I thought of the malign expression on that cruel white face as it stared in at the window from the outer gloom, and I felt convinced she was right. She had read her man once more. For it was the desperate, contorted face of one appalled to discover that a great crime attempted and successfully carried out has failed, by mere accident, of its central intention.
CHAPTER VIII
THE EPISODE OF THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR HEART
Unfashionable as it is to say so, I am a man of peace. I belong to a profession whose province is to heal, not to destroy. Still there are times which turn even the most peaceful of us perforce into fighters—times when those we love, those we are bound to protect, stand in danger of their lives; and at moments like that, no man can doubt what is his plain duty. The Matabele revolt was one such moment. In a conflict of race we must back our own colour. I do not know whether the natives were justified in rising or not; most likely, yes; for we had stolen their country; but when once they rose, when the security of white women depended upon repelling them, I felt I had no alternative. For Hilda’s sake, for the sake of every woman and child in Salisbury, and in all Rhodesia, I was bound to bear my part in restoring order.
For the immediate future, it is true, we were safe enough in the little town; but we did not know how far the revolt might have spread; we could not tell what had happened at Charter, at Buluwayo, at the outlying stations. The Matabele, perhaps, had risen in force over the whole vast area which was once Lo-Bengula’s country; if so, their first object would certainly be to cut us off from communication with the main body of English settlers at Buluwayo.
“I trust to you, Hilda,” I said, on the day after the massacre at Klaas’s, “to divine for us where these savages are next likely to attack us.”
She cooed at the motherless baby, raising one bent finger, and then turned to me with a white smile. “Then you ask too much of me,” she answered. “Just think what a correct answer would imply! First, a knowledge of these savages’ character; next, a knowledge of their mode of fighting. Can’t you see that only a person who possessed my trick of intuition, and who had also spent years in warfare among the Matabele, would be really able to answer your question?”
“And yet such questions have been answered before now by people far less intuitive than you,” I went on. “Why, I’ve read somewhere how, when the war between Napoleon the First and the Prussians broke out, in 1806, Jomini predicted that the decisive battle of the campaign would be fought near Jena; and near Jena it was fought. Are not you better than many Jominis?”
Hilda tickled the baby’s cheek. “Smile, then, baby, smile!” she said, pouncing one soft finger on a gathering dimple. “And who was your friend Jomini?”
“The greatest military critic and tactician of his age,” I answered. “One of Napoleon’s generals. I fancy he wrote a book, don’t you know—a book on war—Des Grandes Operations Militaires, or something of that sort.”
“Well, there you are, then! That’s just it! Your Jomini, or Hominy, or whatever you call him, not only understood Napoleon’s temperament, but understood war and understood tactics. It was all a question of the lie of the land, and strategy, and so forth. If I had been asked, I could never have answered a quarter as well as Jomini Piccolomini—could I, baby? Jomini would have been worth a good many me’s. There, there, a dear, motherless darling! Why, she crows just as if she hadn’t lost all her family!”
“But, Hilda, we must be serious. I count upon you to help us in this matter. We are still in danger. Even now these Matabele may attack and destroy us.”