Complete Story. A Man and a Maxim.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIV, Issue VII, 17 February 1900, Page 294

Complete Story. A Man and a Maxim.

Lance-Corporal Hodgkins, of the Limerick Rangers, was a Cockney bred and born. He was also, I believe, the first Cockney known to exist and maintain his reason in a real Irish regi-' meat. Indeed, he was able even to secure a certain immunity—from bodily harm at least —for his cot-mate, fellow Cockney, and confidant—one Pitcher. Moreover, he was personally popular among the men. All this was probably due as much to the virtue of punch as policy, for he had a bitter tongue, and was particularly roughtongued, even for a Briton—that most rough-tongued specimen of humanity. Hodgkins’s profession in his presoldier days was probably prize fighting. Certainly he looked it. His tall, sinewy, square-rigged figure; his confident* walk and talk, together with a very much broken nose, all suggested the prize ring. Why he enlisted I do not know. Perhaps he had had a Saturday night difference with the “Z” Division; possibly he had anticipated divine vengeance upon a welsher; or he may merely have sought sanctuary from the abuse of a widowed mother. Perhaps all three. Anyway, he was quite an ordinary blackguard in most things, and as good a soldier as ever cursed his colour sergeant.

He was attached to the machine gun section, and was undoubtedly the smartest man in it. His pride in the gun was proverbial in the regiment, and indeed he seemed to consider it his own particluar property. It was a light, trial pattern Maxim, with a galloping carriage and limber box and single horse adjustment; and it was for use with mounted infantry. Its mechanism was of never-failing interest to Hodgkins. He would often give it an extra clean up on the quiet, polishing it as never gun was polished.

“Yes,” I heard him saying on the day we received the news of the trouble up here. “Yes! you bloomin’ humped back cross between a bicycle and a blunderbuss, you’re goin’ to do some work now, you are. You’re goin’ to sweat an’ sweat an’ kill niggers. An’ by the great Oom Paul, if you don’t shoot strife, may be cordite eat the riflin’ out of yer inside. Kim hup there!

“ ’Ere Pitcher, 1 ” he continued, “jest take a squint round an’ say if you think ole silver-belly ’ll do.” “Ay, ay!’ replied Pitcher, who was always extremely nautical in his language. having been a Thames lighterman in his salad days. “You might jest give ’er a swab round abaft the breech block. Then we’ll pipe all hands to grog. I've got the price of two.” Hodgkins straightened himself and gazed across the parade ground. “Here's Kitty,” he said. “You skip, me son. T shall ’ave much pleasure in fakin’ wine wiv’ you on a future occasion.’

Private Pitcher shook his head. He deprecated all intercourse with the opposite sex, whose influence he regarded as only one degree less demoralising than that of Royal Marines on shore leave. “Go slow, Jim,” he said. “Go slow! ’Arf speed’s the word in tricky waters.” Then Hodgkins settled himself comfortably on the gun, and I, unseen, awaited events. He was not, T knew, particularly fortunate in his lovemaking. He had been pleading his cause to Kitty Gore, who lived in the ‘“married lines,’ for many months, but with no apparent progress. With much apparent indifference she went close and spoke soft words to him, and he smiled—the silly, supreme smile of a man who is being fooled by a woman. T do not know what she said or promised; but whatever it was, he believed her.

On the third day we went up —a hundred strong, mounted infantry. Our seats were a bit loose at first, perhaps: but a week’s knocking about over kopje and sluit soon put that right. And it came to pass, after many days of much dirt and no drink, that fifty men and a machine gun were despatched on an nll-day expedition outside the safety zone, just to clear the air a bit and — incidentally —

bring in anv stray cattle they mig'ht meet. Hodgkins was the machine gun. and in the heait of the mid-day sun he was brought l>ack to camp on an improvised stretcher, with a newlynequired cut in his head, the size of ’his own fist, which was mighty.

The Sergeant explained. Hodgkins had behaved in the straugesit manner after leaving camp; he had called him, the Sergeant, a fool to his face and, thereafter asserting that he meant to drive to the devil, 'had driven himself, the horse, and the gun, into a deep spruit, with the natural results. “It’s Cape fever, I’m afraid, sorr,” the Sergeant added. “Me brother Tim that was a private in the Munsters died of it out here in ’BO, sorr.”

After dismissing the Sejqgeant, I sought out I’itdher, who was slightly drunk, tearful, and incoherent, and learned from him that Hodgkins had received a letter. It was from Kate, who had, of course, changed her mind, if she ever possessed one. She was about to wed. She bade the luckless swain be brave, forget, and find another Nancy. The man of her later choice, however, was the Colonel's coachman, a freeborn Colonial of charming personality, who spoke the taal like a native, and had blue finger-nails. His name was Albert Edward Gladstone. It was on receipt of this news, so 1 gathered from Pitcher, that Hodgkins very inconsequently contracted Cape fever. That is to say, he sat on a 'bucket under a. sun, minus his helmet, and drank Cape smoke and brooded. The doctor who examined Hodgkins said that he had broken two ribs and had acquired a concussion of the brain; furthermore, that he could not live an hour. At the end of that period, however, he was back again to tell me that his patient had regained consciousness. “Perhaps you had lietter go in and see him, Marsh,” he said. “Though I warn you that you’ll find him rather delirious.”

So with a hungry sigh, I left my bread and biltong and went off to the hospital tent. There were only a few mild cases of fever and heat-stroke there, and the silence was unbroken save for the mutterings of poor Hodgkins. As I entered, he moved his head round with an effort, and though he did. not speak I knew that his poor shattered mind held some awful thoughts. Presently he found voice, and anathematised Kitty Gore. Then he called me Pitcher, and asked me what in creation I stood grinning at him for? There was an interval of silence; then some more muttering. After which he turned to me again, and I saw by his eyes that a little reason had returned to him. “Wh Beg pardon, sir,” he said.

“Anythin’ the matter, sir?” “You’re in the hospital, my man,” I replied. “You have met with a slight ” “Good heavens. Beg pardon, sir. I remember, sir. That there bloomin’— that there sluit. ’Ow’s the gun, sir? Is the little gun orl right, sir? I must ’ave been barmy, I—- —I ” “Oh! don’t bother about that,” I answered. “Lie quiet. The doctor will be back in a minute.”

“Don’t bother, sir! I can’t ’elp botherin’, sir. That there 'little spitter ’ave been a good friend to me. And now—if she ain’t orl broke in birs—they’ll go an’ give her to some silly kid wot’ll jam the riflin’ an’— an’ 1 don’t care. Curse you, Pitcher! Wot are you standin’ there for? Give us a drink of water—no, a pipe o’ bacca, mate. Oh! it don’t matter. I can’t smoke. Me ’ead’s in me ’eels—me ’ead’s in me ’eels. Get away, you fool.” 1 tried to steady him. 1 tried to make him understand that I was not Pitcher, but Lieutenant Marsh, his oflcer. I asked if there was nothing 1 could do for him. But he looked at me with awful eyes, and cried out that I should not strike.

1 Don’t ’it me, Pitcher, you mug. You can’t ’it me. M e ’ead’s in me ’eels —in me ’eels. Get away. Go an’ ’ang yerself. No, stop. ’Ere’s Kitty. Give us a kiss, girl. No; go away. I’ll wring yer little neck if you come near me. You’re a good girl—a, good girl.

“ ’Ere, Pitcher,” he continued, “take this ’ere and give it to—to ’er, you know, ’er.” He fumbled in his serge pocket and produced a crumpled photograph; a very amateur effort representing himself. “She’s a goo—. ’Ere, find out ’ow the little gun’s goin’ on. I ” But the effort was too much for him, and with a gasp he sank back again, unconscious.

News came in that the gentle Matulus had, so to speak, started a new o\ er, and were blessing the worthy burgers of Blokspruit with their close attentions. Help and food were both required in considerable quantities and quickly. Therefore, to our intense, delight, seeing that we had been in the saddle since sunrise, we were despatched to argue with them, tai.ing with us three pieces of ordnance, which included two excellent machine guns, to assist in the deliberations.

So we sallied forth, a. somewhat mixed force—Limericks, volunteers, and mounted, police—a little over a hundred in all, convoying four large waggons creaking with weevilly provender. Poor Hodgkins’ pet was one

of the machine guns. The men in charge knew their work well; but somehow they were not as Hodgkins—h< had seemed part of the gun—and 1 had a vague, indescribable feeling of something impending. It was not a very high-spirited little army. We had been hard at work aill day, and were tired and sulky. So we plodded on—'the men sleeping in their saddles, the officers cursing under their breath—over 'the sandy, bumpy, ragged trail that led to Blokspruit, thirty miles away. At length the evening wore away and darkness quickly succeeded twilight. Wherefore we had halted and laagered. A laager is a sort of amateur fortress made of your stores and waggons arranged into a rough circle or square, with the guns stuck at convenient corners. We made a nice little laager. Then we knee-haltered the horses outside and proceeded to retire to rest. The gunners, of course, slept handy to their guns. Some of the other men crawled under the waggons to sleep, but I preferred the inky canopy of the heavens. I had made myself comfortable, and was just dozing off, when I heard the sound of hushed and hurried voices to my left. 1 guessed at once what had happened; the vedettes had ridden in, a moment later the “Alert” rang out, and all was at once bustle and business.

You see it was this way. The besiegers of Blokspruit, having been worsted, had wandered forth into the wilderness, and there they had met another small impi, also on pleasure bent, with the news of the despatch of our column. So the two had combined and evolved the excellent idea of seeking us first, and having taken us by surprise, and cut us into small pieces, returning to Blokspruit, there to clinch the matter finally. Their sanguine expectations came near fulfilment, too.

We set to work, and quickly had things shipshape. The men were too tired to show any excitement; beside, their knowledge of the foe was of that intimate description which breeds contempt. Much fuel was added to the fire. We were already discovered, so concealment of any kind was futile; whilst we required all the little light which was obtainable for our own purposes. Each man saw to his rifle, and posted himself at a convenient spot in the barricade. In a few minutes we were quite comfortable and ready for anything. We, in our corner, had no idea of the strength of the enemy nor of their exact whereabouts. Meanwhile sounds of the inevitable war dance, without which no well-conducted battle is considered complete up here, began to reach us.

Suddenly the fun began. A hail of bullets struck the earth into harmless cascades of sand around us, and, with a cheerful yell some eigjit hundred gesticulating figures, looming big and black in the firelight, sprang up seemingly from nowhere all around us. There were no orders given. The bolts snapped greedily, and the men fired at leisure, each picking off his mark with graceful precision. So far the attack was certainly not formidable. Our friends the enemy .were contending themselves with making rushes at seemingly unprotected portions of the laager, striking them wildly with assegai or axe, and then careering headlong back into nothingness. The whole at the expense of great slaughter, from their own rifles as well as ours. This gradually sifted down into a sort of organised attack, whose terrors, however, were more apparent than real, it pressed hardest upon our quarter, but made little headway. We fired no volleys, but aimed to kill. “Baby” Gwynne (who commanded) gave a grunt and dropped the rifle he had borrowed. “It’s only a flesh wound,” he said. But he knew it was not. He knew that he would have to say goodbye to his arm, and to the service. It was that shot that gave me my star six months earlier than 1 expected it. But the work went on, and there seemed every prospect of an easy victory until—our Maxim jammed. It had been doing good work, and the terror of the thing had already begun to demoralise the niggers; but now, as if in obedience to some unseen hand, it suddenly locked fast. The men unshipped bolts and oiled the breech; water was poured upon the casing, and a policeman Was borrowed to lend expert assistance, but all to no purpose. The gun was jammed, and Was as useless for present purposes as a telescope. The enemy, finding the “devil spitter” silent, took heart of grace and renewed the attack upon our corner with added numbers. ’Twas a good omen, they thought. If they could capture the noisy god they might turn his malignant influence upon the white men. We beat them back once, but they came on again and again, killing or wounding one of our men at each rush. I began to feel apprehensive. The salty, sickly smell of blood lay thick around us. The horses, most of whom had been let into the laager as soon as the blacks were scented, were plunging and kicking and sndHing A few of them had been struck, and the steam from their quivering hides rose up in the air. Men lay back and gasped and died Suddenly a horse with an unkempt figure upon its back lurched out of the darkness through the startled horde who were swarming round us and crashed against the barricade. The rider, with a curse, sprang over and rushed towards our gun. It was Hodgkins. His eyes were wide and staring—fixed as if of glass. The bandage was still around his head, but it had slipped, the wound had reopened, and the trickling blood was drying on his face. The horse I recognised as my own mare, Tante. At the. mere touch oi his hand the gun righted herself. I was watching, and I will swear that he never tampered with breech or lock. He touched the belt and she answered, spitting forth a deadly sting. “Get back, ye beggars! Get back!” he shouted to the startled black men. “Ye can’t shoot me. Me ’ead’s in me ’eels—me ’eels—me ’eels!” Kr—kr—kr—kr—kruk—kr—kr—kruk snapped the gun as he swung her round upon the swivel. “Kim up. ole gal,” he cried. “Knockthe bloomin’ beggars out—kill ’em. I ’eard you callin’ direckly you left camp. I noo ’twas you. But Katie was wiv’me an’ I couldn’t leave ’er. But she wen—she went —an’ I came. I ’eard you callin’ an’ I came. An’ me ’ead’s in me ’eels. Yes, ye Godless ’eathen, me ’ead’s in me ’eels, an* ye can’t 'urt me. Ho! Back there. Me an’ little spitfire ’ere are goin’ ter do for every howlin’ mother’s son of ye.” And then he cursed and fought, shooting straight and deadly. The ammunition ran out and he called for more, and, running forward to bring it. Pitcher fell dead with a bullet in his throat almost at the madman’s feet. The men from Limerick, ceasing their fire at every opportunity. crossed themselves, and cast shuddering, furtive glances at the gruesome spectacle. But no one attempted to feed the belt, so Hodgkins did it himself—still shrieking. And then, as he set the gun roaring and hissing

again in company, our good Mother Moon came up from behind the hills, covering the earth and sky with her big, white winding sheet. At the sight of her smiling face we gave a mighty shout, for now we could see to fight in earnest. But for this there was no necessity. The niggers had had enough. Hodgkins and the moon decided them. They declared their innings closed and fled incontinently. The man a» the Maxim remained stark and motionless, firing no shot, but keeping the muzzle directed towards their retreating backs. And when at last, after waiting many minutes for wdrd or sound, we went towards him we found him—dead! The foam was dry upon his lips, and his eyes were dull and glazed. I touched his face and it was icecold. But when I assured the surgeon (not the one who had originally attended him) that but ten minutes previously the man had been alive and fighting he laughed and said that the thing w*as impossible. He Was a clever man, and clever men, aided by cold reason, see only the obvious. The phenomenon of Hodgkins was be-

yond the reach of his understanding-. So he laug-hed. When we tried to wrest the body from the gun we found it gripping- it tightly with a grasp of iron. We looked ujkiii the horrible face. Death had not improved it. Then fear came upon us and we dared not touch the thing, but left it there all night, stiff and straight, kneeling to the gun.