Chapter Eleven.
How Tom and his friend went a-hunting; and what befell them.
Early next morning the march was resumed across the Groote Karoo—a vast undulating plain clothed with long waving grass, and studded with acacias, mimosa bushes, and camel-thorn—and towards noon on the succeeding day the travellers came in sight of the Black Mountains. The country through which they had now to pass was still open, but the slopes of the neighbouring hills were thickly wooded; here game of all descriptions was abundant, and the spoor of deer and other animals was frequently to be seen.
“Look, father!” cried George Weston, as they were traversing at a foot-pace a fine savannah. “Look, Major Flinders, is not that a herd of deer feeding over yonder?”
The Major drew rein, and unstrapping his field-glass looked in the direction indicated by his young friend.
“You’re right, George!” he presently exclaimed; “they’re hartebeest. I say, Maurice, suppose we send the youngsters after them on their own account? They are quite old enough to go without ‘leading reins.’”
“Oh, do, father!” cried George eagerly.
“I’m sure you may trust us,” put in Tom.
“I am quite willing, Mat,” replied Mr Weston, smiling at the boys’ eagerness. “After all, there’s nothing like letting lads shift for themselves to make them self-reliant. Let them go, by all means, say I.” Whereupon Master Tom gave vent to an ear-splitting “who-o-o-p,” for which display of excitement he was called to order by the pater.
“Gently! gently, my boy,” said the Major, raising his hand; “don’t get excited, or I shall have to withdraw my permission.”
Tom looked very crestfallen.
“Now, listen to me both of you,” continued his father. “Do you see that curious-shaped hill looming in the distance?”
“A little to our right, and about five miles off?” asked George Weston.
“Five!” exclaimed Major Flinders. “It is nearer five-and-twenty! But that is the hill I mean. Well, that is Kudos Kop, and we shall this evening encamp on the banks of the Gamska, about seven miles this side of it; so now if you lose sight of us, as you’re pretty sure to do, you will know in what direction to steer.”
“I have my pocket-compass,” said Tom, producing one from his breast-pocket.
“That’s right! Now, see that your water-bottles are full, and put a pound or two of biscuit and some ‘biltong’ (pieces of beef, venison, or other meat dried in the sun) into your wallets; then you’ll be independent for the next forty-eight hours. Bear in mind one thing! never when attacking any animal have both your rifles unloaded at the same time; always be prepared for danger, as that is the readiest way of escaping it. Be very careful of your horses; don’t over-ride them, and look out for sore backs.”
“All right, father, we’ll not come to grief if we can help it,” rejoined Tom, tightening his girths. “Now, Patrick, hand us over the ‘grub’—there, that’ll be plenty. Are you ready, George?”
“Yes, quite ready,” was the reply. “Come along!”
“Mind you approach the herd to leeward,” shouted the Major, as the boys galloped off.
A smart “scurry” over the yielding turf soon brought our young sportsmen within three or four hundred yards of the unsuspecting hartebeest, when Tom called to his companion to pull up.
“We mustn’t go at them with a rush,” said he. “In fact, I almost think our best plan would be to tether the horses to these trees and stalk the herd on foot. What do you say?”
“I agree with you, old fellow,” replied young Weston. “You see we’re not much accustomed to shoot from the saddle.” And so they both dismounted, tied up their horses to separate trees (for Tom’s nag was rather given to using his heels), and having unslung and loaded their rifles with more than usual care, they advanced towards the hartebeest. The hartebeest—generally supposed to be the Bubalus of the ancients—is one of the commonest breed of deer in Southern Africa. It stands from four to four-and-a-half feet at the withers, the form of its body being something between that of a red-deer and a heifer; the tail reaches nearly to the hocks and is terminated by a tuft of coarse hair. The head of the hartebeest somewhat resembles that of an ox, but the ears are “asinine” in shape, and the eyes are placed very high; below each eye is a pore from which exudes a matter: this matter the Hottentots preserve as a rare and valuable medicine, but what diseases it is supposed to cure we cannot say. The hartebeest is furnished with a pair of strong black horns, embossed with rings; the horns are quite close together at the base, diverging upwards, and at the tops bending rearwards in a horizontal direction almost to the tips, which are several inches apart. The colour of this animal is a dark cinnamon, except the hind-quarter and inside the thighs, which are of a yellowish white; the face and the fore-part of the legs are marked with black.
When galloping, the hartebeest appear to go heavily with a donkey-like action; but nevertheless they get over the ground quite as fast as other large deer; if, when followed, they manage to get ahead, they are apt to stop short and gaze at their pursuers. When hard pressed, this animal—like the wood-antelope and nil-ghau—drops on his knees and shows fight.
Cautiously the two boys crept up to the herd, keeping well under cover of the bushes and tufts of karoo-grass.
“Now, Tom,” said George, who, by the way, was much the best shot; “we’re well within range. I’ll take that big fellow standing near those mimosa bushes.”
“All right, old boy,” replied Tom. “I shall aim at the buck grazing directly in front of us; it is the easiest shot of the two, I think.”
Bang! bang!
“Missed, by all that’s unlucky!” cried Tom. “Here goes again!” He then discharged his second barrel with no better effect; and the herd, alarmed by the report of the rifles, galloped off towards the hills. George Weston had wounded his buck slightly, but not sufficiently to prevent him from following his companions.
The boys at once doubled back to the spot where they had left their horses, and untethering them, sprang in the saddle.
Away they raced after the herd, but the latter had got a splendid start and kept well ahead, until they reached some low, forest-clad hills, which crossed the plain from north to south. Beyond these hills the ground was covered with trees and tangled brushwood. The hartebeest ascended the nearest hill and disappeared from sight, and the boys then pulled up their distressed and panting horses and looked at each other with inquiring eyes.
“What’s to be done?” asked Tom. “The nags are pretty well pumped, I guess.”
“Yes, indeed,” assented his companion; “we came the last mile or so at racing pace. I should never have thought the hartebeest could travel so fast! Shall we go back?”
“What! empty-handed?” cried Tom. “Not if I know it, old chap. At any rate we might overtake the beast you wounded. I’m sure you hit him hard.”
“Well, we can’t gallop up those hills, that’s certain,” returned young Weston. “Suppose we make for that ravine; no doubt we shall meet the herd again, if we have patience. But it’s no use making a ‘stern chase’ of it; we must try and get round him.”
Tom nodding assent, they rode forward at a gentle pace, to allow their horses to recover wind, and presently they entered a narrow ravine, the precipitous sides of which were covered with arboreous and succulent plants.
George Weston was some four horses’ lengths in advance, when of a sudden he gave a shout of delight, as a magnificent female tree-leopard bounded across his path, and turned up the ravine. Tom saw the brute, too; and unslinging their rifles, the boys gave chase—George maintaining his position ahead.
The tree-leopard of South Africa (though called by Africanders the “Cape-tiger”) is to all intents and purposes identical with the Felis leopardus of the naturalists; in plain English, is an ordinary leopard, and partakes of all the characteristics of that beautiful, but dangerous animal—the terror alike of the timid Hindoo, the Chinee, and the savage islander of Sumatra.
Now though the leopard will rarely attack a full-grown man, unless driven into a corner, he is a very awkward customer to deal with when he does turn; and many fatal encounters have been chronicled.
(Some of our readers may remember the sad fate of Captain Bowlby, 94th Regiment, who, shortly before the Transvaal war broke out, was fatally injured by a “Cape-tiger.”)
Our readers will now be able to form a fair idea of the sort of “game” Master Thomas Flinders and George Weston thought fit to go in chase of. Finding herself hotly pursued, the leopard at first endeavoured to escape by clambering up the precipice on her left, but at that moment young Weston pulled up, and let fly with both barrels, inflicting a severe wound in the fleshy part of her shoulder. Maddened with pain and mingled rage and terror, the hard pressed and well-nigh frantic brute turned, and springing upon George dragged him out of the saddle.
Now, Tom Flinders knew well enough how savage and dangerous a leopard could be if once brought to bay, so when he saw his friend struggling on the ground, he uttered an involuntary cry of horror; then, regardless of the consequences, he jumped off his horse and rushed to the rescue.
Taking aim at the leopard’s flank, Tom gave his two barrels at once; but owing to his natural agitation as well as his fear of injuring George, he missed with both shots. The leopard then abandoned her prostrate and senseless victim, and darted upon Tom with redoubled fury. In spite of the suddenness and ferocity of this onset, the boy was not taken unawares; and clubbing his rifle he swung it round his head, and by great good fortune caught the terrible brute a swashing blow which brought her to the ground. The butt of the rifle was shivered to splinters, but our young hero drew his long hunting-knife and threw himself on the leopard before she could regain her feet. Deep into the brute’s throat Tom pressed the keen blade; with one convulsive effort she shook herself clear of her antagonist and at the same time stunned him with a blow of her powerful paw; then, fatally wounded, she bounded off a few yards and fell dead.
That night, the moon rose upon a curious scene! Upon the bright green turf the two lads were stretched senseless and bleeding, and near them lay the carcass of their four-footed foe.
Chapter Twelve.
Missing!—The search—How Tom was besieged in a cave—The return home.
“Why, here come the boys!” exclaimed Major Flinders, as he and his friend Weston sat round the camp fire, on the banks of the Gamska River, smoking their after-supper pipes and chatting over old times. “I hear the sound of their horses’ gallop.”
“But you did not expect to see them much before noon to-morrow,” said Mr Weston in a tone of surprise. “They would never have returned so soon! You must be mistaken, Mat.”
“There are horses galloping in this direction, that I’ll swear to,” rejoined his friend, who had risen to his feet and was listening attentively. “And what’s more, they’re coming towards us at a tremendous pace. What say you, Keown?”
Kneeling down, Patrick Keown placed his ear to the ground; and after a lengthened pause, replied: “They’re horses, shure enough, sorr; but, by the beat of their gallop, I fear there’s never a sowl on their backs. No, sorr, there’s no doubt about that,” he presently added. “And they’re slackening pace now.”
At that moment, as if to prove the truth of the ex-sergeant’s words, two riderless horses cantered quickly up, and halted a few paces from the camp fire; they were those upon which Tom and George had ridden after the hartebeest in the morning!
The Major and Mr Weston stared at each other in consternation.
The horses were covered with sweat and dirt, and their distended nostrils and heaving, foam-flecked flanks bore silent but convincing testimony that they must have travelled some distance at a stretching gallop; whilst one of them—George’s grey—had an ugly wound on his near shoulder.
“Mat,” said Mr Weston huskily, his face betraying his agitation and alarm, “the poor lads must have come to grief—possibly they have been attacked, and—and murdered by natives!”
“I trust not, my dear Maurice; nay, I am sure that such is not the case,” answered the Major.
“In the first place, the natives would have been nearly certain to secure the horses; and in the second place—”
“This wound in the grey’s shoulder was inflicted by a wild baste, not a human cratur,” interrupted Keown, who had caught George’s horse. “Look ye, Misther Weston, there are the marks of the brute’s claws as plain as a pike-staff.”
“There’s no mistake about it,” said Major Flinders, stooping down and examining the grey’s shoulder; “this is a tiger’s work. Maurice,” he added, “you and Patrick Keown must remain here, whilst I take William and go in search of the poor boys.”
“I would rather go with you, Mat,” replied the other.
“No, old friend, do you remain here, the Hottentot is an admirable ‘tracker,’ and I could not do without him. Patrick, saddle up at once.”
A couple of horses were quickly saddled, and Major Flinders and Black William mounted.
“Is there any hope, Mat?” whispered Mr Weston, as he wrung his friend’s hand at parting.
“We must hope for the best, Maurice,” was the doubtful reply.
It was a bright moonlight night, and the Hottentot had no difficulty in following the back track of the horses, as he and his master went over the ground at a hand-gallop. The Major’s heart was heavy, for he feared the worst; and for some time he rode along in silence.
“What think you, William?” said he at length. “Is there any hope that the young gentlemen are alive?”
Black William shook his woolly head, saying: “I think tiger pull Baas George from his horse, and dat Baas Tom try to save him. But tiger too strong for yong baas to fight.”
The Major’s heart sank within him: not that he had had much hope from the first; and he bitterly reproached himself for having allowed the boys to go off alone. Day was beginning to dawn when they came in sight of the range of hills over which the herd had disappeared when chased by the boys; here the ‘spoor’ of the hartebeest was very distinct, and the Hottentot, tracking them to the foot of the hill, pointed out to his master where they had crossed. Hope then revived in the Major’s breast, for it struck him that the boys might have followed the game afoot, and during their absence the horses must have broken loose and galloped off—frightened most probably by some wild beast.
“We will off-saddle for an hour or so, William,” said he, drawing rein and dismounting near the entrance to the ravine. “And do you ascend the hills, and—”
“Vat dat, baas?” cried Black William, as a rifle-shot echoed amongst the hills—a shot that had evidently been fired at no great distance from the spot where they stood.
“The boys!” shouted Major Flinders; “the boys, no doubt! Come on, man.”
And springing into his saddle, he put spurs to his horse and rode up the ravine at full gallop, followed by the Hottentot.
When Tom Flinders recovered consciousness he staggered to his feet and took a look around him.
A few paces up the ravine lay George Weston; the dead leopard was a little further on; but the horses were nowhere to be seen.
“This is pleasant!” said Tom, feeling himself all over to make sure that no bones were broken. “How my poor head does ache, to be sure; that tiger must have caught me a thundering lick with his paw! I do hope poor old George isn’t done for,” he added, kneeling down by the side of his friend; “he got it far worse than I did. Halloa, George! how are you, old chap?”
At the sound of his friend’s voice George Weston’s senses partially came back to him, and—much to Tom’s relief—he made an attempt to raise his head; but he had been sorely mauled by the leopard, and was quite unable to speak, or help himself.
Seeing this, Tom looked about for a suitable place to take him, and presently hit upon a small cavity in the hillside: thither he carried the senseless boy, and proceeded to dress his wounds as well as he was able; for George was much hurt, the leopard having severely lacerated his thigh with her formidable claws, besides biting him right through the forearm.
However, Tom made him as comfortable as possible; then, seeing that nothing more could be done until morning, he gathered some boughs, brushwood, and large stones, and with them built up a rough breastwork in front of the cavity—which might be described as a small cave about six feet deep, by five or six in height. Then he dragged the dead leopard within it, secured George’s rifle and the shattered remains of his own, and, after a heart-felt prayer of thankfulness for his escape, lay down beside his friend, and fell fast asleep.
The day was breaking when Tom Flinders was awakened by a violent blow on the legs. Jumping to his feet, he seized his rifle and looked over the breastwork; his appearance was immediately hailed by a loud chattering, and a volley of stones and other missiles came whizzing about his ears.
“Niggers!” Tom exclaimed, bringing his rifle to the “ready;” “but where the dickens are they?”
“Hi! what on earth are you about?” he shouted, as a big piece of rock knocked off his hat. “You’re an uncommon good shot, no doubt,” he went on, ducking down in order to escape another stony “projectile;” “but if I catch a glimpse of you, I’ll let you know that it is not a rook you’re pegging at.”
As the boy spoke he caught sight of a dark active form swinging itself from tree to bush on the opposite side of the ravine; without a moment’s thought, he raised his rifle and pulled the trigger, and down came the figure by the run.
“There!” cried Tom angrily, for his temper was considerably ruffled. “I’ll teach you to make a cock-shy of me!” But now the ravine resounded with ear-splitting cries, and to Tom’s utter amazement a whole troop of baboons appeared amongst the trees and bushes; and, after gibbering and grimacing round their deceased brother for a few seconds, they suddenly scampered off, springing from rock to rock, from tree to tree with marvellous agility, until they were lost to view.
“Why, hang it all! I must have bowled over a monkey!” was the boy’s exclamation. “Poor brute! I wish I hadn’t been quite so ready with my rifle.”
The next moment Major Flinders and Black William appeared in sight, and with a wild shout of delight Tom jumped over his barricade and ran to meet them.
The Major looked very grave when he examined poor George’s wounds, for he at once saw that they were of a serious, if not of a highly dangerous, character—such, in fact, as called for skilled treatment. If the boy’s life was to be saved, it would be necessary to procure medical assistance as soon as possible. Now the nearest place where Major Flinders could make certain of finding a surgeon was Fort Crause, a small town and military post situated some thirty-five miles to the east-north-east: and to Fort Crause he resolved to carry the lad without any delay.
“We must start at once, you and I, Tom,” said the Major, as he scribbled a few hasty lines on a leaf torn from his pocket-book. “William will take this note back to Weston; I have briefly related what has occurred, and told him to join us at Fort Crause.”
“And what is to become of Patrick Keown and the horses, father? Are they to follow us, or wait until we return to the Gamska?”
“Keown will come on with Weston, and we shall have to change our route, and return home by the upper road to Tulbagh. Now, my boy, jump up, and we will place George in your arms; you must hold him in as easy a position as you can. There—now raise his head a little more; that will do! I will lead the horse.”
To convey a wounded person thirty miles on horseback under a burning South African sun is a very dangerous experiment; and, had George Weston been taken the whole distance under such circumstances, he would certainly have suffered severely, and probably not have survived the journey; but happily, before they had gone very far, they fell in with an empty mule-waggon returning to Fort Crause, to which George was immediately transferred, and thus he travelled in comparative comfort.
A week later Major Flinders and Tom, with the servants and horses, made a fresh start, and at the end of five days marched into Rondebosch; but George Weston was detained at Fort Crause for more than a month, and of course his father remained to look after him. At first the doctor gave but faint hopes of his recovery—for inflammation set in, and it was feared that tetanus would supervene; but in the end, youth and a famous constitution gained the upper hand, and George was able to rise from his sick-bed.
When, at length, he and his father returned to Rustenburg Farm, they found to their satisfaction that the Major had disposed of the young horses for nearly double the price he paid for them; so, after all, “Kicking Jan” did not dissipate all the profits of the expedition, but when every expense had been allowed for there still remained a good round sum to be placed to the credit of the firm of “Flinders, Weston, and Sons.”
Chapter Thirteen.
Two years after—Rumours of war—Good news for Tom—Mr Weston makes an interesting proposal.
Nearly two years have passed since the events recorded in the previous chapters, and our hero is once more the guest of Captain Jamieson. The Westons, too, are at Ralfontein, likewise Patrick Keown and the faithful Hottentot, Black William.
But not Major Flinders?
No; the Major is away in England with his wife and daughters, and many months must elapse before Tom can hope to see their faces again.
But let us “hark back,” and see what has happened since George Weston was so nearly done to death by the tree-leopard.
In the spring of 1845 Mrs Flinders was suddenly seized with a sharp attack of illness which for some time entirely baffled the skill of the Cape Town doctors; and when, after weeks of anxiety and watching, they seemed to get the better of the disease, the poor lady was left almost at death’s door. Days went by without the patient showing any appreciable signs of improvement, and at length the doctors were obliged to confess that though they had checked the disorder they had by no means conquered it. The plain truth was, they were altogether out of their depth.
Said the pompous and portly Dr Brownjohn: “Major, you must, I fear, take our interesting patient to England, and—ha—and—”
“Seek better advice,” interrupted plain-spoken Mr Spike, his brother-medico. “We can do nothing more, my dear sir. The case is beyond us, I’m grieved to say.”
“And—hum!—and, I was about to say, the sea voyage may possibly benefit her,” continued the great M.D., looking “prussic acid and strychnine” at his candid colleague. “As my young friend Spike suggests,” he added after a pause, “you might consult some well-known London physician. Sir Timothy Glauber and Doctor Peter Bolus are both eminent men—very eminent men, I may say; you could not do better than seek their valuable advice.”
“But will my poor wife be able to stand the voyage?” the anxious husband inquired, glancing from one doctor to the other. “She is lamentably weak, you know.”
“True—very true!” assented Brownjohn, pursing his lips. “But let us hope for the best—yes, my dear sir, let us hope for the best! While there’s life—while there’s life!—hum! Pray, what is your opinion, Mr Spike?”
“That it is her only chance,” bluntly responded Mr Spike. “And hark ye, Major, take Mrs F to Newman—John Newman of Saint Margaret’s Square. He is not a fashionable doctor, but there’s not a more clever fellow in the whole College of Physicians, and what is better, he has had wonderful experience in intricate cases. If any man can pull your wife through this illness it is John Newman!”
And thus it came to pass that Major and Mrs Flinders started for England by the next steamer, their daughters accompanying them.
Now shortly before this trouble befell the Major he and Mr Weston (after much consideration and careful weighing of pros and cons) had, with the approval of Mrs Flinders, made up their minds to migrate to Ralfontein and enter into partnership with Captain Jamieson; and the former was on the point of closing with a most advantageous offer for Rustenburg Farm, when his wife’s illness upset their plans and drove all other ideas from their heads.
In fact, nothing more was said concerning the projected migration until Doctors Brownjohn and Spike advised that Mrs Flinders should be taken to England. The Major then suggested that (as the above-mentioned offer still held good) Rustenburg should be sold forthwith, and that the Westons and Tom should proceed to Ralfontein as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made. To this proposal Mr Weston gave a ready consent; and accordingly he, Gracie, and the two boys, attended by Patrick Keown and Black William, started for Ralfontein a fortnight after the mail steamer sailed from Table Bay; and at the time the present chapter opens they had been with the Jamiesons upwards of six months.
And now we can go ahead with our “plain unvarnished tale” without any more “backing and filling.”
It is a chilly evening in the early part of the Cape autumn, (March, April, and May are the autumn months in South Africa), and Captain Jamieson and his family are gathered round a blazing castange hout fire in the general sitting-room of Ralfontein House. The captain looks anxious and fatigued, as well he may do, for he has just returned from Graham’s Town, whither, ten days before, he was summoned by the Lieutenant-Governor of the Eastern District to attend a “palaver” with some troublesome Caffres; and he has ridden upwards of 100 miles over a difficult country in less than fourteen hours—not bad work for a man who will never see sixty again!
“So we’re in for another Caffre war!” Frank Jamieson said when his father informed them that the result of the “palaver” had been far from satisfactory. “That makes the third in sixteen years, to say nothing of minor affairs.”
“I suppose the Caffres have grown ‘fat’ again,” observed young James.
“‘Fat!’” exclaimed Mr Weston; “in the name of all that’s sensible, what has their growing fat got to do with their going to war?”
Captain Jamieson and his sons laughed at their friend’s astonishment, and the former replied:
“You must know, my dear Weston, that our Cape wars rarely arise from political causes, but chiefly from a desire on the part of the young men of the various tribes to distinguish themselves and earn the coveted title of ‘warrior.’ When a tribe has been some years at peace with its neighbours the number of young men increase; this they call growing ‘fat,’ or, in other words, becoming ready to take the field. Once in this condition the young men never rest until they find a pretext for going to war either with us or their neighbours.”
“And what pretext have they now?” inquired Miss Janet.
“A very simple one, my dear. Two Caffres, warriors of some standing in their tribe, were lately caught in the act of stealing an axe from a Beaufort storekeeper. They were secured, committed by the magistrate, and in due course were sent down to Graham’s Town with some other prisoners to stand their trial at the criminal court—their escort consisting of five or six civil constables. Now the highroad between Fort Beaufort and Graham’s Town runs close along the Caffre border; and before the constables had gone many miles they were suddenly attacked by a party of Gaikas, who had crossed the border with the express purpose of rescuing their fellow-tribesmen. The escort appear to have made a stout resistance, but, overcome by their weight of numbers, they were forced to beat a retreat and leave their prisoners in the hands of the victorious Gaikas. Now it so happened that the warriors who were the cause of this attack were handcuffed to two Hottentots; and their rescuers, not being able to unfasten the handcuffs, and being pressed for time, deliberately murdered these unhappy men, and, cutting off their arms at the elbow-joints, set their rascally friends at liberty.
“When the lieutenant-governor was informed of this outrage he at once sent a message to the chiefs of the offending tribe, and demanded that the two prisoners should be brought back and the murderers of the unfortunate Hottentots surrendered. But the young ‘amadodas’ of the tribe were eager for war, and, their counsels outweighing the counsels of the older men, the government message was treated with contempt.
“A ‘palaver’ was, however, subsequently arranged for; and last Wednesday the lieutenant-governor, the senior officer at Graham’s Town, and I started for the Block Drift mission station to meet the Gaika chiefs. They arrived at the appointed time, attended by a large body of warriors outnumbering the lieutenant-governor’s escort by ten to one.
“That the treacherous scoundrels meant mischief I am certain, but Captain S— who commanded the escort placed his men so judiciously that they made no attempt to attack us; and though the meeting was most unsatisfactory, at any rate it broke up without a rumpus—which was more than I expected. War, of course, is imminent; for it is absolutely necessary that the government should bring the refractory chiefs to order, otherwise our prestige will be seriously damaged throughout South Africa.”
“I suppose we shall have it all our way, Captain Jamieson?” said Tom Flinders, now a strapping young fellow of eighteen, with an incipient moustache and whiskers. “These Gaika fellows won’t make much of a stand against our troops.”
“The Gaikas and their allies are brave men, Tom, and fight well,” was the reply. “Indeed, my experience of Cape warfare is that at first the Caffres have it all their own way, though in the long run they succumb to our superior discipline and resources. Take the advice of an old campaigner, and never despise your enemies.”
“Shall you have to go out this time?” asked Janet Jamieson wistfully, putting her arm round the captain’s neck. “I hope not, dear father!”
“I am afraid so, my girl,” he answered gently. “The Lieutenant-governor has offered me the command of a force of volunteers and burghers, and I could not well refuse it.”
“And what about us?” cried the young men in a breath.
“You cannot all go, boys,” interposed Miss Jamieson, the tears starting into her bright eyes. “Who is to look after the farm and defend us in case of attack?”
“Janet is right,” said her father. “Ralfontein must not be left unprotected, for we cannot tell how far this war may spread or how long it will last.”
“You must allow me to accompany you, Jamieson,” Mr Weston struck in; whereupon Miss Janet started and the colour left her cheeks. “I shall be content to serve as a simple volunteer.”
“My dear Weston, I am relying on your taking command here,” rejoined the captain, looking askance at his daughter. “But let me tell you my plans. In the first place,” he went on, “the lieutenant-governor has offered provisional ensigncies in the Cape Mounted Rifles to Tom Flinders and Frank, on the—”
“Hurrah!” shouted Tom, who, in spite of his incipient whiskers, was as great a boy as ever; “won’t the pater be pleased!”
“On the condition,” resumed his host, smiling at the interruption—“on the condition that they serve a few months with my ‘commando,’ in order to establish a claim on the government. I have accepted this offer on their behalf; so they must go with me. I shall also take Patrick Keown, as he will be useful in assisting me to drill my ‘irregulars’ into something like soldiers. So you see, my dear Weston, you must remain at Ralfontein and take charge of the place, with George and James and David as your lieutenants. I hope you will not refuse the trust.”
“What say the young ladies?” was Mr Weston’s rejoinder. “Are you content to serve under my orders, Miss Janet?”
“If papa wishes it,” answered Miss Janet demurely.
“Then so be it,” laughed Weston; “I accept the responsible post of commandant of Ralfontein. When do you start for the seat of war?”
“Not for some days,” responded the captain. “Whilst at Graham’s Town I did a stroke of business—sold thirty horses to the government. A sergeant’s party of the Rifles are to fetch them in the course of a week or so, and I propose to return with them. And that reminds me I have accepted, in part payment for the horses, a brass six-pounder field-piece, with eighty rounds of canister, grape, and shell. The escort will bring it up with them. Should you have to defend the farm, you will find this gun of considerable service.”
The captain and Mr Weston sat up talking long after the others had sought their couches, and before they retired to rest Mr Weston told his friend that he had formed an attachment for Janet Jamieson.
“I did not intend to broach the subject until I had consulted with Matthew Flinders,” said he; “but after your request that I should remain in charge of your property and family during your absence, I felt in honour bound to mention it. In spite of the disparity in our ages, I cannot but think your daughter returns my affection. If such is the case, are you willing to give her to me?”
And as Captain Jamieson had no objection to offer, but on the contrary appeared well satisfied that the “course of true love should run smooth,” Mr Weston next morning asked Miss Janet to be his wife; to which tender question the young lady, with a becoming blush, said “Yes.”
Chapter Fourteen.
Off to the wars!—Jamieson’s Horse—A bumptious sub—Tom’s first patrol.
Although the Cape government declared war almost immediately after the “palaver” at Block Drift, some considerable time elapsed before the troops received final orders to take the field and enter Caffreland; and the first week of April was nearly over when Captain Jamieson, accompanied by his eldest son, Tom Flinders, and Patrick Keown, and escorted by the Mounted Riflemen in charge of the horses, left Ralfontein to assume command of the volunteers.
In the interval between the captain’s return from Graham’s Town and his departure to join the army, Miss Janet and Mr Weston found time and opportunity to get married, at a Church of England mission chapel forty miles from the farm; so he bade farewell to his family with the consoling assurance that he was leaving them under care of one who now had a relation’s right to comfort them in adversity or defend them in peril.
On the thirty-second anniversary of the battle of Toulouse (Wellington defeated Soult at Toulouse on the 10th April, 1814. It was the final battle of the Peninsular war.) (in which action Donald Jamieson, then sergeant-major of the —th Foot, was severely wounded) the party from Ralfontein arrived at Graham’s Town and handed over the horses to the military authorities; and, having purchased a few articles likely to prove of service during the campaign, they proceeded to join Colonel H. Somerset’s column, encamped at Victoria—a military post which had been recently established on neutral territory between the Kat and Keiskamma Rivers.
The burgher force, of which Captain Jamieson now took command, consisted of about six-score well-armed, well-mounted men; for the most part farmers and their sons from the neighbouring settlements, with a sprinkling of storekeepers and clerks from Graham’s Town and Bathurst. They were hardy, active fellows enough, accustomed to the saddle and the use of the rifle; but—with the exception of a few of the older hands, who had served on “commandos” in former wars—they were as ignorant of drill or military discipline as any civilian in England before the “volunteer movement” had been thought of.
“Shure now, Masther Tom,” observed Patrick Keown, regarding his future comrades (who had mustered and formed up to receive their commandant) with a critical eye, “we have here fornint us the raw matherials for as foine a squadron of Light Horse as there is in Her Majesty’s service. But, bedad, sorr!” he added with a solemn shake of the head, “they’ll take a dale of mixing.”
“Mixing!” laughed Tom. “I should say they’re pretty well mixed as it is. Still, I wager a dollar they know how to ride, and they’ll fight well enough. After all, that’s the main point.”
“They are for work, not for show,” put in young Jamieson.
“True for ye, Misther Frank,” the old sergeant rejoined; “niver-the-less, with your father’s lave, I must tache them to pay attintion to their dhressing and intervals. A loine is a loine, you’ll be plased to remimber, sorr; not a sort of double semicircle.”
Of this irregular corps—which Captain Jamieson formed into two troops—Frank and Tom were appointed officers, with the local and temporary rank of ensign; the lieutenant-governor promising that after they had seen a little service he would recommend their transfer to the Cape Mounted Riflemen as provisional ensigns.
Much to his chagrin, Patrick Keown had scant opportunity of imparting the “ilimints” of drill and discipline to the Albany farmers and townsmen who rode in the ranks of “Jamieson’s Horse;” for three days after he was appointed sergeant-major of that corps the advance against the Caffres commenced.
Early on the morning of the 13th April, the troops marched from Victoria in two columns—one commanded by Colonel Henry Somerset, Cape Mounted Rifles, the other by Colonel Richardson, 7th Dragoon Guards—and crossing the Keiskamma near its junction with Debe River, they, on the 15th, encamped on the Debe Flats, near the base of the “Taban Doda,” or Man Mountain; here the two columns were formed into one division, of which Colonel Somerset assumed command.
At cock-crow on the following day the troops were again on the move; and, the camp having been broken up, they advanced towards the Amatola Mountains. The point at which Colonel Somerset intended to enter the Amatolas was Burns Hill, where there was a large mission station, and near which the great chief Sandilli had his principal kraal.
Shortly before the division was formed up, Captain Jamieson received orders to detail an officer and twenty men of his corps to join a reconnoitring party, under command of Lieutenant B— of the Mounted Rifles. The officer who brought the order was a very young and consequential subaltern of the —th Foot, attached to Colonel Somerset’s staff as galloper. Said he, when he had delivered his message:
“B— has orders to advance towards Burns Hill, and if he finds Sandilli’s kraal deserted, or only held by a small force, he is to occupy it. You’ll be good enough to make your fellows hurry themselves; in affairs like this it is important that no time should be lost.”
“They shall be in the saddle in ten minutes,” the captain replied. “I hear the mission station has been destroyed,” he added. “Is that so?”
“Yes, but the missionaries and their people bolted, and are now at Graham’s Town,” was the reply.
“Should all go well, we shall encamp at Burns Hill this evening, and there await the arrival of Major Sutton’s ‘commando’ of Hottentots from the Kat River. If he joins us to-night, no doubt we shall be at it ‘hammer and tongs’ to-morrow—or next day at the latest.”
“I trust we shall soon bring the Caffres to reason,” Captain Jamieson answered, with something like a sigh. “These oft-recurring little wars must inevitably ruin the country, for they paralyse every industry and trade; besides, the destruction of life and property is simply appalling.”
“I’m afraid we military men think more of ‘medals, rank, ribbons,’ etc, than of trade, industry, or even life and property,” was the flippant rejoinder. “Of course that is the soldier’s point of view; but you amateurs—”
“Amateurs!” exclaimed Tom, boiling over at hearing his “chief” thus designated. “Coxy young—”
“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.”
“I should like to hear about it,” said Tom, who dearly loved a yarn.
“Well,” replied his companion; “it is rather a long story, but I can tell you the main facts, for I was one of those who pursued him. In May, 1835, Hintza, the paramount Chief of Caffreland, was a prisoner in the British camp, and, for his sins, had been sentenced to pay a fine of 50,000 head of cattle. This fine he expressed himself willing to pay, if he were allowed to return to his own country to superintend the collection of the cattle. At first the governor would not listen to this, but after a lot of palaver and negotiation, it was arranged that Hintza should be permitted to go, under a strong escort; his son Kreilli and his uncle Bookoo being retained as hostages in the British camp.
“An old Rifle Brigadesman, General Sir Harry Smith, was selected to command the escort; which consisted of both horse and foot, regulars and irregulars, but no artillery. I was then serving in the ‘Guides’ corps as a volunteer, and was one of those appointed to the general’s body-guard.
“Well, the column left the head-quarter camp on the banks of the Kei, and advanced into Caffreland by forced marches. Hintza was treated as a sort of a prisoner at large, and usually rode with the general; he was splendidly mounted, and had been permitted to retain his arms—the usual bundle of seven assegais.
“On the fourth morning after leaving the camp, the column reached the summit of a table-topped mountain. We now had a splendid view of the country beyond the Bashee River, and to our surprise, saw thousands and thousands of cattle being driven away from us.
“This circumstance somewhat staggered us, and Sir Harry was examining the retreating masses through his field-glass, when suddenly somebody shouted, ‘Hintza has bolted!’
“On hearing the cry, Sir Harry dropped his glasses and, putting spurs to his charger, raced after the fugitive, who had got a start of fifty or sixty yards. We, of course, joined in the chase, but the general soon distanced us, and, overtaking the chief, ordered him to pull up; whereupon Hintza made a stab at him with his bundle of assegais.
“Sir Harry parried the thrust, and drawing a pistol threatened to shoot the chief, if he did not immediately surrender. Hintza replied by making another attempt to stab him, so Sir Harry fired, but without effect.
“Thousands of Caffres were now to be seen crowning the hills in all directions, and towards them Hintza rode for dear life. Once more Sir Harry dashed up to him, and, seizing him by his tiger-skin kaross, hurled him to the ground; but the impetus of his gallop carried him past the fallen chief, who was on his legs in an instant, and off down the precipitous side of the mountain.
“By this time four of the Guides, who had joined in the chase, came up, and jumping from their horses, followed the fugitive on foot; these four were S—y, D—r, B—r and myself. I sent two shots after the flying chief, both of which went wide of their mark; he then gained the bush at the foot of the hill, and disappeared from sight.
“S—y and B—r now entered the bush from above, and D—r and I (who were further down the hill) from below; and, working towards one another, we presently closed in upon our human quarry, S—y being the first to come upon him.
“Hintza was then standing up to his middle in a narrow stream, which ran through the bush, beneath a shelving rock; and when he caught sight of S—y he drew an assegai, and poised it. Nothing daunted S—y approached and called upon him to surrender, whereupon the Caffre threw back his right arm and was in the act of hurling the assegai at his pursuer, when the latter, seeing that he must either kill or be killed, levelled his rifle and fired. His ball struck the fugitive right in the centre of the forehead, and throwing up his hands, he fell backwards against a rock. We rushed in and lifted him up, but the rifle-ball had done its work, and Hintza, the powerful Chief of Caffraria, had gone to his last account.”
“Serve the treacherous scoundrel right!” exclaimed Tom, when the lieutenant came to the end—the tragical end—of his narrative. “Had he got the escort into his power not one of you would have lived to tell the tale. I suppose that was what he was aiming at?”
“No doubt of it; his purpose was to entice us into the heart of his country, and then surround us with an overwhelming force,” rejoined Mr B—. “He played a bold game, and lost it! Still we were, one and all, from the general downwards, sorry for his untimely death; and nobody more so than the man who shot him. And now, Flinders, I think you had better ride with your troop, for yonder is Burns Hill. The mission station lies to the right, and Sandilli’s kraal is a little beyond it.”
In another ten minutes they came in sight of the mission station, and B— galloped forward to join his advanced files.
“Keep your fellows well in hand,” said he to Tom, before riding off; “and be ready to support me if necessary. From the fact that the houses and chapel are still standing, I am inclined to think that Sandilli intends to hold his ground.”
Mr B—, however, was mistaken, for on approaching, with every precaution, Burns Hill, he found that both the mission station and the chief’s kraal were deserted; but though the former was not burned down (as had been reported), every house had been ransacked, and broken furniture, papers, school-books, Bibles, and many other articles lay scattered in all directions.
“Verily, the Caffre is a destructive animal!” cried Tom, when he rode up and surveyed the scene. “His bump of mischief must be strongly developed.”
“A European mob would commit quite as much damage, if in the mood,” Lieutenant B— answered. “I don’t think there would be much to choose between Santerre’s ‘sans culottes,’ and Sandilli’s ‘amadodas.’ But behold our only trophy!” he added, holding up a couple of lions’ tails. “Sergeant Jackson found them at the entrance of the chief’s hut.”
“What are they?” asked Tom. “Chamboks?” (A peculiar kind of thonged whip.)
“Chamboks! no indeed; they’re the Caffre emblems of royalty.”
Towards noon the division reached Burns Hill, and encamped near the mission station, and shortly afterwards Major Sutton’s “commando” marched up, and formed a separate camp on the other side of the Keiskamma River. So when the tired soldiers lay down to rest that night it was pretty well understood that there would probably be warm work on the morrow.