Part 70 (1/2)
”A smart fellow, that--a fine, smart fellow. Wish we had a few more like him! A cool hand, too. I could see it in his eye.” And as the officer turned to gaze curiously after the receding form, he told him about the action which Claverton had reported; and the listener, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with such a piece of veritable ”news”--gleaned, too, at first hand, on the very best authority--was not long in delivering himself of the same, first to one auditor, then another, till the story, gathering sundry additions and exaggerations as it went, soon spread throughout the camp.
The daylight waned, and hundreds of red fires shone out in the gloaming as the cooking of the evening meal went merrily forward. Here and there might be seen a rough, bearded fellow in s.h.i.+rt and trousers, seated on a log or an upturned biscuit tin, stirring the contents of a three-legged pot with a long wooden spoon, while his comrades lay or sat around, smoking their pipes and chaffing the elective cook--on duty by rotation--suggesting that, as long as he watched the old pot with that hungry and particularly wolfish stare, it would never boil; or that he needn't think to keep them all waiting long enough to send them to sleep, and enable him to polish off half the rations--and so on. Here and there, too, through the open door of a tent, a man might be seen, by the light of a lantern, writing on a box turned bottom upwards; or others, needle in hand, busily st.i.tching at some article of saddlery, or haply of more personal accoutrement; but for the most part they were taking it easy. And now and again a buzz of voices suddenly raised or a burst of laughter was heard, telling of discussion or argument, or jest, or successful chaff. Prompt at ”spotting” a new arrival, not a few were the glances of inquiry turned upon Claverton as he made his way back to his quarters. ”Who is he?”
”Where's he from?” would be the half-whispered inquiries as each group, sinking its occupation for the moment, turned to gaze after the stranger. ”Looks fit, anyhow!”
”One of Brathwaite's chaps?”
”Not a 'swell,' is he?” was the varying comment as he pa.s.sed.
True to his promise, Claverton, as soon as he had seen to the requirements of his men and posted his sentries, made his way to Jim Brathwaite's tent. That jovial leader wae busily occupied in setting out a variety of stores comestible upon a couple of upturned packing-cases; preserved-meat tins, biscuit, pepper and salt, cheese, knives and forks, and plates of debatable crockery warranted not to break, while upon the ground stood several bottles of Ba.s.s, and two or three of something stronger.
”Now, Klaas,” he was saying to his sable acolyte, ”I don't want you here any more, so collar that bucket and go and 'skep' out some water from the clean part of the river--up above; you understand. And look out that the sentries don't shoot you, or your own countrymen either.
Hallo, Arthur! here we are. Got a dinner-party on to-night.”
”Looks like it--”
”Rather! No one admitted if not in evening-dress,” cried Armitage, bursting into the tent, followed by Naylor and another man belonging to the troop.
”Where's the post-horn, Jack?” was Claverton's first inquiry.
”Left it at home,” replied Armitage, looking rather sheepish.
”Now bring yourselves to an anchor,” cried Jim. ”You must sit where you can, and balance your plates somehow. They forgot to send a supply of tables. Here, Klaas, drag in that stew. We won't wait for the other fellows.”
”Won't ye? Indade and that's illigant of ye! Company manners, I should call it!” And the speaker--a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, with a curly, reddish beard--entered the tent, a whimsical expression lurking in his blue Milesian eyes. His companion--a volunteer officer, by name Barlow--not looking where he was going, stumbled over the tent-rope and would have fallen had not the Irishman caught him in his athletic grasp.
”Hould up, me boy! Sure it's too soon by six morthal hours for ye to be thrying to stand on one leg!”
The other laughed, and there was a fresh move in order to make way for the late arrivals, during which a newly-opened tin of salmon emptied its contents into Armitage's hat, while simultaneously some one managed to upset and extinguish the lantern.
”Hold on! Don't move!” cried Jim, striking a match. ”There?” And lighting the lantern again, they surveyed the damage.
”See what comes of unpunctuality, McShane,” said Armitage, gravely, holding up his hat.
”Bedad, and ye oughtn't to complain, for ye've got your own rations and all of ours, too,” retorted the Irishman.
”Never mind; shy it outside, Jack, or give it to Klaas. He'll soon polish it off,” said Jim. ”Here,” he went on, handing round the Ba.s.s bottles. ”Just one apiece; make the most of it because it's the last.”
”Last of the Mohicans,” inevitably and simultaneously quoted every one.
Corks popped and jollification reigned paramount; and sitting there in that rough tent, whose sole furniture consisted of a camp-stool or so, and a few old packing-cases turned upside down, Claverton began to find himself in a very comfortable frame of mind. The not very brilliant light of the tin lantern shone upon faces full of mirth and good fellows.h.i.+p, and many a hearty laugh rang out as they discussed the cheer before them--rough in all conscience, but plentiful and indeed luxurious compared with what awaited them. His mind was made up. He would accept the post offered to him.
The tinned meats disappeared, and so did the rather tough camp rations in their turn; and the Ba.s.s having long since vanished, the grog-bottles were beginning to show symptoms of decay.
”Tell you what it is, Claverton, old boy,” began Armitage, benignly contemplating him through a cloud of tobacco smoke. ”You'd better cut in with us; just look how well we live here.”
”Jack, an' it's blarneyin' ye are,” remarked the Irishman. ”Ye needn't think to find such a spread ivery night, me boy. It's glad ye'll be to get your eye-teeth into the hind quarters of the toughest old trek-ox in the span before you're a week oulder--'dade and it'll be Hobson's choice for ye then. Tell ye what, Misther Claverton; that fellow Jack Armitage's the d.a.m.nedest old humbug in this camp. Now, what d'ye think he did, when we first came up here?”
”What?” Claverton was bottling up his mirth. He saw at a glance that this droll Irishman and Jack were sworn foes--rival wags, in fact--and was prepared for some fun.
”Why, he had a dirty, batthered ould tin trumpet, that his father used to toot on when he drove the Dublin coach, and it's no wonder that same shandradan came to mortal smash twice a week wid such a dhriver. Well, this fellow Jack, the first time--and it won't be the last, I'm thinking--he got his skin too full of Cape smoke, what's he do but go outside his tent in the middle of the night and blow off a blast on his old post-horn. I give ye me word it was enough to wake the dead; anyhow, it woke the whole camp. Ye needn't laff, Jack, ye unfalin'