Charge! Part 44

"No, no. Go on."

Sergeant Briggs pushed on, and uttered a loud e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"One of the Boers' horses?" I said.

"One of the Boers, my lad," he cried. "Close in there."

The two men drew nearer, and the next minute we were all gazing down at where one of the enemy's wounded horses had evidently pitched forward upon its knees and thrown its wounded rider over its head to where he lay, a couple of yards in advance, with a terrible gash across his forehead, caused by falling upon a rough stone. But that was not the cause of his death, for his jacket and s.h.i.+rt were torn open and a rough bandage had slipped down from the upper part of his chest, where a bullet-wound showed plainly enough that his lungs must have been pierced, and that he had bled to death.

"Poor chap!" said the Sergeant softly; "he's got it. Well, he died like a brave man. Came up here, I s'pose, for shelter."

"There's another over yonder," I said excitedly, for about fifty yards away from where we were grouped, and high above us, the baboons were leaping about and chattering more than ever.

"Shouldn't wonder," said the Sergeant; "and he aren't dead. Trying to scare those ugly little beggars away."

"I'll soon see," I said; and as I urged Sandho on, the shrinking beast cautiously picked his way past the dead group, and we soon got up to a narrow rift full of bushes, the path among the rocks running right up to the highest point, towards which the baboons began to retire now, chattering away, but keeping a keen watch on our proceedings.

"Another dead horse, Sergeant," I shouted back.

"Never mind the horse," cried Briggs. "Be ready, and shoot the wounded man down at sight if he doesn't throw up his hands. 'Ware treachery."

I pressed on into the gully, at whose entrance the second dead horse lay, and the next minute, as Sandho forced the bushes apart with his breast, I saw marks of blood on a stone just beneath where the apes had been chattering in their excitement; and then I drew rein and felt completely paralysed, for a faint voice, whose tones were unmistakable, cried:

"Help! Wather, for the love of Heaven!"

Chapter Thirty.

Briggs's Irish Lion.

"Why, it's an Irish lion!" cried the Sergeant, who was now close behind me.

I was too much surprised to say anything then; but I felt afterwards that I might have said, "Irish jackal! The Irish lions are quite different." But somehow the sight of the badly-wounded man disarmed me, and I dismounted to part the bushes and kneel down beside where my enemy lay back with his legs beneath the neck and shoulders of his dead horse, blood-smeared and ghastly, as he gazed wildly in my face.

"Wather!" he said pitifully. "I am a dead man."

"Are you, now, Pat?" cried the Sergeant, in mocking imitation of the poor wretch's accent and high-pitched intonation.

"Don't be a brute, Sergeant," I said angrily as I opened my water-bottle and held it to the man's lips. "Can't you see he's badly hurt?"

"Serve him right," growled the Sergeant angrily. "What business has he fighting against the soldiers of the Queen? Ugh! he don't deserve help; he ought to be stood up and shot for a traitor."

"Be quiet!" I said angrily as I held the bottle, and the wounded man gulped down the cool water with terrible avidity.

"All!" he moaned, "it putts life into me. Pull this baste of a horse aff me. I've got a bullet through my showlther, and I'm nearly crushed to death and devoured by those imp-like divils o' monkeys."

"Here, you two," cried the Sergeant surlily, "uncoil your reins, and make them fast round this dead horse's neck."

Our two followers quickly executed the order, and then, the other ends of the plaited raw-hide ropes being secured to rings in their saddles, they urged on their horses, which made a plunge or two and dragged their dead fellow enough on one side for the Sergeant, with my help, to lift the poor rider clear.

"The blessing of all the saints be upon you both!" he moaned. "There's some lint in my pouch; just put a bit of a bandage about my showlther. I'm Captain Moriarty, an officer and a gintleman, who yields as a prisoner, and I want to be carried to yer commanding officer."

He spoke very feebly at first; but the water and the relief from the pressure of the horse revived him, and he began to breathe more freely, his eyes searching my face in a puzzled way as if he thought he had seen me before.

I took no heed, but did as he suggested; and, finding the lint and a bandage, roughly bound up the wound, which had long ceased bleeding.

"Can ye fale the bullet in the wound, me young inimy?" he said, with a sigh.

"No," I replied, looking him full in the eyes. "Our doctor will see to that."

"Then ye've got a docthor with ye?" he said, pretty strongly now.

"Of course we have," growled the Sergeant, whose countenance seemed to me then to bear a remarkable resemblance to that of a mastiff dog who was angry because his master spoke civilly to a stranger he wanted to hunt off the premises. "Do you take us for savages?"

"Silence, sor!" cried our prisoner, "or I'll report ye to yer officer."

"Silence yourself!" cried the Sergeant. "What do you want with a doctor, you Irish renegado turncoat? You said you were a dead man."

"Whisht! I'm a prisoner; but I'm an officer and a gintleman.-Here, boy, ordher your min to carry me out of this."

"My men!" I said, laughing. "I'm only a private, and this is my sergeant."

"Thin ye ought to change places, me boy.-Give orders to your min to carry me out of this, Serjint."

"I'm about ready to tell the lads to put an end to a traitor to his country."

"Tchah! Ye daren't do annything o' the kind, Serjint, for it would be murther. This is my counthry, and I'm a prisoner of war."

"Let him be, Sergeant, and we'll get him into the camp.-Can you sit on a horse, sir?" I said.

"Sure, how do I know, boy, till I thry? I've been lying under that dead baste till I don't seem to have any legs at all, at all. Ye must lift me on."

"Officer and a gentleman!" said the Sergeant scornfully. "I never heard an Irish gentleman with a brogue like that. I believe you're one of the rowdy sort that call themselves patriots."

"Sure, and I am," cried our prisoner. "But here, I don't want any wurruds with the like o' ye.-Help me up gently, boy, and let me see if I can't shtand."

"Take hold of him on the other side," I said to the Sergeant, and he frowningly helped, so that we got our prisoner upon his feet.

"Ah!" he said, with a groan. "I think I can manage it if ye lift me on a horse."

Sandho was led up, and with a good deal of difficulty and a repet.i.tion of groans and allusions to the state of his lower members, the Captain was hoisted into the saddle, and after another draught of water he declared that he could "howld" out till we got him to the "docthor."

"He doesn't look as if he could try to make a bolt of it," growled the Sergeant; "but you'd better throw the reins over your horse's head and lead him.-And look here, Mr Officer and Gentleman, I'm very good with the revolver, so don't try to spur off."

Our prisoner waved his hand contemptuously and turned to me.