Chapter Seventeen.
Fighting their battles o’er again.
The sun had set and “retreat” long since been sounded when the escort reached Burns Hill, so that by the time Tom Flinders had reported himself to Captain Jamieson, had seen his horse fed, watered, and “fettled up” for the night, and had got rid of the traces of his arduous day’s work, the officers of the various detachments in camp were already gathered round the big watch-fire, and were eating their frugal supper, talking over the stirring events of the day, or paying a soldier’s tribute to the memory of their brave comrades who only the evening before formed part of their circle, but who now lay stiff and stark in the distant bush. Of those who had ridden in from Chumie Hoek the first to join the group round the fire was Lieutenant S—, and he at once proceeded to relate the gallant manner in which Tom had rescued Frank Jamieson from the Caffres. Said he warmly: “It was one of the pluckiest things I have seen for a long time. Young Flinders is a fine lad, and will make a capital officer.”
“He is a ‘chip of the old block,’ as those of you who know Matthew Flinders will agree,” put in Captain Jamieson, who had heard full particulars from his son. “I’m proud of him, I can assure you.”
“And here comes the young hero!” exclaimed Mr S— as Tom walked up to the fire. “We were just talking of you, Flinders,” he added, slapping the lad’s shoulder. “By Saint George, sir, that cut you delivered was worthy of Shaw the life-guardsman!”
“Sit beside me, Tom,” said Captain Jamieson, making room for him. “We’ll find a bone for you to pick somewhere. I can’t say all I wish to say now,” he went on in a low tone. “But you know how deeply I—eh, my dear boy!” And the old officer pressed his young friend’s hand.
“Allow me to congratulate you on your débût in the battle-field, Mr Flinders,” called out Major G—, the camp commandant.
“My friend here has informed me of your gallant behaviour, and you may be sure I shall report most favourably of you to the brigadier.”