Charge! | Page 5

REAL TROUBLE.
Before my father could reply a body of horsemen cantered up, every man well mounted, rifle in hand, and carrying a cross-belt over his left shoulder fitted with cartridges, bandolier fashion. Their leader, a big, heavily-bearded, fierce-looking fellow, dropped from his saddle, threw the rein to one of his companions, and then swaggered up to us, scanning us with his eyes half-closed, and with a haughty, contemptuous expression in his countenance.
"Ye're John Moray, I suppose?" he said, turning to my father, after looking me up and down in a way I, a hot-blooded and independent lad of eighteen, did not at all like.
"Yes," said my father quietly, "I'm John Moray. Do you want some refreshment for your men and horses?"
"Yes, of course," said our visitor; and I wondered why such a big-bearded, broad-shouldered fellow should speak in so high-pitched a tone. That he was Irish he proved directly; but that excited no surprise, for we were accustomed to offer hospitality to men of various nationalities from time to time--Scots, Finns, Germans, Swedes, and Norwegians--trekking up-country in search of a place to settle on.
"Will you dismount and tie up, then?" said my father; "and we'll see what we can do.--Val, my lad, you will see to the horses having a feed?"
"Yes, father," was on my lips, when the Irish leader turned upon me sharply with:
"Oh, ye're Val--are ye?"
"Yes," I said, rather sharply, for the man's aggressive manner nettled me; "my name is Valentine."
"And is it, now?" he said, with a mocking laugh. "Ye're a penny plain and tuppence coloured, I suppose? Coloured, bedad! Look at his face!"
"I don't see the joke," I said sharply.
"Don't ye, now? Then ye soon will, my fine chap. Let's see, now; how old are ye?"
I made no reply, and my father replied gravely:
"My son is eighteen."
"Is he, now? And ye're forty, I suppose?"
"I am sorry to say I am over fifty," replied my father, as I stood chafing at the man's insolent, bullying tone.
"Then ye don't look it, sor. But there, we'll leave ye alone for a bit. I dare say we can do without ye this time, and take the bhoy."
"What for--where?" said my father quickly.
"What for--where?" cried the man. "For the commando, of course."
"The commando?" said my father, while I felt staggered, only half-grasping the import of his words.
"Yes, sor, the commando. D'ye suppose ye are to have the protection of the State, and do nothing again' your counthry's inimies? If ye do ye're greatly mistaken. Every man must take his turn to difind the counthry, and ye may feel preciously contented that ye don't have to join yerself."
"But I have heard of no rising," said my father, looking at me anxiously. "The blacks all about here are peaceable and friendly."
"Not the blackest blacks, sor," said the man, drawing himself up and raising one hand and his voice in an oratorical way; "the blacks I mane are white-skinned, but black in the heart through and through; the blacks who are the dispisers of progress, the foes of freedom, the inimies of the counthry, sor--the despicable, insolent Saxons."
"Do you mean the English?" said my father coolly.
"I do that, sor," said the man defiantly; "and the day has dawned at last when the down-thrampled Boers are goin' to give them a lesson that shall make the British lion snaik out of this counthry with his tail between his legs like a beaten dog."
"You are a British subject, sir," said my father.
"Mahn, I scorrun it," cried our visitor. "I have thrown off all fealty years ago, and am a free Irishman, and captain of the body of brave men who are going to dhrive the tyranny of England out of this colony for ever."
"This is all news to me, sir," said my father coldly.
"Is it, sor?" said our visitor mockingly. "Then I'm proud to be the bearer of the great news."
"Do you mean to tell me, then," said my father, "that there is war declared by England against the Boers?"
"No, sor," cried the fellow insolently; "but I tell you that we have declared war again' the brutal Saxon."
"We, sir?" said my father gravely. "But you are one of the Queen's servants--an Irishman."
"Nothing of the sort, sor. I disown England; I disowned her when I came out here to throw meself into the arrums of the brave, suffering, pathriotic race around me, and placed my sword at their service."
"Then you are a soldier, I presume?" said my father.
"I was tin years in the arrmy, sor," said our visitor, drawing himself up and clapping his hand upon his chest. "Look at thim," he continued, pointing to his followers drawn up in line. "A part of my following, and as fine irrigular cavalry as ever threw leg over saddle.--Look here, young man, ye're in luck, for ye'll have the