They
were huddled together within a couple of yards of where we
lay. It was a horrible sight. Two out of the three mules,
and Samson's horse, had been attacked by the wolves. The
flanks of the horse were terribly torn, and the entrails of
both the mules were partially hanging out. Though all three
were still standing with their backs arched, they were
rapidly dying from loss of blood. My dear little '
Strawberry' - as we called him to match William's 'Cream' and
my mare were both intact.
A few days after this, Samson's remaining horse gave out. I
had to surrender what remained of my poor beast in order to
get my companion through. The last fifty miles of the
journey I performed on foot; sometimes carrying my rifle to
relieve the staggering little mule of a few pounds extra
weight. At long last the Dalles hove in sight. And our cry,
'The tents! the tents!' echoed the joyous 'Thalassa!
Thalassa!' of the weary Greeks.
CHAPTER XXIX
'WHERE is the tent of the commanding officer?' I asked of the
first soldier I came across.
He pointed to one on the hillside. 'Ags for Major Dooker,'
was the Dutch-accented answer.
Bidding Samson stay where he was, I made my way as directed.
A middle-aged officer in undress uniform was sitting on an
empty packing-case in front of his tent, whittling a piece of
its wood.
'Pray sir,' said I in my best Louis Quatorze manner, 'have I
the pleasure of speaking to Major Dooker?'
'Tucker, sir. And who the devil are you?'
Let me describe what the Major saw: A man wasted by
starvation to skin and bone, blackened, almost, by months of
exposure to scorching suns; clad in the shreds of what had
once been a shirt, torn by every kind of convict labour,
stained by mud and the sweat and sores of mules; the rags of
a shooting coat to match; no head covering; hands festering
with sores, and which for weeks had not touched water - if
they could avoid it. Such an object, in short, as the genius
of a Phil May could alone have depicted as the most repulsive
object he could imagine.
'Who the devil are you?'
'An English gentleman, sir, travelling for pleasure.'
He smiled. 'You look more like a wild beast.'
'I am quite tame, sir, I assure you - could even eat out of
your hand if I had a chance.'
'Is your name Coke?'
'Yes,' was my amazed reply.
'Then come with me - I will show you something that may
surprise you.'
I followed him to a neighbouring tent. He drew aside the
flap of it, and there on his blanket lay Fred Calthorpe,
snoring in perfect bliss.
Our greetings were less restrained than our parting had been.
