Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost LegionHamilton-Browne, G.
History
Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion
Hamilton-Browne, G.
Māori (New Zealand people) -- Warfare; New Zealand -- History -- Anecdotes; Zulu War, 1879
We were all superbly mounted and well armed, each man carrying two
revolvers; I would sooner have carried a carbine, but I was dissuaded,
and we had cause to regret it. The fight might have finished much
sooner had I done as I judged best; but I was in what was to me a
foreign country and, having no official status, gave in to the others.
So we started, the blacks leading; and they did lead us. No sooner
were we clear of the paddock fences than we broke into a canter, and
made for a dense line of bushes about five miles off, and just as we
reached it the moon went down. I expected to see the blacks pull up
and walk their horses, but not a bit of it. On they went at the same
pace. The bush was some miles through, but no crow could have crossed
it in a straighter line than they did. On reaching the open ground on
the other side we halted and dismounted, for a short time, so as to
give our steeds a blow. It was now pitch dark, with not even the
glimmer of a star, yet no sooner had we mounted than we broke into a
canter again, and rode through open park-like country and bush till
the east began to lighten, when we pulled up at a small water-hole.
This was the spot our guides had aimed for, and it was at least twenty
miles from our starting-point, so it will give you some idea of the
marvellous abilities of these creatures. To be able to ride twenty
miles at a sharp pace, through trackless country, on a dark night, and
exactly strike the spot they aimed for, was to me wonderful. It may
not strike you so, but try it.
We off-saddled, rubbed down, watered and fed our horses out of their
nose-bags, then ate some cold mutton and damper, and dozed for a
couple of hours, leaving the blacks to keep watch over us and our
horses. Saddling up again we rode through clumps of bush and up gently
rising ground towards a range of heavily bushed mountains, some ten
miles off, through which ran the divide, or pass, we were to guard. We
halted when we reached the foot of the range, and took cover in a
small clump of bush, off-saddled and sent one black on foot to scout
the pass and find by the spoor if anyone had crossed it during the
last twenty-four hours.
Of course, being an utter stranger in the land, I knew nothing of the
lay of the country, nor even where the pass was; but a rather acrid
discussion took place between the stockriders, who declared we were
badly posted, and the trooper, who asserted we were not. Unable to
give an opinion either way, I was lying down with my head on my
saddle when we were roused by some shots. I jumped to my feet just in
time to see our scout burst out of a clump of bush and run like a hare
towards us, closely followed by four mounted men firing at him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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