I was close to the end of the bad part; so, pressing my horse on to the firm ground, dismounted, and led him back to the place of the catastrophe. Peering over, I could see nothing, so shouted: “Steve, are you much hurt?”
The answer came back and there was an exultant ring in the voice: “The brandy is quite safe.”
“D—- the brandy! Are you much hurt?”
A mournful reply came back: “Poor Darkie [his horse] is dead.”
“But yourself?”
“Oh, I’ve only broken my leg,” was the answer, given in a tone of the most utter indifference; “I’m all right.”
“Is your head well above water, and can you hang on till I get help from the fort?”
“Oh yes; I’m all right.”
So I told him to open one of the bottles and have a nip when he felt he required it, then led my horse to the firm ground, mounted and rode back to Tarawera at a gallop.
On my return with a party of troopers, ropes and torches, it took us a long time to extricate the poor fellow from his dangerous position, and he must have suffered great agony in being hauled up the steep bank of shifting shale; but at last we managed it, and got him back to the fort, where he soon become convalescent, his only regret, which was very deep—viz. the loss of his horse—being tempered by the fact that he had saved the brandy which had been entrusted to him. As for his own severe and painful injury, he cared nothing: it was certainly a nuisance; but it came in the day’s march, and, as there was no fighting going on at the time, was not to be grumbled at.