After the rush of the day, its hope and its succeeding disappointment, Weldon was long in falling asleep.Carew was out on picket; Captain Frazer, coat off and sleeves rolled to his shoulders, was busy among the wounded, and Weldon had cared to make few other close friends in the squadron.Around him, he could hear the murmurs of other sleepless ones; but he lay silent, his arms under his head, his face turned upward to the shining perspective of the stars.In similar perspective there ranged them-selves before his mind the events of the past twelve weeks.
Already the month at Piquetberg Road seemed a chapter out of another volume.It had culminated in that languid afternoon spent around the tea-table under the wattle tree in the garden, culminated there and also ended there.With the unexpectedness that marks all things in a time of war, the next noon found him steaming across the Cape Flats, with Maitland in sight.Two days later, they were loaded on an empty hospital ship returning to Durban.Piquetberg Road was child's play now, for the front was almost in sight.The voyage had been beastly;but after it had come the real beginning of things.Natal, in those days of late February, had seemed deserving of its name, a true Garden of Africa.The crossing was now a memory of heavy grades, of verdant country, of ripened fruits.There had been the week's delay at Pietermaritzburg where they had tasted a bit of civilization in the intervals of completing their outfits; there had been the brief stop at Ladysmith, already recovered from her hardships of the year before, then the crossing the border into the Transvaal where the verdure slowly vanished to give place to the dreary wastes of red-brown veldt.At Johannesburg, he had manufactured an excuse for a long letter to Ethel who--"Show a leg there!"
The sergeant's voice at his ear called him back to the realities of life.He sat up as alertly as if he had slept upon eider-down.
By eight o'clock, Weldon was out on the veldt, two miles from camp.
Before him, a force of Yeomanry was guarding the two guns; around him, a detail from his own squadron protected the flank on the right.And, still farther to the right, a cloud of yellowish smoke rose skyward across the yellower sunshine.Then, of a sudden, out from the heart of the wall of smoke came a muffled thud and roar, confused at first, growing strident and more detached until, sweeping from the haze of smoke, five score Boer horsemen rode in a bolt-like rush, fierce and uncheckable.Without swerving to right or left, they charged straight towards the Yeomanry drawn up beside the guns, drove them back and shot down the gunners almost to a man.An instant later, the guns were whirled about and trained upon their quondam owners.
From over his breakfast, that morning, the General raised his head to listen to the booming of the fifteen-pounders.No need to tell him that heavy fighting had begun.His experienced ear had taught him that magazine firing meant business.His hand went in search of his field-glasses.
"General, the enemy have captured the guns.The Major asks for assistance to retake them."The General lowered his glasses.Covered with dust, and breathless, Weldon was before him.
"Mount every available man, and gallop to the scene of action!"Orderlies carried the command to the different regiments.Before the mounted men could start, the infantry were half-way to the guns.But already shells were falling into the camp, telling every man that the guns were in the hands of the Boers.
In the forefront of the remainder of his squadron, Weldon found himself borne onward in the rush, straight from the camp to the right flank of the guns.The broncho's swinging trot had long since changed to a gallop, and her eyes were flashing with the wicked light of her old, unbroken days, as she went tearing across the sun-baked veldt, up and down over the rises and through the rare bits of thicket at a pace which Weldon would have been powerless to check.
He had no mind to check it.The crisp air, full of ozone and warmed by the sun, set his cheeks to tingling with its impact.A true rider, he let his mood follow the temper of his horse and, like a pair of wild things, they went bolting away far towards the head of the squadrons.
And always the firing of the guns grew nearer and faster and more murderous.
He took no note of passing moments, none of the miles he had ridden during the past days.These counted for naught, while, with photographic distinctness, the picture before him fixed itself sharply in his mind: the dust-colored troops on the dusty veldt, the brown-painted guns, the distant line of the enemy's fire and, far to the eastward, the wall of smoke which was fast sweeping towards them from the acres of burning veldt.
"Captain Frazer, the General orders you to take up your position in the kraal on the extreme right, and to hold it at any cost."From his place at the Captain's side, Weldon glanced at the orderly, then, turning, looked across the veldt to the four gray walls surrounding the clump of trees a mile away.His hand tightened on the curb, and he straightened in the saddle, as the Captain led the way into the purgatory beyond, an orderly purgatory, but crossed with leaden lines of shot and shell.
At such moments, the brain ceases to act coherently.When Weldon came to himself, he was kneeling behind the old gray wall, revolver in hand, firing full in the faces of the Boer horsemen, scarce fifteen feet away.Carew, his right foot dangling, had been hustled to the rear of the kraal where the gray broncho and her mates were in comparative shelter.
"Weldon?"
He looked up in a half-dazed fashion.The wall of smoke was already shutting down about the retreating Boers.Beside him stood the Captain, his yellow hair clinging to his dripping face, his blue eyes, under their fringe of black lashes, glittering like polished gems.Coated as he was with dust and sweat, his clothing torn and spotted with the fray, he looked ten times more the gallant gentleman, even, than when he had met Weldon in the heart-shaped bit of lawn encircled by the Dents' driveway.Now he held out his hand.
"Splendidly done, old man! One doesn't forget such things."
