Sketcher.

Southern Cross, Volume 4, Issue 42, 30 January 1897, Page 3

Sketcher.

THE LAST OF THE WELSH borderers. an impression OP ISANDULA. (By “ Nunqxjam,” in the Clarion.) Owen Owens clenched his white teeth together, and rolled his dark eyes round. Twenty years was not a long life. Some men lived four such terms, and were not ready to go then. But Reece and Richards were dead an hour ago, and they were Only boys. Still it seemed bad luck. Tt was his first battle. He had not a year’s service. And it had been such an unsatisfactory battle. It had lasted no time. And now it was all over. And Owen’s life was all over. There was no mistake about it. This was the end. The sun was shining, but it would soon be dark. Owen was horribly thirsty, but be d never drink again. How long would it last P How would it come ? Would it hurt ? He hoped he could stab a few of those cursed Zulus before it happened. Owen adjusted his waistbelt, wiped his reeking left hand on his trouser, glanced at his bayonet to see that the locking-ring was firm, and rubbed his feet hard on the earth to secure a sure holding. This was the real battle. Death grips and no quarter. Tbe other had been like a field day, mere firing and retiring. Now — ! The ammunition was all gone. The Borderers were surrounded. There was no sign of reinforcement. If Lord Chelmsford had heard the firing, he could not got back in time. An assegai whizzed past Owen’s ear, another stuck into the earth a yard short of him. They were long throws, but the enemy were coming nearer. What a lot of them. The black devils seemed to swarm up out of the ground like ants. And there were no more cartridges. Why hadn’t they served out enough cartridges ? It couldn’t last long. The Zulus were advancing. The colonel of the Borderers had just given his last order, 4< Fix your bayonets and die like Englishmen.” He wished they would begin. But they were coming. “ Steady, dear boys.” That was Captain Lloyd’s voice. How kind it sounded. But the Zulus would find the captain stern. Ah, they are on us. Here they are dancing and singing, with their queer pointed shields across their bodies, and their assegais ready poised to shy. This is the first charge. It won’t be the last. They’ll have to come a good many times before they wipe out the Borderers. Owen draws a deep breath and leans well over his guard. He wonders what Hettie Morgan is doing now. How pretty she looked when she used to bite her bottom lip and look at one sideways. Her eyes were blue —light blue, with a dark blue line round the iris. And she had long black lashes, that curled up. That was George Phillips praying. How odd it sounded through the hoarse chant of the Zulu war song. Owen wonders who Hettiewill marry when he’s killed. He’s glad he kissed her by the gate the night he left. He could feel the kiss now. It was like the touch of an open rose-bud, but warm.

“ Steady Borderers.” The captain again. Phew ! What big chaps they are. Good musclet., too; and how their black biles shine. Brr! that assegai slit his right ear. Ha! so! There ! There is a heavy concussion, a swaying of bodies, a gleam of dark eyes and cruel teeth, a straining, sweating, twisting melee of men and devils, a clatter and flash of steel, a horrible spatting and smell of blood and the Zulus fall back a few yards and leave the diminished front of the irregular square dead and wounded. Bight in front of Owen Owens a huge wide-shouldered savage is crawling away on all fours, leaving a trail of blood behind him. That must be the fellow who tried to duck under Owen’s bayonet. Yes, he is stabbed through under the right blade

bone. If Owen had a cartridge he would shoot him. No, he wouldn’t. He’d give the poor wretch a chance. Besides, tbe cartridge would be too valuable. But there are no cartridges. Phew, how hot the sun is. And some one is saying “ Close up.” It is Mr Williams, the lieutenant. The captain must be gone then. Hello! Here they come again : the same ugly dance and the same discordant chant. There’s a gigantic fellow with eyes all alight like live coals. There is foamfon his lips, too. Owen Owens will wait for him. Give him cold rage for hot. Let’s see, feint high, parry left, circle under shield, and step in to deliver point. There ! Yes. He’s down. But Owen’s wrist is gashed ; and he’s at short blows with another monster. Then Mr Williams empties his revolver, and Owen finds himself alone two strides out of the square with his bayonet smoking red.

That charge is over. But another follows, and another, each closer than the last. It cannot go on long. The Zulus throw their spears; they lift up the dead and hurl them upon the bayonets. The Borderers melt away. The officers’ voices are heard no more; will never be heard again. It is late afternoon, the sloping sup shines in Owen’s face. There is a red quivering haze between the opposing lines. Out of this haze the assegais keep flying. There are not fifty Borderers left standing. The square is cut to segments. The men stand back to back in groups, with mobs of howling Zulus dancing round them. The whole front face of the square is destroyed, except a knot of nine men at tire right corner, whereof Owen Owens is one.

Owen stands panting, white, angry. At his feet lies the body of Willie Taafe, with whom he once fought at Blaina Wakes. Taafe is on his back, his face turned up to Owen. Owen thinks of the fires in the Rhondda Yalley, He sees the old village graveyard co/ered with snow. He sees Hettie Morgan, as he saw her a year ago walking home from church, her cheek stung to the colour of June roses by the wind, her veil clinging to her shapely face, and a dark curl lying wet on her white forehead. Crash ! Rhys Thomas is down. Shot with a snider. What will his poor old mother say P

Now a bullet has struck Owen. He feels the hot blood running over his arm and shoulder in • an oily stream. That will end it. Hettie will be walking to church on Sunday as usual. She will be just as sweet and lovely. And the valley will be so quiet, and the hells will sound good. ‘ Hold up, Evan Evans, here they come again. Now, he’s hit.’ Now, then, this is the last rush. It must be the last. ‘ Good-bye, Hettie. Take that, you black beast !’ What howling. How hot it is. Owen’s throat is scorched and dry. Everything looks red, like the Rhondda at night. Ob, what big, fierce brutes. What a crowd of them. What white teeth. Confusion. Gasp and curse, parry and thrust. Owen is bleeding. His thumb is cut. Is it off P No, but he bleeds all over. Good-bye, Hettie. They are weighing him down. The ground is slippery with blood. The field and sky are spinning round. He is choked and blinded. It feels like the last round in his fight at Blaina Wakes. That was a hard battle. Taafe didn’t cuddle like Hettie —now. For an instant Owen Owens stands alone, the Zulus dancing round him. In that instant he realises that not another red coat is left standing. He is the last to go, but his turn hae come. How red the sun is. There are two suns. And there are black figures dansing on their discs, like puddlers at the furnace door, No ; they are Zulus. Curse them. With one last effort he controls bis failing senses, stands up straight, with a fierce laugh on his dying face, feints at the Zulu on his left, takes the assegai in his shoulder, and with a wild lunge, drives his bayonet to the socket into the chest of the Zulu in his front. With a grunt, the savage

goes down, and on bur, with a sob’ falls the last of the Borderers. The assegais—Hetttie ! The fires are glowing in the Rhondda Valley. Hettie Moreranis singing at her work, and Dabulamauzie holds the field of Isandula.