Now, judging by the foregoing account of the battle of the Tugela—which it must be remembered has been extracted, word for word, from a history written by a knowledgeable gentleman of undoubted veracity, who not only knew the survivors of the action, but had heard the yarn from their own lips, and that the story told me by the old trader who also had been acquainted with the majority of the men composing the English army, he being a full-grown boy at the time, and resident in Port Natal, coincided and agreed with Mr Moodie’s narrative in all the principal details—I think I am not far wrong when I assert that the battle of the Tugela was a scrumptious one, in which every man engaged must have enjoyed himself to the utmost of his ability, and no one could subsequently grumble at not getting his fair share of the fighting. Yet when you come to consider the numbers and equipment of that invading force, and compare them with the resources at Lord Chelmsford’s disposal when he began to play the same game, just forty years afterwards, and which were then declared to be inadequate, you are forced to come to the conclusion that Cane and his Lost Legionaries were a bit over-venturesome. For looking back at my own experience in the Legion, I do not think I could ever have found twenty men daring enough to undertake the same contract, and I am quite certain that, even had the men been willing, I individually should never have possessed sufficient pluck to have bossed the show.
The story of Cane and his daring companions, unheard of in England, is, I fear, being rapidly forgotten in South Africa, but should any patriotic Natalian with imperialistic convictions wish to perpetuate the memory of those gallant adventurers, who, in despite of Boers, savages, the devil, and the gasbags of Downing Street, formed the advance guard of the settlers in his lovely country, and see fit to raise a subscription to build a cairn in commemoration of the pluck, or call it foolhardiness—if you like—of the first army of Natal, I, poor old sinner as I am, will gladly plank down my mite. Yes, by gad! I will, even if I have to forgo my baccy for a month to raise the oof. For, by the great gun of Athlone! those men were men, and died like men, and may the British Empire never run short of Lost Legionaries of like kidney!
And now, before the call of “lights out” is sounded, let me relate briefly another deed of daring, performed by one of the old-time Natal settlers, and as I am not writing a history of Natal, but only recounting a few well-authenticated facts of heroic bravery, carried through by a handful of Lost Legionaries, it will suffice to remind my reader that Port Natal was occupied for the first time by British regular troops in May 1842, when Captain Smith (27th Regiment), with 200 men and two field pieces, arrived there. He at once entrenched himself on the flat ground near where the city of Durban now stands, in which camp he was speedily surrounded, and cooped up by an overwhelming number of trek Boers. This rendered it absolutely necessary for the beleaguered O.C. to communicate with his superiors at the Cape, so as to warn them of his dangerous position, and to request immediate reinforcements. But how to communicate was the problem that required solving, and it was solved, thanks to the devotion and undauntable courage of one of the early settlers, who promptly volunteered to carry the despatch.
Now despatch-carrying during war-time is by no means a salutary occupation, even when the distance is short, and the country over which it has to be carried is open, with decent roads. What then is the said duty to be called, when the bearer has to traverse a distance of 600 miles, through thick bush, dangerous swamps, rugged mountains, and across innumerable rivers, very many of which have to be negotiated by swimming. Also please bear in mind that this delectable country through which the orderly must travel swarmed with hostile tribes, and was infested with wild animals, such as lions, leopards, elephants, etc. Troth, I call such a contract a decidedly unhealthy one. Yet such was the nature of the road Richard King had to travel alone, and bedad! he did it so successfully, for after being ferried across the harbour with two horses, on the night of the 25th May 1842, he slipped past the Boer pickets, and overcoming all the difficulties, and passing through all the manifold dangers met with on the journey, he delivered his despatches ten days after his start.
I regret exceedingly I am unable to recount the details of that wonderful feat of skill, pluck and endurance, although I was told them by one of King’s relatives, nor am I aware that the yarn has ever been written; for I remember, having done a bit of despatch-riding myself, how much I was entranced by the narrative, and have always considered Richard King’s exploit to be a record worthy to be treasured in the annals of the “Legion that never was listed,” and I am sure that most of my readers will allow I am right when I again assert “there were giants on the earth in those days.”
CHAPTER II
A QUEER CARD
Yes, you are quite right in saying that there must have been many queer as well as hard cases in South Africa during the seventies and eighties of the last century. Some of these I met, and knew well, and if I had been asked, during that period, to assign the biscuit to anyone of them in particular, I should without hesitation have handed it to one whom I shall call Mad Conway: a sobriquet he had earned by his wild pranks and escapades. As I said, this was not his name, but anyone who resided either in Kimberley, Free State or Transvaal, during those years, will at once recognise who is hereby designated, or at all events will do so when they have read a few lines further. Now Mad Conway had also another nickname, as he was likewise called, especially by the Boers, Vrei Stadt Conway; the prefix having been earned by his numerous deeds of reckless gallantry, performed while fighting for the Free State against the Basutos, during the war of 1865-1868. Yes; Mad Conway was a caution, and in his own line of business stood out unique. Let me describe him, and recount a few incidents in his wild career.
To begin with, he was a cadet of a fine old English county family, some of the members of which were celebrated in the world of English sport during the early part of the nineteenth century, and whose name, like that of Osbaldistone, is still treasured by all true votaries of Diana. Well, Conway in no way disgraced the family reputation as a horseman, he being one of the very best I have ever seen, and would, provided his lot had been cast in the shires, have gained a place in sporting song and story as well as his ancestors. After having been sent home from Eton for some mad escapade, he joined a crack cavalry corps, and had to send in his papers, owing to his having mistaken his colonel’s pet charger for a horse belonging to a newly joined cornet. Now this charger was held as sacred in the corps as the mares of Mahomet were held by the Moslems, but Conway, after a heavy night in the mess, converted it, with considerable artistic taste and skill, and a couple of pots of paint, into a zebra.