“To Captain Lakeman.
“Fort Beaufort, Aug. 31, 1852.
“Sir,—Having submitted your report of the 29th inst., I am directed to convey to you, by desire of the Commander of the Forces, his Excellency’s satisfaction with the constant activity and military energy you have displayed since you have been engaged in the operations in the vicinity of the Water-kloof.
(Signed) “A. J. Cloëte,
Quartermaster-General.”
A native levy of Fingoes was now adjoined to my command. This strengthened my position considerably; but what gave me an absolute power over the native population of the district was an event which occurred concerning some Kaffir prisoners in my camp. It happened thus: While out coursing one day, a short distance from my quarters, I saw a considerable stir there going on, and ultimately a string of men went from thence to a by-path on the ridge of the hill, which led down towards Blinkwater Post. It was evidently an escort of prisoners, and I was greatly exercised by the thought of where these came from, knowing that there were none excepting those in my camp, with whom no one had the right to interfere. I sent a man on horseback to inquire into the matter. He came back and reported that they were the very prisoners in question, and that they were being removed by General N——t’s orders to Fort Beaufort. I galloped immediately back, and told the officer in command of the escort that he could not proceed: these prisoners were mine, and had been taken in an engagement in which none but my own men had been employed. They were also necessary to me for the information they could give as to the whereabouts of the rest of the tribe. After a long and painful interview of more than an hour, the prisoners were taken back to my camp, escorted by my own men. The Fingoes in my new levy, after this act of mine, used to call me “Government,” from, I was told, the fact of their always hearing this word spoken of in relation to her Majesty’s proclamations in the colony, which always began with, “Whereas her Majesty’s Government.” But let the fact be as it may, from that day they were implicit followers of mine.
Johnny Fingo, their chief, was a tall, powerful fellow, who spoke Kaffir perfectly well; and passing himself off as such, used to make excursions among the tribes in revolt, and bring me back most useful information. One day, however, as if to punish me for my hardly just and certainly arrogant act in taking back the prisoners as above related, he led me into a painfully false position. He reported having found out, some seven miles on the other side of Post Reteif, the encampment of the Kaffirs that my night attacks had driven out of the Water-kloof. I proceeded with him and a small escort to the place indicated—a deep kloof in the mountains—and certainly saw a large number of fires therein. On returning we fell in with a small outpost of the enemy, consisting of five men, who were crowded together in a rude hut, dividing among themselves some womanly apparel, evidently the fruits of plunder. Johnny Fingo, in his haste to shoot these poor devils, whom we had stealthily crept upon (having seen their camp-fire a long way off), forgot to put a cap on his rifle, and as the gun only snapped fire as he pulled the trigger, some three or four feet from the head of one of the disputing marauders, he received in return a lunge from an assegai through his thigh. The rest jumped suddenly up, and an indiscriminate mêlée took place. Poor Dix received a fearful crack on the skull from a knobkerrie (he was never perfectly right afterwards); Johnny Fingo got another stab in the legs, and, what affected him still more, his beautiful “Westley-Richards” double-barrelled rifle, which he had obtained Heaven knows how, was irretrievably damaged. His younger brother, a smart lad, had his windpipe nearly torn out by a Kaffir’s teeth. In short, they fought tooth and nail, like so many wild beasts. It was only after we had been all more or less scarred, that two of the five were taken prisoners, the other three not giving in till killed.
I here had an opportunity of observing the utter indifference to physical pain which the black man exhibits. Johnny, although badly wounded and unable to stand, was bemoaning his broken rifle as it lay across his knees; and while I was bandaging his brother’s horribly-lacerated throat, he repeatedly asked me as to the possibility of getting the indented barrels of his rifle rebent to their original shape.
On our return to the camp I immediately set about the preparations for what I considered would be a rather hazardous undertaking—namely, to drive out the Kaffirs from the kloof in which I had lately seen them.
Anxious also to renew my relations with the regulars, after my late mal entendu concerning the disposal of prisoners, I proposed a joint expedition, which was eagerly accepted by Colonel H——d of the Rifle Brigade. Four days afterwards we proceeded to the spot in question, and not a Kaffir was to be seen, and even their traces had been carefully obliterated. I never was more mortified in my life; it looked to me as though I had been attempting something even worse than a stupid practical joke. Colonel H——d was, however, excessively considerate in the matter, and affected to be perfectly satisfied—although but the very faintest marks of the enemy’s passage could be discovered.
The country being now perfectly free for many miles around, I made long patrols to distant parts, coming at times in contact with small parties of the enemy, but too disheartened to make a stand. One night, in returning after a rather longer absence than usual, I found a somewhat large number of Kaffirs assembled in the abandoned village on Mundell’s Peak. I may here mention that, as I always marched the men by night and reposed them by day, many rencontres of this sort occurred—that is to say, that after pursuing the foe for several days, we were often confronted in a manner as surprising to the one as to the other. I placed the men in a straight line from one edge of the peak to the other, ordering them to lie down, and await daylight before opening fire. Stretching myself on the ground, just in front of Sergeant Shelley, I gave, at the break of day, the order to fire; when, directly afterwards, poor Shelley struggled to his feet, and fell back again, groaning fearfully. He was shot through the heels. The ball that effected this came down the line, and evidently from one of our own men—for on either flank there were sudden dips of several hundred feet, which rendered it impossible for a shot from the foe to come from thence.
This cowardly shot, which had been aimed at my own head, the men declared came from Waine. He, however, denied it so stoutly, and no one having seen him actually fire in our direction, I took no overt steps in the matter as to bringing him up for it; but I determined never to take him out again for night service. And on after-thoughts I recollected several unaccountable shots that had passed by me during our nocturnal expeditions; and although I sincerely pitied poor Shelley, I could not help feeling thankful that through the misfortune to him I had got rid of Waine. Shelley eventually recovered sufficiently to go with me to the Crimea, where he died.
The end of Waine was like a judgment upon him, as I shall now attempt to describe. Always left in camp, it was his task to clean the firelocks when the men returned after night expeditions. This he had to do whether any firing took place or not, as the heavy dews rendered the cartridges unreliable for further use if left in the guns. On one occasion a man gave him his firelock to clean, telling him it merely wanted wiping out, as it was unloaded. Waine did this, but could not clear the nipple, and after several attempts he took the weapon back to his owner, telling him of the fact. A cap was then put on, and Waine, holding out his hand, told him to fire, and see for himself. The man pulled the trigger, the gun exploded and blew Waine’s hand to pieces. It appeared that, unwittingly, it had been left loaded. Waine was removed, and shortly afterwards died of lock-jaw.