Chapter Fifteen.
Tom receives an unexpected invitation—With the Cape Rifles—Mountain warfare—Formidable odds—The effects of shell.
Shortly before daylight on the 17th April, the trumpets of the 7th Dragoon Guards and of the Cape Mounted Rifles, and the shrill bugles of the infantry corps, sounding the “reveillé,” roused Tom Flinders from his slumbers; and hardly had he finished a very hasty toilet, and made a hastier breakfast (consisting of a piece of biltong, a handful of “moss-biscuit,” and a draught of icy-cold water from a neighbouring spruit), when the clear notes of the “assembly,” quickly followed by those of “boot and saddle,” rang through the still morning air.
“Now, old chap,” cried Frank Jamieson, who was already in the saddle, “look alive! Sergeant Keown is calling the roll; and—why, here comes the governor looking very down on his luck! What’s the matter, father?” he added as Captain Jamieson cantered up.
“Matter enough,” growled the old gentleman—“matter enough! We’re to remain in camp instead of marching with the column of attack. Where’s that boy Tom Flinders?”
“Here am I, sir,” replied our hero from under the saddle-flap; for he was tugging away at the girths. “Bother these buckles! they’re as stiff as—”
“Never mind the buckles, but listen to me,” his chief struck in. “Your friend B— of the Mounted Rifles has got leave for you to be attached to his troop for to-day. Will you go with him?”
“Will a duck swi—I beg pardon, sir; I mean I’ll go like a shot,” cried Tom.
“To get shot!—eh, Tom?” laughed Frank Jamieson.
“But I say, sir,” continued Tom after a moment’s thought, “perhaps Frank would like to—”
“Frank’s all right, my boy,” interrupted Captain Jamieson; “he is to ride ‘galloper’ to Major Sutton. And now the sooner you’re off the better. The Rifles are parading.”
And Tom, thrusting the remains of his morning meal into his haversack, shook hands with the captain and Frank, jumped into the saddle, and galloped off to the Rifle lines, where he found Lieutenant B— awaiting him.
At a “council of war,” held at the Burns Hill mission station on the previous evening, Colonel Somerset and his brother-commanders had decided to form the division into three columns of attack; and it was in this order that the troops took the field on the morning of the 17th April.
The right column, which was composed entirely of infantry corps, commanded by Major Glencairn Campbell, 91st Foot, entered the Amatola Mountains at the gorge of the Amatola Basin, with Mount McDonald on the right and the Seven Kloof Mountain on the left.
The centre column, consisting of two squadrons of the Cape Mounted Riflemen and Sutton’s Kat River Burgher Horse, crossed the Keiskamma River and ascended one of the ridges of the Seven Kloof Mountain to its summit.
The left column, under Colonels Somerset and Richardson, consisting of the 7th Dragoon Guards (the “Old Black Horse,” as they loved to be styled) and the remaining troops of the Mounted Rifles, with a half-battery of artillery, advanced towards the Seven Kloof Mountain, and, passing along its base, marched in the direction of Chumie Hoek.
The troop of the “C.M.R.,” to which Tom Flinders was attached, was with the centre column, which was led by Major Armstrong, with Major Sutton as his second in command.
When at length, after a toilsome climb up a steep mountain path winding amongst patches of bush and rocky boulders, Major Armstrong’s horsemen reached the summit of the Seven Kloof Mountain, they beheld a strong body of Caffres drawn up in the shape of a crescent, with a dense forest in their rear and their front protected by a tangled mass of brushwood and swamp, apparently impracticable for cavalry.
At the same time the incessant rattle of musketry in the Amatola Basin below told them that Campbell’s infantry were hotly engaged with the enemy.
“They seem to be having a pretty warm time of it down there,” observed Tom to his friend B—.
“You’re right, Flinders,” the other replied. “And I can tell you those fellows yonder will give us a warm time of it up here. Hark to the yelling savages! ’Pon my word, they’re no—”
“No worse than ‘Santerre’s sans culottes,’” Tom broke in with a sly laugh, as he called to mind his friend’s previous remarks anent the “noble savage.”
“I never meant to say that they were,” retorted B—; “so none of your chaff, my boy! But they are very fiends for all that, and Heaven help the poor fellows who fall into their hands! For my part, I’d rather be shot fifty times over than be taken alive by Sandilli’s warriors.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Tom carelessly replied. “‘While there’s life there’s hope,’ as old Brownjohn used to say.”
“Old Brownjohn, whoever he may be, wouldn’t have much hope left in him if he once fell into a Caffre’s clutches,” was B—’s dry remark. “In a warfare like this our motto should be that of Napoleon’s old guard—‘We die, but we do not surrender!’ Here comes Major Armstrong. I wonder if he intends to attack the enemy’s position?”
All this while the Caffres had been jeering at their foes, uttering loud cries of defiance and derision, brandishing their weapons and shields, and daring them to give battle. This insolent behaviour was very galling to the Mounted Rifles and their Kat River comrades, and they were naturally impatient to accept the challenge and teach the sable warriors a sharp lesson. But Major Armstrong, after consulting with his second in command, decided that the enemy’s position was too strong for him to attack; and so he gave the word for the column to move on towards Chumie Hoek, in order that he might effect a junction with Colonel Somerset.
Though both officers and men were greatly disappointed at their leader’s decision, they could not but own that he was acting wisely. It was one of those cases when “discretion becomes the better part of valour,” and inclination has to give way to duty.
Directly the column was put in motion, the Caffres, advancing with discordant yells (wherewith they thought to strike terror into the hearts of their foes), made an attack on its rear, and some smart skirmishing took place; but they never came to very close quarters, and after a while retired, leaving the column to proceed on its way unmolested.
Armstrong now led his troops down a steepish descent on to a low ridge which divided the Amatola Basin from the Chumie Hoek, at the foot of the Hog’s Back Mountain. Just as he reached the ridge Campbell’s infantry made their appearance, toiling up the precipitous slope of a lofty hill out of the valley of the Amatola, fighting desperately as they went, and evidently hard pressed by superior numbers. They had been attacked immediately after entering the gorge of the basin, and had been in action ever since; their losses had been considerable, and many of the wounded had fallen into the enemy’s hands, there being no means of carrying them off the field.
Now between Major Armstrong’s column and the infantry there was a steep rocky ledge, so that it was quite out of the question his despatching mounted troops to their assistance. Major Campbell, however, when he caught sight of the riflemen, ordered his well-nigh exhausted soldiers to make for the ledge, where the ground became comparatively open; whereupon Armstrong, seeing his opportunity, placed a couple of troops in such a position as would enable them to charge the enemy should he venture upon the open ground.
This some of the Caffres presently did, and then the squadron of Mounted Rifles went at them with a will, and, driving them back, sent them flying right and left into the valley below; at the same time Lieutenant B—’s troop dismounted, and, advancing to the brink of the ledge, held it until the last of Campbell’s infantry had passed over in safety. This was not accomplished without loss, for two riflemen were shot dead, and Tom Flinders got a musket ball right through his “dopper” hat.
Shortly afterwards Colonel Somerset came up from the direction of the Chumie Hoek to his lieutenant’s support, bringing with him two field-guns. These guns were at once unlimbered, and the Caffres were treated to a dose of shell which very soon sent them to the right-about, driving them out of bush and from behind rocks, and dispersing them in all directions, until there was not one to be seen save upon the distant hills.
“That’s always the way!” angrily exclaimed a rifle officer as the enemy rapidly dispersed. “Directly we get a really fair chance at these beggars, they disappear like magic. And yet I’d wager a month’s pay and allowances that, if a small party of our fellows ventured only just out of range of the guns, they would be surrounded and cut to pieces before we could proceed to their assistance.”
Colonel Somerset now ordered the columns to re-form; and the wounded having been placed, some on the gun-limbers and others in front of their mounted comrades, the troops moved down the slope of the hill to the Chumie Hoek.
The afternoon was now pretty far advanced, so Colonel Somerset gave up all idea of returning to the camp at Burns Hill, and decided to move on to an open plain beneath the high point of the Seven Kloof Mountain, close to the sources of a stream known as the “Geel Hout” River, and there bivouac until morning. But before continuing his march to this spot the colonel wrote a hasty despatch to the camp commandant at Burns Hill, directing that officer to advance at break of day to Chumie Hoek with all his forces, guns, ammunition waggons, and camp equipage; and this despatch he intrusted to one of his staff to carry back to the mission station.
A mounted party was at once detailed to escort the staff-officer on his dangerous mission, and, acting on Lieutenant B—’s advice, Frank Jamieson and Tom Flinders obtained leave to accompany the officer, so that they might rejoin their own corps in time to be with it during the morrow’s march. The escort, consisting of a subaltern and twenty-five picked troopers of the Mounted Rifles and four of Sutton’s Kat River Burghers, paraded about four o’clock; and, arms and accoutrements having been carefully inspected, the word was given to “mount” and “away!”
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.
Then for the space of six or seven minutes there ensued a regular mêlée; the troopers, urging forward their half-maddened steeds, wielded their sabres right manfully, and slashed and thrust at their opponents, who in their turn offered a stubborn resistance, striving to drag the soldiers from their saddles, and stabbing furiously at the horses’ bellies as they were ridden down; until at length the escort cut their way right through “the black shining wall of human flesh,” and rode onwards at a swinging canter.
Tom Flinders—who had borne himself in the mêlée as gallantly as any veteran sabreur—was one of the last to get clear through; and he was racing to catch up his comrades when he heard a voice shout out: “Tom! Tom Flinders! for Heaven’s sake don’t leave me!” He at once turned in his saddle, and to his horror saw Frank Jamieson standing across the body of his gallant “mooi paard,” (grey horse) and defending himself against half a dozen Caffres, who were attacking him with their assegais.
Wheeling his horse round like lightning, Tom galloped to the rescue of his friend, and swooping down upon the group rode clean over two of the Caffres, knocking them right and left like nine-pins. A third—a herculean warrior, whose leopard-skin kaross bespoke the chief—sprang at his horse’s head and clung to the bridle; but the brave lad, rising in his stirrups, threw all his strength into one downward cut, and the big chief, cloven clean through the brain-pan, fell beneath the horse’s feet.
“Well done, young Flinders!” cried a cheery voice—“well done, my boy!” And the next moment Lieutenant S— dashed up and put to flight the other Caffres, just as they were on the point of assegaiing Frank Jamieson, whose sword had broken short off at the hilt, leaving him entirely at the mercy of his assailants.
“Jump up behind me, Jamieson,” Mr S— said as the Caffres made off, “and let us get out of this before those savages come on again. I’ve had enough fighting for one day! Now, Flinders, ride for your very life!”
And Frank, being safely mounted en croupe, they rode at full speed after their comrades, who, not perceiving their absence, had galloped on and were now nearly a quarter of a mile ahead. Fortunately, however, the Caffres did not follow in pursuit; so they rejoined their friends without further misadventure.
An hour later the escort arrived safely at Burns Hill...
When the staff-officer delivered his despatch to the camp commandant he learned, to his astonishment, that the troops left behind at Burns Hill had been hotly engaged with the enemy, who early in the day had attacked the camp, and, though finally repulsed with heavy loss, had succeeded in carrying off a number of draught cattle.
In the hope of recapturing these cattle, a troop of the 7th Dragoon Guards under Captain Bambric (a fine old officer who had fought at the battle of Waterloo), and a strong party of the Cape Mounted Riflemen under Lieutenant Boyes, had followed the daring Caffres into the bush, but, being attacked at a disadvantage by a vastly superior force, they had been compelled to retire, leaving their veteran leader mort sur le champ de bataille.
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.”
Our hero was quite taken aback at thus publicly receiving so much “kudos,” and he felt not a little relieved when the conversation turned from his personal exploits to matters of more general interest.
“The campaign has opened with some hard fighting,” observed Major G—; “and I fully expect that Sandilli and his warriors will give us considerable trouble before we subdue them.”
“If they attack us to-morrow on the line of march we shall have our work cut out for us,” said another dragoon officer. “It will be no easy job to guard the waggons with the force we have.”
“No, indeed,” responded an artillery captain, who had some experience of South African warfare. “Thompson tells me that we have over a hundred bullock-waggons to escort, to say nothing of our guns and ammunition train. We shall have to fight tooth and nail to take them through. What route do you propose to take, major?”
“Well,” replied the major, “Jamieson, who knows the country thoroughly, advises me to follow the regular waggon-track—”
“Ir-regular waggon-track, major,” laughed Mr S—. “The roads about here are not macadamised, though there’s plenty of metal on the surface.”
“Well, then, the ir-regular waggon-track that runs along the banks of Keiskamma and skirts the high ground upon which the ruins of Fort Cox stand,” continued Major G— good-humouredly. “It is a somewhat circuitous route, but in this case the ‘longest way round is the shortest way there.’ No doubt we shall have to fight over every yard of the ground when once we are across the river.”
“’Pon my honour, Jamieson,” struck in an old captain of the Mounted Rifles, “Sandilli promises to give Somerset as much trouble as your old friend Marshal Soult gave the Duke!”
“As the Duke gave Soult, you mean?” was the retort.
“By the way, Jamieson,” said Major G—, “talking of Soult reminds me of your promise to give us an account of the part your old regiment played at Albuera. Suppose we have it now? It is just the time and place for an old campaigner to ‘fight his battles o’er again.’”
A murmur of approval greeted the major’s suggestion; and so Captain Jamieson, willing to accede to what was evidently the wish of his companions-in-arms, thus commenced his “oft-told tale.”
“The early spring of 1811 found me an ‘impatient patient’ in the General Hospital at Belem, suffering from the effects of a dangerous gunshot wound received at Busaco during our retreat down the valley of the Mondego. You must know that I was then colour-sergeant of the Light Company of the —th Foot; and my regiment—which was attached to Colborne’s Brigade, 2nd Division—had marched in pursuit of Massena, who, having broken up his camp before Torres Vedras on the 2nd March, was retiring into Spain, laying waste the country as he went.
“Great was my disappointment at not being allowed to march with the regiment; for I began to fear lest my continued absence from the colours might lead my comrades to suppose that I had become a ‘Belem Ranger,’ and did not intend to soldier any more. However, I was not detained in hospital very much longer, for at the end of April the doctors pronounced me fit for duty; and I was forthwith sent, with a large draft of men belonging to various corps, to rejoin the —th.
“After a fatiguing march the draft joined the 2nd Division at Albuera on the 13th May, and to my great pleasure I found myself reposted to the ‘Light Bobs.’
“Marshal Beresford was then in command of the 2nd Division, General Rowland Hill, its proper leader, being away on leave. Colborne was our brigadier.
“Beresford had taken up a position on the heights of Albuera to cover the siege of Badajos, information having been received that Soult (with 19,000 veteran infantry, 4000 cavalry, and 40 guns) was advancing from Seville to the relief of the beleaguered fortress.
“To oppose the French marshal, Beresford had 32,000 men of all arms; but of this number only 7000 were British troops, the remainder being Spaniards and Portuguese under Blake and Castanos.
“On the 15th May Beresford took post on the Albuera range, about seven miles from the town and fortress of Badajos. This range extends for four miles, and, being easy of ascent, is practicable for both cavalry and artillery. Along the eastern base of the hills flow the Albuera and its tributary the Feria, and between these two rivers is a wooded range of hills. This range Beresford most unfortunately neglected to occupy.
“The village of Albuera is situated above the river just at the junction of the main roads to Badajos and Seville, and Talavera and Valverde.
“Beresford placed Blake’s Spaniards on the right of the position; the British held the centre; Colborne’s brigade (consisting of the 3rd, 31st, 48th, and ‘ours’) being posted near the village, which was occupied by Alten’s Hanoverians; the Portuguese were on the left.
“On the evening of the 15th the light company of the —th was ordered to parade for piquet, and Captain Clarke marched us down to a narrow stone bridge spanning the Albuera in front of the village. Towards eight o’clock on the morning of the 16th Soult sent a battery of light guns, and some squadrons of light cavalry under Godinot, towards the bridge; and as soon as they had unlimbered, the French artillerists opened a smart cannonade upon our position, under cover of which Godinot’s light horsemen advanced as though they would charge across the bridge, which was barely wide enough to allow three horses to cross abreast.
“‘This is but a feint, Sergeant Jamieson,’ Captain Clarke said to me as we watched the movements of the enemy. ‘This is a feint, I feel sure. Depend upon it, Soult will try to turn our right, which is our weak point.’
“Now it happened that Beresford, who had come round to visit the piquets, overheard my captain’s remark, and turning sharply round, said:
“‘They are going to retreat, sir. I expect to attack their rear-guard by nine o’clock!’
“The words were hardly out of his mouth when an aide-de-camp galloped up from the right, where the Spaniards were posted, with the alarming intelligence that our right was turned!
“We afterwards learned that during the night Soult had quietly concentrated 15,000 troops, with 30 guns, behind the wooded range which Beresford left unoccupied, within ten minutes’ march of our weakest point—the right; and this movement he carried out entirely unknown to Beresford or his lieutenants, who remained in total ignorance of the proximity of this powerful force until it was too late to interpose between it and the Spaniards.
“So Blake was vigorously attacked and driven back with great slaughter; and Soult, confident that the day was won, pushed forward his columns.
“At this critical moment General Sir William Stewart galloped up to our brigadier and ordered him to move to the right in support of the Spaniards; our company then rejoined the battalion. Without waiting to form order of battle the brigade, led by the fiery William Stewart, doubled up the hill in open column of companies, and, passing the Spanish right, attempted to open line by succession of battalions as they arrived. But the French fire was too hot and well-directed to be borne quietly, and before the manoeuvre was completed the word was given to ‘charge.’
“With a ringing cheer we dashed onwards, but when close to the enemy the ‘halt’ was unexpectedly sounded, and the ‘retire’ followed almost immediately. At this time a heavy rain was falling, which obscured the view; and whilst we were wondering why the ‘retire’ had sounded the enemy’s cavalry appeared in rear of the ‘Old Buffs,’ who were, I believe, in the very act of re-forming column.
“We then advanced again; but before we had moved many paces a perfect swarm of Polish lancers, supported by several squadrons of chasseurs-à-cheval, charged the rear of the brigade and threw the four regiments into confusion. Separated and taken at a terrible disadvantage, our men had to act for themselves; so they formed groups of six or eight, and thus withstood the furious onslaught of the savage Poles. Many of the officers joined the men, and prepared to sell their lives dearly; for quarter was neither given nor asked for. Captain Clarke, his junior subaltern, Ensign Hay, and I, found ourselves in the midst of a group composed of a dozen men of our own company. Clarke snatched up a musket and blazed away as fast as he could ram home the cartridges, encouraging the men a while with words of approval or exhortation. Ensign Hay followed the captain’s example, and fired as hard as he could fire; and I too abandoned my pike for ‘Old Brown Bess,’ and may safely say that I never made better practice.
“All this time the Polish lancers were wheeling round the groups, stabbing at us with their long lances whenever they got a chance. It was reported afterwards that they had been promised a doubloon apiece if they broke the British line. Gradually our men became mixed up with these lancers and with the chasseurs and French linesmen; and every one of us was thrusting and parrying, hacking and guarding, loading and firing, to the best of his ability. Never have I witnessed such a mêlée.
“I saw a savage-looking, bare-headed lancer attack our ensign and run him through the lungs, the lance coming out at his back. He fell, but regained his feet immediately. The Pole again delivered point, his lance striking Hay’s breast-bone; down he went as if shot, whilst his assailant pitched over his horse’s head and rolled over in the mud beside him. I ran forward to the ensign’s assistance, but came in collision with a chasseur-à-cheval, who cut at me with his sabre and brought me on my knees. I staggered up and drove my bayonet through his leg, pinning him to the saddle. He then cut at me again, inflicting a severe wound on my head and partially depriving me of my senses. At that moment my adversary’s horse was killed by a musket ball, and in its fall the poor brute crushed me to the ground. I struggled hard to regain my feet, but the weight of the dead charger kept me down, and so I was placed hors-de-combat for the rest of the day.
“In this desperate hand-to-hand encounter Colborne’s brigade suffered terribly, for of the four regiments composing it the 31st alone was able to form square when the French cavalry charged us. The 3rd Buffs, the 48th, and ‘Ours’ were nearly annihilated.
“At length a gust of wind blew aside the mist and smoke and revealed our desperate condition to General Lumley, who was in the plain below; and he at once despatched four squadrons of heavy dragoons against the lancers. Almost at the same moment Houghton’s brigade came up, and Major Julius Hartmann brought his light guns into action.
“When I heard the artillery thundering over the ground I gave myself up for lost, making sure that they must inevitably gallop over me; but they passed a few yards to my right, and, quickly unlimbering, opened fire.
“The battle was now continued with redoubled fury; the guns belched forth grape at half-range, the musketry kept up an incessant rattle; and the carnage on both sides was truly awful. Presently our gallant fellows found that their ammunition was beginning to run short, and they were obliged to slacken fire; and at this juncture—misfortunes never come single—another French column established itself on the right flank.
“Marshal Beresford—who had been doing his utmost to induce the cowardly Spaniards to advance to the assistance of their well-nigh vanquished allies—now saw that retreat was inevitable, and he most reluctantly gave the unwelcome order. But happily the battle was saved by the moral courage—hark ye to that, you young fellows!—by the moral courage of a young staff-officer, Colonel Hardinge, (afterwards Lord Hardinge, commander-in-chief), who entirely on his own responsibility rode off at full speed to General Cole (who had just arrived from Badajos) and urged him to advance with the 4th Division and Abercrombie’s brigade of the 2nd Division. Cole readily assented, and at once led the 7th and 23rd Fusiliers, flanked by a battalion of Portuguese caçadores, up the hill; whilst Abercrombie’s brigade followed in support.
“Separating themselves from the crowd of broken soldiery, these fresh troops attacked the French with irresistible fury, and slowly but surely drove them back to the farthest edge of the hill. In vain did Soult call upon his veterans to hold their ground, in vain did he bring up his reserves; nothing could withstand Cole’s splendid infantry; and after a desperate struggle the French masses went down the slope of the hill, breaking like a loosened cliff.
“The battle was over. By three o’clock the last shot had been fired, and the remnant of the British troops, who had fought with such devoted courage, stood triumphant on the bloodstained ground. Since that memorable day I have taken part in many a ‘stricken field,’ but never have I seen harder fighting than at the battle of Albuera.”
“It was indeed a brilliant affair,” said Major G—n when the old officer stopped speaking; “and our soldiers gave unmistakable proof of their superiority over Bonaparte’s veterans. Pray, what were the losses on either side?”
“I cannot say how the Spaniards and Portuguese came off; but out of 6000 British and Hanoverian troops actually engaged more than 4000 were killed, wounded, or missing,” Captain Jamieson replied. “The French, I believe, lost between 7000 and 8000 men. As for the poor old —th, we went into action over 400 strong, and on the morrow only 53 bayonets mustered at parade! The battalion may almost be said to have ceased to exist.”
“Well might Byron exclaim, ‘O Albuera, glorious field of grief!’” said S—. “But you have not told us how you fared after the battle.”
“Well, I lay crushed beneath the chasseur’s dead charger until morning, when I was found by a party of the light company who had been searching for me throughout the night. My wounds were not very severe, and when I recovered, the commanding officer, Major K—, appointed me sergeant-major of the battalion. I held that post until the end of the war, when I was invalided home and promoted to an ensigncy on the half-pay list. In 1821 they gave me my lieutenancy in the Cape Mounted Rifles.”
“You are to be congratulated on having seen so much active service,” said Major G—n. “I always envy you Peninsula heroes. Few men, I should imagine, have passed through so much peril, and yet lived to tell the tale.”
“I am not out of the wood yet, G—n,” was Jamieson’s quiet rejoinder. “But talking of peril, no man has experienced more of ‘moving accidents by flood and field’ than my friend Richards,” he went on, nodding at a wiry-built grave-looking man who sat near him. “You’ve seen some rough work in America—eh, John?”
“Yes, Jamieson,” responded the person addressed, who was an officer of native levies; “but not such work as you’ve been describing. This, you must know, is my first regular campaign. I have always been a ‘man of peace,’ gentlemen—that is to say, when the Red-skins would let me!”
“Which was seldom enough, no doubt,” put in Captain Jamieson. “By the way, hadn’t you a remarkable escape from the Indians some years ago? I think I remember hearing of it.”
“A—ah!” rejoined Mr Richards with a sort of gasp—he spoke, too, with a slight American intonation; “a—ah! that was an adventure! Why, do you know, gentlemen, that though it happened twenty-two years ago come next fall, I feel kinder nervous even now when I think of it; for ’twas just about the very narrowest shave of being scalped that ever I did run.”
“Come, tell us all about it, John,” said the captain. “I’m sure our friends will appreciate the yarn.”
“Well, then, gentlemen,” Mr Richards began, taking a look round the company as if he wanted to find some individual upon whom to fix his eye, “you must know that I met with this adventure in ’25, when I was a smart spry young fellow of nine-and-twenty. I was trapping beavers at the time, in company with my friend Job Potter, near the head-waters of the Missouri; and as we knew that the Blackfoot Indians were on the war-path, and that we should meet with but scant mercy if we fell into their hands, we just set our beaver-traps at night, visited them at dawn, and remained concealed in the woods during the day.
“Early one morning Job and I were paddling up stream in our canoe, on our way to examine the traps, when of a sudden we heard a noise as though a herd of buffaloes were galloping towards us; and the next minute a number of Red-skins in their war-paint came rushing along either bank of the river—a couple of hundred of them at the least.
“We turned the head of the canoe like lightning and paddled down stream as hard as we could paddle, but the Indians sent a flight of arrows after us and killed poor Job Potter, who in his fall upset the canoe. By a miracle, I only received two slight flesh-wounds; and when I found myself in the river I dived like a duck in order to escape the second shower. Now some thirty yards lower down the stream was a small island, and when we paddled past it I had noticed that against the upper part a sort of raft of drift-timber had lodged. This raft, I must explain, was formed of the trunks of several trees, large and small, covered over with smaller and broken wood to the depth of five or six feet.
“In my extremity I happily remembered this raft, and I saw in it my only chance of eluding my pursuers. Rising for one second to the surface in order to make sure of its position, I dived again and swam under water until I found myself directly beneath the raft. I then—not without considerable difficulty—managed to force my head and shoulders between the trunks of trees, so that the upper portion of my body was well above water, and at the same time completely hidden from view by the broken wood on the top of the raft.
“Hardly had I fixed myself in this position when the Indians arrived opposite my place of refuge, and several swam off to the island and searched for me amongst the brushwood; one or two actually got on the raft.
“Gentlemen, I remained in that terrible position for eleven mortal hours!—in fact, until the Red-skins took their departure, which was not before nightfall. As soon as I was certain that they were gone I dived from under the raft and swam some distance down the river, and there landing, made my way to Fort Jefferson. When I arrived there, after two days’ tramp, I found that my hair had turned quite grey; and I can assure you, that, if I live to be a hundred, I shall Dever forget the agony of suspense I suffered when fixed up between those trees.”
Many a thrilling tale of sport and war, of peril by flood and field, was told that evening; and the circle round the watch-fire would not have broken up until the small hours of the morning had not the commanding officer reminded them that they must be on the move by cock-crow. So the officers lay down to rest with their weapons beside them, ready for aught that might occur; and before midnight the camp was hushed in slumber, no sound being heard save the measured tramp of the patrol or the hoarse challenge of the sentinels.
Chapter Eighteen.
The 18th April—A Fight against terrible odds—Numbered with the slain!—The March to Block Drift.
The stars were still bright in the heavens, and the grey dawn of day had not yet appeared in the east, when the camp at Burns Hill was once more astir with the final preparations for the march to Chumie Hoek; and so soon as the waggons were ready and the draught cattle inspanned, the troops paraded without blast of bugle or beat of drum, and the order to form column-of-route was given. The advance-guard moved off just as the morning broke, and was presently followed by the long train of bullock-waggons—one hundred and twenty in number—and the guns and caissons of the Royal Artillery; but the day had “begun its broiling course” before the rear-guard, of which Jamieson’s Horse formed part, was clear of the camping ground.
As daylight grew more distinct, thousands of Caffre warriors were descried pouring down from the mountains; and it became palpable to all concerned that the way would be disputed by a determined and—so far as numbers went—an overwhelming force.
Said old Captain Jamieson, as he brought his glass to bear on the distant hordes, “Mark my words, G—! the 18th April will become famous in the annals of South African warfare. Those fellows yonder mean business; they have no doubt been excited to the verge of madness by their witch doctors, and will attack us with maniacal fury.”
“We shall have hard work to get through them,” the major replied, somewhat gloomily, for he felt much his responsibility; “and I fear many a good soldier amongst us will never see another sunrise. Still, were it not for the ‘impedimenta,’ I would not mind encountering double the number; and if we could only get them in the open for half an hour our cavalry should read them a lesson they’d never forget—a lesson that should be handed down to posterity! But I must move on to the front. Au revoir, Jamieson! I trust we shall meet again at Chumie Hoek before many hours have passed.”
The road by which the convoy was to march followed the bank of the Keiskamma for some two or three miles; until the river, suddenly changing its course by a sharp bend to the right, swept round a rocky eminence upon which stood the ruins of a long-abandoned military post known as Fort Cox. At the base of this eminence (which the road traversed before it again met the Keiskamma at the drift or ford) the way led for nearly a half mile up a precipitous ascent, encumbered with huge boulders, and surrounded by bush.
It was at this point that the Caffre chiefs massed their eager warriors for the attack on the baggage-train.
The leading division of waggons, which carried the “impedimenta” belonging to Colonel Somerset’s column, were so admirably defended by G—n’s advanced-guard and their own escort, that they passed up this dangerous ground without disaster, and descending to the drift (which was held by a squadron of the Cape Mounted Rifles, under Lieutenant Bissett) (General Sir John Bissett, K.C.B., author of Sport and War in South Africa) crossed over the Keiskamma. This part of the train subsequently reached the camp at Chumie Hoek in safety; its rear being covered by Bissett’s riflemen, who, after the passage of the river was effected, were relieved at the ford by Major G—n’s advanced force. But the journey between the ford and Chumie Hoek was not made without opposition, for there was some very hard fighting all through the bushy country, and several of the escort were killed and wounded; Mr Bissett himself had a narrow escape of his life, his charger being shot under him, and his rifle knocked to pieces in his hands.
The centre division of the convoy—consisting principally of the baggage-waggons of the 7th Dragoon Guards—did not meet with similar good fortune; for the enemy attacked the escort with such impetuosity and in such overwhelming numbers, that the latter was compelled to fall back on the troops in the rear, and so the whole of the waggons were captured. To make matters worse, this disaster occurred in a narrow part of the road, and the wily Caffres immediately freed the teams from the yokes, overturned several of the waggons, and so completely blocked the way for the rest of the train.
By this time Colonel Somerset had despatched every man he could spare out of camp to Major G—n’s assistance; namely Sutton’s Kat River Burghers, and two companies of the 91st Regiment, under Captain Scott; but the enemy continued to come up to the attack in such astonishing force that the major was reluctantly compelled to abandon the baggage-waggons of the 7th Dragoon Guards (fifty-two in number) in order that he might have more men to defend the guns and ammunition train, which he was determined to save at all hazards.
Leaving the waggons to their fate, Major G—n made a détour to the left along the bushy slope, and having fought his way across the Keiskamma he entered a valley at the foot of the Seven Kloof Mountain.
Up this valley G—n led his column, fighting over every yard of the broken ground, until—just as night was falling—he reached the open country in the vicinity of Chumie Hoek. The Caffres here made one more desperate attempt to take the guns, but the gunners opening upon them with shot and shell, repulsed the attack, and it was not renewed; the column then marched on, and eventually arrived in camp with the loss of an artillery waggon, which had to be abandoned owing to the collapse of its team of bullocks...
We must now return to the rear-guard, and see how it had fared with our friends in “Jamieson’s Horse” during that eventful day.
When the officer commanding the rear-guard heard that the escort of the centre division of the convoy was being driven back, and that the waggons were in imminent danger of falling into the enemy’s hands, he consulted with Captain Jamieson as to whether he should not take it upon himself to send a troop to their assistance; but before he had time to come to a decision a mounted orderly arrived from the front with the alarming intelligence that the waggons had already been captured, and that the road was entirely blocked; he also brought an order that “Jamieson’s Horse” should be sent forward at once, to retake the waggons and hold the enemy in check until the road had been cleared.
Anxious to reach the scene of the disaster without a moment’s delay, and being well aware that if he advanced along the road he must necessarily meet with more or less hindrance, Captain Jamieson wheeled the corps to the left, and started off at a hand-gallop across country until he lost sight of the convoy; when he changed direction to the right and led his men over some broken ground, which ran almost parallel to, and was within easy rifle-shot of the road. They had advanced about three parts of a mile over this ground, and were within half that distance of the captured waggons—which were now completely surrounded by hundreds of the enemy—when Frank Jamieson, who was riding at the head of the leading troop, espied—away to the left front—a small party of Caffres driving off the bullock teams into the mountains. He at once pointed them out to his father, who ordered him to follow in pursuit with fifteen men, and do his best to recover the teams and bring them back as quickly as possible.
“Without them,” said the captain, “I do not see how we can take the waggons on; for I heard Thompson say that he had no spare draught cattle.”
As soon as Frank had ridden off, Captain Jamieson and the remainder of the corps galloped onwards, and—the nature of the ground and the “din of battle” favouring them—they approached within a couple of hundred yards of the baggage-train without attracting attention; for those of the enemy who were not actually engaged with either the advance-guard or escorts, were busily employed plundering the waggons. Jamieson’s volunteers were thus enabled to deliver a telling volley, and then charge down on the Caffres before the latter were thoroughly alive to the fact that they were being attacked from that quarter; and so impetuous was this charge, that the little band rode right through the dense masses of the enemy up to the waggons without losing a single man or horse. The next minute the Caffres, recovering from their surprise, closed in upon the gallant horsemen, and for a little while there was some desperate hand-to-hand fighting, in which, however, Jamieson and his men at first held their own. But the Caffres outnumbered them twenty to one, and, moreover, were excited to such a pitch of fury that they were utterly reckless of their lives; and as fast as one was cut down or shot, half a dozen others would press forward to take his place; many, too, actually crawled on all-fours amongst the plunging horses, and thrust their assegais again and again into the poor brutes’ bellies, and so in a short time nearly one-third of the volunteers were dismounted, and assegaied before they could disengage themselves from their dead chargers. And now the corps got broken up into groups, and the end soon came.
Amongst the first who had their horses killed, were Captain Jamieson, young Flinders, and Sergeant-major Keown; they, however, at the time, escaped personal injury, and so continued to fight on foot until they found themselves separated from their comrades, and standing at bay with their backs against a waggon.
Three worthier representatives of our glorious triune kingdom never faced their sovereign’s foes!
On the left of the “dauntless three” stood the fine old Scotchman, cool and calm as if at sword-play; his grey head bare, his tall commanding figure reared to the full height, his long cavalry sabre red with the blood of his enemies. Next to him was our young hero, a trifle less collected than his veteran chief, but not a whit less fearless; could any of his former school-fellows have beheld Tom Flinders at that moment, they would have rested content that the honour of Rugby was safe in his hands! Tom had lost his sword when his horse was killed, and he was now defending himself with an assegai snatched from an enemy’s hand.
Then on the right—close beside his master’s son—stood that brave and honest son of “Ould Erin,” Patrick Keown, armed with an old-pattern dragoon sabre, which he had picked up cheap in some Cape Town store, and had had sharpened until its edge was as keen as that of a scythe. Patrick Keown was a splendid swordsman (he had been sergeant-instructor of fencing to the C.M.E.), and not a few Caffres had fallen beneath his stalwart arm during the fray; but, alas! that good right arm now hung powerless—for an assegai had pierced it through and through, and poor Patrick’s coat-sleeve was literally saturated with the crimson stream that gushed from the wound—and it was his left hand that was clenched within the basket hilt. Round these devoted men was gathered a mob of yelling savages, who thirsted for their blood, yet hesitated to come within reach of their formidable weapons.
But it was impossible that such an unequal contest could last for more than a few minutes.
Tom Flinders was the first of the trio who fell. Struck on the head by a jagged piece of rock, hurled by one of the infuriated Caffres, Tom dropped as if shot; and rolling between the wheels of the waggon lay motionless on his face—to all appearance dead.
Almost at the same moment Captain Jamieson received a ghastly wound in the breast, and sinking lifeless to the bloodstained ground was instantly despatched by his ruthless assailants. Hard fate his, poor old man! to have fought through many a hotly-contested action with “foemen worthy of his steel;” to have survived the glorious perils of the Peninsula campaigns; and then at last to have fallen by the hand of a South African savage!
When Sergeant-major Keown saw that his chief and his beloved master’s son were both down, he gave utterance to a bitter cry of mingled rage and sorrow, and with uplifted sword rushed madly into the very midst of the exultant foe. Once—twice—thrice did his sabre flash in the sun, and each time that it descended a Caffre “bit the dust.” Then a crushing blow from a knobkerrie—delivered from behind—brought the brave Irishman on his knees; he staggered up, and wiping away the blood that, streaming down his face, obscured his vision, he shortened his sword and thrust at the nearest Caffre, driving the keen point deep into his side; but the next moment a dozen assegais were plunged into Patrick Keown’s body, and he fell to rise no more.
A few of the ill-fated corps succeeded in hewing themselves a path through the dense masses of the enemy, and rode back to the rear-guard; whilst one or two—of whom more anon—were taken prisoners; but the majority of those who took part in the fatal charge were slain fighting—like their heroic commander and his sergeant-major—to the very last gasp. The volunteers who escaped to tell the woeful tale were attached for the rest of the day to a troop of the Cape Mounted Rifles, and with them fought their way across the Keiskamma, and thence on to Chumie Hoek; where, late that same evening, they were joined by Frank Jamieson’s party.
Frank’s grief on hearing that his father and Tom Flinders were amongst the slain was very great, and he would certainly have gone forth alone to search for their bodies, had not the brigadier given him a peremptory order to remain in camp; declaring that—being one of Captain Jamieson’s oldest friends—he would not hear of the young man throwing away his life to no purpose.
The “General Order” issued on the evening of the 18th, informed the weary soldiers and Burgher troops that it was the brigadier’s intention to quit Chumie Hoek on the morrow, and march with his entire force and “impedimenta” to the mission station at Block Drift. This was anything but welcome news to the poor fellows, who sorely needed rest after the fatigues they had undergone, and had looked forward to remaining quiet at least a clear day, instead of only a few short hours; nor were they permitted to enjoy these few hours undisturbed, for during the night they had repeatedly to stand to their arms in order to repel the attacks which the enemy made on the camp. Then when morning dawned there was every indication of another day’s desperate fighting; the mountains above the camp being alive with the enemy, whilst masses of their mounted warriors had assembled on the lower heights of the Chumie range.
As Colonel Somerset’s advance-guard marched from the camping ground, the Caffres moved down from the mountains in vast numbers, extending themselves all along the line of route; and when the column approached the bushy country towards Block Drift, they attacked it in front, centre, and rear.
Somerset immediately gave orders for the Royal Artillery to come into action, and the guns opening with shell and canister, quickly drove the enemy back. When the head of the column neared the mission station, Colonel Somerset rode forward with his advance-guard and two guns, and taking possession of the ford of the Chumie River, placed the guns in position, and opened a hot fire upon the Caffres; who were still hovering round the flanks and rear of the baggage-train—attacking the waggons whenever an opportunity occurred.
About two and a half miles from Block Drift the enemy were strongly posted on a sugar-loaf, bush-clad hill, at the base of which the road passed; here there was some severe fighting, and the rear of the column was at one time very hard pressed. To do the Caffres justice, it must be confessed that they exhibited undeniable courage, and returned again and again to the attack; and that in the face of a destructive artillery and musketry fire, such as might well have daunted even European troops. The passage of the Chumie River was not effected without considerable difficulty and delay, for the banks being precipitous and slippery, many of the waggons stuck fast in the bed of the stream, and had to be hauled up on “terra firma” by the soldiers—the bullocks not being equal to the task.
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.”