Four o'clock the next morning, that darkest hour which, by its very darkness, heralds the coming dawn, found C.Squadron moving out from the gray-walled churchyard, their faces set towards the eastern mountains.All night long they had stood under arms, ready for the attack which might be at hand.By dawn, they were well on their way towards the laager, fifteen miles distant, whence had come the scouting hand of Boers who, for two days past, had made leisurely efforts to pick off their scattered sentinels.At the head of the little troop rode Frazer.Behind him and as close to his heels as military law allowed, came Weldon, mounted on the same little black horse which had so often carried him to the hunt at home.Horse and rider both sniffed the chilly dawn with eager anticipation.Each knew that something was in store for them; each contrived to impress upon the other his determination to make a record, whatever happened.For one short minute, Weldon let his strong hand rest on the satiny neck.He could feel the answering pressure of the muscles beneath the shining skin.That was enough.He and The Nig were in perfect understanding, one with another.
"Weldon?"
He spurred forward to the Captain's side and saluted.
"In the flurry, last night, I forgot to tell you that Miss Dent comes to Piquetberg Road, to-day.She is to visit a cousin, Miss Mellen; and she wished me to tell you that she hoped you could find time to call upon her."The Captain spoke low, his eyes, after the first moment, steadily fixed upon the line of hills before them.Weldon answered in the same low tone.
"You have heard from Miss Dent?"
"Yes.A note came, last night.She is to be here for a month, while her uncle is in England on a business trip.Mr.Mellen is the mayor.
You probably know the house."
"I can easily find it.Please tell Miss Dent I shall be sure to call as--"A blinding flash ran along the line of hills close in the foreground where, an instant before, had been only empty ground.There was a sharp crackle, a strident hum and then the muffled plop of bullets burying themselves in the earth six hundred feet in the rear.The Nig grew taut in every muscle; then she edged slowly towards the huge khaki-colored horse that bore the Captain, and, for an instant, the two muzzles touched.
"Too long a range, man.Try it again," Frazer observed coolly, as his glance swept the empty landscape, then, turning, swept the faces of his men.
That last sight was to his liking.He nodded to himself and straightened in his saddle, while the orders dropped from his lips, swift, clean-cut and brooking no question nor delay.Ten men went galloping off far to the southward, to vanish among the foothills and reappear on the pass behind the enemy, while a dozen Boers, springing up from the bowels of the earth, followed hard on their heels.Ten more took the horses and fell back out of range of the firing; and the remainder of the squadron stayed in their places and helped to play out the game.
It was all quite simple, all a matter of course.Instead of the fuss and fume and chaos of fighting, it had worked itself out like a problem in mathematics, and Weldon, as he lay on the ground with his Lee-Enfield cuddled into the curve of his shoulder, felt himself reducing it to a pair of simultaneous equations: if X Britons equal Y Boers on the firing line, and Y Britons draw off the fire of WBoers, then how many Britons--But there came a second flash and a second spatter, nearer, this time; and he lost his mathematics in a sudden rush of bad temper which made him long to fly at the invisible foe and beat him about the head with his clubbed rifle.It was no especial satisfaction for a man in his position to climb up on his elbow and help to discharge a volley at an empty landscape.
The war pictures he had been prone to study in his boyhood had been full of twisty-necked prancing horses and bright-coated swaggering men, all on their feet, and very hot and earnest.Here the picture was made up of a row of brown-clothed forms lying flat on their stomachs and, far before them, a single flat-topped hill and a few heaps of scattered black rocks.And this was modern war.
There came a third blaze, a third hum of Mauser bullets.Then he heard a swift intake of the breath, followed by Carew's voice, the drawling, languid voice which Weldon had learned to associate with moments of deep excitement.
"Say, Weldon, some beggar has hit me in the shoulder!"Then of a sudden Weldon realized that at last he knew what it meant to be under fire.
