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Dead Man's Land: Being the Voyage to Zimbambangwe of certain and uncertain, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 13. "Don't Wake The Wrong Man" |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTEEN. "DON'T WAKE THE WRONG MAN" "What are you laughing at, Buck?" "You, sir," cried the man. "You'll get more used to our noises in time." "Then it's that horrible brute of a hyaena again. What a doleful howl! Sounds just as if it was crying after its mother." "But that isn't it, sir. He's howling after his supper." A short time after Mark caught sight of the doctor approaching, grasped the sign he gave him, sprang up, and went to the waggon for his rifle, which he carefully loaded, and then began his solitary watch, which seemed less wearisome on this occasion as he paraded to and fro and round and round in the silence of the sleeping camp. Every now and then he heard some startling sound, and ever and anon he listened to the hyaena's wail, turning at times into what sounded like a mocking laugh. Now and again too there was a cracked trumpet-like cry from the river, but neither was this startling, as he had learned to know it as the call of some night-hunting stork or crane. Once or twice his finger went to the trigger of his piece involuntarily, for it seemed to him that the loathsome animal that had hung about the camp was creeping closer in search of food; but the fire just then sprang up as the result of more fuel being thrown upon it, scaring away the foul beast, for after a few words with the Hottentot and the foreloper before they went back to their shelter beneath the leading waggon, he heard the hyaena no more. The next event that enlivened the wearisome watch was a visit from the doctor, to whom the lad made his report, which was followed by a short chat. "You won't be sorry to be relieved, Mark, my boy," he said. "You remember, of course, that Peter Dance is to relieve you, so don't wake the wrong man." "I shan't make any mistake," replied Mark confidently; and then he was alone once more, taking a turn or two about the camp, listening to the night cries again, and enjoying the confidence given to him by the knowledge that there was nothing in them that he need fear. For the most part he kept to one particular spot, where he could stand and listen, at the same time keeping his eyes fixed upon the glowing fire, comforted as it were by its social, friendly look as of a companion which he could trust to ward off danger; and when he felt disposed he could walk up to it near enough to let its light fall upon the strong silver hunting watch whose case flew open at the pressure upon the spring, perhaps not so often as might have happened under the circumstances. Somehow a sleeper accustomed to a certain duty is ruled by some natural impulse to awaken almost to a minute if in the habit of rising to perform that task, and here Mark roused himself from a train of dreamy thought to make another journey towards the fire and bend down to look at his watch. "Hurrah!" he said to himself. "Ten minutes to two. Just time to throw on some wood, and rouse up old Peter." He stood to listen for a minute or two, and then caught up one of the rough armfuls of wood laid ready for the purpose, threw it on the fire, and then hurried to the men's waggon and roused the keeper. "Who is it? You, Mr Mark, sir?" "Yes. Jump up." "Where did you hear 'em?" said the man. "In the long coppice, or down by the ten acres?" "Hear whom?" said Mark. "Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. I was dreaming that I was at home and that you had come to tell me that you had heard poachers. All right, sir," said the man, creeping into the shadow after getting his rifle. "You've got the fire going, then?" "Yes, but you had better throw on another armful soon." "Oh, yes, sir; all right. All been quiet?" "Yes, except that howling brute; but I haven't heard him for the last hour. You are quite awake, aren't you?" "Awake, sir? Oh, yes," said the man, shouldering his piece and walking beside his young master to the other waggon. "Good-night," said Mark. "I can hardly keep my eyes open now." "Same here," muttered the man, as Mark climbed to his resting-place, so heavily assailed by sleep that he was hardly conscious of his words. Then all was silent but for the heavy breathing of the sleepers and an occasional stamp from one of the picketed ponies. _ |
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