Campaigning in Kaffirland; Or, Scenes and Adventures in the Kaffir War of 1851-52King, William Ross
History
Campaigning in Kaffirland; Or, Scenes and Adventures in the Kaffir War of 1851-52
King, William Ross
South Africa -- History -- Frontier Wars, 1811-1878
On the morning of their return I was sent with an escort of one hundred
men to convey to Fort Beaufort a train of waggons, containing a
quantity of spare arms and accoutrements to go into the ordnance store,
with some slaughter oxen for the use of that garrison, and to bring
back commissariat supplies for the camp. We were joined on the way,
for the sake of protection, by a burgher fleeing from his farm, with
his wife and family, and three thousand sheep. We soon neared the spot
where, about a week ago, the wounded Kaffir had been left; two or three
_asvogels_, or vultures, skimmed heavily along the ground from a black
object, which proved to be his body, already half devoured.
On the approach of evening we halted on the _open_, drawing up the
waggons in a circle, with their dissel-booms outwards. The fires were
lighted in the inner space, and the sentries posted about fifty yards
outside, with an outlying picquet of Fingoes, for the night was pitch
dark, and the neighbourhood infested with Kaffirs, to whom our flocks
and herds were a great temptation. Wrapped in a plaid, I sat by the
fire contemplating the scene within our little encampment; on one
side the soldiers chatted merrily and carelessly over their supper;
on the other were the Fingoes, jabbering in their strange dialect;
some cutting up lumps of meat with their sharp assegais, and others
lying round the fires in wild groups; while the Hottentot drivers, and
fore-loupers, sat under their own waggons smoking apart; the whole
brightly illuminated by the blazing fires reflected from the circular
wall of white covered waggons. One by one, the men dropped off to
sleep, and I was soon left to my own thoughts, surrounded by motionless
forms rolled in blankets.
On going the rounds at ten o'clock, I found the Fingoe Levies had very
coolly left their posts, and were sleeping comfortably by the picquet
fire among their comrades. Calling their sergeant, an immensely big
fellow, he rushed to the fire, and kicked up the slumbering figures
one after another, overhauling them without ceremony by arms and legs,
sorting and turning them over like a creel of fish, shouting all the
time at the top of his voice. Having found the delinquents, and awarded
them "extra guards" as a punishment, with a threat of the _jambok_, or
still more dreaded stoppage of rations, in case of further offence, we
marched them back to their posts giving them to understand, that as
they would be visited every half hour, it would be advisable to keep a
good look out.
What with the angry and incessant barking of the dogs, the
uninterrupted bleating of sheep, and the loud snoring of the oxen, all
attempts to sleep were in vain. So I sat up, and squatting by the fire,
amused myself with piling on fresh wood, wishing by the way, as the
picture of old Horace occurred to me--
"Ligna super foco large reponens," &c.,
that I could lay my hand on some of the "quadrimum merum," to render
the comparison a little more happy.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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