“Yes, sir. Those sort o’ men.”
Meredith made no answer, and after a little pause Joseph repeated the words significantly, if ungrammatically.
“Those sort o’ men.”
“What do you mean?”
“Slaves,” replied Joseph sharply, touching his hat without knowing why.
“Slaves! What the devil are you talking about?”
The man came a little nearer.
“Those forty men—leastwise thirty-four men—that we brought from Msala—Mr. Durnovo’s men, that cultivate this ’ere Simiacine as they call it—they’re different from the rest, sir.”
“Yes, of course they are. We do not hire them direct—we hire them from Mr. Durnovo and pay their wages to him. They are of a different tribe from the others—not fighting men but agriculturists.”
“Ah—” Joseph paused. “Strange thing, sir, but I’ve not seen ’em handling any of their pay yet.”
“Well, that is their affair.”
“Yessir.”
Having unburdened himself of his suspicion, the servant retired, shaking his head ominously. At any other time the words just recorded would have aroused Jack Meredith’s attention, but the singular slothfulness that seemed to be creeping over his intellect was already acting as a clog on his mental energy.
The next morning he was unable to leave his bed, and lay all day in a state of semi-somnolence. Joseph explained to the men that the leader was so disgusted with their ungrateful conduct that he would not leave the tent. In the evening there was a slight attack made from the southern side. This Joseph was able to repulse, chiefly by his own long-range firing, assisted by a few picked rifles. But the situation was extremely critical. The roll of the big war-drum could be heard almost incessantly, rising with weird melancholy from the forest land beneath them.
Despite difficulties the new crop of Simiacine—the second within twelve months—had been picked, dried, and stored in cases. Without, on the Plateau, stood the bare trees, affording no covert for savage warfare—no screen against the deadly bullet. The camp was placed near one edge of the tableland, and on this exposed side the stockade was wisely constructed of double strength. The attacks had hitherto been made only from this side, but Joseph knew that anything in the nature of a combined assault would carry his defence before it. In his rough-and-ready way he doctored his master, making for him such soups and strength-giving food as he could. Once, very late in the night, when it almost seemed that the shadow of death lay over the little tent, he pounded up some of the magic Simiacine leaves and mixed them in the brandy which he administered from time to time.
Before sunrise the next morning the alarm was given again, and the little garrison was called to arms.
When Joseph left his master’s tent he was convinced that neither of them had long to live; but he was of that hard material which is found in its very best form in the ranks and on the forecastle—men who die swearing. It may be very reprehensible—no doubt it is—but it is very difficult for a plain-going man to withhold his admiration for such as these. It shows, at all events, that Thomas Atkins and Jack are alike unafraid of meeting their Maker. It is their duty to fight either a living enemy or a cruel sea, and if a little profanity helps them to their duty, who are we that we may condemn them?
So Joseph went out with a rifle in each hand and a fine selection of epithets on his tongue.
“Now, you devils,” he said, “we’re just going to fight like hell.”
And what else he said it booteth little.
He took his station on the roof of a hut in the centre of the little stockade, and from thence he directed the fire of his men. Crouching beneath him he had a disabled native who loaded each rifle in turn; and just by way of encouraging the others he picked off the prominent men outside the stockade with a deadly steadiness. By way of relieving the tension he indulged in an occasional pleasantry at the expense of the enemy.
“Now,” he would say, “there’s a man lookin’ over that bush with a green feather on his nut. It’s a mistake to wear green feathers; it makes a body so conspicuous.”
And the wearer of the obnoxious feather would throw up his arms and topple backwards, down the hill.
If Joseph detected anything like cowardice or carelessness he pointed his rifle with a threatening frown towards the culprit, with instant effect. Presently, however, things began to get more serious. This was not the sudden assault of a single chief, but an organised attack. Before long Joseph ceased to smile. By sunrise he was off the roof, running from one weak point to another, encouraging, threatening, fighting, and swearing very hard. More than once the enemy reached the stockade, and—ominous sign—one or two of their dead lay inside the defence.
“Fight, yer devils—fight!” he cried in a hoarse whisper, for his voice had given way. “Hell—give ’em hell!”
He was everywhere at once, urging on his men, kicking them, pushing them, forcing them up to the stockade. But he saw the end. Half-dazed, the blacks fought on in silence. The grim African sun leapt up above the distant line of forest and shone upon one of the finest sights to be seen on earth—a soldier wounded, driven, desperate, and not afraid.
In the midst of it a hand was laid on Joseph’s shoulder.
“There,” cried a voice, “That corner. See to it.”
Without looking round, Joseph obeyed, and the breached corner was saved. He only knew that his master, who was almost dead, had come to life again. There was no time for anything else.
For half an hour it was a question of any moment. Master and man were for the time being nothing better than madmen, and the fighting frenzy is wildly infectious.
At last there was a pause. The enemy fell back, and in the momentary silence the sound of distant firing reached
