“I am scarcely an amateur,” Captain Jamieson interrupted, frowning at Tom to make him hold his tongue. “Allow me to tell you, young gentleman, that I was present at the passage of the Douro, and saw the last shot of the Peninsular war fired at Toulouse. I presume you have heard of the Peninsula?”
“Eh! Peninsula! Oh, yes. I—I—beg pardon, I’m sure!—thought you—you were a—a—a civilian, you know. Very sorry—quite a mistake—Good—good morning!” stammered the ensign turning as red as his shell-jacket. And off he cantered, muttering to himself, “Doosid awkward! Put my foot into it, by George! Hope our fellows won’t hear about it.”
But “our fellows” did hear of it, and the bumptious youth got unmercifully chaffed in consequence; which he most thoroughly deserved, and which, no doubt, did him a vast deal of good.
After a brief consultation with Patrick Keown, Captain Jamieson decided to send Tom Flinders in command of the detachment; so, twenty minutes later, our hero found himself cantering over the Flats at the head of a score of well-armed volunteers. Each man of the detachment was armed with a double-barrelled rifle, hunting-knife, and horse-pistol, and carried a “cross-bag” (after the manner of Dutch burghers when on the “war-path”) containing a supply of moss-biscuit and biltong, sufficient to last for several days. Moss-biscuit, we may add for the information of our readers, is a light, dry biscuit made of fine flour mixed with “mosto,” the unfermented juice of the grape; it will keep good for almost any length of time, and is both portable and nutritious.
Lieutenant B—, who commanded the reconnoitring party, was a right good fellow, and Tom soon became friends with him.
B— had been some years in the Mounted Rifles, and was considered one of the smartest officers in that corps; he was also an enthusiastic sportsman—just the man that a lad of Tom’s age and disposition could look up to, and at the same time be on terms of good fellowship with.
“Were you in the ‘C.M.R.’ with my father?” asked Tom, as they rode side by side; having slackened pace in order to breathe the horses, for they had been “putting on the steam” since they left camp.
“No; but I have often met him. The Major, I think, retired in ’29, and I did not get my commission until ’35; just about the time Hintza was killed. You will remember that business, I daresay.”
“Can’t say I remember it, for I was quite a youngster at the time; only just ‘breeched’ in fact,” Tom replied, “but I have heard the pater mention it. Hintza was shot when attempting to escape, was he not?”
“Yes; when a prisoner on parole.”