Ward
Jasper Lyle
“Let it,” said Lyle, addressing Vander Roey, in the presence of his wife, “be only a feint of resistance, if you will, but do not, after all your proclamations and messages to that insolent General, throw down your arms as soon as you face the troops; they will laugh, at you, despise you, and you will deserve to be beaten like a dog.”
Vander Roey could not help reminding Lyle, that it was he who had dictated his very last “message” to Sir John Manvers, to the effect that, “as Sir John, had not written to Vander Roey, the latter should answer him as he chose, and that his determination now was to fight, to conquer, or to die.”
Lyle laughed scornfully, raising his voice, and thus gathering a crowd round him, while Madame Vander Roey, undaunted, but anxious, watched her husband’s countenance by the light of the wagon lantern.
“It is well for you to talk thus,” said Hermanus the stutterer, who, once set going, could talk glibly; “you may run away in the scuffle, and you know you cannot escape justice if we yield—you are speaking in favour of your own interests. I say it is folly to fight now,—make a truce.”
“Never,” shouted Vander Roey, suddenly kindling with anger, as he remembered his contemptuous, dismissal from Sir John Manvers’s residence. “Fight or fly,—which shall it be, my friends? Speak, for before daylight we must be up and doing.”
He raised his lofty figure to its utmost height and looked round, his wife leaned anxiously over his shoulder; the lantern, swinging to and fro, showed the expression on the face of each; hers was anxious, yet fearless; his brows were knit, his eyes flashed, and he added, “Let the majority decide; remember my watchword is still ‘War—war to the knife!’”
The English traitors sent up their hats in the air, and cheered the leader, and all the young Boers did the same. Our convict had taken care that not a youth should leave the force; within a circle of two miles behind the strong ridge there were four hundred good men and true, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty; the whole force amounted to eight hundred, and few of the oldest had reached the age of fifty.
Lyle turned to congratulate Madame Vander Roey on her husband’s decision; the curtains of her wagon were closed—he lifted a corner, her head, covered with her scarlet handkerchief, was almost buried in the cushions of her bed; by the light of the lantern he could see her whole frame was shaking with emotion, and stifled groans issued from her lips.
He dropped the screen with a sneer; “She will come to her senses by-and-by,” muttered he; and he was right. At dawn, in spite of a wind which cut like razors, she was busied with Hermanus and others at the stores hidden in the rocks.
Lyle and Brennard took charge of the “Cape Smoke,” and served out to every man his sopie. The spirits of the bivouac were never suffered to flag.
The horsemen had been sent on with all speed to the larger encampment of Boers, Vander Roey’s party being in front, to defend and keep possession of the strong ridge, along which, at intervals, the few guns the rebels possessed had been ranged. To the guns were attached the number of men necessary to work them. Gray had yielded passively enough to Lyle’s orders on the subject, but that very apathy made the latter more suspicious of his victim. Unnoticed by the deserter, he watched him narrowly, and, all-daring and subtle as he was, felt baffled in his conjectures as to the probable issue of Gray’s forced enlistment in the rebels’ cause.
The position taken up by Vander Roey was the strongest in the whole country, being a succession of hills covered with large loose stones. In his front rose the ridge, surmounted by a natural rampart, rendered more complete by the art of deserters from the corps of Sappers and Miners. In the rear was a stream, lined with rushes and long reeds, fordable to those well acquainted with its depths, but offering no easy passage to British infantry. The line of fire extended a full mile.
At dawn of day, the videttes reported the appearance of a mounted reconnoitring party from the enemy’s force, and within half an hour every man was at his post; Gray taking his place at the gun he was to serve.
Lift aside the curtain of that wagon, reader, and see within, a woman kneeling and praying in an agony. Ah! how many there are, who dare unseen dangers, who even meet the reality of peril with flashing eye, a fevered cheek, and brow unblenched, but who, in the dread pause between plan and action, quail at the loud beating of their own hearts!
For months, Madame Vander Roey had looked forward to some such moment as this—she was accustomed to scenes of danger, she had been present at those strifes in cattle-lifting which are the common occurrences of a South African settler’s life; but this sudden call to arms against men, whom her father had been wont to term his “white brethren,” rang on her ear like a knell, and a presentiment of evil overpowered her for the moment.
Still she was persuaded that her husband was right, and she knelt down and implored help and mercy from Him who is “the Father of the oppressed.”
Reassured after her devotions, she assumed the costume she had lately worn in camp, and leaving the wagon, untied her horse from the wheel, saddled and bridled it herself, and mounting it without assistance, rode along the foot of the hill, inspecting the defences with a steady eye and considerable judgment.
Her dress was simple enough, a long stuff petticoat serving her for a habit, her face being shaded by a large straw hat, with the ostrich feather depending from it. It was typical of the times, was that drooping plume, soiled and saturated as it was with the cold mist of that sad morning. Her horse, handsome, fleet, and with that easy action so peculiar to the mountain steeds of Africa, looked somewhat the worse for scanty rations; and her face, once so radiant with health and joy, wore a look of intense anxiety, as, on hearing a murmur among the Boers, she glanced in the direction indicated by their gestures, and saw her husband heading the large force which he had gone forth to meet, and descending the low ridge on the other side of the stream. It was traversed in silence, and, hurrying forward somewhat irregularly, they spread out in extended order.
In twenty minutes each had his station assigned him. Madame Vander Roey dismounted, and took hers beside her husband, to the right of the granite rampart. Gray stood as steady as the rock that screened him. Brennard assumed the command of the left wing. Lyle occupied the centre of the line, where there was a slight bend, and thus he was enabled to watch both flanks, and keep a close eye on Gray, to whom, as he fell into his place, he addressed a few words.
“Gray,” said Lyle, “do you intend to do your duty?”
“By God’s help, I will,” was the reply of the young deserter, in a tone of confidence quite unexpected by the Mephistophiles of the wilderness.
The latter looked at him, sneered, but was satisfied; and then, with his head bent below the ridge, scrambled over stone and scrub, reached his post, and there knelt down, his rifle ready for work, and his eye fixed on the line of march by which the troops were expected.
But rain and sleet still occasionally veiled the prospect in vapour. The report of the videttes was questioned in its accuracy by some, and each man strove to pierce the mist, and give the first warning of the enemy’s advance.
A death-like silence reigned throughout that expectant company.
At length the clouds slowly and almost imperceptibly lifted, and here and there some new feature in the scene developed itself—a solitary bush, the carcass of an ox, or a grave covered with stones—and, finally, two mounted men, soldiers of the Cape cavalry, moving leisurely forward, and, as May would have said, evidently spenning.
“By heavens!” exclaimed Lyle, “they see us, and have turned to report. Confound that fellow Gray, he has run out the gun too far, and these Totties (Hottentots; particularly those of the Cape corps) have distinguished its black muzzle among the grey rocks.”
It needed no oaths to confirm the truth of his statement—the reconnoitrers had faced to the rear so suddenly, that there seemed but little doubt as to the cause of the movement, and a few minutes decided it.
As the sun came up, the veil of mist was rent in twain, and fully disclosed to view a small body of English troops, under the command of Sir Adrian Fairfax. Lyle unslung his spy-glass, took a deliberate view of the encampment, and, closing the telescope in haste, exclaimed, “Every tent is struck—the advance-guard is on the march.”
The word passed to the right and left.
Vander Roey, white as death, but steady as ever, glanced his eye, now along the line, now forward, now in the rear. His spies had evidently been mistaken as to the strength of the force; and now reason whispered him that his chance of success was small, but he had much dependence on his position. It was perfect in every way, whereas the British forces were on open, stony ground; they were new to the locality, and well worn with a march of thirty miles, which they must have made within twelve hours.
But, as the troops advanced, it appeared that a manoeuvre of Lyle’s had answered his purpose for the present. To the extreme right, where a road cut the ridge in two, he had placed several men, who were only to affect concealment. It was to this point that the attention of the advance-guard was evidently directed, for, instead of making a forward movement, they took an oblique path, intent on attacking the detached party to their left, who were fully prepared to retreat within a narrow gorge, capable of containing some twenty men, and defended by a gun placed at the opening.
Poor Gray was guiltless of running out his piece of ordnance, as Lyle imagined—the error lay with a less practised hand, but the circumstance turned the fortune of the hour; for the Boers, misled by the diagonal march of the soldiers, were somewhat off their guard, and, in imagined security, watched the forces of the Government.
It was curious and painful to Gray to hear the cool way in which the deserters of the party made their observations on the scene before them.
“Ha!” said one, who knelt beside him, gazing intently through a fissure in the rock, “they have got up a company of the old Ninety —th; that rascal Zoonah said they were to remain in garrison.”—An oath or two filled the space—“they know this part of the country.”—“Matthews and Wilton, and you, Jem Blaine, you belonged to it.”—“How they march!” said Jem Blaine; “they are as fresh as when I saw them at drill at Graham’s Town;”—and the last oath was uttered heartily, and in thorough good humour, as a strange touch of pride in his old corps brought the red colour to his hard brown cheek. “By —, there’s my old captain, Frankfort. Well done, grenadiers; well done, old fellows—step out. Look sharp, Frankfort. Oh! I see he is a staff man. God bless you, old fellow; if you had not been on leave when I had my last lark, I should have been marching with you now. You would have recommended me to mercy;” and then Jem Blaine sat down, turned his back upon the fissure, and would look no more.
Standing up, leaning on his long roer, his hat at his feet, and great drops of perspiration on his broad forehead, Vander Roey followed the troops with his eye. The mist had not yet quite cleared off, but he could distinguish the rear of the division. He saw that the force was small, but well chosen, but he said nothing.
“They have no artillery,” said a young Boer.
Vander Roey made no reply, but watched his wife, who was looking through a telescope beyond the division.
In another moment Madame Vander Roey exclaimed, “They have artillery; I see a gun advancing.”
She handed the telescope to her husband.
First came the division, consisting of infantry and a small body of Cape cavalry. The Boers had gained heart at sight of this little force, and Vander Roey took it as a sign of the Governor’s contempt of his enemy; still he could scarcely believe that the great Sir Adrian Fairfax would head a mere handful of men; and, therefore, he did not exult prematurely. “Were this the only force,” said he to his wife, “we should powder them to dust in an hour.”
But it was not the only force. The mists hanging to the westward still screened the barren landscape far in rear of the troops, but ere the latter had moved half a mile across the broken plain, there emerged, as from the clouds, four “coal-black steeds,” of great power. These drew a deadly weapon, and, following them, were two slender pieces of ordnance, the nature of which was incomprehensible to the unfortunate Dutch, who soon, however, learned what a rocket could do from their English opponents. Added to these was a strong body of infantry, and a troop of cavalry, protecting the artillery.
Vander Roey’s courage and presence of mind did not forsake him. He saw at once the advantage to be gained by the false move the enemy was making. His plan was to attack him on the broken ground, up which the infantry must move in skirmishing order, in the endeavour to dislodge the Boers on the left.
It seemed clear that the General had no idea of the strength of the rebel forces, and, believing that infantry would rout them out, was bent on bringing the wretched men to terms without using the artillery or charging with his cavalry.
But while nearly a mile distant from the stony ramparts, that looked so still and lifeless, Sir Adrian called a halt. Lyle watched him narrowly; the General conversed for a few minutes with Frankfort, who next rode into the ranks, and brought with him some old sergeants of the corps. It was evident that a council of war was held; it lasted but a few minutes, yet time was thus given for the artillery to advance. Still it was considerably in rear of the front division, and Lyle was slightly baffled in his conjectures.
Brennard would have had Vander Roey open out his guns upon the infantry as they drew near the rebels’ right flank, but at this instant Vander Roey hesitated, and the opportunity was lost. Had the rebel chief followed this advice, he might have conquered, and retired far to the north-east; but his heart failed him at the thought of dealing death from a masked battery on the soldiers.
Probably he would have felt differently had Sir John Manvers headed the enemy, and Lyle, in that case, would have urged a death-blow without hesitation.
Steadily, although the ground was more broken at every step, the British infantry pursued their march; slowly after them moved the cavalry and guns.
“See,” exclaimed Madame Vander Roey, who no longer needed a telescope, “they march still, but there is some stir among them. The tall man on the skimmel (sorrel) horse is flying backwards and forwards from the ranks to the General, from the General to the ranks, and now he gallops to the rear with orders; the artillery halt again, and the skimmel rider dashes back in spite of stones and stunted bush.”
The troops suddenly halted, their bayonets glittered in the morning sun as they changed their position, and they paused for an instant within gun-range of both ridges.
This was the moment Vander Roey had anticipated; piles of loose stones still lay between the two divisions of the British forces; the ground was scarcely practicable for cavalry or artillery. At this juncture the rebel chief turned to the rugged valley in the rear, and lifting his hat from his feet, waved it three times. Five hundred rebels started up from among the reeds and rushes of the river, from behind the great stones, and from the natural caverns at the base of the hills. In rear of the left battery sprung up a hundred others. The summit of each ridge was carefully manned with the deserters, some from the artillery, some from the line, all armed with roers; and mingled with these were many traders and wandering thieves.
Sir Adrian’s consultation with the old soldiers of the Ninety —th had caused him first to pause, and next to alter his movement. These experienced fellows had detected first the muzzle of Gray’s six-pounder, next a Boer’s hat, which, albeit nearly the colour of the stone near which the head leaned, was easily discerned by accustomed eyes. These two indications were quite sufficient to point out the real position of the rebels, and Sir Adrian changed his route accordingly.
“Sit there till I come for you,” said Vander Roey to his wife, taking her by the arm, and placing her in a hollow some feet below the rampart, with a gun above her; he leaned over her, placed his hand on her shoulder, looked sorrowfully into her face, and uttering in a tender tone the words “Poor wife, poor wife!” dashed down the hill, sprung on his horse at the foot of the ridge, and galloped to the front of the rebel band.
Some of the Boers, like Vander Roey, were mounted, but many were on foot. The latter were speedily and silently formed into parties commanded by the horsemen. Each division was still screened by the ridge, and Vander Roey’s plan was to rush out upon the enemy when he should have begun to mount the acclivity. The larger division of the British troops remained halted, and it was plain that Sir Adrian had no idea of the strength of the rebel forces.
But the General learned his mistake soon enough. Scarcely had the infantry advanced many paces up the steep and rugged hills, ere, with a shout of defiance, the rebel Dutch dashed out from their ambush. The road between the ridges was narrow. Horse and foot made a simultaneous charge, and pouring the fire from their long roers right and left with unerring aim, laid many a gallant fellow low.
Staggered at the unexpected appearance of five hundred men in a body, uncertain too of the numbers concealed behind the formidable rampart above, the infantry drew back. Sir Adrian galloped forward, a bullet took the peak from his forage-cap, he met the retiring infantry: he saw the madness of attempting to charge on such ground, and gave orders to retreat beyond gun-range till the artillery should come up, and be put in position.
Lyle laughed aloud.
The Boers, having expended their fire, retired before the infantry had time to return it with any kind of precision; five of the Dutch, however, lay stretched in their blood, and many came back wounded.
The scene now, with the exception of the dead and wounded scattered about, presented the same appearance as at first—the British troops forming for the advance, the ridges silent, and apparently unpeopled.
Madame Vander Roey, implicitly obedient to her husband’s orders, sat where he had placed her, and with eyes of stone watched the sharp angle at the base of the ridge. The Boers came back in masses. She saw not Vander Roey; he was the very last, and then he turned and fired a parting shot at one gallant soldier who had lingered in rear of his company, and who paid the penalty of his imprudence—the roer’s bullet laid him dead among the rocks.
Having thus crippled the infantry, a great point was gained, for foot soldiers were the only people who could work in such a position; and as for the artillery, the ground was equally against that, or cavalry, following up what it might begin. So thought the Dutch; “but,” thought Lyle and Gray and some twenty others, “they have never seen rocket practice!”
“How d—d passive that fellow Gray looks,” said Lyle to Brennard, as the latter, during the awful pause, held a parley with his colleague.
“I never could make him out,” replied Brennard, indifferently. “I think the fellow is half a fool.”
“He is no knave, certainly,” said Lyle, contemptuously.
The British force now began to move, in that determined way which proved it was in earnest, and having reached the points whence the artillery could work against the enemy, again halted.
Lyle saw that the humane Sir Adrian was still awaiting a signal for peace, and what was his horror, his rage, when he saw Gray rise from his kneeling position, and leap on the rough parapet before him. There stood the young deserter, unarmed, erect, motionless, undaunted.
Then Lyle, furious beyond control, raised his rifle, and fired; the ball struck the poor youth, who fell forward, and rolled down the face of the ridge into a rocky hollow, his blood marking his descent.
“Frankfort,” said Sir Adrian, “what can be the meaning of that?”
“I cannot tell, Sir,” replied Major Frankfort; “the man who so suddenly rose to our view was either a coward and panic-stricken, or a traitor to the cause he has enlisted in.”
“I rather think,” said Sir Adrian, “he is some poor victim enlisted against his will, who chose to die rather than fight against us. He must have been sure that either we or his own party would have shot him after such a manoeuvre.”
And then, too much occupied to give a second thought to the unfortunate young man, Sir Adrian proceeded to inspect his force.
But Lyle’s shot was received by Brennard as a signal, and forthwith he poured forth a volley from his flank. That to the left of the troops, and the right of the Boers, followed his example; but they miscalculated their distance, and did little mischief; it was returned, however, by a hearty salute of grape-shot, which, however, did little harm among the Dutch. Screened from their opponents, they affected to treat it with contempt, and Vander Roey, having dismounted and joined the line above, took off his hat, and gave an exalting cheer.
Then Lyle, and the gunners under him, made the great gun roar, as Lynx and Frolic described it, sitting at their mistress’s feet, and laughing impishly at the deadly game playing before them.
A sharp tongue of flame, and then a great volume of smoke, burst from a gap in the ridge, and the ball, moving swiftly through the air, fell into the very centre of the troops, and made a vacant space, where it burst.
The broken ground, the masked battery, the uncounted enemy, all were forgotten in the moment of indignation which followed this assault. Sir Adrian waved his cap, and advanced with his staff, but not too rapidly, giving time for the guns to work their way. The infantry proceeded in extended order. Another tongue of flame, another volume of smoke, threatened more mischief; but at this the force quickened its pace marvellously, and the ball fell harmlessly in the rear.
“Down the Trongate, my boys!” shouted an old grenadier of the Ninety —th,—the regiment was composed chiefly of Renfrewshire-men—“down the Trongate!”6 and away went the brave fellows over the rocky plain as steadily as though moving at the double along the peaceful streets of the old town of Glasgow.
This experienced little body of tried men, led by a cool-headed officer, were directed to their extreme left, where, it will be remembered, Lyle had placed a small party, which, by affecting concealment, was to divert the attention of the troops. In rear of this, it will also be remembered, was a gun fixed in the narrow jaws of a gorge. If a passage could be made over this ridge into the gorge, the gun, which was immovably fixed in the rocks, could be brought to bear upon the rebels themselves.
On the first grand movement of the troops, this smaller rampart was abandoned to a very small force, and as there were no guns to spare, was defended by roers and rifles. British soldiers, however, were not to be daunted even by these unerring weapons; unencumbered by their knapsacks, in lieu of which Sir Adrian had ordered them to substitute light haversacks, they persevered in spite of the dropping fire which slightly thinned their ranks, and gradually working their way through the stones and scrub, took possession of the rossjies (ridge), and speedily dislodging the besieged, scrambled down towards the gorge, and poured such a volley of musketry into it, as made the poor defenders of the pass cast their arms from them, and cry aloud for quarter.
The gun was instantly taken in hand, and, not without difficulty, brought to bear upon the right flank of the rebels in the rear, several of the Boers being detained in the gorge by the guard of the Ninety —th, who knew that, without this precaution, the roers and rifles above would pour their fire upon them.
Lyle, standing in the bend of the rossjies, saw by this manoeuvre of the old soldiers that all chance of defence was lost, and at once rushed towards Vander Roey, and advised him to meet the forces on the plain.
The manoeuvre would have answered, had the Boers been organised for battle face to face with the foe; but the plan of operations had been to begin on the defensive, and retire behind a succession of these rossjies, till they reached a river impassable save at a ford difficult to pass except by practised men.
It was not long before Madame Vander Roey found herself the only tenant of the stony hill; the battery was deserted, but below were ranged a party of Boers, who, contriving to keep out of sight or the soldiers in the gorge, stepped out one by one, and, taking with sad precision, shot several. This insolence the Ninety —th attempted to return by firing the gun, but the ball fell innocently among the stones in the valley.
Again a Boer advanced, and lifted his roer—it was Hermanus the stutterer, one of the most determined—but this time the soldiers were beforehand with him; ere he had time to lift his roer, he was stretched bleeding on the stones.
Madame Vander Roey watched the action from the very edge of the parapet.
Amid the din, the smoke, the groans of dying men and horses—a strange adjunct in that picture of strife and agony—was the figure of the rebel’s wife; her long skirt falling far below her feet over the rocks, giving her the appearance of supernatural height, her head uncovered, and all her sable tresses streaming in the wind.
Many a stout heart quailed at first view of this singular apparition, as the sun, opening his crimson chambers behind it, threw out the tall form in bold relief between the rocks and sky.
On either side of her were crouched her impish pages, Lynx and Frolic, immovable and unappalled, as she was apparently.
But, ah! that woman’s heart was beating as her eyes followed the plumed hat, which towered above the rest, and was always foremost.
The Boers had now all dismounted, and were fighting hand to hand, muzzle to muzzle, with the troops. Even the guns could not work, for the artillerymen had been the first to fall, and the rockets had had no opportunity for use.
But there is a lull in the strife; Madame Vander Roey sees her husband fall—he is seized, not by the enemy—but Brennard flings the wounded chief across his swift steed, mounts it, and, with his burden bleeding before him, gallops furiously to the rear.
“Vander Roey has fled!—has fled!—has fled!” passes from mouth to mouth among the rebel ranks—they break asunder, fall into disorder, and retreat. In vain Lyle attempts to rally them—he sees that he must run like the rest, or fail into the hands of a governor from whom he must expect justice rather than mercy.
But he is cool, as usual, selects the swiftest horse at hand, gallops a few paces through a shower of bullets, turns, faces the troops, takes aim with his rifle, and brings down the man next Frankfort—he marked this “fellow on the staff” for his prey—again retreats—again pauses between the ridges to fire, and finally dashes like lightning beyond the range of the gun in the gorge.
The poor rebels, caught in that trap, became at once prisoners of war; they surrendered unconditionally, and were sent to the rear with the wounded.
The British troops pursue, the guns are limbered up, and dragged through the rocky pass; the Boers succeed in crossing first the stream, and next the stony neck beyond, and Lyle again posts a strong line of defence along another natural rampart; but Sir Adrian is better prepared now for the attack.
A long streak of light shoots upward from the river’s brink, and, breaking far forward towards the sky into a thousand golden drops, falls among the fugitives, scattering them apart, and strewing the rough ground with bleeding corpses!
Madame Vander Roey had turned to watch the retreat of her husband; she tried to descend the ridge, but her heart sickened and her limbs failed her; she sunk, terror-stricken and shocked, upon the stone where her husband had bid her wait for him.
She was found there that afternoon. Lynx and Frolic brought some old soldiers of the Ninety —th up the slope; they spoke in Dutch, and begged her to go with them to the wagons in the rear; but she told them her husband had bid her wait for him there.
But he never came; the kind soldiers brought her provisions, but she would accept nothing at their hands.
She sat there through the day, still watching the combatants, as the English pursued the Dutch from ridge to ridge.
The sun went down amid the vapours that rose from the conflict; night fell moody and dark; the din of battle was succeeded by the whistling of the wind through the rocky passes; the sleet began to drive; the dress of the miserable watcher was saturated with damp, but she was reckless of bodily discomfort. The mind, for many months wound up to a pitch beyond its powers, gave way, “started aside like a broken bow,” and, helpless and “infirm of purpose,” she continued to keep the vigil till nature was exhausted, and she fell insensible upon the cold earth.
She awoke to consciousness under the kind hands of an English surgeon; she was lying on a couch in a comfortable marquee, Anne Vanbloem and Amayeka were watching beside her—a baby slept on Anne’s lap—Amayeka, mournful but very quiet, sat sewing at the opening of the tent. Madame Vander Roey could see far out upon the plain; she pressed her hand to her eyes, looked again, collected her scattered memories, and recognised the position of a former bivouac; it was occupied now by the tents and wagons of the English. Soldiers were lying on the ground, or passing to and fro, or engaged in merry games, or singing beside the scanty fires. The air came in cold, but dry and balmy; it gave her strength to rise and look around, and to question Anne.
