Chapter Sixteen.
The attack on the escort—Fifty to one!—A deed of “Derrin’ do”—Arrival at the camp—Bad news.
The most direct route from the Chumie Hoek to the Burns Hill mission station led along the valley up which Campbell’s infantry column had fought its way that morning; through the gorge of the Amatola Basin, then across a branch of the Keiskamma River, and so on to the camp. A cattle “trek” passed through the valley; but it was ill-defined and difficult to follow, being intersected at frequent intervals by spruits and gulches, and in many parts entirely obliterated by thick patches of “bosch,” huge boulders, and tangled masses of “waght-en-beetje,” or “wait-a-bit” thorn. The march of the column was, however, only too clearly marked by the sad traces of the morning’s bloody fray; for here and there lay the mutilated corpses of the poor soldiers who had fallen in the fight, presenting a ghastly spectacle, stripped as they were of their uniform, and gashed and hacked beyond all recognition.
Along this rough cattle-track the escort proceeded at a smart canter, both officers and men keeping a sharp look-out, as the track was commanded by projecting spurs and bluffs where hundreds of the enemy might be lurking, ready to pounce down upon and annihilate an isolated body of troops. Tom Flinders, with the four Burgher horsemen and two troopers of the Mounted Rifles, rode twenty horse-lengths in advance; then came the main body of the escort in “half-sections,” with “flankers” thrown out on either hand; and Frank Jamieson, with a non-commissioned officer and four troopers, brought up the rear.
In this order they rode for a considerable distance without seeing a solitary Caffre; and they were beginning to hope that the enemy had really retired far away into the surrounding hills, and that they would reach their destination without having to fight their way through a horde of bloodthirsty savages, when one of the Kat River men caught Tom Flinders by the arm, and, pointing to some huge boulders that lay a few yards to the right of the track, exclaimed: “Oh, mynheer! there are the Caffres!” And Tom, looking in the direction indicated, descried the woolly heads of several dusky warriors who were lying in ambush behind the rocks.
Seeing that they were detected, these Caffres at once sprang up from their hiding-place, and, with their old-fashioned flint-lock muskets and fowling-pieces (which were mostly loaded with small bullets cast out of zinc or pewter stolen probably from the neighbouring farm-houses), commenced a hot but ill-directed fusillade on the escort; whereupon Lieutenant S—, the officer in command, at once called in his rear files, and the whole party, bending low in their saddles to avoid as much as possible the leaden shower, dashed past the rocks at racing pace. But hardly had they run the gauntlet of this ambuscade when numbers of the enemy came leaping down from the wooded slopes of the valley, and, forming across the track, opened fire at about thirty paces’ distance.
Coolly as if on parade, Lieutenant S— halted his men and wheeled them into line. “We must cut our way through those fellows,” said he as he fitted fresh caps to his double-barrel. (When in action most of the officers of the C.M. Riflemen carried double-barrelled sporting rifles.) “But first we’ll give them a volley. Take it quietly, my lads, and don’t throw a shot away if you can help it.” The volley was delivered—somewhat hastily, it must be confessed, though not altogether without effect, for several of the Caffres fell before it.
Then, bursting over the rough ground that intervened between them and their enemy, the little band of horsemen charged down upon the yelling, surging horde. The majority of the Caffres broke before this gallant charge, scattering right and left to take refuge in the bush and amongst the rocks; but many stood their ground bravely.
Then for the space of six or seven minutes there ensued a regular mêlée; the troopers, urging forward their half-maddened steeds, wielded their sabres right manfully, and slashed and thrust at their opponents, who in their turn offered a stubborn resistance, striving to drag the soldiers from their saddles, and stabbing furiously at the horses’ bellies as they were ridden down; until at length the escort cut their way right through “the black shining wall of human flesh,” and rode onwards at a swinging canter.
Tom Flinders—who had borne himself in the mêlée as gallantly as any veteran sabreur—was one of the last to get clear through; and he was racing to catch up his comrades when he heard a voice shout out: “Tom! Tom Flinders! for Heaven’s sake don’t leave me!” He at once turned in his saddle, and to his horror saw Frank Jamieson standing across the body of his gallant “mooi paard,” (grey horse) and defending himself against half a dozen Caffres, who were attacking him with their assegais.
Wheeling his horse round like lightning, Tom galloped to the rescue of his friend, and swooping down upon the group rode clean over two of the Caffres, knocking them right and left like nine-pins. A third—a herculean warrior, whose leopard-skin kaross bespoke the chief—sprang at his horse’s head and clung to the bridle; but the brave lad, rising in his stirrups, threw all his strength into one downward cut, and the big chief, cloven clean through the brain-pan, fell beneath the horse’s feet.
“Well done, young Flinders!” cried a cheery voice—“well done, my boy!” And the next moment Lieutenant S— dashed up and put to flight the other Caffres, just as they were on the point of assegaiing Frank Jamieson, whose sword had broken short off at the hilt, leaving him entirely at the mercy of his assailants.
“Jump up behind me, Jamieson,” Mr S— said as the Caffres made off, “and let us get out of this before those savages come on again. I’ve had enough fighting for one day! Now, Flinders, ride for your very life!”
And Frank, being safely mounted en croupe, they rode at full speed after their comrades, who, not perceiving their absence, had galloped on and were now nearly a quarter of a mile ahead. Fortunately, however, the Caffres did not follow in pursuit; so they rejoined their friends without further misadventure.
An hour later the escort arrived safely at Burns Hill...
When the staff-officer delivered his despatch to the camp commandant he learned, to his astonishment, that the troops left behind at Burns Hill had been hotly engaged with the enemy, who early in the day had attacked the camp, and, though finally repulsed with heavy loss, had succeeded in carrying off a number of draught cattle.
In the hope of recapturing these cattle, a troop of the 7th Dragoon Guards under Captain Bambric (a fine old officer who had fought at the battle of Waterloo), and a strong party of the Cape Mounted Riflemen under Lieutenant Boyes, had followed the daring Caffres into the bush, but, being attacked at a disadvantage by a vastly superior force, they had been compelled to retire, leaving their veteran leader mort sur le champ de bataille.