The Angels Weep - Smith Wilbur - Страница 103
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"You are no longer my son," he said simply.
"And you are no longer my father," Bazo said, and turning on his heel, strode from the hut. First Tanase, and then, one after another, the young indunas stood up and followed Bazo out into the sunlight. n outrider came in at full gallop and brought his horse up so sharply that it reared and sawed its head Against the bit.
"Sir, there is large party of rebels coming up the road ahead," he shouted urgently.
"Very well, trooper." The Honourable Maurice Gifford, officer commanding troops B and D of the Bulawayo field force, touched the brim of his slouch hat with a gloved hand in acknowledgement. "Go forward and keep them under observation." Then he turned in the saddle.
"Captain Dawson, we will put the wagons into laager under those trees, there will be a good field of fire for the Maxim from there I will take out fifty mounted men to engage the enemy." It really was a piece of astonishing good luck to run into a group of rebels so close to Bulawayo. After weeks of scouring the countryside, Gifford and his 160 troopers had managed to gather in thirty or so survivors from the isolated villages and trading-posts, but so far they had not had even a chance of a scrap with the Matabele. Leaving Dawson to prepare the laager, Gifford spurred down the Bulawayo road at the head of fifty of his best men.
Gifford was the youngest son of an earl, a handsome young aristocrat and junior officer in a famous guards regiment. He had been spending his leave on a spot of shooting in Africa, and had been fortunate enough to have his holiday enlivened by a native uprising.
The general opinion of the Honourable M. Gifford was that he was frightfully keen, and a damned fine young fellow, bound to go a long way.
He reined in his horse at the crest of the rise, and held up his gloved right hand to halt the troop.
"There they are, sir," cried the outrider. "Bold as brass." The Honourable Maurice Gifford polished the lenses of his binoculars on the tail of his yellow silk scarf, and then held the glasses to his eyes.
"They are all mounted," he said, "and jolly well mounted at that," he murmured. "But, I say, what a murderous-looking bunch of ruffians."
The approaching horsemen were half a mile away, a straggling mob, dressed in war kilts and headdresses, armed with a weird assortment of modern and primitive weapons.
"Troop, into extended order, left and right wheel," Gifford ordered. "Sergeant, we will use the slope to charge them, and then disengage and attempt to draw them within range of the Maxim."
"Begging your pardon, sir," the sergeant mumbled, "but isn't that a white man leading them?" Gifford lifted the binoculars and peered through them again. "The devil it is!" he muttered. "But the fellow is dressed in furs and things." The fellow gave him a cheery wave, as he rode up at the head of his motley gang.
"Morning, you aren't Maurice Gifford by any chance?" "I am sir," Gifford replied frostily. "And who are you, if I may be so bold as to ask?" "The name's Ballantyne, Ralph Ballantyne." The fellow gave him an engaging grin. "And these gentlemen," with his thumb he indicated those who followed him, "are Ballantyne's Scouts." Maurice Gifford looked them over with distaste. It was impossible to tell their racial origins, for they were all painted with fat and clay to look like Matabele, and they wore cast-offs and tribal dress. Only this fellow Ballantyne had left his face its natural colour, probably to identify himself to the Bulawayo field force, but it was equally probable that he would blacken it as soon as he had what he wanted from them. He was not shy about making his wants known, either.
"A requisition, Mr. Gifford," he said, and handed over a folded and sealed note from his belt pouch.
Gifford bit on the finger of his glove, and drew it off his right hand, before he accepted the note and broke the seal.
"I cannot let you have my Maxim, sit," he exclaimed as he read.
"I have a duty to protect the civilians in my care.
"You are only four miles from the laager at Bulawayo and the road is clear of Matabele. We have just swept it for you. There is no longer any danger to your people." "But,-" said Gifford.
"The requisition is signed by Colonel William Napier, officer commanding the Bulawayo field force. I suggest you take the matter up with him, when you reach Bulawayo." Ralph was still smiling. "In the meantime, we are rather pressed for time. We will just relieve you of the Maxim, and trouble you no further." Gifford crumpled the note, and glared impotently at Ralph, then shifted his ground.
"You and your men appear to be wearing enemy uniform," he accused.
"That is in contravention of the articles of war, sir. "Read the articles to the indunas, Mr. Gifford, particularly those dealing with the murder and torture of noncombatants." "There is no call for an Englishman to descend to the level of the savages he is fighting," said Gifford loftily. "I have had the honour to meet your father, Major Zouga Ballantyne. He is a gentleman. I wonder what he would say about your conduct." "My father and his fellow conspirators, all of them English gentlemen, are presently standing trial on charges of having waged war against a friendly government. However, I will certainly solicit his opinion of my conduct at the first available opportunity.
Now if you will send your sergeant, back with us to hand over the Maxim, I will bid you good day, Mr. Gifford." They unloaded the Maxim from its cart, removed the tripod and ammunition boxes, and loaded them onto three pack-horses.
"How did you get Napier to sign away one of his precious Maxims?"
Harry Mellow demanded, as he clinched the straps on the pack-saddles.
"Sleight of hand," Ralph winked at him. "The pen is mightier-" "You forged the requisition," Harry stared at him. "They'll shoot you." "They'll have to catch me first." Ralph turned and bellowed to his Scouts, "Troop, mount! Walk march, forward!" There was no doubt that he was a wizard. A wizened little fellow, not much taller than Tungata or any "of his companions, but he was painted in the most marvelous colours, zigzags of crimson and white and black across his face and chest.
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