A South Sea Bubble
"So we found no copper island, nor rapid fortunes made,
But by strictly honest trading a dividend we paid.
And Maori Browne converted, with an ancient flint-lock gun,
A mob of ruddy pagans, beneath the southern sun."
I was in Auckland with a lot of spare time on my hands. I had come
down-country intending to go over to Australia, but, having been stuck
up by a flooded river for two days, I had missed my boat, and
consequently was planted there, as boats at that time were neither so
numerous nor ran so often as they do now.
On the morning after my arrival I was strolling down Queen's Street,
wondering what I was to do with myself, when I was hailed from the
other side of the road, and, looking in the direction from which the
coo-ee came, I at once recognised the long red nose and brilliant
scarlet hair of a man who had been our regimental surgeon during the
past wars. His had been a hard case. Out and out the best medical man
we had in our service, as far as professional knowledge and skill
went, he was still a born fighting man, and was always more anxious,
while under fire, to damage the enemy than to repair friends. This
inclination was somewhat held in check and restrained by the Roman
Catholic chaplain, a great pal of his who was always in the firing
line doing the best he could for any wounded man, be he papist or
heretic.
Well, one day while on a patrol along the east coast, we had a scrap
with a few Maoris, and the doctor, who happened to be with us, to his
huge delight, killed one. Now I do not for a moment want to assert
that this was the first man the doctor had ever killed. He had,
doubtless, during the practice of his profession, killed very many,
but it was the first Hau Hau who had ever fallen to his carbine; for,
although a brilliant medico, he was a vile shot, and the dear doctor
was greatly elated, so much so that he determined to have a trophy in
commemoration of the event. Now the Maori was a fine big fellow of
some rank, and had the skin on his thighs magnificently tattooed, so
the doctor, wanting a _spolia opima, faute de mieux_ flayed off and
preserved the tattooed portions of the bounder's epidermis, which he
cured and subsequently had made into a tobacco pouch. He was very
proud of this pouch, and was fond of exhibiting it and making people
to whom he showed it guess from what material it was manufactured.
He did so once too often; for one night after dining well, though not
wisely, he exhibited it in the smoking-room of the club at Wellington.
The same official was present whose son's leg-bone was afterwards
annexed and turned into a flute. He was at that time posing as a
goody-goody minister; and, pretending to be shocked, brought such
pressure to bear that he forced the medico to resign; and so we lost
the services of our best doctor, and the company of a thundering good
fellow. All this had happened some time before, and I had not seen him
for over a year. We had been great friends, and I was under great
obligations to him, as he had on several occasions mended me after I
had been broken, and had even saved me my left leg when two other
sawbones wanted to amputate it. So you can easily understand I was
delighted to meet him, and we at once adjourned to Perkins's saloon
and proceeded to wet this auspicious meeting.
Well, no sooner had we lowered our first cocktail than the doctor
demanded what I was doing in Auckland, and on my telling him I had
lost my boat he expressed unfeeling delight and thanked Providence for
sending and detaining me, as I was the very man he wanted, and I must
take charge of a party he had raised to search the South Seas for a
copper island.
Now I had not lost a copper island, and should not have known what to
do with it if I found one, yet the very mention of the South Seas
allured me like a honey-pot to a wasp.
Then as he went on to open out his plans, and tell me the names of the
men who had joined him in his scheme, most of whom I knew well, I saw
at once, copper island or no copper island, there was every chance of
a rollicking good time. So when the men dropped in by twos and threes,
Perkins's saloon being their rendezvous, and all of them joining the
doctor in persuading me, I quite gave way and consented to join with
them and take command.
A case of champagne was quickly ordered and consumed, drinking luck to
the venture, and I found myself chief of forty as reckless,
devil-may-care filibusters as ever banded themselves together. Do not
think, dear reader, we were going to hoist Jolly Roger, or anything of
that sort. No, we were going to search through some of the
least-frequented groups of islands to find one of pure copper, and we
were all to return fabulously rich.
If we could not find the copper island, we might yet find something
else of value, and even failing that we would trade with the
islanders, gentle or otherwise, for bêche-de-mer, whales' teeth, or
anything else we thought could be disposed of to our advantage. Trade,
I say, not take; we signed articles as Gentlemen Adventurers with
every liberty but no licence.
We were, moreover, all of us highly respectable, very moral and
well-brought-up young men. Every one of us had served and seen years
of active service, so all knew the value of discipline. Most of us
were public school boys, and although we might have found ourselves
_de trop_ at an Exeter Hall spring meeting tea-party, yet we were
quite fit to take our places and shine in the beau-monde that at that
period graced the South Seas.
Our party for the above purpose had chartered a very large and
powerful American schooner, with a skipper, a Yankee who knew the
South Seas well, and who turned out to be a rattling good fellow, two
mates, a brace of cooks, a few China boys as flunkeys, and we worked
her ourselves. Strict discipline was to be maintained. Every one of us
had put a considerable sum of money into the venture; we all knew one
another well, and two days after I had met the doctor we went to sea
well armed, well found, and as good a crowd as ever set sail, without
a single rotter amongst us.
Well, one lovely morning we got our anchor and glided out of the
splendid harbour before a fine, fair wind, made our offing, then,
setting every inch of muslin, started on our quest.
The schooner proved herself to be very fast, and also, a few days
afterwards, in a bit of a blow, showed herself, although a trifle wet,
yet on the whole to be a really good sea boat. The skipper and mates
not only proved themselves good seamen, but good fellows; so we were
all well contented and looked forward to great profit and more fun.
Those were the days when a man yearning for excitement could have his
fill in the South Seas. Everyone there did what he liked, unless a
stronger man prevented him.
Those were the days when Bully Hayes, in his lovely brigantine,
_Leonora_, swept the seas and established a funk in everyone not too
strong or too poor to fear him.
Bully Bragg was still to the fore. The infamous brig, _Karl_, and the
psalm-singing Scotch scoundrel who owned her had not yet been found
out, and there were plenty more black bird-catchers, sandalwood
traders and others always ready to grab and take anything, provided
they were strong enough to do so.
We had, however, nothing to fear from savage or picaroon: we were a
strong party, with plenty of arms, and all of us well able to use
them. We wished to interfere with no one, and whoever interfered with
us must take the consequence. So we sailed on, enjoying the day and
careless of the morrow.
If I were to write half of what happened to us on that glorious trip
it would fill books.
We met Bully Hayes and hobnobbed with him, finding him the
most obliging and courteous of men. But then we carried two
twelve-pounders and fifty good rifles, so we deserved fair treatment,
and received it. We landed on very many of the islands, and saw a good
deal of the natives. Their conduct was mixed. So was ours. We paid
well for everything we required in the way of wood, water and fresh
provisions, when they were civil to us, and when they were the other
thing we still took our requirements, and they took the other thing.
So we sailed on, strong in the knowledge of our rectitude and
integrity, and confident in our ability to take care of ourselves.
Well, we had a rollicking good time of it. But we did not find that
copper island, nor anything else we wanted of any great value. We
therefore turned our attention to trading, in which peaceful pursuit
we were very successful.
Our strength in numbers, our discipline, and our skill with our
weapons, overawing most of the savage islanders, enabled us to put in
with impunity to places where smaller parties dared not have ventured,
and also ensured us fair treatment, a good market and prompt payment.
So we prospered as gentlemen adventurers of a highly moral tone
deserve to.
One day we put in to an island where half the people, under the
guidance of an old American missionary, had turned into what they
called Christians, the remaining half still retaining their ancient
superstitions.
The missionary was a dear, good old chap, as simple and confiding as a
child, and it was very difficult to understand how such a cute nation
as America could have produced such a man. I do not know to what
brand of fancy religion he belonged, but he was not Church of England
or Roman Catholic. Anyhow, he was a good man, and we respected him
accordingly.
Now in a bit of a blow we had had a few days before we had been
somewhat damaged, and seeing that the lagoon in which we were anchored
was a very safe one, and the natives fairly civil, our skipper
determined to remain a few days to complete the necessary repairs. So
we landed a lot of stores, and started trading for bêche-de-mer, which
animal the natives caught in large quantities.
During our trading I made the acquaintance of the head devil dodger of
the pagan crowd, and found him to be not half a bad old fellow. He
was, naturally, rather bitter at the desertion of the half of his
parishioners, and gave me to understand that his tithes had so
decreased that he could barely make a living, and that the island was
not, in his opinion, large enough to support two rival churches. So,
judging I was a knowledgeable man, he asked my advice on this point.
He also requested my active assistance to aid him in his endeavours to
regain his rightful emoluments and status.
His first proposal was that he should kill his rival sky-pilot; but
that I forbade, and impressed on him the fact that if he hurt the
missionary a ship of war would quickly come and blow him and his
island galley west. He next proposed that I, to show my friendship,
should oblige him so far as to kill the missionary for him. This
proposition was, of course, decidedly negatived. Then he suggested
that I should at least shoot the boss convert, the next cause of my
old friend's trouble. Again I had to refuse, and explained to him
that the quarrel was not mine, and that the white man's God only
allowed us to kill one another in pukka (war).
Then he requested the loan of my rifle to do the deed with himself;
but I opened the breech and let him look down the barrel, explaining
to him that only a Christian could use that weapon, as a heathen, not
possessing the spirit of the true faith, might receive damage from the
breech. He shook his head and intimated that it was a weary, weary
world and full of disappointments. But an old flint-lock musket among
the trade goods catching his eye, he begged to examine it, and seeing
it had no opening at the breech he at once said that it was the very
weapon he had dreamed of with which to right his wrongs. Would I give
it him?
I am not a business man, but yet I suggested that I should like
payment for it in bêche-de-mer or whales' teeth. Alas! he was a poor
man, he had none; but would I not lend him the gun, just to shoot one
Christian with? I pointed out the dangers he ran in attempting to do
such a thing. The mana (spirit) of the Christian God was far stronger
than the mana of his pagan ancestors, and most likely if I lent him
the musket it would only bring trouble on himself, and he would be
sorry for it. He, however, refused to grasp my reasoning, sound as it
was; so knowing quite well what would happen, I lent him the old
flint-lock. He was delighted, and promptly borrowed two handfuls of
coarse black powder to feed it with. These he carefully poured down
it, then rammed home various chunks of coral, pebbles, etc., topping
up with a fid of rag.
At my earnest request he moved a short distance from my camp, to a
spot where he dug a shallow hole in the sand, in which he lay dogo,
and waited with great patience for his Christian friend to come along.
Towards evening come along he did. I knew the bounder by sight and I
did not admire him. Christianity, as a rule, does not improve the
manners of the gentle savage, and it certainly had not added to this
Johnny's stock of humility, for he swaggered along with as much side
as a new-made Lance Jack, bumptious cheek being written all over him,
in fact he looked the very quintessence of insolence and cheap pride.
Presently he arrived within a few yards of the spot where Nemesis
awaited him, and where he was to receive a shock that was to fill him
with the fear of the Lord for a considerable period of time.
Yes, indeed he was just within a yard or two of the little heap of
sand that masked the old devil dodger's ambush when that ancient
worthy rose up and, holding the old gun out at the full stretch of
both arms, shut his eyes, pulled the trigger and let go. For a moment
the powder fizzled in the touch hole, then off it went with the report
and recoil of a 32-pounder. Where the charge went the Lord only knows,
but the report, flame and smoke were quite enough for the Christian.
He turned and fled, and went round the bay, at a pace that would have
won him any Marathon race record in the world; and the last thing I
saw of him was a black dot on the white beach, disappearing round a
far cape and still travelling as if the devil had kicked him edgeways.
If the report had upset the equanimity of the convert, the recoil had
been equally deadly to the equilibrium of the pagan. Struck full in
the face by the heel-plate of the old gun, he turned at least three
back somersaults; and when he came to the conviction that he was still
on this planet he rose up, and after straightening out and arranging
his scattered features, he went and looked at the old musket, and
solemnly cursed it for at least ten minutes. Then seeing it was now in
a state of quietude, he gingerly picked it up and, holding it at
arm's-length, brought it to me and handed it back, remarking sadly,
with a shake of his head: "This gun is no good."
Here I joined issue with him, and declared it to be a very good gun
indeed. Had it not knocked him over and over again, and that with the
peaceful end of it? Had it not made him see more stars in a few
minutes than he had ever before seen in his whole life? And if that
was the case to himself, had not even the talk of it caused his enemy
to run faster and farther than any mortal man had ever been known to
run before? Well, then, how much more damage would it not have done,
with its business end, had it only been directed by a man who
possessed proper mana in proportion to the strength of the gun? No,
the gun was a good gun, and the fault clearly lay with himself.
Again I not pointed him out the dangers he ran in attacking a
Christian? Had I not assured him that the mana of the white man's God
was far stronger than the mana of his pagan deities? Had he believed
me and taken my advice? No. Then who was to blame? Why, undoubtedly
himself; and consequently he had suffered for it.
This he was forced to allow, but then the same question cropped up
again. What was to be done? Could I not give him some sound advice?
Why, certainly. The best course he could pursue would be for himself
and people to at once turn Christians, and then, if they obeyed the
missionary implicitly, they would soon make up the leeway of mana that
the others had acquired, and he would be on the same plane as the
other josser.
To this he agreed, and swore he and his people would be converted
right away, and started off hot-toe to summon them.
I had just finished telling my comrades about my first attempt at
converting the heathen when who should appear but his Reverence
himself, in a terrible state of fluster.
Approaching me, he said sorrowfully: "Surely I am misinformed: surely
you did not lend a musket to one of these heathens with which to kill
one of my dear Christian converts."
I pleaded guilty. "Is it not written," I said, "'He that lendeth to
the poor giveth to the Lord'? This poor chap hadn't a musket of his
own so I lent him one."
The dear old fellow was very much shocked, but I convinced him that I
was fully aware no harm would come from my perhaps injudicious
kindness; and finally, on the appearance of my old friend, the knight
of the rueful countenance, with his leading people, who one and all
declared that they were convinced of the power of the Christian God,
and that they were all both anxious and willing to join his flock, his
sorrow turned to gladness, and he declared that Providence worked in
wondrous ways, and that now he was convinced that our visit had been a
great blessing to his community, although he had had at first grave
doubts upon the subject. He also returned thanks for the sudden and
wonderful conversion of the heathen, and declared that now the whole
island would become the home of one happy family, living together in
peace and harmony. I had my doubts; but he was such a good old fellow
that we all turned to and built him a swagger church, and endowed it
with a spare ship's bell we had on board.
So that when we left the dear old innocent took a tearful farewell of
us and gave us his blessing; and a really good man's blessing, like a
tinker's cuss, does no one any harm. He also prophesied we should all
meet again in heaven; but there again I have grave doubts, as I fancy
most of our crew were making for a more tropical latitude.
Well, I have never heard of that island since the day we left it, and
I have even forgotten its name; but I have always felt uncertain about
the happy-family part of the business, and fear his Reverence was
premature in the thanks he gave concerning it. For on the day we left,
on my presenting the exdevil dodger with an American axe, as a parting
gift, he gravely informed me that he felt the mana of the Christians
rising so strongly within him that as soon as he had acquired a few
more hymns and prayers he should feel strong enough to have another go
at his enemy, and he thought, this time, he would fetch him,
especially as my beautiful present would provide him with a beau-ideal
weapon that would do its work quietly and not kick back and destroy
its innocent proprietor. I may therefore be forgiven for my doubts on
the brotherhood, peace and harmony of that happy family.
I have never tried to convert any heathens since, but I sincerely hope
that my one attempt proved, in the long run, as profitable as our trip
to the South Seas did for us. But may I again remark, I hae ma doots.
[Illustration: YARNING AROUND THE CAMP FIRE]
PART II
CHAPTER I
THE DÉBUT OF THE LOST LEGION IN NATAL
"There were giants in the earth in those days."
MOSES.
Of course ninety-nine out of every hundred old war dogs who have the
misfortune to retain their pristine longing for hard work and an
active life, when they are rapidly approaching the allotted threescore
years and ten of their existence, and maybe, like the writer, are
incapacitated by rheumatism, sciatica, tic-doloreux, housemaid's knee,
liver and the hump from ever participating again in such sports as
their hearts yearn for but their age and infirmities render
impracticable, sit down, and, instead of employing their remaining
years in making their souls, grouse and grumble at their bad luck,
blaming everyone except themselves (_bien entendu_) for their bad
luck, and maybe poverty, entirely forgetting the glorious years they
put in when they were able to lead a charge, rush a kopje, or back a
bucking horse with the best. Yes, and they are prone to belittle, and
perhaps to undervalue, the men who have shouldered them out and taken
their places in the fighting line, and who are at present responsible
for and are upholding the honour of our gracious King and glorious old
flag on the frontiers of our splendid Empire. "Yes, by gad, sir,"
growls one old war dog to another, "these present men are not worth
their salt, sir. They should have been with us, sir, fifty years ago,
then they would have known what privations and hand-to-hand fighting
meant. Nowadays they are fitted out with flat trajectory magazine
rifles, Maxim guns, pom-poms, and the Lord only knows what else, while
we had to fight with old muzzle-loading rifles, sneiders or
Martini-Henry's that were always jamming, etc., etc., etc." Grouse,
grumble, grouse: and so they go on _ad infinitum_.
Yes, it is very true men who are approaching the age-limit of
threescore years and ten had in their early manhood to fight with
inferior rifles to those that our gallant troops are armed with at
present, and, speaking from personal experience, deuced good weapons
we thought them, and were always game and happy enough to use them
when luck sent any fighting our way. Well, I have no doubt that in
those days our seniors were making the same remarks and passing
similar strictures on us, that we nowadays are passing on our
successors, and as they in their turn will bestow on theirs. Still
there is no doubt that, thanks to science and the enormous expenditure
of cash, the lot of the present-day fighting-man is infinitely better
than it was fifty years ago, while far more men and much better
material were employed on a war of conquest during the sixties and the
seventies of the last century than were deemed necessary fifty years
previously; in fact you may say it has been so way back to the days
of romance, when Samson used to play a lone hand against the
Philistines, or even when Sir Galahad and his compeers used
to start out holy-grailing, giant-killing, dragon-hunting or
lovely-maiden-rescuing. True, there are nothing like the hardships in
modern wars there were in those of the past, although I opine that the
Turks have just had about as bad a time of it as ever men wanted to
face; but then it has been sharp, quick and soon over, and entirely
due to their rotten Government allowing them to be caught on the hop.
(Please God the precious gang who at present misrule our country will
not put us into a like hole.) Still I doubt very much at the present
day if you could get troops of any nation to voluntarily face the
hardships that Pizarro's men had to undergo during the conquest of
Peru, or any of our young sybaritic loungers to don aluminium
waistcoats (much less steel ones) and go for a jaunt crusading as
their hardy ancestors did. But, mark time, the majority of the
progenitors of our nowadays gilded youths were in those times trading
in old clo's or doing a bit of stiff and not wearing metal vests and
unmentionables at all at all.
However, we will pass over the good ould toimes, when a rale
fighting-man had no need to insure himself with Lloyd George against
unemployment, and comedown to the nineteenth century--in fact the
years 1838-1839, when there were but few English in Natal, and the
black fiend, Dingaan, who had murdered his brother Tshaka, ruled the
roost in Zululand with his army of 50,000 bloodthirsty warriors. I am
not writing a book on the history of Natal, but, as 999 out of every
1000 Englishmen have probably never heard of Tshaka or Dingaan, and
are just as ignorant of the struggles of the early Settlers in the
garden colony of South Africa, I may state that, although Natal was
not officially occupied by British troops till 1842, when Captain
Smith of the 27th Regiment marched there with a portion of his corps
and a detachment of artillery and built a fort near Kongella, in which
he was speedily surrounded and besieged by the trek Boers under
Pretorius: yet small parties of Englishmen (good Lost Legionaries
every one of them) had years previously taken root in the vicinity of
where Durban now stands, where they carried on the usual pioneer
pursuits, such as hunting and trading with the natives. Yes; they had
taken root, and meant to hold their own and stick to their foothold in
the country, notwithstanding the jealousy and secret enmity of large
parties of trek Boers, who were crowding into Natal for the purpose of
forming a Dutch republic there. Well, the year 1838 had been a hot one
for the Boer trekkers, as in the early part of it Pieter Retief, a
chief, one of their most influential commandants, together with
seventy picked Boers and from thirty to forty picked Hottentots,
having visited Dingaan's kraal for the purpose of making a treaty,
were inveigled, unarmed, into the cattle enclosure, overpowered and
brutally murdered.
This act of treachery the savage monster quickly followed up with a
lightning raid into Natal, during which over 600 Boers, men, women and
children, were butchered with fiendish barbarity. This raid he
continued down to Port Natal, where the aforementioned few Englishmen
were forced to take refuge on board two ships that, providentially,
happened to be in the harbour. Later on in the year the Boer War
punitive expedition, under the celebrated commandant Piet Uys, were
ambushed and badly worsted, having to fall back, with the loss of
their O.C. and many men, so that the year 1838 is still regarded by
the Dutch inhabitants of South Africa as a very black year indeed.
Now the Zulu raid to Port Natal had upset the equilibrium of the
English settlers, who, being moreover very savage at the losses they
had sustained, determined to pay back the Zulu potentate in his own
coin. First of all they volunteered to join Piet Uys' commando, but as
he entered Zululand from the north they were left behind, and so
determined to form a punitive column of their own.
And, now I have reeled off this prosy prelude, let me tell you how it
was I first heard of the exploits of the first band of English Lost
Legionaries, who, although fighting for their own hand, made the
English pioneers in Natal respected and feared by both Boer and
savage, while the story also convinced your humble servant that, no
matter how good he fancied himself and his lambs to be, still, in the
near past, there were better and more daring men tailing on to the
halyards of the Old Rag than either he individually or all his flock
collectively were. And now let me trek.
It was during the latter end of December 1878, just previous to the
Zulu War, and forty years after the aforementioned incidents had
occurred in Natal history, that I was trekking through the Thorn
Country from Grey Town to Rourke's Drift, together with the staff of
the 3rd N.N.C., and we were camped for the day on the banks of the
Tugela River, when there arrived, at the same outspan, an old interior
trader, trekking out of Zululand. Now, as I was particularly anxious
to gain all the information I could about that country, I entered into
conversation with him, and eventually he accepted my invitation to
come over to my waggon, have some lunch and a yarn. Tiffin having been
discussed and pipes lit we were chatting on the probabilities of the
coming war when he noticed my M.H. sporting carbine and heavy B.L.
revolver that my servant had just cleaned, and at once requested
permission to examine them. After he had done so, and I had explained
to him the mechanism of the carbine and the flatness of its trajectory
in comparison with the sneider with which he himself was armed, he
heaved a sigh, and handing back the weapon said: "Ah, if the first
English army that invaded Zululand had been provided with such guns,
instead of old flint muskets, they might have won the day."
Smelling a yarn I replied: "I thought no English army had ever invaded
Zululand up to date."
My guest smole the pitying smile that an old-timer usually employs
when a new chum exhibits his ignorance or puts his foot into it and
queried: "Did you ever hear of Cane?"
"Oh yes," quoth I; "if you mean the cockatoo agriculturist who had the
first row with the boss of the original sheep-raising industry, I have
heard of him."
"No," responded my companion; "the party I allude to was no relation
of his--did not even spell his name the same way, though both of them
were handy with their dukes, and prone to go for their neighbours when
riled. By the way, what is the strength of your invading force?"
"Oh," said I, "about 6000 white men and an equal number of natives."
"And I suppose," queried he, "all your white men are armed with M.H.
rifles, and that you will take three or four batteries of artillery,
rockets, etc., and that a percentage of your natives will be armed
with rifles?"
I nodded assent.
"Well," he continued, "the first English army which invaded Zululand,
when Dingaan was at the zenith of his power, consisted of 18
Englishmen, perhaps half-a-dozen Dutchmen, 30 Hottentots and about
3000 Natal Kafirs, and they had only 400 old M.L. muskets to the whole
outfit."
"Oh, come," said I; "you're trying to pull my leg."
"Devil a bit," said he. Then he spun me the following yarn, which
anyone may verify by perusing the late Mr D. C. F. Moodie's book, "The
History of the Battles and Adventures of the British, the Boers and
the Zulus in South Africa," from which volume I have not only
refreshed my memory, but have cribbed many paragraphs, which I shall
quote during my narration, as I consider the whole story to be so
incredible that it requires the evidence of an historian who, although
not present himself at the battle, was yet alive at that time and who
both knew and conversed with the survivors of the invasion.
After the raid made by Dingaan on Port Natal, in 1838, two Englishmen,
named John Cane and Robert Biggar, together with a few other British
adventurers smarting under the losses they had sustained, determined
to retrieve them and avenge their injured feeling by making a raid
into Zululand, for which purpose they mustered 18 Britishers, 5 or 6
Dutchmen, 30 Hottentots who were first-class, up-to-date fighting men
and less than 3000 Kafirs.
The number of fire-arms this motley outfit possessed was 400
old-fashioned muskets, which number included a few rifles and sporting
guns of that epoch, the great majority of the Kafirs carrying only
their shields and assegais, and this expeditionary force they called
the Grand Army of Natal. Thus equipped, these daring Lost Legionaries
crossed the Tugela in February 1839, and entered a mountainous broken
country, where one of the most bloodthirsty despots that Providence
ever allowed to exist awaited them, with an army of over 50,000 highly
trained warriors who had never before been beaten.
Long odds, my gentle reader? Yes; too long odds even for a bellicose
Irishman wid his back teeth awash wid the crater. Still, they did it,
and now I am going to quote Moodie.
Having crossed the Tugela River the advance guard encountered some
Zulu spies, and fired upon them, thus opening the ball. Ascending the
opposite hill they came upon the kraal of "Endonda Kusuka"--that is,
tardy in starting--and surrounded it before daylight. A detachment of
Dingaan's army was lying there, upon whom they opened fire with their
guns; when the inmates of the huts, finding the firing directed low,
took hold on the tops of the huts, holding by the sticks which formed
the wattle-work. This plan was, however, quickly detected, on account
of the huts sinking with the pressure, when the settlers directed
their fire higher up, and the people fell, wounded or dead. The whole
kraal was destroyed, the people being killed and the huts burnt. As
the morning of this awful day dawned, many of those who were attacked
lying dead and others being in the pangs of death, one of them said:
"You may do with me as you please, and kill me; but you will soon see
and feel the great Elephant"--meaning Dingaan's army. The Elephant
soon appeared, and crushed them to death under his ponderous feet. The
land was very hilly, the hills stretching out something like the
fingers of a man's hand when extended, rising to ridges in the centre,
and descending to deep ravines on each side; the kraal being near the
top of one of these ridges and reaching down the slopes on each side.
It was at a short distance from this kraal that the great Elephant
presented himself and uttered his piercing cry and terrific scream,
which, coming from thousands of infuriated savages, wrought to the
highest pitch of frenzy, must have had an appalling effect, being
enough to make the stoutest heart quail.
Dingaan did not appear in person in this notable battle, nor were the
old warriors allowed to fight, the young men being destined to win the
highest honours, and take the weapons of their foes as trophies to
perpetuate the memory of their conquest.
The Zulu captains commanding were Umahlebe, Zulu and Nongalazi. These,
with the old warriors, took their stand on the hill, from whence they
could see all that passed, and issue their commands accordingly.
Seven Zulu regiments were brought into the field of action. They were
flushed with three successive victories--first, the cutting-off of
Relief and his party at the great place; second, the slaughter of the
Boers in the Weenen district; and third, the defeat of Uys and the
dispersion of his people. Besides they were full of rage at the loss
of their cattle, women and children at Utunjambeli, and the
destruction of the kraal before their eyes, for which they were
burning to be revenged. These circumstances led them to fight with a
fury which could only be quenched in death. When they were shot down,
if they could crawl, they would take an assegai and try to inflict a
fatal stab on one of their bitter foes, rendering it needful to fire
upon them again and again until dead.
The Natal army had therefore to fight with the vigour of men whose
lives were in a fearful balance, and who were made desperate by the
greatness of the impending danger. They were drawn up near the kraal
in question, the English and Hottentots with muskets in front, and the
native aids with assegais in the rear. The first division of the Zulu
army came on with a fearful rush, but were met by the steady fire and
deadly shots of their foes, which cut them down like grass. They were
checked, broken, driven back and defeated, many lying dead and dying
at the feet of the settlers. Robert Joyce, or, as he was called, Bob
Joyce, a deserter from the 72nd Regiment, had ten men under him with
guns, besides Kafirs; and such fearful execution did they do that they
cut a pathway through the Zulu regiment as they approached, until the
Zulu commanders ordered a change in the mode of attack.
The first division, however, only retreated to make way for the Zulu
forces to come from different points favoured by the formation of the
hill. Cane sent Ogle's Kafirs to attack the Zulus on the south-west,
whilst he, with the main body of the Natal army, took the north-east.
When Ogle's Kafirs had dispersed these, they were to come round and
take the Zulus in the flank; instead of which, the hour of revenge
being come for some affront which they received at Cane's hands, when
they had dispersed the Zulus they fled to the drift, on which the Zulu
chiefs exclaimed: "O ganti baka balegane"--_i.e._ "They can run, can
they?" The sight of them running inspired fresh courage into the
Zulus, who now closed in from all quarters upon the diminished Natal
army, coming down as an overwhelming flood, the mighty masses of which
it was impossible to resist. The strife was deadly in the extreme. The
Zulus lost thousands of their people: they were cut down until they
formed banks over which those who were advancing had to climb, as well
as over the wounded, crawling and stabbing, tenacious of life, and
selling it dearly.
Cane fought hard and died of his wounds. A fine old Kafir who was
present gave me a description of his death. He was questioned about
other matters, but as soon as he came to this his eyes appeared to
flash with excitement and his hands moved in all forms to express the
firing of the guns and the stabbing with the assegais. He took a stick
and held one point to his breast to show where the assegai entered
Cane's chest. He then gave his companion another stick, to show how a
second assegai was buried between Cane's shoulders, Cane's gun was
lying on his left arm, his pipe in his mouth, his head nodding until
he fell from his horse and died. His horse was killed close by. The
last deed of this man was tragical. One of his own people who had
thrown away his badge was coming to snatch the assegai from his back
when Cane, supposing him to be a Zulu, shot him at once over his
shoulder. Stubbs, another of the Englishmen, was stabbed by a boy, and
when he felt it was his death wound exclaimed: "Am I to be killed by a
boy like you?" Biggar fell close by. The Natal army being surrounded
and cut up, heaps of slain lay dead upon the field, to be devoured by
beasts of prey, their bones being left to bleach under many summer
suns. The work of destruction was, however, not yet complete. No
sooner had the leaders fallen than the Natal Kafirs threw away their
badges and shields, and seized the shields of the Zulus in order to
favour their escape, whilst the swiftness with which they could run
was their best defence. But in making their escape the Zulus knew
their ground, and that the river must be crossed, and they therefore
so surrounded them as to compel them to take one only course. In
flight then these wretched beings had no alternative but to take a
path at the bottom of which there is a descent of 100 feet
perpendicular to the river, having deep water at the bottom, and so
numerous were the bodies heaped upon each other in this great grave
that at length, instead of leaping, they walked over the bodies of
those who filled the chasm. One of those who made the leap was Upepe,
who was stabbed as he went under water by a Zulu, who cursed him and
said: "I have finished you"; but the death wound was not given, for
the man escaped.
In order to complete the dire destruction of this day of blood and
death, a division of Zulus were sent round to cut off those who might
escape by the river. These men were to be seen up to the armpits in
the stream, stabbing any who might be in danger of escaping; and very
few gained the opposite bank and lived. It was here that another
leader, Blankenburg, was killed. Of the few who escaped, some swam,
some dived, and some floated along, feigning to be dead. One Goba
crossed the river four times and was saved at last. Petrus Roetrzie,
or "Piet Elias" as better known by many, entered the river lower than
most of the others, and got into the long reeds of the opposite bank,
where the Zulus searched for him in vain.
In this terrible battle fell John Cane, Robert Biggar, John Stubbs,
Thomas Carden, John Russell,--Blankenburg, Richard Wood, William Wood,
Henry Batt, John Campbell,--Lovedale and Thomas Campbell, with two or
three other white men, leaving not a dozen to return and tell the tale
of woe. Of the Hottentots three or four returned; and of the Kafirs
very few except Ogle's. The few who escaped arrived at home singly,
many of them having been pursued nearly to the Bay of Durban, owing
their deliverance to the shelter of the bush and the darkness of the
night.
Most of the particulars herein recorded I can vouch for as being
correct, having conversed with several who were engaged in the
transaction, and others who were residing in Natal at the time.
Here endeth the extract that I have taken from Moodie's aforementioned
history.
Now, judging by the foregoing account of the battle of the
Tugela--which it must be remembered has been extracted, word for word,
from a history written by a knowledgeable gentleman of undoubted
veracity, who not only knew the survivors of the action, but had heard
the yarn from their own lips, and that the story told me by the old
trader who also had been acquainted with the majority of the men
composing the English army, he being a full-grown boy at the time, and
resident in Port Natal, coincided and agreed with Mr Moodie's
narrative in all the principal details--I think I am not far wrong
when I assert that the battle of the Tugela was a scrumptious one, in
which every man engaged must have enjoyed himself to the utmost of his
ability, and no one could subsequently grumble at not getting his fair
share of the fighting. Yet when you come to consider the numbers and
equipment of that invading force, and compare them with the resources
at Lord Chelmsford's disposal when he began to play the same game,
just forty years afterwards, and which were then declared to be
inadequate, you are forced to come to the conclusion that Cane and his
Lost Legionaries were a bit over-venturesome. For looking back at my
own experience in the Legion, I do not think I could ever have found
twenty men daring enough to undertake the same contract, and I am
quite certain that, even had the men been willing, I individually
should never have possessed sufficient pluck to have bossed the show.
The story of Cane and his daring companions, unheard of in England,
is, I fear, being rapidly forgotten in South Africa, but should any
patriotic Natalian with imperialistic convictions wish to perpetuate
the memory of those gallant adventurers, who, in despite of Boers,
savages, the devil, and the gasbags of Downing Street, formed the
advance guard of the settlers in his lovely country, and see fit to
raise a subscription to build a cairn in commemoration of the pluck,
or call it foolhardiness--if you like--of the first army of Natal, I,
poor old sinner as I am, will gladly plank down my mite. Yes, by gad!
I will, even if I have to forgo my baccy for a month to raise the oof.
For, by the great gun of Athlone! those men were men, and died like
men, and may the British Empire never run short of Lost Legionaries of
like kidney!
And now, before the call of "lights out" is sounded, let me relate
briefly another deed of daring, performed by one of the old-time Natal
settlers, and as I am not writing a history of Natal, but only
recounting a few well-authenticated facts of heroic bravery, carried
through by a handful of Lost Legionaries, it will suffice to remind my
reader that Port Natal was occupied for the first time by British
regular troops in May 1842, when Captain Smith (27th Regiment), with
200 men and two field pieces, arrived there. He at once entrenched
himself on the flat ground near where the city of Durban now stands,
in which camp he was speedily surrounded, and cooped up by an
overwhelming number of trek Boers. This rendered it absolutely
necessary for the beleaguered O.C. to communicate with his superiors
at the Cape, so as to warn them of his dangerous position, and to
request immediate reinforcements. But how to communicate was the
problem that required solving, and it was solved, thanks to the
devotion and undauntable courage of one of the early settlers, who
promptly volunteered to carry the despatch.
Now despatch-carrying during war-time is by no means a salutary
occupation, even when the distance is short, and the country over
which it has to be carried is open, with decent roads. What then is
the said duty to be called, when the bearer has to traverse a distance
of 600 miles, through thick bush, dangerous swamps, rugged mountains,
and across innumerable rivers, very many of which have to be
negotiated by swimming. Also please bear in mind that this delectable
country through which the orderly must travel swarmed with hostile
tribes, and was infested with wild animals, such as lions, leopards,
elephants, etc. Troth, I call such a contract a decidedly unhealthy
one. Yet such was the nature of the road Richard King had to travel
alone, and bedad! he did it so successfully, for after being ferried
across the harbour with two horses, on the night of the 25th May 1842,
he slipped past the Boer pickets, and overcoming all the difficulties,
and passing through all the manifold dangers met with on the journey,
he delivered his despatches ten days after his start.
I regret exceedingly I am unable to recount the details of that
wonderful feat of skill, pluck and endurance, although I was told them
by one of King's relatives, nor am I aware that the yarn has ever been
written; for I remember, having done a bit of despatch-riding myself,
how much I was entranced by the narrative, and have always considered
Richard King's exploit to be a record worthy to be treasured in the
annals of the "Legion that never was listed," and I am sure that most
of my readers will allow I am right when I again assert "there were
giants on the earth in those days."
CHAPTER II
A QUEER CARD
Yes, you are quite right in saying that there must have been many
queer as well as hard cases in South Africa during the seventies and
eighties of the last century. Some of these I met, and knew well, and
if I had been asked, during that period, to assign the biscuit to
anyone of them in particular, I should without hesitation have handed
it to one whom I shall call Mad Conway: a sobriquet he had earned by
his wild pranks and escapades. As I said, this was not his name, but
anyone who resided either in Kimberley, Free State or Transvaal,
during those years, will at once recognise who is hereby designated,
or at all events will do so when they have read a few lines further.
Now Mad Conway had also another nickname, as he was likewise called,
especially by the Boers, Vrei Stadt Conway; the prefix having been
earned by his numerous deeds of reckless gallantry, performed while
fighting for the Free State against the Basutos, during the war of
1865-1868. Yes; Mad Conway was a caution, and in his own line of
business stood out unique. Let me describe him, and recount a few
incidents in his wild career.
To begin with, he was a cadet of a fine old English county family,
some of the members of which were celebrated in the world of English
sport during the early part of the nineteenth century, and whose
name, like that of Osbaldistone, is still treasured by all true
votaries of Diana. Well, Conway in no way disgraced the family
reputation as a horseman, he being one of the very best I have ever
seen, and would, provided his lot had been cast in the shires, have
gained a place in sporting song and story as well as his ancestors.
After having been sent home from Eton for some mad escapade, he joined
a crack cavalry corps, and had to send in his papers, owing to his
having mistaken his colonel's pet charger for a horse belonging to a
newly joined cornet. Now this charger was held as sacred in the corps
as the mares of Mahomet were held by the Moslems, but Conway, after a
heavy night in the mess, converted it, with considerable artistic
taste and skill, and a couple of pots of paint, into a zebra.
On leaving the service--as he was over head and ears in debt to the
Jew sharks, who in those days battened on the follies of young
officers--troth! they do it still, when not more lucratively employed
in the art of bogus company promoting, and other congenial
pursuits--his people thought a _tour du monde_ would be a salutary
exercise for him, and that if he could pick out some salubrious spot
about half-way round, and make a permanent camp there, why, so much
the better for them. So Mad Conway landed in South Africa some time in
the fifties. Now what he originally intended to do there I don't know,
and I don't think he knew himself; but he certainly wandered all over
the country, taking a hand wherever the chance occurred in any Kafir
fighting that might be going on, and putting in his spare time
big-game hunting and exploring.
In both these congenial occupations he quickly gained the reputation
of being a man utterly devoid of fear, while the wild and fantastic
pranks he would play when he happened to be in a town made him an
object of wonder and astonishment to both the phlegmatic Boers and the
lazy Portuguese, some of them even causing his own more up-to-date and
reckless countrymen to open their eyes. During this period of his
existence he accompanied two successive expeditions that were
organised for the purpose of searching the lower reaches and delta of
the Zambesi for a gold-laden dhow that the Portuguese had sunk in the
early part of the century, so as to prevent her capture by an English
cruiser. On both these occasions Conway was the only European who
survived the attacks of fever and wild beasts, and although, on the
second trip, they actually located the dhow, still, before they could
clear the drifted sand from off her his last surviving mate died.
Conway always declared that, notwithstanding the awful hardships he
had undergone, he would have stuck to the job, lone handed, and would
have scooped the jack pot himself, but the dop (common Boer-made
peach-brandy) cask gave out, and as that and quinine were his sole
diet, he had to chuck the contract before he could touch the geldt.
Darned bad luck, he called it, especially as the long war waged by the
Zambesi natives against the Portuguese, at that time breaking out,
prevented him from having another try for the plunder. Reaching
Delagoa Bay, thanks to the kindness of the officers of one of H.M.
cruisers, he wandered up to the Transvaal, and took a turn on the
early goldfields. Doing no good, he drifted away to the Free State,
where, as aforementioned, he earned the name of Vrei Stadt Conway by
his feats of reckless daring. Let me recount one of them.
During one of the numerous unsuccessful attacks made on the
impregnable mountain Thaba Bosigo, the principal stronghold of the
great Basuto chief Moshesh, a gallant Dutchman was wounded and
captured by the natives. This poor chap, having been duly tortured,
was crucified on the very summit of the mountain. Moshesh at once
declared that the poor remains were to be regarded as his standard,
and at the same time sent an insolent message to the Boers, stating
the fact, and challenging them to come and pull it down. This brutal
and contemptuous message deeply enraged the Boers, and was all the
more galling as the poor fellow's remains hung in full view of the
Dutch laagers. Something must be done at once; so the farmers' war
council determined to recover the body, and called for volunteers to
do so. These being forthcoming, the attempt was made, but the party,
after fighting its way about half the distance up the mountain, having
suffered heavy loss, halted. They caved in, declared the undertaking
to be impossible, and point-blank refused to make any further effort.
This sensible determination, or pusillanimity--call it which you like,
but remember a Boer is no coward--did not coincide with Conway's
temperament, he being one of the leaders. He had declared he would
bring that crucified corpse down, or would bust in the attempt, and if
his men refused to come any further, why, he and his Hottentot
arter-rider would go on alone; and, faith! the two of them went.
Troth, I forgot to tell you before that his mother was Irish, and when
the best of English hunting blood is crossed with the best of Irish
fighting blood it is deuced hard to stop the owner when on the
warpath. Well, subjected to a _feu d'enfer_, these two beauties scaled
the almost perpendicular cliffs, and reached the cross, which they
pulled down, and removed from it the battered remains. They then
turned to descend the mountain, only to find their one path down it
blocked by a strong party of the enemy, who had allowed them to do so
much, to make sure of capturing them alive, and then the following
morning there would be three crosses on the mountain instead of one.
This strategy on the part of the natives would have caused most men to
despair, and even the bravest of the brave, if cornered in a like
manner, could have only hoped to enjoy a last good fight, and sell his
life as dearly as possible. Mad Conway, however, thought otherwise. He
had declared he would bring the body down the mountain or bust, and as
the Basutos had blocked the only path down which he could carry it,
why naturally he could only keep his word by throwing it over the
krantz, and then, by following it himself, he would at all events balk
the enemy of their anticipated fun, and save himself from the horrors
of the torture stick. He and his faithful Tottie boy, therefore,
expended their remaining cartridges, and then, bundling the corpse
over the edge of the precipice, jumped after it themselves. No one
looking at Thaba Bosego would believe the possibility of a man going
over the edge of its perpendicular krantzes ever reaching the bottom
with a semblance of humanity left, much less that he could survive the
awful fall without every bone in his body being broken and life
crushed out of him. Yet Mad Conway and his Tottie boy did so, and
miraculously reached the foot of the beetling precipice, not only
alive, but comparatively unhurt. Then picking up the corpse they
carried it, under a hail of bullets, back to the schanze, where the
rest of the party awaited them. Now these men must have been blessed
with charmed lives, for although their scanty clothing was nearly shot
off their bodies they only received a few slight flesh wounds, until
they were just reaching the safety zone, when Conway was knocked over
with a bullet through his left leg.
Well, now I have given you a glance at the heroic side of this queer
card, let me turn the tables and spin you another yarn, so as to give
you some idea of the mad pranks he was capable of playing. Here goes.
At one time, during the long protracted struggle between the Free
State farmers and the Basutos, Conway was commandant of a small Dutch
dorp situated close to the border which, like all other Free State
villages, during war-time was laagered. Now Conway's commando had in
their possession an ancient six-pounder ship's cannon so honeycombed
that, had they fired it off, the probability is they would have made a
considerable hash of the gun's crew that served it. Still, it was a
real cannon that, when polished up and mounted on a pair of waggon
wheels, looked formidable. Well, mad Conway had this piece of antique
ordnance in charge, and being in his usual state of impecuniosity, and
the said cannon being the only available asset he could lay his hand
on, he one fine day determined to raise the gentle breeze of affluence
and also to remove a possible danger to himself and men by disposing
of the ancient bombard to the enemy, whose paramount chief, Moshesh,
was most anxious to obtain artillery at any price, be it ancient or
modern. This nefarious idea having been conceived, he at once sent a
message over the border to Moshesh offering to sell it for 100 head of
prime cattle. Moshesh was delighted. All the preliminaries were
arranged: the time and place for the transfer of old scrap iron for
live stock was fixed upon, and the transaction was carried out, a
small party of Basutos bringing 100 head of splendid oxen across the
border, which they handed over, receiving the old carronade in return.
Mad Conway, many years afterwards, declared to me that it was only
when the cattle were safely in his hands that the shameful wickedness
of his act struck him, and he realised that, no matter how worthless
the cannon might be, still he was an officer in the service of the
Free State, that he had sold their war material to their enemy, and
that by doing so he had forfeited his last shred of honour as an
English gentleman. In fact his conscience reminded him that he had
placed himself on the same low level as Mr Judas Iscariot, so he at
once turned-to, like the Hebrew traitor, to purge himself of his
shame. Now, my gentle reader, don't, please, imagine that Conway
handed back the cattle, or expended a shilling in buying a rope
wherewith to hang himself. No, not by a jugful; for he differed in
very many respects from the Hebrew gent and when his qualms of
conscience became too poignant for him to bear he turned out his
commando, made a tremendous forced march, overtook the gun escort,
which he surprised and routed, on their own side of the border, and
brought back the old thunderer in triumph.
Now some people may say that Conway had been guilty of decided sharp
practice over this gun deal, but he always asserted that if old
Moshesh could not keep possession of a purchased article after it had
been delivered to him, and he had taken it across the border into his
own territory, then he (Moshesh) was the only one to blame, and that
he had no cause to grumble. Anyhow, the recapture of the gun
reinstated Conway in his own self-respect, and as the sale of the
cattle brought him in some £500, I think you will agree with me that
he fared much better than the late Judas Iscariot, Esq.
Through the unjustifiable interference of the British Government, the
long war between the Free State farmers and the Basutos was brought to
an end in March 1868, so that Mad Conway must needs look out for
something else to do. He had gained great kudos in the field, and the
Free State Government not only passed a vote of thanks to him, but
also determined to add a more substantial token of appreciation, by
presenting to him a large farm, the title deeds of which were to be
delivered into his hands on the occasion of the last parade of the
Bloemfontein burghers, previous to their disbandment. Well, the
function was held, President Brand made his speech, and at the end of
it Commander Conway's name was called. The hero of the hour rode to
the front, to be welcomed by the plaudits of the men, and the
handkerchief-waving of the women. A fine figure of a man, and a superb
horseman, Mad Conway looked well as he reined up beside the President,
and one would have thought that the bestowal of such an honour would
have made even the most reckless dare-devil in the world conduct
himself with decorum. Moreover, Mr Brand was perhaps the one man in
South Africa who was highly respected, both by Briton and Boer, and
had frequently befriended Conway in many ways. But alas! the Fates
willed otherwise, for the reckless child of impulse, prompted by Ate
or Old Nick, as usual, fell away and behaved in a most shocking
manner. I said prompted by either Ate or Old Nick. Well, maybe they
were the original instigators, but they used deputies to carry out
their designs, for you see Conway had that morning imbibed many klein
soupjies, and President Brand was wearing a tall bell-topper hat. Of
course you will understand in a moment that a multifarious number of
tots might excite a hot-tempered, reckless fellow such as our friend,
but it may puzzle you why the hat of a respectable old gentleman
should arouse the somnolent devil in Mad Conway. Let me explain.
A tall bell-topper hat was, at that time, and for many years
afterwards, an aggression that up-countrymen, be they Boers or
Britons, could not stomach, for even in the latter eighties only two
men were allowed to wear them in Kimberley--one, as old hands will
remember, being Chief Justice Buchanan, and the other Donald McKai,
the De Toits Pan market master. No one else, no matter what his status
might be, possessed the temerity to appear in public wearing one; for,
had he done so, it would have suffered the same fate as the
presidential Golgotha did, on the occasion of which I am writing. Yes,
bedad! and it did suffer, for Mad Conway had no sooner been given the
title deeds of the farm, and had uttered a few words of thanks for the
complimentary speech, and the honorarium he had received, than he
waved his right arm wildly over his head and brought his fist down
flop on the presidential bell-topper, which after emitting a drum-like
thud, collapsed over the ears of its portly wearer. Then there was the
deuce to pay and no pitch hot. Had anybody else been in Conway's boots
he would have been massacred at once by the infuriated burghers, but
seeing it was Conway, and being accustomed to his crazy vagaries, they
sat on their horses and stared open-mouthed at the extraordinary
spectacle, while the President attempted to struggle out of the ruins
of his battered _chapeau_. In a moment Conway was himself again, was
off his horse and assisting the President in getting rid of his
encumbrance, at the same time pouring out a volume of excuses, and
censuring himself for his confounded clumsiness. These excuses the
dear old man accepted, and, in fact, in a few moments was acting as
comforter to the brazen scallywag, so that the latter emerged from
what might have been a desperate fix with honour and emolument.
Now let me tell you how I fell across this queer character. I think it
must have been about the end of the year 1883 that I, who was at that
time working as a digger in Bullfontein, received an invitation to
dinner from an old brother officer residing at the New Rush, for the
purpose of meeting Mad Conway, who had drifted down to the diamond
fields from the Transvaal. Of course, like everyone else in South
Africa at that time, I had heard heaps of yarns about him, but
although we had both served in the same wars we had somehow or other
never met; so I joyously accepted the invitation. On my arrival at my
friend's house I was introduced to this noted madcap, who turned out
to be a well-dressed, well-groomed, well-set-up man, who, although
past middle age, looked as hard as iron and tough as whipcord. The
dinner passed off well, myself and others being kept in a roar of
laughter by the extraordinary yarns he related, together with the
inimitable pantomime with which he illustrated them. Mad Conway had
sojourned on the diamond-fields in the earlier days, and had literally
been hunted from off them, his exodus being so thoroughly in keeping
with the man's whole career that I think you will pardon me should I
digress and recount it. You see, it was in this way. Conway was as
usual over head and ears in debt, and one fine morning he heard that
writs were out against him for civil imprisonment. This was an
indignity that sent him hopping mad, so jumping on to his horse he
galloped to the Court House. _En route_ he encountered the
bum-bailiff, who, mounted on an old pony, was looking for him, and who
was fool enough to try and stop him. Waving a sheaf of blue papers in
his hand, he called on Conway to pull up, at the same time turning
his nag athwart the road in an attempt to stop him. It was only an
attempt, for the next moment the messenger of the Court and his
gee-gee were heaped up in the sluit, while his scattered documents
were being rapidly torn up by a mob of laughing, cheering diggers.
After his successful charge, Conway cantered on to the Court House,
through the sacred portals of which he rode his excited and plunging
horse. Scattering the limbs of Satan and the grimy scum usually to be
found in such establishments to the four winds of heaven. "----"
shouted he to the horrified magistrate. "I heard you had been signing
some d----d arrest papers against me, so I just dropped in to tell
you, you can shove them where the monkey shoved the nuts. So long."
"Stop him! Arrest him!" cried his outraged worship, as Conway swung
his horse round, and two policemen made a half-hearted attempt to do
so, but were ridden over and dispersed.
"Whoop, gone away," yelled Conway, as he emerged into the Free State
road and burst through a squad of mounted police. "If you want to
catch me try to."
They wanted to catch him very badly, and tried very hard to do so, but
the veld was close handy and, Lord bless you! they might as well have
tried to rope a sunbeam as to round up Mad Conway once he had gained
the open plains; so that after he had played with them until, I
presume, he got thirsty, he just turned his horse's head for the Free
State and cantered across the frontier, leaving his baffled pursuers
to ride their knocked-up horses back to the disgruntled beak. This
escapade took place just before he joined the irregular forces who
were carrying on a desultory sort of warfare with Sekukuni. It was
while serving with this disorganised crowd that Conway mated with an
ex-naval lieutenant as like himself in character as two peas are in
appearance. Faith, they made a bonny half-section, for what one did
not know in the way of devilment, the other could teach him. Well, it
was just before the time when the aforesaid irregular forces were to
be reorganised. Sir Garnet Wolseley was on his way up country, so were
strong reinforcements, and the atmosphere was thick with shaves as to
what was going to happen. Now, it was just at this moment this brace
of beauties found themselves to be in a dilemma: they were both
stonybroke. True, they were accustomed to be so, and as they had both
been appointed to irregular corps about to be embodied, possessed
smart uniforms and first-rate horses, they thought it would be a hard
matter if they could not manage to raise a fortnight's board and
lodging of the best, together with the necessary liquid, in liberal
quantities, _bien entendu_, from somewhere or other. Now half-a-day's
ride from where they were located was an up-country dorp, in which was
a canteen of such pretensions that the owner, a leery old Scotsman,
called it a hotel. He was, like many of his countrymen, exceedingly
avaricious, and prided himself on his cuteness, making a brag that no
one could impose upon him. For many years he had enjoyed the monopoly
of such trade as passed through the little township, but latterly
another individual had opened an opposition shop, which, as it was
slightly more up-to-date, filled the old sinner with apprehension, and
rage, especially as hard cash was very scarce in the Transvaal at
that date. Well, it was this close-fisted old Boniface that our brace
of worthies determined to victimise, although to anyone else an
attempt to do so would have looked very hopeless indeed. Now mad
Conway was so well known in the dorp, especially by the said Boniface,
that it was utterly useless for him to try to obtain credit for a tot
of dop, as the publican would sooner see the liquor on his shelves
than trust anyone for a shilling. But at the same time he was well
aware that Conway had held, and was likely again to hold, a fairly
high position in military circles. The other partner, however, was a
perfect stranger. So this was the way the two scamps worked the
oracle.
One fine morning Conway cantered up to the old Scotsman's hotel, into
which he strode with a bustling, dutified air. "Swan," quoth he,
"Colonel ---- (mentioning the well-known name of one of Sir Garnet's
principal staff officers) will be here in a few minutes. He is riding
in advance of the General, so as to make arrangements for the
accommodation of Sir Garnet and his whole staff, who will be staying
in this dorp for some considerable time. The Colonel was recommended
to go to the new hotel, but I, who am acting as his guide, have
persuaded him to try you first of all, to see if you can furnish the
necessary requirements. Of course you will have to do your very best,
furnish the best rooms, supply the very best food and liquor, and all
that sort of thing, and the Colonel will require a private
sitting-room, in which to carry on his correspondence, while he is
awaiting the General's arrival."
Old Swan nosed what he thought was going to turn out to be a most
profitable bit of business. He had heard of the enormous sums of money
squandered by the Imperial Government during the late Zulu war, and
his fingers fairly itched at the chance of being thrust into the
plunder pot. In a moment he was all smiles and attention, even going
so far as to promise to turn out, at a moment's notice, all his usual
guests and to reserve the whole of the house for the great man and his
staff. Throwing open the door of his own cosy sitting-room, he
inquired if Conway thought that would do until a better one could be
provided, and also asked if he should be doing right to invite the
Colonel to have a drink on his dismounting.
"Well," said Conway, "I should hardly do that, as perhaps Colonel ----
may be one of those rabid teetotallers who do not like to drink in
public, but you had better place a bottle of whisky, one of brandy,
yes, and perhaps one of gin, together with some soda-water, and a box
of your very best cigars on that buffet, and if he should help himself
you will then know whether he drinks or not. Ah, by Jove! here he
comes."
A fine stalwart figure, clothed in undress uniform, rode slowly across
the big market square and, reining up at the front door, leisurely
dismounted. Handing his horse over to the grinning Tottie hostler, he
coolly scanned the front of the premises and the surroundings. Out
rushed the obsequious host, more leisurely followed by the debonair
but still respectful Conway.
"Ah, Conway," drawled the new-comer, "so we have arrived at last, and
this is the hotel you recommended, is it? Well, perhaps it will do,
though I must confess I like the appearance of the other one better.
Still, I have no doubt our worthy host here will do his best to make
us all comfortable, especially as our stay here may be rather a long
one. Let us step inside and see what accommodation he has to offer, as
you know how particular Sir Garnet is."
Enter the bandits, who are shown over the house by the palpitating
innkeeper, whose ears at the illusion about the more attractive
appearance of the rival house are aching as if struck by an acute pang
of tic doloreux and he forthwith promises at once to carry out the
most frivolous suggestions, and there were many of them, of the
somewhat haughty and exacting S.O.
"And now you have shown me the house," quoth the latter, "perhaps you
will be good enough to show me my private sitting-room, in which I
think, Conway, as I am somewhat fatigued by my long ride, we might
indulge in a biscuit, and on this occasion, although I hardly ever
take anything stronger than tea, I think I will venture, Mr Swan, on a
glass of your best sherry or pontac; and by the way, Mr Swan, at two
o'clock you will be good enough to let us have the best and most
substantial lunch you can furnish at such a short notice. Ah, this
will do very nicely"--as the deluded innkeeper threw open the door of
his own snuggery and ushered his stonybroke guests inside. The room
looked like a cosy miniature bar, for the the small buffet was loaded
with bottles, plates of delicately cut sandwiches, biscuits, and a big
box of extra-special prime cigars, while the canvas water-cooler was
full of bottled ale and soda water.
Well, our two adventurers were in clover, and so well did they employ
their opportunity that old Swan, who had been bragging to all his
usual bar frequenters about having secured the General's custom, and
chuckling to himself over the huge bill that, in the future, he would
present, which would be duly paid in bright English gold instead of in
worthless Transvaalian greenbacks, was fairly wild with greed and
pride. There was, however, one small cloud on the horizon: the Colonel
had stated that he rarely touched anything stronger than tea, and the
tea-drinker is not nearly so profitable a customer to an up-country
innkeeper as one who imbibes expensive drinks at short intervals
during the day. This gloomy conjecture he confided to his circle of
cronies, who condoned with him, but the cloud, however, was to be
quickly blown away, for after he had summoned his guests to their
lunch he rushed back into the bar and exclaimed: "Tea-drinker, does he
call himself? Tea-drinker, ma certes! Why, they have finished the
sherry; they've finished the pontac; they've finished the brandy and
more than half finished the whisky, and the Colonel has ordered two
big bottles of champagne for their tiffin. Yes, and I'm blest if
they've turned a single hair. Tea-drinker indeed! My word, if the
General and the remainder of the staff drink tea like the Colonel, and
are half as drouthy, they will drink the dorp dry in less than a
week." And the old fellow rubbed his hands as he booked the amount for
the liquor consumed and chortled over the anticipated profits.
Well, to cut a long story short, our two penniless heroes lived for
over a week on the very fat of the land, their Gargantuan repasts and
the amount of liquor they consumed causing wonder and astonishment in
the quiet dorp. But the end of their bean-feast was at hand. Sir
Garnet, they knew, was in the vicinity. Prudence warned them to
absquatulate, and they determined to cut their lucky, before the
inevitable _dénouement_. One evening, therefore, they informed old
Swan that the expected great man would arrive the next day, that they
were riding out in the morning to meet him, and they conjured him to
have things ready for his reception. Next morning, with their wallets
filled with the best cigars, and their flasks full of the best cognac,
they rode gaily away on their quest, and, bedad! it was high time for
them to do so, as they had not proceeded two miles out of the dorp
before they met the real Simon Pure, with all his staff, escort and
mule waggons _en route_ to the village they had just quitted. Well,
they were all right: the paymaster had arrived, all arrears would be
paid up, the war would start again, they had had a high old time of
it, and they lapsed into roars of laughter when they thought of old
Swan and the fury he would be in when he found out he had been hoaxed.
Yes, old Swan's consternation and rage were beyond description when
the General's cavalcade, instead of pulling up at his highly decorated
house, proceeded to that of his hated rival, from whence, after a
short interview between Sir Garnet and the landrost, it continued its
way to parts unknown. Truly the old fellow's provocation was great.
Not only had he been put to much expense by the alterations to his
house, but the bill run up by the two marauders was a very big one,
and then the chaff that he would have to submit to, because he, who
fancied himself to be more than cute, had allowed himself to be taken
in and done down by a well-known bad hat like Mad Conway. No; it was
not to be tolerated, so he called for his horse and his two-shot
scatter gun, for the purpose of going in pursuit, but on second
thoughts that was far too risky a job, so he got drunk, and goaded at
last to desperation by his wife's clacking tongue tried to beat her,
but she, being a strong-armed suffragette, took the contract out of
his hands and gave him the devil's own thumping. So the poor old
fellow subsided and submitted to having his leg pulled with the best
grace he could muster. There was, however, a little balm in store for
him, as after the two freebooters had had some financial dealings with
the paymaster they sent him a good round sum of money; for they were
both men who did not object to paying their debts when they had the
coin, and remembered to do so. This remittance, although it brought
relief to his avarice, still did nothing to assuage his injured
self-respect. He had been taken in and hoaxed. The yarn spread all
over the country, and he was unmercifully chaffed to the day of his
death about the way he had entertained Mad Conway and the counterfeit
Colonel. It was, however, to be the last escapade of the latter, as
the poor fellow was shortly afterwards killed while gallantly leading
a desperate rush at Sekukuni's Mountains.