Part 10

"Jao,[#]" said Graeme, and snatching up the document strode away with it, the man looking curiously after him.

[#] Go.

At the far end of the garden he stopped and looked at the envelope, with dread in his heart; then, suddenly clenching his teeth, tore it open, and seizing the paper within, read at a glance:

"DEAR GRAEME,

"It's all right. Colonel Bradford agrees. Report yourself to him at Gurnimbad to-morrow night. You needn't wait for official orders. Good luck.

"Yours, "C. QUENTIN."

As he stood staring at the words, the sound of rickshaw wheels was heard coming along the road towards the house. It was Lucy returning from the Swaines'. For a moment he remained listening. Then, crushing the letter into his pocket, he ran towards the house, gaining its sanctuary just as the rickshaw men trotted briskly up the drive.

"Where is the sahib," he heard from where he stood hovering within, "and what has he had for lunch?" much outspoken indignation greeting the bearer's answer that the master had not deigned to eat the meal provided.

"Of course he'd eat, it's your fault and the cook's if he didn't. Hector, where are you? Oh, there you are, why didn't you come out to meet me as you always do? Oh, Hector, I'm so sorry about your lunch, those stupid servants; and there was a guinea-fowl and the ham and----"

"It--it wasn't their fault, Lucy. They had the--the things ready, but I refused; I didn't feel like eating."

"Hector, you're ill; your voice is different somehow; come into the light, dear, and let me see," but Hector hung back.

"I'm all right, Lucy," he said hurriedly. "I've got rather a fit of the blues, that's all."

"And no wonder, being without food all this time. We'll have tea at once. Abdul, bring tea and two eggs for the sahib. And now sit down, and I'll tell you about the Swaines. Oh, Hector, why didn't you come? I was so disappointed."

"I--I was rather late getting back, Lucy. I--I--who was there?"

"Lots of people, and we'd such fun, not a bit like a farewell party. Captain Dance was there, you know, the man who does the comic parts at the theatre. And he was really most amusing, quite cheered me up, and--and oh, Hector, dear, he's given us a box for the theatre to-morrow night; you will come just for once, won't you? He's got a new song about Kruger, and I believe it's too funny. Oh, heavens, though, I forgot, General Quentin, don't say he's coming, please, Hector."

"He's--he's not, Lucy; he's rather busy just now, and----"

"Thank goodness, I should have been so disappointed, and we'll have a nice little dinner here together, just you and I, and go on to the play afterwards. Oh dear, I feel quite excited about it, I hope you do too, Hector."

"Lucy, my dearest."

"And Omar shall have a blue ribbon. Oh bother----"

"Omar?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to tell you, dear, not till to-morrow; but I've got a cat for you, my birthday present, Hector. He's a Persian, that's why I call him Omar, not very brilliant I fear, but I'm not clever, as you know only too well."

"Clever, you're the dearest----"

"But not clever, Hector, don't say so, because I know. Oh, I'd love to be clever like you."

"Me? Good heavens!"

"Yes, but about Omar. I know how you missed poor Fop, and I've meant to get you another in his place for a long time, but couldn't find one good enough. He's white, Hector, and rather nice, come along now and inspect him."

"Lucy, wait. I--I've something to tell you, something terrible, dear, has happened, and--and--oh, my God, how can I say it?"

"Hector, what do you mean?" the smile dying away.

"I ... they ... I'm ordered to South Africa, Lucy."

For a moment she stood staring at him, with no comprehension in her eyes.

"South Africa," she repeated; "you--are going to--South Africa," and then suddenly she rushed forward and flung herself on her knees before him. "Hector, Hector," she said wildly, "it's not true, tell me it isn't. You can't leave me, you can't, do you hear?" She tried to drag his hands from his face, but in vain. Then her mood changed, and she rose and stood before him, her eyes blazing in her white face.

"So--so you've volunteered like the rest, you whom I called only this morning 'the best husband in the world.' You'll go off and leave me as I am, helpless and alone, oh, what are men made of to do these things?"

"Lucy, I did not volunteer. I was weak, criminally weak, if you like, but that I did not do; the thing was forced upon me. Will you listen?"

"Go on."

Hector told her, and, as is usual with such recitals, suppressed the evidences of his own weakness, insisting on the fact that, as Quentin had put the matter, he had no choice but to accept, that it had been less an offer than an order. He didn't want to go, he repeated again and again, he never had had any wish to go, and let Lucy but say the word, he would wire to Bradford this minute to refuse. He would say he was ill, he would be ill, there was stuff in his medicine-chest upstairs. And then he stopped bewildered, for Lucy was smiling at him, a smile oddly in contrast with her white face and despairing eyes.

"No, Hector," she said, "you mustn't do that; you must go, dear."

"I won't, Lucy, what do I care for what they say?"

"But I do, dear; and--and, Hector, I was wrong in what I said just now, but I thought it was your own doing, and that you had volunteered. It was that which hurt me, dear, and made me say what I did; and--and I know you despise Mrs. Swaine and those other people, but they taught me a lesson this afternoon. She felt her nephew's going--I know that, because I found her crying afterwards in her room--but she never showed it to him. She was all smiles before him and the others, as I shall be when--when the time comes, Hector. When is it, dear?"

"To-morrow morning, but----"

"To-morrow? Then--then we've very little time; I must go and see to your things; and we'll keep your birthday to-night, dear, instead of ... and Omar shall have his blue ribbon."

"Lucy, for God's sake listen to me before we decide. I have a feeling about this. I know somehow I ought not to go, that if I do, it will be an irrevocable step. Oh, I can't explain, but--but I feel that--that this is my last chance. Something is dragging me, Lucy, I am being driven, God knows where! I have felt it before, I felt it only this morning on my way to those cursed Offices, and I know too that you and the baby alone can save me. Oh, Lucy, if you love me, tell me to stay."

"It's because I love you, Hector, that I now ask you to go. It's everything to me your wanting to remain; but, dearest, I cannot let you--I should be wickedly selfish if I did; and what you say about that feeling is wrong too, dear; it is morbid and unhealthy. Fight it down, Hector; it is nothing, and--and soon you will come back to me, and there will be the baby, and we--we shall be so happy, and we couldn't be if we were to shirk our duty when it's come. But I must leave you now, no, you stay here, dear; you--you would only hinder me," and she went.

* * * * *

Next morning, with the rain pouring down upon him, Hector rode away, and, as he reached the gate opening on to the main road, he stopped and looked back at the still figure watching him from the dripping verandah. For a moment he stood fighting the strange, wild impulse to return, and then, mastering it once and for ever, galloped away through the downpour.

*BOOK II*

*CHAPTER X*

Many thousands of miles away from high-perched fir-clad Chillata--now no longer rain-drenched and sad, but a white fairy-land of glistening ice and snow--a large column of mounted men was slowly toiling its way through a waste of rocky mountains. A weary-looking column it was, the men silent and sullen-faced; the animals dull-eyed, with their ribs showing through tightly-stretched coats. On they crawled, mile after mile, now breasting the side of some stony mountain, now sinking into the airless depths of gloomy gorge or desolate valley. Lower and lower dropped the sun, and then, with one last blinding flash of light, was gone, leaving the western sky aflame with specks of burning cloud.

Rapidly the light began to fade, a veil of hazy blue blurred the mountains, a few stars twinkled feebly overhead; and then at last came the welcome order to halt. The men clambered wearily down, and led the horses away to where a staff officer was standing, looking dubiously down at a few pools of muddy water, the remains of a sometime rushing torrent. Directing and objurgating the sullen men, he remained till the last beast had drunk and gone; and then he too turned away in search of such cheer as he might hope to find in the Headquarter Mess.

For weeks past the present day's work had been but a repetition of its predecessor: the rise before the dawn; the eventless trek through veldt and mountain; the bivouac in some hot valley, where alone water could be hoped for; the dreamless sleep, hard upon the unappetising meal; and then once more the awakening and profitless resumption of the march. For profitless it seemed, this pursuit of the elusive Dutchman, Van der Tann, rebel and murderer, whose capture many had attempted, but all, so far, failed to achieve.

Six weeks before, full of hope and confidence in their leader, despite the gloomy prophecies of those who had attempted the task before, this column had started on its quest, and so far not one man of the hostile commando had they seen; apparently at its ease, it kept just one march ahead, which distance, strive as he might, Colonel Bradford found himself powerless to lessen.

Gradually, in the column, hope had died out, and with its death came the longing for the comforts of civilisation: hot baths, whiskey and cigarettes for the officers, beer and tobacco for the men--luxuries that for the past three weeks they had been without. The former grew slack and dispirited; the latter sullen, in the last few days, indeed, almost openly mutinous, a state of things of which their leader was only too well aware, and which in his heart, secretly as hopeless as theirs, he knew himself powerless to combat. He was thinking of these things, and even meditating the abandonment of his quest, as he sat on the hillside overlooking the bivouac, and gloomily noted the air of unwillingness pervading the men below.

Surely it was justifiable to give up now, he thought; he had done all that a man could, but the task set was beyond him or anyone else; better to accept the inevitable and go back. He was but wearing out men and horses in a vain quest, and to force the march on was to risk the catastrophe of mutiny and consequent ruin of his career. His authority, he knew well, only hung by a hair, and the mere writing out of orders for the next day had become a torment, so fearful was he of a flat refusal to obey; only, last night their issue had been received with "booing"--a sound that had filled him with nervous dread. Despite his present despondency, Colonel Bradford's reputation was that of a good and able commander; and since landing in the country five months before his career had been one of unbroken success. Cool in action, ready of resource, and deeply read in military lore, he had, as a brigade commander in the main body, won high opinions from superiors and subordinates alike, and it had been in the full hope of a successful issue that to him had been entrusted the capture of the notorious and hitherto undefeated Van der Tann.

Unsuspected by all, however, in Bradford's character there was a weak spot, which events so far had failed to discover, and that was the inability to hold on his way, unmoved by the opinions of those around him. Give him a willing army to lead and all was well, but, let the men become discouraged and show hostility to authority, he also, only too soon, came to share the one feeling and fear the other. The double task of overcoming them as well as the enemy was beyond him--as it is to all save the Marlboroughs and Wellingtons of history--and in the present crisis, instead of rooting up the sprouting weeds of insubordination, his sole desire, and that the most fatal of all, was to conciliate the malcontents, with the inevitable result that the murmuring grew daily louder.

There was one, and, probably the only one in the column, who was not only unaffected by the general depression, but rather stimulated by it, and that was Captain Hector Graeme. So far, in his novel _role_ of A.D.C., he had failed to justify his selection for the post by General Quentin; indeed, Bradford had many times thought hard things of the Adjutant-General to the Indian Forces, for providing him with a staff officer so negligent and ignorant of his work.

On more than one occasion he had had just reason for complaint, Hector's arrangements as to messing and the transport of his chief's baggage having only too often proved defective, while his cavalier treatment of senior officers had brought more than one rebuke on his careless head. His sartorial eccentricities, too, were a source of constant irritation to Colonel Bradford, for now that he was no longer a regimental officer he had given free rein to his taste for original garments; and, bizarre as were many of the uniforms worn at that time in South Africa, Hector, in unconventionality and strangeness of attire, eclipsed them all.

Several times Bradford, stung by the remarks of distinguished visitors to his Mess, had debated the advisability of sending Graeme about his business, or at any rate palming him off on some unwary new-comer, but somehow he had never done so; and in the last fortnight had come to be glad of his forbearance. For during that time a surprising change had come over his A.D.C. In proportion as the spirits of the rest went down, his went up, and no matter how long or profitless the day Hector never seemed tired or depressed, but, on the contrary, cheerful and full of fight. And gradually Bradford, harassed by doubts and the unresponsiveness of his followers, began to turn to his erstwhile obnoxious A.D.C., whose confidence in ultimate success seemed to increase daily, and who alone amongst his fellows appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the present expedition.

He looked at him now as he lay on his back close by, calm and content, the end of a "Pinhead" cigarette--given him a the rate of one daily by his servant from the latter's scanty store--between his teeth, and, as he looked, he sighed. He wished that he too could feel like that. Hector heard the sigh, and, instantly opening his eyes, sat up and gazed meditatively at the mob of men and horses below.

"Hard as nails, those horses," he observed cheerfully, "do their thirty miles a day easy now; never so fit in their lives before."

"I don't know what you call fit, Graeme," was the moody answer, "they're all skin and bone. Worn out, that's what they are; look at the way they're standing."

"Only healthily tired, they'll be bucking after a night's rest. The men seem a bit sullen though, the brutes. What the dickens do they want, I wonder? Fine weather, grand country, and quite enough to eat. Damn it, they've not fed those mules yet. I'll soon see about that," rising as he spoke.

"Better leave the men alone, Graeme; poor devils, they're tired too. For heaven's sake don't hustle them, they'll only lose their temper and answer back."

"Lose their temper, will they? So will I, then, and I'll warrant mine's worse than theirs."

"There's a time, Graeme, you know, when it's better to shut one's eyes--the velvet glove, you know;" but Hector had gone, and was now making his way to where a group of men were sitting in a circle, at some distance from the famished mules.

"Velvet glove be hanged," he muttered as he went; "that's all right when the steel hand's inside, not the flabby digits your gloves contain. Damn, you may be a devilish fine tactician or strategist, but you don't understand men. I do, and always have," and he strode on, the light of battle in his eyes.

Sick with nervous apprehension, Bradford watched him approach the group, and, as he reached it, say something to one of its members. The man, turning his head, looked up without rising, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders, was resuming his conversation when Hector rushed at him, seized him by the collar, and dragged him to his feet. The others jumped up and gazed in astonishment at the intruder; a murmur of anger arose, but was almost instantaneously silenced, quelled by a fury such as staggered their dull souls. For a few minutes the winged words flew, and then Bradford saw Hector wheel round on the first man and point to the mules. Slowly the fellow was slouching off, when for the second time Graeme was on him, and, whirling him round, again spoke, when the man's hand went to his cap in a salute, and he stood stiffly at attention. Another order was given, on which the rest ranged themselves into line, were numbered off by fours--the proving being repeated three times before the requisite smartness was attained--and the men were marched briskly away to the waiting mules, which they proceeded to feed, Hector supervising. This operation completed, he rejoined his chief.

"Bit and spur, not sugar, for a tired horse," he observed, resuming his seat on the ground. "It's not the men's fault, though; they'd be all right if properly managed."

"What did you say to them, Graeme? It seems to have been pretty effective, whatever it was."

"Cursed them well, sir, called them every name I could lay my tongue to. That big fellow I promised to shoot if he spoke again. I'd have done it too, devilish near thing as it was."

"What?"

"Certainly I would, it was him or me. Obedience I meant having, and if he wasn't going to give it, he'd have got hurt, that's all."

"This is not the German Army, Graeme."

"No, if it were we shouldn't keep the useless devils we do in command. Old Carthew, for instance; I wish you'd let me have a go at him, sir."

"Kindly remember, Graeme, you're speaking of a senior officer."

"Well, if I am, sir, I'm only saying what every one in the column knows. Why, last night at dinner, before his officers, he said that our present expedition was hopeless, and that he had reason to believe you thought so too."

Bradford was silent.

"Of course, he ought not to have said that, Graeme," he answered after a pause, "but I'm afraid he's only expressing the general feeling."

"What does that matter, sir, if it's not yours?"

"But ... perhaps it is mine, Graeme; it's certainly that of my staff officer, Major Godwin."

"Godwin? An old woman."

"Graeme!"

"So he is, if he advises giving up; and it's all very well for him, he won't get the blame--you will. He'll probably say afterwards too, he was all for going on, but you wouldn't."

Again Bradford was silent. From what he knew of staff officers, he thought that this was more than likely to be true, and the idea was unpleasant. And then a fatal and ever-to-be-regretted moment of weakness came over him, and he turned to Graeme.

"What would you advise, then?" he said. "I don't mind owning I'm done."

"Try for a bit longer, anyway," was the instant response. "Look here, Colonel, I, as you know, am not much of a tactician, but this is not a question of tactics; it's a question of our will against Van der Tann's and my--ours is stronger than his; I know it."

"I don't follow you, Graeme," said Bradford, looking puzzled, for to him psychology was an unknown region.

"Simply this, we've been after this fellow now for six weeks and one of us must give, and that soon. The strain is too great to last. Our lot may be bad, but think what his must be, with us always hanging on to his heels, and never knowing when we're going to pounce on them. I know he goes as fast as we do, faster perhaps, but so does the rabbit than the stoat, yet the stoat gets him in the end, because the rabbit's nerve goes and he chucks it."

"Yes, but the rabbit can't turn round and fight the stoat. Van der Tann can; a nice plight we should be in if he were to attack us to-night. Regular _cul-de-sac_ this place we're in."

"Not much attack left in men who've been pursued for six weeks; besides, they're probably thinking the same about us."

"Hum, can't say I think much of your argument, Graeme. Let's go and have tea. I suppose we've not run out of that, have we? Coming? No? Well, don't go beyond the sentry line, these Dutchmen are always prowling about;" and Bradford rose and walked slowly away, leaving Hector seated on the ground.

For a few minutes he remained there, and then, his Chief out of sight, sprang up, and, evading the none too alert sentries, made his way across country till he struck a rough sheep-track leading into the heart of the mountains. "I'll think this out," he muttered. "I'll get him on somehow, the faint-hearted fool, only another day or two, and we'll have this fellow Van der Tann. He's close by somewhere. I don't know why I think so, but I'm sure of it. I wish to heaven I was in charge; give me a day only, and you wouldn't know that column. I'd..." And here his thoughts wandered off, as Hector's were wont to do, into a picture of personal achievements.

He had just worked out the capture of the Dutchman, having seen every detail of the march and subsequent fight vividly before him, and was proceeding to give orders for the disposal of the prisoners, speaking--a habit to which he had of late become prone--half-aloud as he did so, when, striking his foot violently against a stone, the pain brought him straightway back to earth. With a sudden shock, he became aware of the darkness and deep silence around him, and hurriedly striking a match looked at his watch, which by good luck he had not forgotten to wind the previous night. It was close on eight, and at six he had started, which meant that he was now, at the pace he had come, well-nigh seven miles from the bivouac.

By this time dinner would be over, and a search-party probably out after him; he must get back at once, that is, if he could find his way, which he rather doubted, for he had been too deeply engrossed with mental visions to take much note of the road he had come by. He looked behind him, in the hope of seeing the bivouac lights, but in vain--a wall of mountains lay between. He turned off the track, and clambered up on to a peak of rock, thinking he could possibly see better from it.

For a few minutes he stood there, straining his eyes into the darkness, but no fires were visible, only the shadowy shapes of mountains on three sides, and on the fourth a black abyss, falling sheer from his feet. Suddenly he started, a thrill of excitement running through him, for far down below him a faint spark of light was visible; it flickered, disappeared, and then shone out once more.

In a flash, Hector's imagination had rent the veil of darkness. The light stood revealed as a camp-fire, its disappearance caused by the figures of passing Dutchmen, and a faint far-away sound from the depths the neighing of a horse. It--it was--it could only be--Van der Tann's bivouac. Quivering, he stood staring down, but all was black once more; the glimmer had gone, and the sound, whatever it was, had ceased.

Visionary as the glimpse of the light had been, it was enough for Hector. He had asked for a lever to move Bradford, and here was the handle thrust out for him to seize. He then and there determined to work it. After all, he was the sole witness, and what he said no one could dispute. It would force his Chief on, that was all that mattered; and if, afterwards, he should be proved wrong, and no commando was to be found, well, what of it? Bradford would possibly say hard things, might even dismiss him from his staff in disgrace, but that could not hurt him much.