CHAPTER XI

CAMPAIGNING ABROAD

SHIFTING THE SCENE--UNDER CANVAS--A VETERAN AND A YOUNG SOLDIER--THE CHARMS OF A BIVOUAC--ORDERS FOR THE MORROW--A SOLDIER’S DREAM--AN EARLY START--THE MARCH--THE ENGAGEMENT--FORTUNE OF WAR--CHARLIE’S COMMAND--THE BLUE ONE DOWN!

In the “good old times” when railways were not, and the _nec plus ultra_ of speed was, after all, but ten miles an hour, he who would take in hand to construct a tale, a poem, or a drama, was much hampered by certain material conditions of time and place, termed by critics the unities, and the observance of which effectually prevented all glaring vagaries of plot, and many a _deus ex machinâ_ whose unaccountable presence would have saved an infinity of trouble to author as well as reader. But we have changed all this now-a-days. When Puck undertook to girdle the earth in “forty minutes,” it was no doubt esteemed a “sporting offer,” not that Oberon seems to have been man enough to “book it”; but we, who back Electra, should vote such a forty minutes “dead slow”--“no pace at all!” Ours are the screw-propeller and the flying-express--ours the thrilling wire that rings a bell at Paris, even while we touch the handle in London--ours the greatest possible hurry on the least possible provocation--we ride at speed, we drive at speed--eat, drink, sleep, smoke, talk, and deliberate, still at full speed--make fortunes, and spend them--fall in love, and out of it--are married, divorced, robbed, ruined, and enriched, all _ventre à terre_! nay, time seems to be grudged even for the last journey to our long home. ’Twas but the other day we saw a hearse clattering along at an honest twelve miles an hour! Well, forward! is the word--like the French grenadier’s account of the strategy by which his emperor invariably out-manœuvred the enemy. There were but two words of command, said he, ever heard in the grand army--the one was “_En avant! sacr-r-ré ventre-bleu!_” the other, “_Sacr-r-ré ventre-bleu! en avant!_” So forward be it! and we will not apologise for shifting the scene some thousands of miles, and taking a peep at our friend Cousin Charlie, fulfilling his destiny in that heaven-forsaken country called Kaffirland. When it rains in South Africa it rains to some purpose, pelting down even sheets of water, to which a thunderstorm at home is but as the trickling of a gutter to the Falls of Niagara--Nature endues her whole person in that same leaden-coloured garment, and the world assumes a desolate appearance of the most torpid misery. The greasy savage, almost naked, crouching and coiling like a snake wherever covert is to be obtained, bears his ducking philosophically enough; he can but be wet to the skin at the worst, and is dry again almost before the leaves are; but the British soldier, with his clothing and accoutrements, his pouches, haversacks, biscuits, and ammunition--not to mention Brown Bess, his mainstay and dependence--nothing punishes him so much as wet. Tropical heat he bears without a murmur, and a vertical sun but elicits sundry jocose allusions to beer. Canadian cold is met with a jest biting as its own frost, and a hearty laugh that rings through the clear atmosphere with a twang of home; but he hates water--drench him thoroughly and you put him to the proof; albeit he never fails, yet, like Mark Tapley, he _does_ deserve credit for being _jolly_ under such adverse circumstances.

Look at that encampment--a detached position, in which two companies of a British regiment, with a handful of Hottentots, are stationed to hold in check some thousands of savages: the old story--outnumbered a hundred to one, and wresting laurels even from such fearful odds. Look at one of the heroes--the only one visible indeed--as he paces to and fro to keep himself warm. A short beat truly, for he is within shot of yonder hill, and the Kaffirs have muskets as well as “assagais.” No shelter or sentry-box is there here, and our warrior at twelvepence a day has “reversed arms” to keep his firelock dry, and covers his person as well as he can with a much-patched weather-worn grey great-coat, once spruce and smart, of the regimental pattern, but now scarcely distinguishable as a uniform. To and fro he walks--wet, weary, hungry, and liable to be shot at a moment’s notice. He has not slept in a bed for months, and has almost forgotten the taste of pure water, not to mention beer; yet is there a charm in soldiering, and through it all the man is contented and cheerful--even happy. A slight movement in his rear makes him turn half-round; between him and his comrades stands a tent somewhat less uncomfortable-looking than the rest, and from beneath its folds comes out a hand, followed by a young, bronzed face, which we recognise as Cousin Charlie’s ere the whole figure emerges from its shelter and gives itself a hearty shake and stretch. It is indeed Charlie, “growed out of knowledge,” as Mrs. Gamp says, and with his moustaches visibly and tangibly increased to a very warlike volume. The weather is clearing, as in that country it often does towards sundown; and Charlie, like an old campaigner, is easing the tent-ropes, already strained with wet. “I wish I knew the orders,” says the young lancer to some one inside, “or how I’m to get back to head-quarters--not but what you fellows have treated me like an alderman.” “You should have been here yesterday, my boy,” said a voice from within, apparently between the puffs of a short, wheezing pipe. “We only finished the biscuit this morning, and I could have given you a mouthful of brandy from the bottom of my flask--it is dry enough now, at all events. The baccy ’ll soon be done too, and we shall be floored altogether if we stay here much longer.” “Why the whole front don’t advance I can’t think,” replied Charlie, with the ready criticism of a young soldier. “If they’d only let us get _at_ these black beggars, we’d astonish them!” “Heaven knows,” answered the voice, evidently getting drowsy, “our fellows are all tired of waiting----By Jove,” he added, brightening up in an instant, “here comes ‘Old Swipes’; I’ll lay my life we shall be engaged before daybreak, the old boy looks so jolly!”--and even as he spoke, a hale, grey-headed man, with a rosy countenance and a merry, dark eye, was seen returning the sentry’s salute as he advanced to the tent which had sheltered these young officers, and passing on with a good-humoured nod to Charlie, entered upon an eager whispered conversation with the gentleman inside, whose drowsiness seemed to have entirely forsaken him. “Old Swipes,” as he was irreverently called (a nickname of which, as of most military sobriquets, the origin had long been forgotten), was the senior captain of the regiment, one of those gallant fellows who fight their way up without purchase, serving in every climate under heaven, and invariably becoming grey of head long ere they lose the greenness and freshness of heart which in the Service alone outlive the cares and disappointments that wait on middle age.

Now, Charlie had been sent to “Old Swipes” with dispatches from head-quarters. One of the general’s _aides-de-camp_ was wounded, another sick, an _extra_ already ordered on a _particular service_; and Charlie, with the dash and gallantry which had distinguished him from boyhood, volunteered to carry the important missives nearly a hundred miles through a country not a yard of which he knew, and threading whole hordes of the enemy with no arms but his sabre and pistols, no guide but a little unintelligible Hottentot. From the Kat River frontier to the defenceless portals of Fort Beaufort, the whole district was covered with swarms of predatory savages; and but that Fortune proverbially favours the brave, our young lancer might have found himself in a very unpleasant predicament. Fifty miles finished the lad’s charger, and he had accomplished the remainder of his journey walking and riding turn-about with his guide on the hardy little animal of the latter. No wonder our dismounted dragoon was weary--no wonder the rations of tough beef and muddy water which they gave him when he arrived elicited the compliment we have already mentioned to the good cheer of “The Fighting Light-Bobs,” as the regiment to which “Old Swipes” and his detachment belonged was affectionately nicknamed in the division. The great thing, however, was accomplished--wet, weary, and exhausted, Charlie and his guide arrived at their destination by daybreak of the second day. The young lancer delivered his dispatches to the officer in command, was received like a brother into a subaltern’s tent, already containing two inhabitants, and slept soundly through the day, till awakened at sunset by a strong appetite for supper, and the absolute necessity for slackening the tent-ropes recorded above.

“Kettering, you must join our council of war,” said the cheery voice of the old captain from within; “there’s no man better entitled than yourself to know the contents of my dispatches. Come in, my boy; I can give you a pipe, if nothing else.”

Charlie lifted the wet sailcloth and crept in--the conclave did not look so very uncomfortable after all. Certainly there was but little room, but no men pack so close as soldiers. The old captain was sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket in the centre, clad in a russet-coloured coat that had once been scarlet, with gold lace tarnished down to the splendour of rusty copper. A pair of regimental trousers, plentifully patched and strapped with leather, adorned his lower man, and on his head he wore a once-burnished shako, much gashed and damaged by a Kaffir’s assagai. He puffed forth volumes of smoke from a short black pipe, and appeared in the most exuberant spirits, notwithstanding the deficiencies of his exterior; the real proprietor of the tent, a swarthy, handsome fellow, with a lightning eye and huge black beard and whiskers, was leaning against the centre support of his domicile, in a blue frock-coat and buckskin trousers, looking very handsome and very like a gentleman (indeed, he is a peer’s younger son), though no “old clothes man” would have given him eighteenpence for the whole of his costume. He had hospitably vacated his seat on a battered portmanteau, “warranted solid leather,” with the maker’s name, in the Strand--it seemed so odd to see it there--and was likewise smoking furiously, as he listened to the orders of his commander. A small tin basin, a canister of tobacco, nearly finished, a silver hunting-flask--alas! quite empty--and a heap of cloaks, with an old blanket in the corner, completed the furniture of this warlike palace. It was very like Charlie’s own tent at head-quarters, save that his cavalry accoutrements gave an air of finish to that dwelling, of which he was justly proud. So he felt quite at home as he took his seat on the portmanteau and filled his pipe. “Just the orders I wanted,” said the old captain, between his whiffs; “we’ve been here long enough, and to-morrow we are to advance at daybreak. I am directed to move upon that ‘Kloof’ we have reconnoitred every day since we came, and after forming a junction with the Rifles, we are to get possession of the heights.”

“The river will be out after this rain,” interrupted the handsome lieutenant; “but that’s no odds; our fellows can all swim--’gad, they want washing!”

“Steady, my lad,” said the veteran, “we’ll have none of that; I’ve got a Fingo at the quarter-guard here that’ll take us over dry-shod. I’ve explained to him what I mean, and if he don’t understand it now he will to-morrow morning. A ‘Light-Bob’ on each side, with his arms sloped, directly the water comes in at the rent in these old boots,” holding up at the same time a much-damaged pair of Wellingtons, “down goes the Fingo, poor devil, and out go my skirmishers, till we reach the cattle-ford at Vandryburgh.”

“I don’t think the beggar _will_ throw us over,” replied the subaltern. “I suppose I’d better get them under arms before daybreak; the nights are infernally dark, though, in this beastly country, but my fellows all turn out smartest now when they’ve no light.”

“Before daybreak, certainly,” replied “Old Swipes”; “no whist _here_, Kettering, to keep us up very late. Well,” he added, resuming his directions to his subaltern, “we’ll have the detachment under arms by four. Take Sergeant Macintosh and the best of the ‘flankers’ to form an advanced guard. Bid him make every yard of ground good, particularly where there’s _bush_; but on no account to fire unless he’s attacked. We’ll advance in column of sections--_mind that_--they’re handier that way for the ground; and Harry--where’s Harry?” “Here, sir!” said a voice, and a pale, sickly-looking boy, apparently about seventeen years of age, emerged from under the cloaks and blankets in the corner, where he had been lying half asleep, and thoroughly exhausted with the hardships of a life which it requires the constitution of manhood to undergo. Poor Harry! with what sickening eagerness his mother, the clergyman’s widow, grasps at the daily paper, when the African mail is due. How she shudders to see the great black capitals, with “Important News from the Cape!” What a hero his sisters think Harry! and how mamma alone turns pale at the very name of war, and prays for him night and morning on her knees till the pale face and wasted form of her darling stand betwixt her and her Maker. And Harry, too, thinks sometimes of his mother; but oh! how different is the child’s divided affection from the all-engrossing tenderness of the mother’s love! The boy is fond of “soldiering,” and his heart swells as “Old Swipes” gives him his orders in a paternal tone of kindness. “Harry, I shall entrust you with the rear-guard, and you must keep up your communications with the sergeant’s guard I shall leave here. He will probably be relieved by the Rifles, and you can then join us in the front. If they don’t show before twelve o’clock, fall back here; pack up the baggage, right-about-face, and join ‘the levies,’ they’re exactly five miles in our rear; if you’re in difficulties, ask Sergeant File what is best to be done, only don’t club ’em, my boy, as you did at Limerick.”

“Well, sir,” said the handsome lieutenant, “we’ve all got our orders now, except Kettering; what are we to do with him?”

“Give him some supper first,” replied the jolly commandant; “but how to get him back I don’t know; we’ve had a fine stud of oxen for the last ten days, but as for a horse, I have not seen one since I left Cape Town.”

“We’re doing nothing at head-quarters, sir,” exclaimed Charlie, with flashing eyes; “will you allow me to join the attack to-morrow, with your people?”

The three officers looked at him approvingly, and the ensign muttered, “By gad, he’s a trump, and no mistake!” but “Old Swipes” shook his grey head with a half-melancholy smile as he scanned the boy’s handsome face and shapely figure, set off by his blue lancer uniform, muddy and travel-stained as it was. “I’ve seen many a fine fellow go down,” thought the veteran, “and I like it less and less--this lad’s too good for the Kaffirs; d----n me, I shall never get used to it;” however, he did not quite know how to refuse so soldier-like a request, so he only coughed, and said, “Well--I don’t approve of _volunteering_--we old soldiers go where we’re ordered, but we _never volunteer_. Still, I suppose you won’t stay here, with fighting in the front. ’Gad, you _shall_ go--you’re a _real_ good one, and I _like_ you for it.” So the fine old fellow seized Charlie’s hand and wrung it hard, with the tears in his eyes.

And now our three friends prepared to make themselves comfortable. The old captain’s tent was the largest, but it was not water-tight, and consequently stood in a swamp. His supper, therefore, was added to the joint stock, and the four gentlemen who, at the best club in London, would have turned up their noses at turtle because it was _thick_, or champagne because it was sweet, sat down quite contentedly to half-raw lumps of stringy beef and a tin mug only half filled with the muddiest of water, glad to get even that.

How they laughed and chatted and joked about their fare! To have heard them talk one would have supposed that they were at dinner within a day’s march of Pall Mall, London--the opera, the turf, the ring, each and all had their turn; and when the sergeant on duty came to report the “lights out,” said lights consisting of two lanterns for the whole detachment, Charlie had just proposed “fox-hunting” as a toast with which to finish the last sip of brandy, and treated his entertainers to a “view-holloa” _in a whisper_, that he might not alarm the camp, which, save for the lowing of certain oxen in the rear, was ere long hushed in the most profound repose.

Now, these oxen were a constant source of confusion and annoyance to the “old captain” and his myrmidons, whose orderly, soldier-like habits were continually broken through by their perverse charge. Of all the contradictory, self-willed, hair-brained brutes on the face of the earth, commend us to an ox in Kaffirland. He is troublesome enough when first driven off by his black despoilers, but when recaptured by British troops he is worse than ever, as though he brought back with him, from his sojourn in the bush, some of the devilry of his temporary owners, and was determined to resent upon his preservers all the injuries he had undergone during his unwilling peregrinations. Fortunately, those now remaining with the detachment were but a small number, destined to become most execrable beef, large herds retaken from the savages having already been sent to the rear; but even this handful were perpetually running riot, breaking out of their “kraal” on the most causeless and imaginary alarms when in the camp, and on the march making a point of “knocking up” invariably at the most critical moment. Imagine the difficulties of a commander when, in addition to ground of which he knows comparatively nothing, of an enemy outnumbering him hundreds to one, lurking besides in an impenetrable bush, where he can neither be reached nor seen--of an extended line of operation in a country where the roads are either impassable or there are none at all--and, above all, of a trying climate, with a sad deficiency of water--he has to weaken his already small force by furnishing a cattle-guard, and to prepare himself for the contingency of some thousands of frantic animals breaking loose (which they assuredly will should his position be forced), and the inevitable confusion which must be the result of such an untoward liberation. The Kaffirs have a knack of driving these refractory brutes in a manner which seems unattainable to a white man. It is an interesting sight to watch a couple of tall, dark savages, almost naked, and with long staves in their hands, manœuvring several hundred head of cattle with apparently but little trouble. Even the Hottentots seem to have a certain mysterious influence over the horned troop; but for an English soldier, although goaded by his bayonet, they appear to entertain the most profound contempt.

Charlie, however, cared little for ox or Kaffir; the lowing of the one no more disturbed him than the proximity of the other. Was he not at last in front of the enemy? Should he not to-morrow begin his career of glory? The boy felt his very life-blood thrill in his veins as the fighting propensity--the spirit of Cain, never quite dormant within us--rose to his heart. There he lay in a corner of the dark tent, dressed and ready for the morrow, with his sword and pistols at his head, covered with a blanket and a large cloak, his whereabout only discernible by the red glow from his last pipe before going to sleep; the handsome lieutenant was already wrapped in slumber and an enormous rough great-coat (not strictly regulation); the ensign was far away in dreamland; and Charlie had watched the light die out from their respective pipes with drowsy eyes, while the regular step of the sentry outside smote less and less distinctly on his ear. He had gone through two very severe days, and had not been in a bed for weeks. Gradually his limbs relaxed and tingled with delightful languor of rest after _real_ fatigue. Once or twice he woke up with a start as Fancy played her usual tricks with the weary, then his head declined, his jaw dropped, the pipe fell to the ground, and Charlie was fast asleep.

* * * * *

Far, far away on a mountain in Inverness the wild stag is _belling_ to the distant corries, and snuffing the keen north air as he stamps ever and anon with lightning hoof that cuts the heather tendrils asunder and flings them on the breeze. Is he not the great master-hart of the parcel? and shall he not be circumvented and stretched on the moor ere the fading twilight darkens into night? Verily, he must be stalked warily, cautiously, for the wind has shifted and the lake is already ruffling into pointed, white-crested waves, rising as in anger, while their spray, hurried before the tempest, drifts in long-continuous wreaths athwart the surface. Fitful gusts, the pent-up sobs of rising fury, that must burst or be released, chase the filmy scud across that pale moon, which is but veiled and not obscured; while among the ferns and alders that skirt the water’s edge the wind moans and shrieks like an imprisoned demon wailing for his freedom. Mists are rising around the hazy forms of the deer; cold, chilling vapours through which the mighty stag looms like some gigantic phantom, and still he swells in defiance, and _bells_ abroad his trumpet-note of war. Charlie’s finger is on the trigger; Uncle Baldwin, disguised as a Highlander, whispers in his ear the thrilling caution, “Take time!” The wind howls hideously, and phantom shapes, floating in the moonlight, mock and gibber and toss their long, lean arms, and wave their silver hair. No, the rifle is _not_ cocked; that stubborn lock defies the force of human fingers--the mist is thickening and the stag moves. Charlie implores Uncle Baldwin to assist him, and drops upon his knees to cover the retiring quarry with his useless weapon. The phantoms gather round; their mist-wreaths turn to muslin dresses, and their silver hair to glossy locks of mortal hues. The roaring tempest softens to an old familiar strain. Mary Delaval is before him. Her pale, sweet face is bent upon the kneeling boy with looks of unutterable love, and her white hand passes over his brow with an almost imperceptible caress. Her face sinks gradually to his--her breath is on his temples--his lips cling to hers--and he starts with horror at the kiss of love, striking cold and clammy from a grinning skull! Horror! the rifleman, whose skeleton he shuddered to find beneath his horse’s feet not eight-and-forty hours ago! What does he here in the drawing-room at home? _Home_--yes, he is at home, at last. It must have been fancy--the recollections of his African campaign! They are all gone to bed. He hears the General’s well-known tramp dying away along the passage; and he takes his candle to cross the spacious hall, dark and gloomy in that flickering light. Ha! seated on the stairs as on a throne frowns a presence that he dare not pass. A tall, dark figure, in the shape of a man, yet with angel beauty--no angel form of good--glorious in the grandeur of despair--magnificent in the pomp and glare of hell--those lineaments awful in their very beauty--those deep, unfathomable eyes, with their eternity of suffering, defiance, remorse, all but repentance or submission! Could mortal look and not quail? Could man front and not be blasted at the sight? On his lofty forehead sits a diadem, and on the centre of his brow, burned in and scorched, as it were, to the very bone, behold the seal of the Destroyer--the single imprint of a finger.

The boy stands paralysed with affright. The Principle of Evil waves him on and on, even to the very hem of his garment; but a prayer rises to the sleeper’s lips; with a convulsive effort he speaks it forth aloud, and the spell is broken. The mortal is engaged with a mortal enemy. Those waving robes turn to a leopard-skin _kaross_, the glorious figure to an athletic savage, and the immortal beauty to the grinning, chattering lineaments of a hideous Kaffir. Charlie bounds at him like a tiger--they fight--they close--and he is locked in the desperate embrace of life or death with his ghastly foe. Charlie is undermost! His enemy’s eyes are starting from their sockets--his white teeth glare with cannibal-like ferocity--and his hand is on the boy’s throat with a grip of iron. One fearful wrench to get free--one last superhuman effort of despair, and.... Charlie wakes in the struggle!--wakes to find it all a dream; and the cold air, the chilling harbinger of dawn, stealing into the tent to refresh and invigorate the half-suffocated sleepers. He felt little inclination to resume his slumbers; his position had been a sufficiently uncomfortable one--his head having slipped from the pistol-holsters on which it had rested, and the clasp of his cloak-fastening at the throat having well-nigh strangled him in his sleep. The handsome lieutenant’s matter-of-fact yawn on waking would have dispelled more horrid dreams than Charlie’s, and the real business of the coming day soon chased from his mind all recollections of his imaginary struggle. Breakfast was like the supper of the preceding night--half-raw beef, eaten cold, and a whiff from a short pipe. Ere Charlie had finished his ration, dark though it was, the men had fallen in; the advanced guard had started; Ensign Harry had received his final instructions, and “Old Swipes” gave the word of command in a low, guarded tone--“Slope arms! By your left--Quick march!”

Day dawned on a spirit-stirring scene. With the swinging, easy step of those accustomed to long and toilsome marches the detachment moved rapidly forward, now lessening its front as it arrived at some narrow defile, now “marking time” to allow of its rear coming up, without effort, into the proper place. Bronzed, bold faces theirs, with the bluff, good-humoured air of the English soldier, who takes warfare as it comes, with an oath and a jest. Reckless of strategy as of hardship, he neither knows nor cares what his enemy may be about, nor what dispositions may be made by his own officers. If his flank be turned he fights on with equal unconcern, “it is no business of his”; if his ammunition be exhausted he betakes himself to the bayonet, and swears “the beggars may take their change out of that!”

The advanced guard, led by the handsome subaltern, was several hundred paces in front. The Hottentots brought up the rear, and the “Fighting Light-Bobs,” commanded by their grey-headed captain, formed the column. With them marched Charlie, conspicuous in his blue lancer uniform, now respectfully addressing his superior officer, now jesting good-humouredly with his temporary comrades. The sun rose on a jovial, light-hearted company; when next his beams shall gild the same arid plains, the same twining _mimosas_, the same glorious landscape, shut in by the jagged peaks of the Anatola mountains, they will glance back from many a firelock lying ownerless on the sand; they will deepen the clammy hue of death on many a bold forehead; they will fail to warm many a gallant heart, cold and motionless for ever. But the men go on all the same, laughing and jesting merrily, as they “march at ease,” and beguile the way with mirth and song.

“We’ll get a sup o’ brandy to-night, anyhow, won’t us, Bill?” says a weather-beaten “Light-Bob” to his front-rank man, a thirsty old soldier as was ever “confined to barracks.”

“Ay,” replies Bill, “them black beggars has got plenty of lush--more’s the pity; and they doesn’t give none to their wives--more’s their sense. Ax your pardon, sir,” he adds, turning to Charlie, “but we shall advance right upon their centre, now, anyways, shan’t us?”

Ere Charlie could reply he was interrupted by Bill’s comrade, who seemed to have rather a _penchant_ for Kaffir ladies. “Likely young women they be, too, Bill, those niggers’ wives; why, every Kaffir has a dozen at least, and we’ve only three to a company; wouldn’t I like to be a Kaffir?”

“_Black!_” replied Bill, in a tone of intense disgust.

“What’s the odds?” urged the matrimonial champion, “a black wife’s a sight better than none at all;” and straightway he began to hum a military ditty, of which fate only permitted him to complete the first two stanzas:--

“They’re sounding the charge for a brush, my boys! And we’ll carry their camp with a rush, my boys! When we’ve driven them out, I make no doubt We’ll find they’ve got plenty of lush, my boys! For the beggars delight To sit soaking all night, Black although they be.

And when we get liquor so cheap, my boys! We’ll do nothing but guzzle and sleep, my boys! And sit on the grass with a Kaffir lass, Though smutty the wench as a sweep, my boys! For the Light Brigade Are the lads for a maid, Black although she may be.”

“Come, stow that!” interrupted Bill, as the _ping_ of a ball whistled over their heads, followed by the sharp report of a musket; “here’s music for your singing, and dancing too, faith,” he added, as the rear files of the advanced guard came running in; and “Old Swipes” exclaimed, “By Jove! they’re engaged. Attention! steady, men!--close up--close up”--and, throwing out a handful of skirmishers to clear the bush immediately in his front and support his advanced guard, he moved the column forward at “the double,” gained some rising ground, behind which he halted them, and himself ran on to reconnoitre. A sharp fire had by this time commenced on the right, and Charlie’s heart beat painfully whilst he remained inactive, covered by a position from which he could see nothing. It was not, however, for long. The “Light-Bobs” were speedily ordered to advance, and as they gained the crest of the hill a magnificent view of the conflict opened at once upon their eyes.

The Rifles had been beforehand with them, and were already engaged; their dark forms, hurrying to and fro as they ran from covert to covert, were only to be distinguished from the savages by the rapidity with which their thin white lines of smoke emerged from bush and brake, and the regularity with which they forced position after position, compared with the tumultuous gestures and desultory movements of the enemy. Already the Kaffirs were forced across the ford of which we have spoken, and, though they mustered in great numbers on the opposite bank, swarming like bees along the rising ground, they appeared to waver in their manœuvres, and to be inclined to retire. A mounted officer gallops up, and says a few words to the grey-headed captain. The “Light-Bobs” are formed into column of sections, and plunge gallantly into the ford. Charlie’s right-hand man falls pierced by an assagai, and as his head declines beneath the bubbling water, and his blood mingles with the stream, our volunteer feels “the devil” rising rapidly to his heart. Charlie’s teeth are set tight, though he is scarce aware of his own sensations, and the boy is dangerous, with his pale face and flashing eyes.

The “Light-Bobs” deploy into line on the opposite bank, covered by an effective fire from the Rifles, and advance as if they were on parade. “Old Swipes” feels his heart leap for joy. On they march like one man, and the dark masses of the enemy fly before them. “Well done, my lads!” says the old captain, as, from their flank, he marks the regularity of their movement. They are his very children now, and he is not thinking of the little blue-eyed girl far away at home. A belt of _mimosas_ is in their front, and it must be carried with the bayonet! The “Light-Bobs” charge with a wild hurrah; and a withering volley, very creditable to the savages, well-nigh staggers them as they approach. “Old Swipes” runs forward, waving them on, his shako off, and his grey locks streaming in the breeze--down he goes! with a musket-ball crashing through his forehead. Charlie could yell with rage, and a fierce longing for blood. There is a calm, matronly woman tending flowers, some thousand miles off, in a small garden in the north of England, and a little girl sitting wistfully at her lessons by her mother’s side. They are a widow and an orphan--but the handsome lieutenant will get his promotion without purchase; death-vacancies invariably go in the regiment, and even now he takes the command.

“Kettering,” says he, cool and composed, as if he were but giving orders at a common field-day, “take a sub-division and clear that ravine; when you are once across you can turn his flank. Forward, my lads! and if they’ve any nonsense _give ’em the bayonet_!”

Charlie now finds himself actually in command--ay, and in something more than a skirmish--something that begins to look uncommonly like a general action. Waving the men on with his sword he dashes into the ravine, and in another instant is hand-to-hand with the enemy. What a moment of noise, smoke, and confusion it is! Crashing blows, fearful oaths, the Kaffir war-cry, and the soldiers’ death-groan mingle in the very discord of hell. A wounded Kaffir seizes Charlie by the legs, and a “Light-Bob” runs the savage through the body, the ghastly weapon flashing out between the Kaffir’s ribs.

“You’ve got it _now_, you black beggar!” says the soldier, as he coolly wipes his dripping bayonet on a tuft of burnt-up grass. While yet he speaks he is writhing in his death-pang, his jaws transfixed by a quivering assagai. A Kaffir chief, of athletic frame and sinewy proportions, distinguished by the grotesque character of his arms and his tiger-skin _kaross_, springs at the young lancer like a wild-cat. The boy’s sword gleams through that dusky body even in mid-air.

“Well done, blue ’un!” shout the men, and again there is a wild hurrah! The young one never felt like this before.

* * * * *

Hand-to-hand the savages have been beaten from their defences, and they are in full retreat. One little band has forced the ravine, and gained the opposite bank. With a thrilling cheer they scale its rugged surface, Charlie waving his sword and leading them gallantly on. The old privates swear he is a good ’un. “Forward, lads! Hurrah! for _blue ’un_!”

The boy has all but reached the brink; his hand is stretched to grasp a bush that overhangs the steep, but his step totters, his limbs collapse--down, down he goes, rolling over and over amongst the brushwood, and the blue lancer uniform lies a tumbled heap at the bottom of the ravine, whilst the cheer of the pursuing “Light-Bobs” dies fainter and fainter on the sultry air as the chase rolls farther and farther into the desert fastnesses of Kaffirland.