Frederick Brereton - With Rifle and Bayonet - A Story of the Boer War

“What is the matter?” the Boer demanded, placing his lantern close to Jack’s face, and scrutinising his features closely. “Why, he is not one of ours! He is a spy!”

“I cannot say who he is or how he came here, Oom,” the man who had captured Jack replied; “but as I stood by the door with Van Zyl and watched you as you walked along the trucks, I suddenly caught sight of someone creeping across the vault. His head passed between me and your lantern, and I saw at once that he was not one of you. So we waited here silently in the dark, and caught him as he was about to run through the door.”

“Who are you, boy?” Oom Schalk demanded fiercely, staring at Jack’s face.

“He’s English. He’s one of the hated Uitlanders!” shouted Piet Maartens, recognising Jack at this moment. “His name is Somerton, and I tell you, Oom, young though he is, he is as much our enemy as any. He is a spy, and has been sent by Hunter, or probably by the British consul, to watch our movements, so that news may be sent to the English Government.”

“A spy, a spy!” shrieked Hans, his fat face becoming livid with fear and rage. “He has seen all, and will betray us, this hated Englishman! Shoot him, Oom, shoot him! No one will know.”

“I am not a spy, and I came here because I could not help myself,” Jack answered defiantly. “I was late for the train at Newcastle, and only just managed to climb on one of these trucks. Before I could get back to the carnages they were gone, and I was being carried down here. Then, when I found none of my own countrymen with you I naturally tried to get away without being seen.”

“And you were not sent by anyone to spy on us?” asked Oom Schalk a little less sternly. “Answer me truly, for if you tell me a lie, as there is a heaven above I will shoot you, so that no one shall ever know what has become of you.”

“I am telling you the truth,” Jack answered stubbornly. “I can say no more. If you shoot me, you will be committing a foul murder, and will some day regret it bitterly.”

“Don’t believe him, Oom! Don’t believe the dog!” cried Piet Maartens savagely, scowling angrily at Jack. “He lies. I can see it on his face. He is a spy, and we must shoot him.”

“Yes, shoot him, shoot him!” chimed in the German. “What does it matter one proud Englishman more or less?”

“Softly, softly, Hans Schloss and Piet Maartens,” exclaimed Oom Schalk. “We need not hurry about this matter. The lad is young – no older than my own son – and I will not kill him yet. Wait till to-morrow, and we will learn more about him. All Englishmen are hateful, but I will not take the life of a single one of them unless there be good cause. Remember, my friends, there is but one God above us, and He will judge us for our acts. If this lad is guilty of spying he shall die, but in proper form, for I will not have him murdered. But he has a truthful face, and I am inclined to believe his story, for who would be such a fool, even amongst these Uitlanders, as to spy upon us here? No, no. It is unlikely, and we will wait till to-morrow to learn more about him, and sift the matter properly.”

“Bah! You have too soft a heart, Oom Schalk,” Hans Schloss shouted. “I say, let us end his spying at once, for if you wait he will manage to escape from us.”

“Wait, wait!” exclaimed Oom Schalk, with some show of temper. “You would not be so ready for me to carry out the sentence if you were in his place. To-morrow we will see about the matter, and meanwhile I place the prisoner in your hands. You will be responsible for him, and see that no harm comes to him, or I will show you that Oom Schalk has a stony heart at times.”

The big Boer nodded to Jack, and stalked out of the vault.

For a few moments Jack faced unflinchingly the six men who remained, wondering whether, now that their commandant had gone, they would shoot him or injure him in any way. But with a few muttered oaths and sneering remarks as to what would happen to him on the morrow, they turned away, Piet Maartens giving orders that he should be bound with a rope.

Five minutes later Jack was tied hand and foot, and placed upon the concrete flooring with his back resting against a wheel of one of the trucks. From here he watched his captors, who had retired into the shed. Placing their lanterns on the ground, they wrapped themselves in blankets, and, leaving one of their number seated on a stool, threw themselves down to sleep.

“I’m in a nasty hole,” thought Jack, “a very awkward fix indeed. If it had not been for Oom Schalk those brutes would certainly have shot me; and I’m not at all sure that they won’t do so after all, for there is no one to prove that I am telling the truth. Even if they don’t harm me, they are bound to get rid of me, for they can never allow me to remain in the Transvaal after this. Well, I must get away somehow.”

For half an hour he sat quietly thinking, with his eyes fixed upon the lanterns and upon the figure sitting close to them. The Boer had lit his pipe, but it constantly went out, and he as constantly lifted a lantern to get a light again. Then he put it on the ground, folded his arms, and stared about him. Soon his head drooped, and nodded gently, then his chin went down on his chest with a jerk, and he sat upright again, shrugged his burly shoulders, yawned, and looked about him. Jack watched him with deep interest, and soon saw that he had fallen asleep.

Now was his time, and noiselessly bringing his heels close beneath him, he gave his body a jerk forward by pressing against the truck with the back of his head, and in another moment was standing on his feet.

He was still helpless, for he was firmly bound, with his hands behind his back. But he had not been racking his brains all this time for nothing. He remembered that at Durban he had noticed that the corners of the iron trucks were not turned over, but bolted to angle-irons inside, leaving a more or less rough surface at the edge. It was a small matter, but he had noticed it just as one does take note of trivial points, and he now determined to put it to a good purpose. Inch by inch he shuffled along till he reached the corner of the truck against which he had been placed, then he leant against it, and commenced to rub the cords which bound his wrists up and down the roughened edge.

It was difficult work, but he clenched his teeth and put all his strength into it. After more than half an hour’s nibbing the cord was cut through and his hands were free. To release his legs was now a simple matter, and in a few minutes he was standing close to the truck, with his boots off, and slung across his shoulders by the laces. Then he undid his secret pocket, pressed the spring, and gripped the butt of his Mauser pistol.

At this moment there was a sound from the shed, and on looking in that direction Jack noticed that the sleepy sentry was half-awake once more, and was making a desperate effort to stand upon his feet. He yawned several times, shook himself, rubbed his eyes, and then suddenly turned and looked towards the trucks.

But Jack had expected such a movement, and when the sentry turned, the dim light showed him the prisoner still seated in the same position. Once more his head nodded, and within a few minutes he had dozed off again.

In a moment Jack was on his feet, and was darting across the concrete. A few seconds took him into the hut, and in another moment he was at the door. There was no lock, but it was bolted top and bottom.

He at once commenced to draw the bolts back, and had almost succeeded in opening the door when the sentry woke at the noise, saw his prisoner escaping, and shouted at the top of his voice.

“Stand!” cried Jack sternly, pointing his pistol at the man, as he was in the act of leaning over to reach his rifle.