Gil the Gunner - George Manville Fenn (people reading books .TXT) 📗

“You ought by this time to know a jackal.”

I hurried on at once with a sense of shame that was painful, for I felt that Brace would despise me for my cowardice; but we spoke no more for some time, and then he halted as if puzzled and confused.

“We ought to have reached the place before now,” he whispered. “We must have borne off too much to the right or left.”

“What shall we do?” I said, with my lips close to his ear.

“Wait! Listen!”

We stood there with our feet sinking in the soft mud of what I fancied must be a rice-ground; but, save our laboured breathing, there was not a sound. It was a stillness like death.

“I’m a poor guide, Gil,” he said at last; “but we must find it. Shall we try to the right or the left?”

“Better wait a little longer,” I replied. “We must hear some one speak if the place is near.”

“If only one of the horses would whinny,” he muttered.

But the silence was unbroken, and, with the feeling upon me that we might be going farther and farther from the place we sought, I followed him again, still holding tightly by his hand.

For the next hour we struggled on, now wading through mud and water, now feeling some kind of growth brushing against our legs; but when, at the end of that time, we stopped short for a further consideration of our position, it seemed to be hopeless in the extreme.

We listened, but there was not a sound, and at last Brace uttered an impatient ejaculation.

“An utter failure!” he whispered.

“I’m afraid so,” I replied. “We must have wandered off to left or right. Had we not better go back and make a fresh start?”

“How?”

Before he had said that word bitterly, I felt how foolish my remark was, and remained silent.

“My good Gil,” he continued, “I wish we could; it is terrible. I have not the most remote idea which way to turn, and the next thing will be that we shall be found hopelessly bogged at daybreak, and become prisoners, or—”

A shiver ran through me, for there was no need for him to finish his sentence; but there was a feeling of reaction directly.

“Not so bad as that,” I said. “We must find the place somehow. It can’t be so very far away.”

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

The crowing was so close to us that I gave quite a jump, and then stood fast, as from almost above our heads there was the rustle and beating of wings and the querulous cry of a hen, as if fowls were fidgeting somewhere upon a perch, no doubt disturbed by our being so near.

Cock-a-doodle-doo came from a short distance off to our left, and directly after, in response to the challenge, there came the beating of wings from somewhere away in front, and another deeper-voiced crow came through the denser darkness.

“Gil,” whispered Brace—and I felt his hot breath in my ear—“we are close up to the village.”

We stood there with beating hearts, and a feeling of excitement that was almost unbearable growing upon us as, after a little more rustling, the fowls quieted down, and carefully feeling his way with his sword, Brace took a few steps in the direction of the first crowing. Then his sword tapped against wood, and there was a loud cackling from several fowls above our head.

“Hist,” I said.

“No danger,” he said; “they will think it is a jackal disturbing the birds.”

As he spoke, he felt about with his sword, and whispered to me—

“We are in a rough kind of shed supported on bamboo poles. Come on.”

He led the way again past the place that he had first touched with his sword, and we could feel that we were passing over hard beaten ground. Directly after, Brace touched another building, and went on, carefully feeling about, while I fully expected from moment to moment that I should hear a challenge followed by the flash of a piece and its loud report.

“Cottage—door open—empty,” whispered Brace; and he crept on cautiously, to find another place directly, and so on, one after the other, cottage after cottage, the beaten path telling us that we were in a well-frequented place; but the silence was profound, and it soon became evident that we were on the site of the village—if village it was—that was quite deserted.

Brace stopped short, his sword having encountered what he found was a tree trunk, and a little further investigation proved that several more were dotted about.

“We must bear off to the right,” he whispered. “The people deserted the place when the rebels came, and they are quartered on the other side. Come along.”

The words were at my lips to implore him to be careful, but I thought he would think me cowardly, so I followed him as we crept slowly on, passing house after house—mere hovels, most of them, but all open and empty. As we paused before one of these, I whispered—

“Suppose we come upon them suddenly?”

“Keep fast hold of my hand and retreat; the darkness is on our side.”

I said no more, and we kept slowly on past dozens of houses all in the same condition, and either deserted, or with their occupants asleep. Then the buildings ceased as far as we could make out in the darkness, for we came upon trees.

“We must have come right through the village,” whispered Brace. “It is very strange. They would have been sure to set sentries, and we ought to hear the horses stamping or whinnying.”

“Brace!”

“Well?”

“We’ve come to the wrong village.”

“Impossible. There was no other village for many miles,” he whispered angrily. “This is the place, and I saw them here. We’ll follow the houses round from the outside. Forward.”

I followed him, and our previous experience was repeated, with the difference that we kicked against a basket that had been dropped or thrown away as worthless, and soon after, on leaving one of the houses which was larger than those we had before examined, but as utterly silent, there was a click which I took to be the cocking of a musket, and imitated Brace’s movement, for he stooped down, but rose again sharply.

“Feel here,” he whispered, as he let his sword hang from his wrist by the knot, and pressed something into my hand. “What is this?”

“A cavalry sabre,” I said directly, in an excited tone.

“Yes; one of ours. Now am I right, lad? They must be here, and we are pretty close to their quarters. Can you hear the horses?”

I listened attentively, but there was not a sound, and once more we proceeded till one of my feet went down. I stumbled and nearly fell.

“Hurt?” whispered Brace.

“No. I only stepped in a deep rut.”

“Rut?” he said sharply; “where?”

He was down on his knees instantly, feeling with his hands, and I heard him breathe hard.

“Yes, I am right,” he whispered. “That rut was made by the wheels of one of our guns; the cart-marks are distinct. No native cart would have cut into the ground like that. Forward.”

He stepped down with one foot in the crack, and, keeping it there, walked slowly on, making it our guide, while I followed suit with another rut, or series of ruts, a short distance from the first.

“Only to follow them,” he whispered; “and they will lead us right to the wasps’ nest.”

We went on easily enough now, and very cautiously, with the soil growing softer and the ruts more deeply cut, as if several guns had passed along our way. Then I stopped, and went down on one knee to feel the ground.

“What is it?”

“The hoof-marks. They are very deep here,” I said excitedly, as my fingers traced the deep impressions one after the other, and close enough together for me to divine that many horses had passed.

“Well, yes,” he said impatiently; “they are here, of course. I noticed that some were crushed out by the wheel-tracks.”

“Yes,” I cried; “but we are going wrong; the hoof-marks are all coming this way.”