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

cracking of twigs somewhere overhead told that the fresh danger was very near.

      Dickenson’s reply to his companion’s order was to place himself quickly with his back to the rocks that had sheltered him, sitting with his rifle pointing upward.

      Drew took the same position, and none too soon; for, following closely upon the rustling sound, the makers of which were still invisible, a couple of shots were fired down at them, the bullets striking the stones just over their heads.

      No reply was made, for the enemy were quite hidden, and with beating hearts the two young Englishmen waited in horrible suspense for their chance – one which never came; for directly after quite a volley was fired, apparently from some distance back from the edge, and, to Drew’s horror, a big burly Boer seemed to leap down from the top of the cliff to seize them for prisoners.

      That was his first surmise. The next moment he knew the truth, for with a heavy thud the man struck the stones, falling sidewise, and then turned over upon his face, to lie with his limbs quivering slightly for a few moments before he lay perfectly still.

      “Hurrah!” shouted Dickenson, springing to his feet.

      “Down! down!” roared Drew, snatching at his brother officer’s arm.

      But the need for caution was at an end, for volley after volley came rolling down into the river-bed, and proof of help being at hand was given by the rapid firing of the Boers on the other side of the river, a duel on a large scale being kept up for some ten minutes before the firing on the far side ceased.

      “Whopped!” shouted Dickenson excitedly. “Look! look!” he cried, pointing down the river and across at an open spot where some dozens of the enemy were streaming away, galloping as hard as their little Bechuana ponies could go, but not escaping scatheless, four saddles being emptied by the fire from the cliff above the watchers’ heads.

      “I wonder whether the other men who crossed have escaped,” said Drew thoughtfully, as he took his whistle from his cross-belt and held it ready to blow.

      “Take it for granted they have, my son,” said Dickenson. “They really are clever at that sort of thing. I say, I’m glad I didn’t go through that performance.”

      “What performance?” said Drew wonderingly.

      “Hand-shaking in that sentimental way.”

      “It wouldn’t have done you any harm.”

      “Perhaps not; but, I say, don’t stand fiddling about with that whistle. Blow, man, blow, and let the lads know where we are. I don’t want to be shot now by our own men: too degrading, that.”

      Drew placed the whistle to his lips, and the shrill, penetrating, chirruping call rang out, while Dickenson stood looking upward towards the top of the bank.

      Then Robin he put him his horn to his mouth

      And a blast he did loudly blow,

      While quick at the call his merry men all

      Came tripping along in a row!

      He half-hummed, half-sang the old lines in a pleasant baritone voice, and then listened.

      “Don’t see many merry men tripping – poor, hungry beggars! Blow again, Drew, old man. Why don’t they stop firing?”

      Drew blew again, and, to the intense satisfaction of both, the whistle was answered from among the trees above.

      “Ahoy there! Where are you?”

      “Here! here!” shouted the young officers together.

      “Cease firing!” came now in a familiar voice, and the shots died out.

      “It’s Roby,” said Drew eagerly.

      “Never liked him so well before,” said Dickenson, laughing. “Ahoy! We’re coming up.”

      “Oh, there you are!” came from above, and a good, manly, sun-tanned face was thrust over the edge of the cliff. “All right?”

      “Yes! Yes!” was the reply.

      “That’s better than I expected, lads,” cried the officer. “Does one good. I thought we were avenging your death. Well,” – the speaker’s face expanded into a broad grin – “it’s getting on towards dinner-time. What have you caught?”

      “Tartars!” growled Drew shortly.

      “Yes,” said Dickenson; “a regular mess.”

      Chapter Three.

      On the Qui Vive

      “So it seems,” said the officer above. “But hullo, you! You’re wounded.”

      “Pooh! stuff!” said Dickenson shortly; “bit picked out of my ear.”

      “But,” – began the head of the rescue party.

      “Let it be,” said Dickenson snappishly as he pressed his hand to the injured place. “If I don’t howl about it, I’m sure you needn’t.”

      “Very well, old fellow, I will not. Ugh! what’s that down there – that fellow dead?”

      The officer leaned out as far as he could so as to get a good look at the motionless figure at the foot of the cliff.

      Drew glanced at the figure too, and nodded his head.

      “Who shot him – you or Dickenson?”

      “Neither of us,” said Drew gravely. “It was the work of one of your fellows; he fell from up there. But what about the party who crossed by the ford?”

      “Oh, we’ve accounted for them. Cut them off from the ford and surrounded them. Fifteen, and bagged the lot, horses and all.”

      “You were a precious long time coming, though, Roby,” grumbled Dickenson. “We seem to have been firing here all day.”

      “That’s gratitude!” said the officer. “We came as quickly as we could. Nice job, too, to advance on a gang well under cover and double covered by the strong body across the river. There must have been sixty or seventy of them; but,” added the captain meaningly, “sixty or seventy have not gone back. How many do you think are down? We’ve accounted for a dozen, I should say, hors de combat.”

      “I don’t know,” said Drew shortly, “and don’t want to.”

      “What do you say, Dickenson?” asked the captain.

      “The same as Lennox here.”

      “Come, come, speak out and don’t be so thin-skinned. We’ve got to report to Lindley.”

      “Six haven’t moved since,” said Dickenson, looking uneasy now that the excitement of the fight was at an end; “and I should say twice as many more wounded.”

      “Serve ’em right. Their own fault,” said the captain.

      It was decided to be too risky a proceeding to cross the river, for the Boers were certain to be only a short distance away, sheltered in some advantageous position, waiting to try and retrieve their dead and wounded; so a small party was posted by the ford to guard against any crossing of the river, and then the prisoners were marched off towards the village a couple of miles distant, where the detachment of infantry and mounted men had been holding the Boers across the river in check for some weeks past.

      A few shots followed them from a distance at first; but the enemy had received quite as much punishment as they desired upon that occasion, and soon ceased the aggressive, being eager for a truce to communicate with the little rear-guard posted in the scrub by the river so as to recover their wounded and dead.

      On the way back to the village the two young officer’s had to relate in full their experience, which was given in a plain, unvarnished way; and then as a sharp descent was reached, and the rescued officers caught sight of the well-guarded prisoners marching on foot, their Bechuana ponies having been appropriated by their captors, Dickenson began to grow sarcastic.

      “Glad