Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion

by G. Hamilton-Browne

I shouted back, and my voice carried far in those days: “You whose head is fit to be boiled” (the most awful insult in the Maori tongue), “thou at least shalt not partake of the feast; go feed on the spirits of your fathers.” The old sneider carbine, though laughed at nowadays, was true up to 300 yards, and the Maori was not more than 200 yards from me. He had just begun to make some nasty, uncalled-for remarks when I proved the correctness of my prophecy to him, by dropping him in his tracks, thereby cutting short what might have been a most eloquent oration.

A wild yell with a wilder volley answered my shot, and the line made a kokiri (short charge) in my direction. I only lingered long enough to shout in Maori, “I have caught the first man” (a most important and lucky omen in Maori warfare), then turned and cantered away out of rifle-range, as it would never do to have my horse wounded.

It was high time I should put on my considering cap and think out the situation and my future movements. It would have been far more to my advantage had they followed me in a straggling mob, as then I could have picked off the leaders, and it would have denoted anxiety, on their part, lest I should find some possible crossing by which I could escape; but the quiet, methodical way they were going about their business showed me that they considered my chance of getting away was nil, and that they had made up their minds to risk nothing, that the gullies could not be crossed, so that their intention was to drive me before them to the river’s bank, and hive me there at their own convenience, the river being uncrossable.

But halt! Was the river uncrossable? I knew it to be a very dangerous one, even for such swimmers as my horse and self, who together had crossed many a bad river before; but I was also aware that the natives’ great dread of it was caused by superstitious nervousness, just as much as it was caused by its actual dangers. Of course there were very many parts of it quite impossible, but perhaps I might find a place where a determined attempt would have a chance of success. Anyhow I would go and have a look at it.

The river was not more than three miles from me and I cantered steadily towards it, so as not to tire my horse, but still give me time to examine the banks and select the best places to enter, and get out of it, provided I should make up my mind to risk the crossing.

It did not take me long to reach the bank, and I rode along it from one gully to the other. Both of these ran down to the water’s edge, and the bank of the river near both of them was fully twenty feet high, and perpendicular; but half-way between them was a natural depression in the plain, that ran at a gentle slope down to the bank, where it was only four or five feet above the water, which was very deep right up to the bank. This depression slanted upstream, a point in my favour, and this was evidently the place I must take-off from.

The river was indeed a noble one, quite 200 yards broad, and evidently of great depth. Its enormous volume of water, forcing itself along, confined by the high banks, reminded me of a big fat boy buttoned up tight in a suit of clothes far too small for him, wriggling and writhing about, trying to make them more comfortable.

I next turned my attention to the other side, to see if I could spot a place up which we could scramble. The far bank, though lower than the one I was on, was still very steep, and I knew there must be a great depth of water under it; but some 200 yards downstream the land ran out to a point, and there was just the possibility of my horse finding footing there. The current also seemed to set from my side of the river towards this point, and if so it would help me enormously. I tested this by tearing off a branch from a bush and throwing it in, when I saw it rapidly swept towards the spot I hoped to make. The rate at which it was carried also gave me some idea of the tremendous rush of water, the surface of which seemed to writhe and winkle as if in mortal anguish, while the numerous whirlpools informed me what a furious undertow there must be.

Great was the risk we should run in attempting to cross, yet under the circumstances I determined to run it. I felt certain I was not going under that day, and anyhow a clean death in the sweet, cool water of the river was far preferable to being turned into long pig by my brutal pursuers. Then again they might kill my horse and catch me with sufficient life remaining in me to make it worth their trouble to torture it out of me. No fear, I wanted none of that; the river was my dart, especially as my old nurse had always assured me of quite another kind of death than drowning, and, sure, she was known in my part of the world as a knowledgable woman.

The few minutes I had sat and watched the stream at the taking-off place, I had talked to and explained matters to my glorious horse. What’s that you say? a horse can’t understand you? Rot! you taxi-cab, motor-busing new chum. A horse you have treated as a pal, and not as a slave, will understand any simple matter you explain to him, far better than the ordinary Englishman can understand the beauties of tariff reform. Bear that in mind, you mud-splashing, dust-creating greenhorn, if you ever want to become worth your salt on the frontier. Anyhow, my horse understood me, and I rode up to the plain again.