The Kopje Garrison: A Story of the Boer War. Fenn George Manville

thing they could do was to go back to their farms, give up fighting, and collect and bring into camp here a good supply of corn and beef.”

      “Yes, sir, I heard you,” said Captain Roby, for the colonel paused to take two or three whiffs from his cigarette.

      “Well, gentlemen, you will hardly credit the news I have received when you recall what took place, and be ready to place some faith in a Boer’s sound common-sense.”

      “Why doesn’t he speak out at once?” said Dickenson in a whisper. “Who wants all this rigmarole of a preface?”

      “What is it, colonel?” said the major.

      “That Boer, the leader of the little party of prisoners, evidently took my advice,” continued the colonel; “and instead of rejoining his fighting friends, he has gone back to the ways of peace and trade, and they have just arrived at the outposts with a couple of wagon-loads of grain, a score of sheep, and ten oxen.”

      The news was received with a shout, and as soon as silence was obtained the colonel continued: “It seems incredible; but, after all, it is only the beginning of what must come to pass. For, once the Boer is convinced that it is of no use to fight, he will try his best to make all he can out of his enemies.”

      “Well, it’s splendid news,” said the major; “but what about its being some cunning trap?”

      “That is what I am disposed to suspect,” said the colonel; “so, quietly and without stir, double the outposts, send word to the men on the kopje to be on the alert, and let everything, without any display of force, be ready for what may come. You, Captain Roby, take half a company to meet our visitors, and bring the welcome provender into the market-place here.”

      “Bob,” whispered Lennox, “if we could only go with Roby! There’ll be a couple of score of the enemy hiding amongst those sacks.”

      “Get out!” responded Dickenson. “I never did see such an old cock-and-bull inventor as you are. It’s stale, too. You’re thinking of the old story of the fellows who took the castle by riding in a wagon loaded with grass and them underneath. Then it was driven in under the portcullis, which was dropped at the first alarm, and came down chop on the wagon and would go no farther, while the fellows hopped out through the grass and took the castle. Pooh! What’s the good of being so suspicious? These Boers are tired of fighting, and they’ve taken the old man’s advice about trade.”

      “I don’t believe it,” said Lennox firmly. “I wouldn’t trust the Boers a bit.”

      “Well, don’t believe it, then; but let’s go and see what they’ve brought, all the same.”

      “Yes, certainly; but let’s put the colonel on his guard.”

      “What! Go and tell him what you think?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Thanks, no, dear boy. I have only one nose, and I want it.”

      “What do you mean?” said Lennox sharply.

      “Don’t want it snapped off, as they say. The idea of the cheek – going and teaching our military grandmother – father, I mean, how to suck eggs!”

      “You never will believe till the thing’s rammed down your throat,” said Lennox angrily. “Well, come along as we have no orders.”

      And without further discussion the two young men buckled on their belts and followed Captain Roby, who, while the colonel’s other instructions were being carried out, marched his men down to where some of the Boer party, well-guarded by the outposts, could be dimly seen squatted about or seated on the fronts of two well-loaded wagons, whose teams were tying down contentedly chewing the cud. Four more Boers kept the sheep and oxen in the rear of the wagons from straying away in search of a place to graze, for there was a tempting odour of fresh green herbage saluting their nostrils, along with the pleasant moisture rising from the trickling water hurrying away towards the gully where it found its way into the river.

      “What do you say to telling Roby to set a man to probe the sacks with a fixed bayonet?”

      “It would be wise,” whispered back Lennox.

      “Tchah!” sneered Dickenson. “How could a fellow exist under one of those sacks of corn? Why, they must weigh on to a couple of hundredweight.”

      “I don’t care; there’s some dodge, Bob, I’m sure.”

      “Artful dodge, of course. Here, let’s see if we know the fellows again.”

      “Very well; but be on your guard.”

      “Bother! Roby and his men will mind we are not hurt.”

      As he spoke Dickenson led the way close up to the roughly-clad Boers about the wagons, where, in spite of the darkness, the face of their leader was easy to make out as he sat pulling away at a big German pipe well-filled with a most atrociously bad tobacco, evidently of home growth and make.

      “Hullo, old chap!” said Dickenson heartily; “so you’ve thought better of it?”

      The Boer looked at him sharply, and, recognising the speaker, favoured him with a nod.

      “Brought us some provender?” continued Dickenson; and he received another nod.

      “What have you got?”

      The Boer wagged his head sidewise towards the wagons and herds, and went on smoking.

      “Well done; that’s better than trying to pot us. But, I say, what about your commando fellows? What will they say when you go back?”

      The Boer took his pipe out of his mouth and stuffed a finger into the bowl to thrust down the loose tobacco.

      “Nothing,” he said shortly. “Not going back.”

      “What!” cried Lennox, joining in after pretty well satisfying himself that there could be no danger in the unarmed Boers and their wagons.

      “What’s what?” said the Boer sourly.

      “You’re not going back?” cried Dickenson, staring.

      “Well, we can’t go back, of course. If we tried they’d shoot us, wouldn’t they?”

      The reply seemed to be unanswerable, and Dickenson merely uttered a grunt, just as Captain Roby and his men marched up to form an escort for the little convoy.

      “Well, commandant?” he said.

      The Boer grunted. “Not commandant,” he said; “field-cornet.”

      “Very well, field-cornet; how did you manage to get here?”

      “’Cross the veldt,” growled the man.

      “Didn’t you see any of your friends?”

      “No,” grumbled the Boer. “If we had we shouldn’t be here. Have you got the money for what we’ve got?”

      “No.”

      “Stop, then. We’re not going on.”

      “But you must now. The colonel will give you an order.”

      “Paper?” said the Boer sharply.

      “Yes.”

      “Then we don’t go.”

      “Yes, you do, my obstinate friend. It will be an order to an official here, and he’ll pay you a fair price at once – in gold.”

      “My price?”

      “Oh, that I can’t say,” replied the captain. “But I promise you will be fairly dealt with.”

      The Boer put his burning pipe in his pocket, snatched off his battered slouch felt hat, and gave his shaggy head an angry rub, looking round at his companions as if for support, and then staring back at the way they had come, to see lanterns gleaming and the glint of bayonets dimly here and there, plainly showing him that retreat was out of the question. Then, like some bear at bay, he uttered what sounded like a low growl, though in fact it was only a remark to the man nearest to him, a similar growl coming in