in an awed undertone. "I felt sure it was he. I expected him
to play; though what piece, I knew not; and when I saw those poor
dead souls, I was certain he had done it--indirectly done it. The
Matabele are his pawns. He wanted to aim a blow at ME; and THIS
was the way he chose to aim it."
"Do you think he is capable of that?" I cried. For, in spite of
all, I had still a sort of lingering respect for Sebastian. "It
seems so reckless--like the worst of anarchists--when he strikes at
one head, to involve so many irrelevant lives in one common
destruction."
Hilda's face was like a drowned man's.
"To Sebastian," she answered, shuddering, "the End is all; the
Means are unessential. Who wills the End, wills the Means; that is
the sum and substance of his philosophy of life. From first to
last, he has always acted up to it. Did I not tell you once he was
a snow-clad volcano?"
"Still, I am loth to believe--" I cried.
She interrupted me calmly. "I knew it," she said. "I expected it.
Beneath that cold exterior, the fires of his life burn fiercely
still. I told you we must wait for Sebastian's next move; though I
confess, even from HIM, I hardly dreamt of this one. But, from the
moment when I opened the door on poor Tant Mettie's body, lying
there in its red horror, I felt it must be he. And when you
started just now, I said to myself in a flash of intuition--
'Sebastian has come! He has come to see how his devil's work has
prospered.' He sees it has gone wrong. So now he will try to
devise some other."
I thought of the malign expression on that cruel white face as it
stared in at the window from the outer gloom, and I felt convinced
she was right. She had read her man once more. For it was the
desperate, contorted face of one appalled to discover that a great
crime attempted and successfully carried out has failed, by mere
accident, of its central intention.
