Chapter Sixteen.
The attack on the escort—Fifty to one!—A deed of “Derrin’ do”—Arrival at the camp—Bad news.
The most direct route from the Chumie Hoek to the Burns Hill mission station led along the valley up which Campbell’s infantry column had fought its way that morning; through the gorge of the Amatola Basin, then across a branch of the Keiskamma River, and so on to the camp. A cattle “trek” passed through the valley; but it was ill-defined and difficult to follow, being intersected at frequent intervals by spruits and gulches, and in many parts entirely obliterated by thick patches of “bosch,” huge boulders, and tangled masses of “waght-en-beetje,” or “wait-a-bit” thorn. The march of the column was, however, only too clearly marked by the sad traces of the morning’s bloody fray; for here and there lay the mutilated corpses of the poor soldiers who had fallen in the fight, presenting a ghastly spectacle, stripped as they were of their uniform, and gashed and hacked beyond all recognition.
Along this rough cattle-track the escort proceeded at a smart canter, both officers and men keeping a sharp look-out, as the track was commanded by projecting spurs and bluffs where hundreds of the enemy might be lurking, ready to pounce down upon and annihilate an isolated body of troops. Tom Flinders, with the four Burgher horsemen and two troopers of the Mounted Rifles, rode twenty horse-lengths in advance; then came the main body of the escort in “half-sections,” with “flankers” thrown out on either hand; and Frank Jamieson, with a non-commissioned officer and four troopers, brought up the rear.
In this order they rode for a considerable distance without seeing a solitary Caffre; and they were beginning to hope that the enemy had really retired far away into the surrounding hills, and that they would reach their destination without having to fight their way through a horde of bloodthirsty savages, when one of the Kat River men caught Tom Flinders by the arm, and, pointing to some huge boulders that lay a few yards to the right of the track, exclaimed: “Oh, mynheer! there are the Caffres!” And Tom, looking in the direction indicated, descried the woolly heads of several dusky warriors who were lying in ambush behind the rocks.
Seeing that they were detected, these Caffres at once sprang up from their hiding-place, and, with their old-fashioned flint-lock muskets and fowling-pieces (which were mostly loaded with small bullets cast out of zinc or pewter stolen probably from the neighbouring farm-houses), commenced a hot but ill-directed fusillade on the escort; whereupon Lieutenant S—, the officer in command, at once called in his rear files, and the whole party, bending low in their saddles to avoid as much as possible the leaden shower, dashed past the rocks at racing pace. But hardly had they run the gauntlet of this ambuscade when numbers of the enemy came leaping down from the wooded slopes of the valley, and, forming across the track, opened fire at about thirty paces’ distance.
Coolly as if on parade, Lieutenant S— halted his men and wheeled them into line. “We must cut our way through those fellows,” said he as he fitted fresh caps to his double-barrel. (When in action most of the officers of the C.M. Riflemen carried double-barrelled sporting rifles.) “But first we’ll give them a volley. Take it quietly, my lads, and don’t throw a shot away if you can help it.” The volley was delivered—somewhat hastily, it must be confessed, though not altogether without effect, for several of the Caffres fell before it.
Then, bursting over the rough ground that intervened between them and their enemy, the little band of horsemen charged down upon the yelling, surging horde. The majority of the Caffres broke before this gallant charge, scattering right and left to take refuge in the bush and amongst the rocks; but many stood their ground bravely.