CHAPTER THREE.
A FLAMING THRONE.
"Too late, boys, I guess the Southern Column got there first." And theutterer of this remark lowered his field glasses and turned to theremainder of the little band of scouts with an air of profoundconviction.
Away in the distance dense columns of smoke were rising heavenward. Forsome time this group of men had been eagerly intent upon watching thephenomenon through their glasses, and there was reason for theireagerness, for they were looking upon the goal of the expedition, andwhat should practically represent the close of the campaign--Bulawayo towit, but--Bulawayo in flames. Who had fired it?
Considerable disappointment was felt and expressed. Their prompt march,their hard and victorious fighting had not brought them first to thegoal. The Southern Column had distanced them and was there already.Such was the conclusion arrived at on all sides.
One man, however, had let go no opinion. Lying full length, his fieldglass adjusted upon a convenient rock, he had been steadily scanning theburning kraal in the distance during all the foregoing discussion,ignoring the latter as though he were alone on the ground. Now hespoke.
"There's no Southern Column thereat all. No sign or trace of a camp."
This dictum was received with dissent, even with a little derision.
"Who's set it on fire then, Blachland?" said one of the exponents of thelatter phase, with a wink at the others. "You're not going to tell usthat Lo Bengula's set his own shop alight?"
"That's about what's occurred," was the tranquil reply. "At least Ithink so."
"It's more'n likely Blachland's right, boys," said one of the scouts,speaking with a pronounced American accent. "He's been there anyway."
With renewed eagerness every glass was once more brought to bear. Thereappeared to be four great columns of smoke, and these, as they watched,were merging into one, of vast volume, and now bright jets of flame werediscernible, as the fire licked its way along the thatch of the grasshuts. Then something strange befel. They who watched saw a freshoutburst of smoke rise suddenly like an enormous dome from the centre ofthat already ascending, seeming to bear aloft on its summit thefragments of roofs, fences, _debris_ of every description, and then theywere conscious of a mighty roar and a vibrating shock, as the whole masssubsided, releasing the flames, which shot up anew.
"That's an explosion!" cried some one excitedly. "Old Lo Ben's not onlyburnt his nest, but blown it up into the bargain."
For some time further they lay there watching the distant work ofdestruction. Then it was decided that their number should be divided,and while some returned to the column to report the result of theirobservations, the remainder should push on, and get as near Bulawayo asthey possibly could--an undertaking of no slight risk, and calling forthe exercise of unflagging caution, for there was no telling what bandsof the enemy might be hovering about in quite sufficient strength toprove dangerous to a mere handful, though the opinion was that the bulkof the nation's forces, with the King, had fled northward.
"Well, Percy? Tired of this kind of fun yet?" said Blachland as he andhis young kinsman rode side by side, the two or three more also bent onthis service advancing a little further on their right flank.
"Rather not. I wish it wasn't going to be over quite so quickly."
The other laughed. "I'm not so sure that it is," he said.
"Eh? But we've got Bulawayo."
"But we haven't got Lo Ben yet. My impression is that the tougher partof this campaign is going to begin now. I may be wrong of course, butthat's my impression."
"Oh, then that settles it," answered Percival, not ironically, but inwhole-hearted good faith, for his belief in, and admiration for hisrelative had reached the wildest pitch of enthusiasm. There was nogreater authority in the world, in his estimation, on everything to dowith the country they were in. He would have accepted Hilary's opinionand acted upon it, even though it went clean contrary to those incommand all put together, upon any subject to do with the work in hand,and that with the blindest confidence. And then, had he not himselfwitnessed Hilary's gallant and daring deed, during the battle fought acouple of days ago?
His presence there with the scouts instead of as an ordinary trooper inthe column, he owed to his relative, the latter having specially askedthat he should be allowed to accompany him in such capacity. Blachlandat that juncture, with his up-to-date knowledge of the country and thenatives, was far too useful a man not to stretch a point for, andPercival West, although new to that part, was accustomed to sport andoutdoor life at home, and brimful of pluck and energy, and now, in theshort time he had been out, had thoroughly adapted himself to the life,and the vicissitudes of the campaign.
To the cause of their being up here together Hilary never alluded, buthe noted with quiet satisfaction that the cure in the case of his youngcousin seemed complete. Once the latter volunteered a statement to thateffect.
"Ah, yes," he had replied. "Nothing like a life of this sort forknocking any nonsense of that kind out of a fellow--" mentally adding,somewhat grimly, "When he's young."
For Hilary Blachland himself did not find the busy and dangerous, and attimes exciting, work of the campaign by any means such an unfailingpanacea as he preached it to his younger relative. With it all therewas plenty of time for thought, for retrospect. What an empty anduseless thing he had made of life, and now the best part of it was allbehind him--now that it had been brought home to him that there was abest part, now that it was too late. He was familiar with the axiomthat those who sell themselves to the devil seldom obtain their price,and had often scoffed at it: for one thing because he did not believe inthe devil at all. Yet now, looking back, he had come to recognise that,in substance at least, the axiom was a true one.
Yes, the better part of his life was now behind him, with its ideals,its possibilities, its finer impulses. Carrying his bitter introspectwithin the physical domain, had he not become rough and weather-beatenand lined and seamed and puckered? It did not strike him as odd that heshould be indulging in such analysis at all--yet had he let anybodyelse, say any of his present comrades, into the fact that he was doingso, they would have deemed him mad, for if there was a man with thatexpedition who was envied by most of his said comrades as the embodimentof cool, sound daring, combined with astute judgment, of rare physicalvigour and striking exterior, assuredly that man was Hilary Blachland.Yet as it was, he regarded himself with entire dissatisfaction anddisgust, and the medium through which he so regarded himself was namedLyn Bayfield.
Her memory was ever before him; more, her presence. Asleep or awake, inthe thick of the hardest toil and privation of the campaign, even in themidst of the discharge of his most important and responsible duties yetnever to their detriment, the sweet, pure, lovely fairness of her facewas there. He had come to worship it with a kind of superstitiousadoration as though in truth the presence of it constituted a kind ofguardian angel.
Was he, after all, in love with Lyn? He supposed that not a man orwoman alive, knowing the symptoms, but would pronounce such to be thecase, even as one woman had done. But he knew better, knew himselfbetter. The association of anything so gross, so earthly, here, herecoiled from as from an outrage. It was the unalloyed adoration of astrange, a holy and a purifying influence.
In love with her? He, Hilary Blachland, at his time of life, and withhis experience of life, in love! Why, the idea was preposterous,grotesque. He recalled the time he had spent beneath the same roof withher, and the daily association. It would be treasured, revered to theutmost limit of his life, as a sacred and an elevating period, but--asan influence, not a passion.
He had exchanged correspondence with Bayfield more than once sinceleaving, and had received two or three letters from Lyn--expressing--well, simply Lyn. He had answered them, and treasured them secretly asthe most priceless of his possessions. From Bayfield he had learnedthat the disturbing element had refrained from further molestation, andhad moreover, taken her own d
eparture from the neighbourhood almostimmediately, a piece of intelligence which afforded him indeed theliveliest gratification.
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As they drew near to their objective, other kraals near and aroundBulawayo itself, were seen to be on fire. But no sign of their recentoccupants. For all trace remaining of the latter, the whole Matabelenation might have vanished into thin air.
"That's extraordinary," remarked Blachland, taking a long steady lookthrough his glasses. "That's Sybrandt's house down there and theyhaven't burnt it," pointing out a collection of buildings about a milefrom the site of the great kraal.
"So it is. Wonder if it means a trap though," said another of thescouts. "By Jingo! There's some one signalling up there. I'll bet mybottom dollar it's a white man by the look of him. And--there are twoof 'em."
Such was in fact the case--and the biggest surprise of all came off whena couple of white traders, well known to most of them, came forward towelcome them to the conquered and now razed capital. There these twohad dwelt throughout the campaign, often in peril, but protected by theword of the King. Lo Bengula had burnt his capital and fled, takingwith him the bulk of the nation. He, the dreaded and haughty potentateof the North, whose rule had been synonymous with a terror and ascourge, had gone down before a mere handful of whites, he, the duskybarbarian, the cruel despot, according to popular report revelling inbloodshed and suffering, had taken his revenge. He had protected thesetwo white men alone in his power--had left them, safe and sound inperson, unharmed even in their possessions, to welcome the invadingconquerors, their countrymen, to the blazing ruins of his once proudhome. Such the revenge of this savage.
The Southern Column did not arrive till some days after the firstoccupation of Bulawayo, and some little time elapsed, resting andwaiting for necessary supplies, before the new expedition should startnorthward, to effect if possible, the capture of the fugitive King.Several up-country going men were here foregathered.
"I say, Blachland," said old Pemberton, with a jerk of the thumb to thesouthward, "We didn't reckon to meet again like this last time when webroke camp yonder on the Matya'mhlope, and old Lo Ben fired you out ofthe country? Eh?"
"Not much, did we? You going on this new trot, Sybrandt?"
"I believe so. What do you think about this part of the world, West?"
"Here, let's have another tot all round," interrupted Pemberton who, bythe way, had had just as many as were good for him. "You ain't going tonobble Lo Ben, Sybrandt, so don't you think it."
"Who says so, Pemberton?"
"I say so. Didn't I say Blachland 'ud never get to Umzilikazi's grave?Didn't I? Well, he never did."
Possibly because the old trader was too far on in his cups the quizzicalglance which passed between Blachland and Sybrandt--who was in theknow--at this allusion, went unnoticed. Pemberton continued, albeitrather thickly:
"Didn't I say he'd never get there? Didn't I? Well, I say the samenow. You'll never get there. You'll never nobble Lo Ben. See if Iain't right."