Chapter Fourteen.
Off to the wars!—Jamieson’s Horse—A bumptious sub—Tom’s first patrol.
Although the Cape government declared war almost immediately after the “palaver” at Block Drift, some considerable time elapsed before the troops received final orders to take the field and enter Caffreland; and the first week of April was nearly over when Captain Jamieson, accompanied by his eldest son, Tom Flinders, and Patrick Keown, and escorted by the Mounted Riflemen in charge of the horses, left Ralfontein to assume command of the volunteers.
In the interval between the captain’s return from Graham’s Town and his departure to join the army, Miss Janet and Mr Weston found time and opportunity to get married, at a Church of England mission chapel forty miles from the farm; so he bade farewell to his family with the consoling assurance that he was leaving them under care of one who now had a relation’s right to comfort them in adversity or defend them in peril.
On the thirty-second anniversary of the battle of Toulouse (Wellington defeated Soult at Toulouse on the 10th April, 1814. It was the final battle of the Peninsular war.) (in which action Donald Jamieson, then sergeant-major of the —th Foot, was severely wounded) the party from Ralfontein arrived at Graham’s Town and handed over the horses to the military authorities; and, having purchased a few articles likely to prove of service during the campaign, they proceeded to join Colonel H. Somerset’s column, encamped at Victoria—a military post which had been recently established on neutral territory between the Kat and Keiskamma Rivers.
The burgher force, of which Captain Jamieson now took command, consisted of about six-score well-armed, well-mounted men; for the most part farmers and their sons from the neighbouring settlements, with a sprinkling of storekeepers and clerks from Graham’s Town and Bathurst. They were hardy, active fellows enough, accustomed to the saddle and the use of the rifle; but—with the exception of a few of the older hands, who had served on “commandos” in former wars—they were as ignorant of drill or military discipline as any civilian in England before the “volunteer movement” had been thought of.
“Shure now, Masther Tom,” observed Patrick Keown, regarding his future comrades (who had mustered and formed up to receive their commandant) with a critical eye, “we have here fornint us the raw matherials for as foine a squadron of Light Horse as there is in Her Majesty’s service. But, bedad, sorr!” he added with a solemn shake of the head, “they’ll take a dale of mixing.”
“Mixing!” laughed Tom. “I should say they’re pretty well mixed as it is. Still, I wager a dollar they know how to ride, and they’ll fight well enough. After all, that’s the main point.”
“They are for work, not for show,” put in young Jamieson.
“True for ye, Misther Frank,” the old sergeant rejoined; “niver-the-less, with your father’s lave, I must tache them to pay attintion to their dhressing and intervals. A loine is a loine, you’ll be plased to remimber, sorr; not a sort of double semicircle.”
Of this irregular corps—which Captain Jamieson formed into two troops—Frank and Tom were appointed officers, with the local and temporary rank of ensign; the lieutenant-governor promising that after they had seen a little service he would recommend their transfer to the Cape Mounted Riflemen as provisional ensigns.
Much to his chagrin, Patrick Keown had scant opportunity of imparting the “ilimints” of drill and discipline to the Albany farmers and townsmen who rode in the ranks of “Jamieson’s Horse;” for three days after he was appointed sergeant-major of that corps the advance against the Caffres commenced.
Early on the morning of the 13th April, the troops marched from Victoria in two columns—one commanded by Colonel Henry Somerset, Cape Mounted Rifles, the other by Colonel Richardson, 7th Dragoon Guards—and crossing the Keiskamma near its junction with Debe River, they, on the 15th, encamped on the Debe Flats, near the base of the “Taban Doda,” or Man Mountain; here the two columns were formed into one division, of which Colonel Somerset assumed command.
At cock-crow on the following day the troops were again on the move; and, the camp having been broken up, they advanced towards the Amatola Mountains. The point at which Colonel Somerset intended to enter the Amatolas was Burns Hill, where there was a large mission station, and near which the great chief Sandilli had his principal kraal.
Shortly before the division was formed up, Captain Jamieson received orders to detail an officer and twenty men of his corps to join a reconnoitring party, under command of Lieutenant B— of the Mounted Rifles. The officer who brought the order was a very young and consequential subaltern of the —th Foot, attached to Colonel Somerset’s staff as galloper. Said he, when he had delivered his message:
“B— has orders to advance towards Burns Hill, and if he finds Sandilli’s kraal deserted, or only held by a small force, he is to occupy it. You’ll be good enough to make your fellows hurry themselves; in affairs like this it is important that no time should be lost.”
“They shall be in the saddle in ten minutes,” the captain replied. “I hear the mission station has been destroyed,” he added. “Is that so?”
“Yes, but the missionaries and their people bolted, and are now at Graham’s Town,” was the reply.
“Should all go well, we shall encamp at Burns Hill this evening, and there await the arrival of Major Sutton’s ‘commando’ of Hottentots from the Kat River. If he joins us to-night, no doubt we shall be at it ‘hammer and tongs’ to-morrow—or next day at the latest.”
“I trust we shall soon bring the Caffres to reason,” Captain Jamieson answered, with something like a sigh. “These oft-recurring little wars must inevitably ruin the country, for they paralyse every industry and trade; besides, the destruction of life and property is simply appalling.”
“I’m afraid we military men think more of ‘medals, rank, ribbons,’ etc, than of trade, industry, or even life and property,” was the flippant rejoinder. “Of course that is the soldier’s point of view; but you amateurs—”
“Amateurs!” exclaimed Tom, boiling over at hearing his “chief” thus designated. “Coxy young—”
“I am scarcely an amateur,” Captain Jamieson interrupted, frowning at Tom to make him hold his tongue. “Allow me to tell you, young gentleman, that I was present at the passage of the Douro, and saw the last shot of the Peninsular war fired at Toulouse. I presume you have heard of the Peninsula?”
“Eh! Peninsula! Oh, yes. I—I—beg pardon, I’m sure!—thought you—you were a—a—a civilian, you know. Very sorry—quite a mistake—Good—good morning!” stammered the ensign turning as red as his shell-jacket. And off he cantered, muttering to himself, “Doosid awkward! Put my foot into it, by George! Hope our fellows won’t hear about it.”
But “our fellows” did hear of it, and the bumptious youth got unmercifully chaffed in consequence; which he most thoroughly deserved, and which, no doubt, did him a vast deal of good.
After a brief consultation with Patrick Keown, Captain Jamieson decided to send Tom Flinders in command of the detachment; so, twenty minutes later, our hero found himself cantering over the Flats at the head of a score of well-armed volunteers. Each man of the detachment was armed with a double-barrelled rifle, hunting-knife, and horse-pistol, and carried a “cross-bag” (after the manner of Dutch burghers when on the “war-path”) containing a supply of moss-biscuit and biltong, sufficient to last for several days. Moss-biscuit, we may add for the information of our readers, is a light, dry biscuit made of fine flour mixed with “mosto,” the unfermented juice of the grape; it will keep good for almost any length of time, and is both portable and nutritious.
Lieutenant B—, who commanded the reconnoitring party, was a right good fellow, and Tom soon became friends with him.
B— had been some years in the Mounted Rifles, and was considered one of the smartest officers in that corps; he was also an enthusiastic sportsman—just the man that a lad of Tom’s age and disposition could look up to, and at the same time be on terms of good fellowship with.
“Were you in the ‘C.M.R.’ with my father?” asked Tom, as they rode side by side; having slackened pace in order to breathe the horses, for they had been “putting on the steam” since they left camp.
“No; but I have often met him. The Major, I think, retired in ’29, and I did not get my commission until ’35; just about the time Hintza was killed. You will remember that business, I daresay.”
“Can’t say I remember it, for I was quite a youngster at the time; only just ‘breeched’ in fact,” Tom replied, “but I have heard the pater mention it. Hintza was shot when attempting to escape, was he not?”
“Yes; when a prisoner on parole.”
“I should like to hear about it,” said Tom, who dearly loved a yarn.
“Well,” replied his companion; “it is rather a long story, but I can tell you the main facts, for I was one of those who pursued him. In May, 1835, Hintza, the paramount Chief of Caffreland, was a prisoner in the British camp, and, for his sins, had been sentenced to pay a fine of 50,000 head of cattle. This fine he expressed himself willing to pay, if he were allowed to return to his own country to superintend the collection of the cattle. At first the governor would not listen to this, but after a lot of palaver and negotiation, it was arranged that Hintza should be permitted to go, under a strong escort; his son Kreilli and his uncle Bookoo being retained as hostages in the British camp.
“An old Rifle Brigadesman, General Sir Harry Smith, was selected to command the escort; which consisted of both horse and foot, regulars and irregulars, but no artillery. I was then serving in the ‘Guides’ corps as a volunteer, and was one of those appointed to the general’s body-guard.
“Well, the column left the head-quarter camp on the banks of the Kei, and advanced into Caffreland by forced marches. Hintza was treated as a sort of a prisoner at large, and usually rode with the general; he was splendidly mounted, and had been permitted to retain his arms—the usual bundle of seven assegais.
“On the fourth morning after leaving the camp, the column reached the summit of a table-topped mountain. We now had a splendid view of the country beyond the Bashee River, and to our surprise, saw thousands and thousands of cattle being driven away from us.
“This circumstance somewhat staggered us, and Sir Harry was examining the retreating masses through his field-glass, when suddenly somebody shouted, ‘Hintza has bolted!’
“On hearing the cry, Sir Harry dropped his glasses and, putting spurs to his charger, raced after the fugitive, who had got a start of fifty or sixty yards. We, of course, joined in the chase, but the general soon distanced us, and, overtaking the chief, ordered him to pull up; whereupon Hintza made a stab at him with his bundle of assegais.
“Sir Harry parried the thrust, and drawing a pistol threatened to shoot the chief, if he did not immediately surrender. Hintza replied by making another attempt to stab him, so Sir Harry fired, but without effect.
“Thousands of Caffres were now to be seen crowning the hills in all directions, and towards them Hintza rode for dear life. Once more Sir Harry dashed up to him, and, seizing him by his tiger-skin kaross, hurled him to the ground; but the impetus of his gallop carried him past the fallen chief, who was on his legs in an instant, and off down the precipitous side of the mountain.
“By this time four of the Guides, who had joined in the chase, came up, and jumping from their horses, followed the fugitive on foot; these four were S—y, D—r, B—r and myself. I sent two shots after the flying chief, both of which went wide of their mark; he then gained the bush at the foot of the hill, and disappeared from sight.
“S—y and B—r now entered the bush from above, and D—r and I (who were further down the hill) from below; and, working towards one another, we presently closed in upon our human quarry, S—y being the first to come upon him.
“Hintza was then standing up to his middle in a narrow stream, which ran through the bush, beneath a shelving rock; and when he caught sight of S—y he drew an assegai, and poised it. Nothing daunted S—y approached and called upon him to surrender, whereupon the Caffre threw back his right arm and was in the act of hurling the assegai at his pursuer, when the latter, seeing that he must either kill or be killed, levelled his rifle and fired. His ball struck the fugitive right in the centre of the forehead, and throwing up his hands, he fell backwards against a rock. We rushed in and lifted him up, but the rifle-ball had done its work, and Hintza, the powerful Chief of Caffraria, had gone to his last account.”
“Serve the treacherous scoundrel right!” exclaimed Tom, when the lieutenant came to the end—the tragical end—of his narrative. “Had he got the escort into his power not one of you would have lived to tell the tale. I suppose that was what he was aiming at?”
“No doubt of it; his purpose was to entice us into the heart of his country, and then surround us with an overwhelming force,” rejoined Mr B—. “He played a bold game, and lost it! Still we were, one and all, from the general downwards, sorry for his untimely death; and nobody more so than the man who shot him. And now, Flinders, I think you had better ride with your troop, for yonder is Burns Hill. The mission station lies to the right, and Sandilli’s kraal is a little beyond it.”
In another ten minutes they came in sight of the mission station, and B— galloped forward to join his advanced files.
“Keep your fellows well in hand,” said he to Tom, before riding off; “and be ready to support me if necessary. From the fact that the houses and chapel are still standing, I am inclined to think that Sandilli intends to hold his ground.”
Mr B—, however, was mistaken, for on approaching, with every precaution, Burns Hill, he found that both the mission station and the chief’s kraal were deserted; but though the former was not burned down (as had been reported), every house had been ransacked, and broken furniture, papers, school-books, Bibles, and many other articles lay scattered in all directions.
“Verily, the Caffre is a destructive animal!” cried Tom, when he rode up and surveyed the scene. “His bump of mischief must be strongly developed.”
“A European mob would commit quite as much damage, if in the mood,” Lieutenant B— answered. “I don’t think there would be much to choose between Santerre’s ‘sans culottes,’ and Sandilli’s ‘amadodas.’ But behold our only trophy!” he added, holding up a couple of lions’ tails. “Sergeant Jackson found them at the entrance of the chief’s hut.”
“What are they?” asked Tom. “Chamboks?” (A peculiar kind of thonged whip.)
“Chamboks! no indeed; they’re the Caffre emblems of royalty.”
Towards noon the division reached Burns Hill, and encamped near the mission station, and shortly afterwards Major Sutton’s “commando” marched up, and formed a separate camp on the other side of the Keiskamma River. So when the tired soldiers lay down to rest that night it was pretty well understood that there would probably be warm work on the morrow.