Part 76 (2/2)

”Claverton--it was downright good of you to bring a fellow up here to die among his old friends,” went on Armitage, suddenly catching sight of the other. ”Better fun than pegging out with only the sooty-faced n.i.g.g.e.rs prodding away at you,” he added, with an attempt at his old light-heartedness. ”After all, what does it matter? I say, though, you fellows, don't go bothering to drag me off to 'King.' Just slip me in somewhere here. I'd rather, you see. Best sort of grave for a fellow campaigning--and it's all G.o.d's earth.”

His voice grew somewhat fainter as he ceased. There was silence for a few minutes, and he lay with closed eyes. The watchers stole a look at each other, and just then three more figures slipped softly into the tent. They were Hicks, and Allen, and Naylor. The dying man's lips began to move, but Claverton, bending over him, could not catch his words, though he thought he could just detect the name of his wife.

”Where's Hicks?” he suddenly exclaimed, opening his eyes. ”And Naylor, and all of them? I should just like to say good-bye to them. Oh, hang it all--it's too soon to give way. One more shot and the beggars'll run. Ah-h-h! That chap's down.” His mind was wandering, and he fancied himself in the conflict again, ”N-no. Where am I? It's awfully dark. Open those shutters, somebody. A fellow can't see.”

Again the watchers look at each other. This was the beginning of the end. Hicks had knelt down beside his dying comrade, and, grasping his hand, something very like a sob is heard to proceed from his broad chest. The candle in the lantern burns low, flickers, and goes out.

They put back the flaps of the tent door, and just then the first red flush of dawn glows in the east. Then they bend down to look at their comrade; but it is all over. The spirit has fled, only the clay remains--cold and tenantless.

Thus died, in his full manhood, the joyous, mischief-loving, sunny-tempered Jack Armitage--light-hearted to the very last; fearless, for he had never done anything to be ashamed of, or contrary to his simple, straightforward code. Never a dishonest or malicious action could he blame himself with, and now he was at peace with all mankind.

And if any one is tempted to ask: ”Was the man a Pagan? Was he utterly G.o.dless?” I reply, not necessarily. He died as he had lived, among his old comrades, careless and unthinking, perhaps, and with his thoughts apparently all for those he left behind; but genuinely regretted by all, and without an enemy in the world. And, O pious reader, when your time comes and the grim monarch lays his icy grasp upon you, will they be able to say of you even thus much?

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

FACE TO FACE.

They buried poor Jack Armitage in the afternoon, and all turned out to render the last honours to their departed comrade. Brathwaite's Horse, with arms reversed, formed the princ.i.p.al guard of honour, the improvised bier being borne by the dead man's most intimate friends. All the Dutch burghers followed in the _cortege_, and, hovering around in dark groups, the men of the Fingo Levies gazed curiously but respectfully upon the white man's burial. No surpliced priest stood to hallow this newly-made grave in the wilderness, or speak the commendatory words; but all the solemnity which real feeling could impart was supplied in the demeanour of these rough bands of armed hors.e.m.e.n, pacing along so silent, and orderly, and mournful.

The grave had been dug beneath a couple of euphorbia trees, upon a green knoll commanding a lovely view of hill and dale, and sweeping gra.s.sland and distant mountain, all blending into one soft picture in the golden l.u.s.tre of the afternoon sun. The steady tramp of hoof-strokes ceased as the hors.e.m.e.n ranged themselves in a semicircle around the grave, and there was dead silence. All uncovered as Jim Brathwaite, who, as senior commander and the dead man's intimate friend, had been unanimously voted to the duty, began to read--in the subdued and serious voice of one wholly unaccustomed to the performance of such offices--the Anglican burial service. At its close a firing party stepped forward, and a threefold volley sounded forth upon the hushened air, rolling its echoes afar, till the Amaxosa warriors, listening from their tangled fastnesses to its distant thunder, told each other, with grim satisfaction, that the English must be burying one of their princ.i.p.al captains.

So poor Jack Armitage was laid to rest there in his lonely grave amid the sunny wilds of Kaffraria, and a gloom hung over the camp because of the cheerful spirit taken from its midst.

That evening they were joined by the other column, forming part of which was Claverton's old corps. It happened that Lumley, who had been given the provisional command on the transfer of his chief, was in hot water.

An excellent subordinate, he was quite unfit for a wholly responsible position, and, as was disgustedly said by those on whom his mistakes had nearly entailed serious disaster, he had made an utter mess of it.

Consequently he had been superseded, and was daily expecting the arrival of the man appointed to take his place. ”Quite a new hand,” as he said, in an injured tone; ”a fellow only just out from England.” All this he told Claverton, seated that evening in the latter's tent, where he had come to pour out his grievances. He would clear out, he vowed, and let the beastly war go to the deuce. Naylor was also present.

”Don't do anything rash, Lumley. Wait and see who the new fellow is,”

was Claverton's advice. ”You and I had very good fun together, and so may you and he. It isn't all walnuts and Madeira being in command, I can tell you. Anyhow, I found it quite within my conscience to throw over mine in favour of subordinacy--and am not sorry. No, believe me, responsibility's a mistake except for the gifted few; and you and I can have a much better time of it playing second fiddle.”

With such arguments he soothed the other's wounded spirit, and at length persuaded him that so far from feeling ill-used he ought to rejoice.

”'Pon my soul, I believe you're right,” was poor Lumley's parting remark, made in a tone of intense relief, partly owing to his former chief's friendliness and encouragement, partly--it may be--the result of a couple of gla.s.ses of grog warming the c.o.c.kles of his heart. ”But I wish it was you they were going to put back again, Claverton. It would be all right then. Good-night--good-night,” and he went out.

”Poor Lumley,” remarked Claverton, after he had left. ”I'm sorry for him; but he's no more fit to be at the head of a body of men than I am to command the Channel Fleet.”

”H'm, isn't he?” said Naylor. ”At any rate you have sent him away in quite a contented frame of mind. I was watching the process leading up to it, somewhat narrowly.”

Claverton laughed. ”Oh, I can always talk over a fool, that is, an ordinary one, when it's worth while taking the trouble, which in this case it is, for Lumley's a good fellow in most ways. But I can't talk over the fool blatant, for he is too overwhelmed with a sense of his own infallibility to give the slightest attention to any one else's suggestions. By the way, I must go across and see Jim Brathwaite. Will you come, or would you rather stay here? Our 'business' won't take a minute.”

”I may as well walk across,” and they went out. On arrival at Jim's tent, however, that redoubted warrior was not there.

”Probably making a night of it with some of the fellows who have just come,” was Claverton's remark. ”Ah, here's what I want,” pouncing upon a bit of blue paper which lay ostentatiously upon an old packing-case, and was directed to himself. ”Now we'll go back.”

The night was moonless and rather dark, for a curtain of cloud had drifted across the sky; here and there one or two stars twinkled through its rifts, and the outline of the sombre ridge beyond was scarcely visible. All was quiet in the camp, the voices of the men made a kind of monotonous hum, and now and then a laugh arose from some centre of jollity for the time being.

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