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

Quick as lightning he pulled back the last bolt and flung the door open, covering the six men in front of him all the time. Three of these still lay on the ground in their blankets, half-sitting up on their elbows, and as yet scarcely understanding what had happened. Piet Maartens, however, and Hans Schloss the German, had at once jumped to their feet, and as Jack was turning to fly the latter stooped and picked up his rifle. Before he could bring it to his shoulder there was a sharp report, Jack’s weapon flashed vengefully, and the fat little German fell with a scream on the floor, with a Mauser bullet through the calf of his leg. Next moment Jack had darted through the doorway, banged the door to, and hurled a wheel-barrow, which happened to be just outside, across it. Then he turned sharp to the right and ran round the corner of the shed, for common sense told him that to attempt an escape across the open veldt which stretched away in front would be to run the almost certain risk of capture.

As it was, he crouched round the corner of the shed, and, Mauser in hand, watched to see what would happen next.

From the inside he could still hear a succession of piercing shrieks uttered by Hans Schloss, but these were quickly drowned by angry shouts and oaths. There was a loud shuffling of feet, and a moment later the door through which he had just escaped was flung open with a bang, and all the Boers rushed out pell-mell, leaving the German to his own devices.

But the wheel-barrow was yet to be a lesson to them, to teach them that even an English lad must be reckoned with at times. They were all men who had been used to sneering at the “Rooineks” (English) from the time when they were boys, when their fathers had detailed to them how some thousands of Boers had lain in ambush behind the stones on Laing’s Nek, and had destroyed a handful of British soldiers exposed out in the open. But here was a mere lad who had dared to spy upon their movements, and who, after capture, had listened bravely and calmly to the speedy death proposed for him. He had not even whined, or begged for mercy, but had as good as defied them. And now, to add to it all, he had in some manner, totally inexplicable to themselves, severed his bonds and escaped from the vault, wounding one of their number in the process; and had laid, as a kind of parting shot, a trap for them all, which brought the five men suddenly and with a violent crash to the ground, sending their rifles flying in all directions.

It was a bitter lesson, and goaded them to madness. With muttered curses and fierce shouts of rage they leapt to their feet, and, without pausing to think, rushed out into the open veldt, where the sharp reports from their rifles showed that they were firing at imaginary objects which they took to be the fugitive.

Had Jack wished it he could have planted more than one of the bullets from his pistol in the bodies of the Boers as they lay on the ground in the full glare of the lamps from the inside of the shed, but as yet he was by no means proficient with his weapon, and besides, he had no wish to take the life of any one of them, or to injure them in the slightest. All he aimed at was to make good his escape, and no sooner were they out of sight than he darted back towards the steep kopje in the side of which the vault was evidently constructed, and climbed up it, taking care to stoop low, and dodge from boulder to boulder. Soon he was at the top, and here, sheltered behind a breastwork of rock, he stopped and listened.

He could still hear shouting down on the veldt below, and an occasional rifle shot, but these soon ceased, and about half an hour later the five Boers returned and entered the shed, the light from the lamps throwing their figures into strong relief.

“Ah, now I can make a move!” thought Jack, “and the sooner I get away from here the better. After what has happened those fellows would shoot me if they got hold of me.”

At this moment he suddenly remembered that at Newcastle he had stowed his bag of buns away in his pocket. Pulling it out, he finished what was left, for he had an excellent appetite which no amount of adventure could disturb. Then, feeling better, he picked his way down the opposite side of the hill, and, having made a wide détour, turned towards the railway, and walked on till he came to it. Then he trudged along by the side of the metals, and in due course reached a small station midway between Volksrust and Standerton.

There was no one about, but the night was beautifully warm, and Jack therefore lay down on the veldt outside the station. Early next morning he walked on to the platform and knocked at the station-master’s door.

“Hallo! Who are you?” the latter asked in sleepy surprise, appearing in a half-dressed state, which showed that he had only just got out of bed.

“Oh, I’m one of the English from Johnny’s Burg!” Jack answered easily. “I’ve been staying with some people this way, and started last night to catch the train. But you people don’t trouble about sign-posts in these parts, and so I lost my way. Instead of finding my road to Standerton I got out of my reckoning and came down here, where I’ve spent the last few hours asleep on the veldt. Can you give me something to eat?”

“It’s a precious funny story,” the station-master, who was a Cape Dutchman, grumbled in reply. “But, then, you Englishmen, fresh from home, do all manner of strange things. Come in, and we’ll see what the Tanta has for you. But mind, I can’t afford to give you a meal; you must pay for it.”

Jack readily agreed, and ate ravenously when at last a dish of smoking biltong was placed before him, for his long march across the veldt had given him a keen appetite again, which his sleep in the open had in no way diminished. Big cups of smoking coffee were also provided, so that altogether he fared very well.

Then he lit a cigarette, paid the amount demanded, and went outside on to the platform, where he and the Dutch station-master walked up and down in friendly converse till the train for Johannesburg arrived.

Four and a half hours later he stepped on to the platform at the big mining city, the Golden City of South Africa, and walked to Mr Hunter’s store.

“Back again, Jack! Why, we did not expect you till to-morrow morning!” exclaimed Mr Hunter, shaking him by the hand. “Your bag and the leather goods turned up early this morning, and as you didn’t arrive we naturally thought you had decided to stay a day longer and would return by to-night’s mail.”

“No; I ought to have been back early this morning with the baggage, Mr Hunter,” Jack answered; “but as it was, I was delayed just on this side of the Transvaal border, and have had to come on by a local train. I’m afraid it’s likely to be rather a serious matter, and as soon as possible I should like you to give me some advice.”

“My dear Jack, whatever are you talking about?” exclaimed Mr Hunter in astonishment. “Was there an accident at Volksrust? But no, I know there was not, for I went to meet the train this morning. Whatever made you break your journey? You have no friends in that part of the country that I have heard of.”

“I’ll tell you all about it if you’ll come out on the verandah, Mr Hunter,” Jack answered. “I’ve been on my legs, tramping over the veldt, all night, and I’m feeling a bit done-up and tired. Let us get a couple of chairs out there, and then you can hear all I’ve got to tell.”

A few minutes later Wilfred joined them, and the three settled themselves comfortably on the verandah, where Tom Thumb, Mr Hunter’s Zulu “boy”, who was the biggest native ever seen in Johannesburg, supplied them with long glasses of deliciously cold lemon-squash.