Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion

by G. Hamilton-Browne

Having given you a rough idea how things stood with our men on the afternoon of the 7th (please remember the date), I will now start the yarn.

It was late in the afternoon when Captain Roberts began his retreat, pursued by a party of Hau Haus. His men, nearly all new chums, behaved badly; but with a few good men, and the friendly natives who had joined him, he kept the enemy at bay till nightfall, when they drew off.

Now among his party he had a man named Dore, one of the Wellington Rangers, and a new chum.

This poor fellow had his arm, just below the shoulder, smashed to pieces by a bullet, fell, fainted from loss of blood, and was abandoned.

When he came to, he found himself stripped of everything, with the exception of his tattered and blood-stained shirt.

He must have been discovered by the pursuing Hau Haus, who had evidently thought him dead, but who, although they stripped him, forbore to tomahawk him or mutilate his body. This in itself was a marvel, and shows that that sweet little cherub must have taken his case in hand, as, with one other exception, the Hau Haus were never known to omit tomahawking and mutilating a dead body.

The poor chap hid in a hollow rata-tree, and when it was quite dark attempted to find his way back to camp. He, however, was a new chum, knew nothing of bush work, and consequently lost his way, wandering in a circle, and always returning to the vicinity of the blood-stained pah and ferocious Hau Haus. This he continued to do for three days; but on the evening of the 10th he managed to get out of the bush into the open country, and made for the camp. All this time he had been without a bite of food, with a severe raw wound, with only the fragment of a shirt to protect him against the icy-cold sleet and frost, and although all that time in the close vicinity of the Hau Hau pah, he miraculously escaped being spotted.

As I said before, on the evening of the 10th he found himself in the open country, and struck out for the drift across the flooded Waingongora River. He remembered reaching it, then lost recollection. How he crossed that drift, a very bad one even for a strong and healthy man to tackle alone, is more than a miracle; but he always asserted he was fired on while doing so, and fainted on reaching the bank.

Here he was only two miles from the camp; but his mind became a blank, for he wandered about till the evening of the 12th, when he was discovered by a patrol, coming out of a clump of bush, and he was brought into camp.

Now, just consider for a moment what this man Dore went through, and what awful dangers he escaped. Badly wounded and found by the most savage fanatics on the earth, yet, against their custom, they neither tomahawk nor mutilate him. Then he wanders for over five days, through bitter frost and cold, with an open and untended wound; he escapes the notice of the enemy, crosses, while weak from the loss of blood, starvation and pain, a most dangerous river, and yet, when brought into camp, his wound heals long before those of men who are not nearly so badly hurt, and who have not been through his awful experiences. You may call it luck. I maintain it was the work of that sweet little cherub, who, for his own reasons, “bossed up the whole show!”