All this time the fighting in rear of the column was going on with unabated fury, until at last, the ammunition of the infantry of the rear-guard failing, volunteers were called for from the cavalry corps to relieve them. The troopers of the “Black Horse,” and of the Cape Rifles readily responded to the call, and, the required number having been selected from amongst those who stepped to the front, they dismounted and doubled back to the rear.
The Caffre chiefs now began to think they had had enough of it; their losses had been very heavy, and they had only captured one waggon—which, as it turned out, they had much better have left alone; so their attacks became less furious, and at length they were finally repulsed. By that time the last of the waggons had been brought across the Chumie River, and Colonel Somerset continuing his march reached Block Drift in safety and there established his camp, taking advantage of the missionary buildings. Amongst those who were reported as “missing,” after the day’s work was done, was Frank Jamieson!
Thus ended what may be termed the “opening campaign” of the “War of the Axe.”
Chapter Nineteen.
Out of the Frying-pan into the Fire.
When a hard unyielding substance such as a lump of rock, thrown with the full force of a vigorous arm, hits a man fairly on any part of—what Mr Seth Pecksniff, Emperor of servile hypocrites, once described as—“that delicate and exquisite portion of human anatomy, the brain,” that man may think himself exceedingly fortunate if he escapes with no more serious injury than a broken head and a temporary deprivation of his senses. And such was the first thought that entered the mind of our friend Tom Flinders when, some hours after he was struck down in the manner recorded in the foregoing chapter, he found himself capable of thinking at all—in other words, when he so far recovered from the stunning effects of the blow he had received as to be able to realise the fact that he was still in the land of the living.
But though Tom recovered consciousness he certainly did not at once recover the full use of his reasoning faculties, otherwise he would have had “nous” enough to remain beneath the friendly shelter of the waggon until he could be sure that the coast was clear; whereas, instead of doing this, he must needs crawl out on to the road and take a look round him. The consequence of his rashness was that four Caffres, who were still prowling about, pounced upon him before he had time to offer any resistance, and, pinioning his arms with leathern thongs, marched him off in triumph.
Wounded as he was, breathless and almost insensible, the poor lad was half-dragged, half-carried by his savage captors, first across the Keiskamma Drift, then up the precipitous mountain side, until, shortly after sunset, they reached a small kraal situated on one of the rocky spurs of the Amatolas. Here the wretched prisoner’s appearance was hailed with loud shouts of exultation by the few men and the numerous women and children who inhabited the kraal; and after he had been well beaten and loaded with abuse (not a word of which he understood) the thongs that bound his arms were cut, he was stripped of the greater portion of his clothing, and then ignominiously kicked into a hut, where his enemies left him to pass the night as best he might, without a drop of water or the smallest morsel of food.