“So it’s you two!” he cried, and a light broke over him. He was no longer trying to shake us off, and now he dropped his curses also, and stood chuckling to himself instead. “Well,” he went on, “you’re bloody liars both, but I know something else that you are, so you’d better let go.”
A coldness ran through me, and I never saw Raffles so taken aback. His grip must have relaxed for a fraction of time, for our captive broke out in a fresh and desperate struggle, but now we pinned him tighter than ever, and soon I saw him turning green and yellow with the pain.
“You’re breaking my wrist!” he yelled at last.
“Then stand still and tell us who we are.”
And he stood still and told us our real names. But Raffles insisted on hearing how he had found us out, and smiled as though he had known what was coming when it came. I was dumbfounded.
The accursed hound had followed us that evening to Captain Bellingham’s tent, and his undoubted cleverness in his own profession of spy had done the rest.
“And now you’d better let me go,” said the master of the situation, as I for one could not help regarding him.
“I’ll see you damned,” said Raffles, savagely.
“Then you’re damned and done for yourself, my cocky criminal. Raffles the burglar! Raffles the society thief! Not dead after all, but ’live and ’listed. Send him home and give him fourteen years, and won’t he like ’em, that’s all!”
“I shall have the pleasure of hearing you shot first,” retorted Raffles, through his teeth, “and that alone will make them bearable. Come on, Bunny, let’s drive the swine along and get it over.”
And drive him we did, he cursing, cajoling, struggling, gloating, and blubbering by turns. But Raffles never wavered for an instant, though his face was tragic, and it went to my heart, where that look stays still. I remember at the time, though I never let my hold relax, there was a moment when I added my entreaties to those of our prisoner. Raffles did not even reply to me. But I was thinking of him, I swear. I was thinking of that gray set face that I never saw before or after.
“Your story will be tested,” said the commanding officer, when Connal had been marched to the guard-tent. “Is there any truth in his?”
“It is perfectly true, sir.”
“And the notorious Raffles has been alive all these years, and you are really he?”
“I am, sir.”
“And what are you doing at the front?”
Somehow I thought that Raffles was going to smile, but the grim set of his mouth never altered, neither was there any change in the ashy pallor which had come over him in the donga when Connal mouthed his name. It was only his eyes that lighted up at the last question.
“I am fighting, sir,” said he, as simply as any subaltern in the army.
The commanding officer inclined a grizzled head perceptibly, and no more. He was not one of any school, our General; he had his own ways, and we loved both him and them; and I believe that he loved the rough but gallant corps that bore his name. He once told us that he knew something about most of us, and there were things that Raffles had done of which he must have heard. But he only moved his grizzled head.
“Did you know he was going to give you away?” he asked at length, with a jerk of it toward the guard-tent.
“Yes, sir.”
“But you thought it worth while, did you?”
“I thought it necessary, sir.”
The General paused, drumming on his table, making up his mind. Then his chin came up with the decision that we loved in him.
“I shall sift all this,” said he. “An officer’s name was mentioned, and I shall see him myself. Meanwhile you had better go on—fighting.”
IV
Corporal Connal paid the penalty of his crime before the sun was far above the hill held by the enemy. There was abundance of circumstantial evidence against him, besides the direct testimony of Raffles and myself, and the wretch was shot at last with little ceremony and less shrift. And that was the one good thing that happened on the day that broke upon us hiding behind the bushes overlooking the donga; by noon it was my own turn.
I have avoided speaking of my wound before I need, and from the preceding pages you would not gather that I am more or less lame for life. You will soon see now why I was in no hurry to recall the incident. I used to think of a wound received in one’s country’s service as the proudest trophy a man could acquire. But the sight of mine depresses me every morning of my life; it was due for one thing to my own slow eye for cover, in taking which (to aggravate my case) our hardy little corps happened to excel.
The bullet went clean through my thigh, drilling the bone, but happily missing the sciatic nerve; thus the mere pain was less than it might have been, but of course I went over in a light-brown heap. We were advancing on our stomachs to take the hill, and thus extend our position, and it was at this point that the fire became too heavy for us, so that for hours (in the event) we moved neither forward nor back. But it was not a
