Ward
The Cape and the Kaffirs: A Diary of Five Years' Residence in Kaffirland
Chapter XVII.
Prospects of Peace
The rain fell in torrents throughout the Colony, but this did not deter the patrols from advancing on the enemy’s country. As the Kaffirs did not think it wise to show themselves to such large bodies of troops, nothing took place, at first, but a conflagration among the huts and kraals of the contumacious Gaikas; it was, however, well-known, that they had not left their hiding-places. Towards the Mancazana, some houses were fired, probably in retaliation, and the usual system of cattle-lifting, though to less extent, was carried on in the Colony by gipsy parties of the enemy.
In the meantime, old Sutu, Sandilla’s mother, sent word to Sir George Berkeley that Sandilla was “the Governor’s dog,” etc, etc; that, “if the Government would accept his submission, he would behave better,” and so on. These messages were like all the rest—hollow and designing. The Kaffirs under Tyalie, a petty Chief, having captured twelve hundred head of cattle from Sandilla, claimed a right, as British subjects, to retain them, according to the Governor’s notice; but, as this was suspected to be a ruse adopted by Sandilla himself, the troops under Lieutenant-Colonel Campbell, Reserve Battalion, 91st Regiment, were sent forward to secure the cattle.
Several Kaffirs, caught in the act of stealing were brought into King William’s Town; and, after receiving one hundred lashes, were dismissed. Prison rations were thus dispensed with, and these Kaffirs became, for a period a least, a warning and a mockery to their tribes. In Kaffirland, as in China, disgrace is attached to a thief, not for stealing, but for being found out.
The division under Major Sutton, Cape Mounted Rifles, and Captain Hogg, 7th Dragoon Guards, which had moved from Shiloh, captured two hundred head of cattle in the Amatolas, and killed a few Kaffirs; with the loss, on our side, of Serjeant Phillips, Cape Mounted Rifles, and formerly of the 91st.
Although incessant rains deluged the country, the troops continued healthy. In reply to Sandilla’s messages, Jan T’Jatzoe was desired to intimate to him that no terms would be listened to from him but those of unconditional surrender.
This T’Jatzoe, to whom I have before alluded as a Kaffir who had been exhibited in England (at Exeter Hall, at Sheffield, etc, in 1836) in the false character of a Christian Chief, played a cunning part during the war of 1846-7, and was actually engaged in the attack on the waggons at Trumpeter’s Drift. The British public were completely imposed upon by this savage heathen, for such he is, and ever will be. On his return from England, whither he had gone, or rather been taken, in direct opposition to the orders and wishes of his father, a petty Chief27, he was asked many questions by his tribe, concerning the country he had visited.
“Was it large?”
“Yes, it was large; but the people were so numerous they found it small.”
“Were they so very numerous?”
“Yes; England was like a huge piece of meat covered with flies crowding upon each other.”
“What surprised him most?”
“The waggons which travelled without oxen or horses.” (Railway carriages.)
“Ah,” said Macomo, after a conversation of this kind with T’Jatzoe, “I have always told our people, that there was no use in trying to conquer the white man. It is like little boys attempting to shoot elephants with small bows and arrows.”
Macomo, with all his people were removed to the neighbourhood of Algoa Bay. He was opposed to the war, from policy, from the beginning; but when once the cry was raised in the mountains, he immediately assumed the command, being the General of the Gaikas, and, when sober, an able warrior and councillor. He was glad when an opportunity offered of surrendering himself, the charms of the canteen superseding the desire for glory among his tribe; but he used every means to remain on his old location. His appeal was pathetic enough, but we have profited somewhat by our experience in the “word of a Kaffir.” “Here,” said he, stretching his hand over the beautiful territory, “my father, a great Chief, dwelt; these pastures were crowded with cattle”, stolen, of course; “here I have lived to grow old; here my children have been born; let me die in peace where I have so long lived.” These entreaties, however, could not be listened to for one moment; and, as a last trial, his daughter, Amakeya, the beauty of Kaffirland, made her way to the tent of Colonel Campbell, 91st Regiment, who, totally unprepared for her appearance, was yet more astonished at the sacrifice she offered, if her father’s sentence of banishment might be rescinded.
I have elsewhere mentioned Amakeya as the belle of the camp at Fort Hare, and no doubt she had been sufficiently reminded of her charms to make her sensible of the value of them. She made her strange offer in all the consciousness and pride of beauty; and, with her finely-moulded arms folded before her, she spoke without hesitation, for she was guided by motives worthy a lofty cause—motives, how desecrated! how degraded! Poor Amakeya!
“If her father might remain on his own lands,” she said, “she would be the sacrifice and guarantee for his future good faith towards the white man. She would leave her own people, and follow Colonel Campbell; his home should be hers; she would forsake all, and dwell with him. This was her last word, her final decision, and she would abide by it.”
It may here be observed, that the young girls in Kaffirland are brought up with strict notions of female propriety; to forfeit their reputation, is to entail on themselves severe punishment, and on their families perpetual disgrace.
Amakeya’s motives were not unappreciated by her hearer, but the proposal was, of course, rejected, with every consideration for her position, and the circumstances by which she had been actuated; and she departed with her father on his journey. We may fancy Amakeya taking a last look at the green places wherein her childhood had been passed, and finally sitting down among a strange people, in sight of the “great waters.” A new and wondrous spectacle to that mountain-girl must have been that mighty and pathless sea.
On the 4th of October, an express arrived at King William’s Town, containing the information, that the division under Colonel Somerset had captured one thousand head of cattle, and a number of horses and goats, at a sweep, and had killed eight of the enemy. The division under Colonel Campbell had also been successful in capturing cattle among the Gaikas, as well as some horses, and in killing some twenty of the enemy, and laying waste his country. The detachment of the 45th, under Major Hind, did good service with Colonel Campbell’s column; and afterwards accompanied the head-quarter division to the Kei, together with two companies of the Reserve Battalion of the 91st, under Captain Scott and Colonel Campbell, with Lieutenants Dixon and Metcalfe.
The same work went on, from day to day. Now, our troops captured cattle from the Gaikas, who, it was ascertained, were a good deal disorganised (Macomo foretold this, saying “they could not fight when he was gone”); and now Páto’s I’Slambies slipped away with the oxen pastured near our camps and bivouacs. The rains poured on, and the troops, though healthy, suffered from the unusual cold. There was nothing to be done with the enemy but to worry him; which was attended with dreadful harass to us.
As was conjectured, by those who knew the character of the Gaikas, Sandilla and his people had not entirely abandoned the Amatolas; the Chief had secreted himself in one of the deep valleys of those mountains, near a stream called by the Kaffirs, the “Wolf’s River.” The nature of the ground secured him from the approach of cavalry, but it was just the place for the operations of the Rifle Brigade. Sir George Berkeley’s plan of patrolling the country, and falling back on camps well stored with provisions, in the very neighbourhood of Sandilla, soon drove the rebel Chief from his haunts. Abandoned by many of his people, his crops destroyed, his dwelling burned, his cattle scattered among those he could not trust, and deprived of Macomo’s support, he found himself constantly exposed to the fire of our troops, and at one time, it is said, he dared not venture to slake his thirst at the stream for four-and-twenty hours. Thus worn out, without the slightest advantage to himself or his nation, he resolved on surrendering; and, sending to King William’s Town a message to the effect that “he was driven to this step by the prospect of starvation,” some bread and meat were forwarded to him by his envoys; and, on the 19th of October, the troops in the camp, commanded by Colonel Buller, Rifle Brigade, looked anxiously, through the mists of a stormy day, for the expected prisoner. He came at last, followed by eighty of his people; and, after an interview with Colonel Buller, “an escort of dragoons, which had been in readiness,” was ordered to accompany Captain Bisset, Cape Mounted Rifles, and Lieutenant Petre, 7th Dragoon Guards, with the captive Chief, and the necessary dispatches from the Lieutenant-General commanding, to Sir Henry Pottinger. Captain Bisset, on that day, the 20th of October, rode 120 miles.
Sandilla admitted that he had been nearly taken by a patrol of the Rifle Brigade, acting with Colonel Somerset’s division, on the 12th of October. The party had lost their way while skirmishing; but for this, he must have surrendered to them, or been shot. He afterwards told Colonel Campbell, 91st, that on one occasion they had been within 1200 feet of each other, the Chief watching Colonel Campbell from the bush. When passing, as a prisoner, near the camp of this officer, Sandilla stopped his horse, and, calling to the former “My friend, my friend, come hither!” begged to shake hands with him. Colonel Campbell’s good advice to the misguided Gaika had been unheeded, and the latter now acknowledged the truth of what the Colonel had told him, that “it was madness to fight with the white man, who would not be conquered, even though the war were to last for ever.”
In the announcement by Sir Henry Pottinger, that the surrender of Sandilla had taken place, His Excellency the High Commissioner records “the high sense he entertains of the zeal and energy with which the operations against Sandilla had been carried on under the Lieutenant-General’s guidance, in which operations the troops and levies have been subjected to great hardships, and exposed to unusually inclement weather.”
Immediately after the surrender of Sandilla, Colonel Somerset planned his forward movement towards the Kei, with a force upwards of 1200 strong, including cavalry, infantry, and levies. The country beyond the Kei was known to be swarming with cattle.
On the 30th of October the troops made a night march of thirty miles towards the Kei, and, on the morning of the 31st, reached a stream called Chechabe. On the heights above this little river, the Kaffirs were seen gathering in great numbers, and at last took up a very strong position, evidently determined to make a stand against the British force. The latter was soon disposed in battle array in front of the enemy, with flankers thrown out, supports in the rear, and the reserve under Captain Bentinck, 7th Dragoon Guards. The Cape Mounted Rifles, led by Captain O’Reilly, advanced up the face of the hill, the enemy, as usual, screening himself, while the troops moved slowly but steadily onwards, under the incessant fire of the Kaffirs, until within eighty yards of them, when, the bugle sounding the gallop, the “Totties” cheered, and entered the bush in gallant style. In twenty minutes, the savages were dislodged, and driven over a hill into a ravine below, leaving behind them arms, karosses, and several horses. Seventeen of them were counted dead after the engagement; many had been borne off, and the rocks over winch they had been dragged were streaming with blood. In this affair, our troops sustained but two casualties.
Colonel Somerset considered that this gathering of the Kaffirs was arranged to divert his attention from the cattle concealed not far from the scene of action, the Kei being in too swollen a state to permit their crossing into Kreli’s country—the Amaponda. This was, no doubt, correct; and as, from the nature of the country, it was impossible for the troops to follow the enemy at once, they vanished, as usual, in the deep recesses of the mountains.
Early in the morning of the 31st, Captain Somerset, Aide-de-Camp to General Berkeley, had very nearly fallen a sacrifice to his imprudence in venturing out, en amateur, with a single orderly, on the spoor of cattle. A party of Kaffirs suddenly appearing, Captain Somerset turned his horse’s head; so did his orderly: the speed of Captain Somerset’s charger saved his rider’s life; the poor orderly fell from his, and his throat was instantly cut by the savages.
It was hoped that the success of Colonel Somerset, at the Chechabe, would daunt Páto; but no offers of submission worth listening to were received. A few Kaffirs, coming within hail of the troops, called out that they “did not intend fighting any more; the cattle were across the Kei, and the Umlunghi must go for them if they wanted them.” Either Páto or one of his councillors shouted aloud, “We will not meet you, but will return into the Colony, and wander as wolves.”
Although I had seen Sandilla at Fort Peddie in 1843, I went to pay him a visit in captivity. The room in which he was imprisoned was half filled with his followers and councillors. Seated on an iron bedstead, with his blanket wound round him, he smoked his pipe in silence; some of his followers reclined idly on the straw mattresses provided for them; and, by the side of the young Chief’s couch lay Anta, whom he roused from sleep on our naming him, for he was as great an object of interest as Sandilla. Putting aside the blanket from his face, he sat up and eyed us keenly, looking from us to his brother, but what was passing within their minds no one could divine; their countenances expressed neither surprise, curiosity, resentment, nor dislike. Some sat round a fire in the centre of the room, and one aged Kaffir, with a grey head, gazed earnestly in our faces. This was one of Sandilla’s chief advisers, and one whom he managed to cage with himself, by sending for him amicably, giving secret orders, however, to compel him to come in case he hesitated. As the cunning Gaika has always professed to act “by the advice of his councillors,” he anticipated that the greater punishment would devolve upon them, and by this means he trusted that his own would be lightened.
The replies of Sandilla to various remarks and questions lately put to him are shrewd enough. On his being told, by one of the authorities, that if he attempted to escape from his confinement he would be shot, Sandilla answered that “as he had voluntarily surrendered himself, it was not likely he should run away.” Soon after his imprisonment, he requested a daily allowance of wine. On being asked if he had ever been in the habit of drinking it, he said “No.” Then why indulge in what he had never been accustomed to? “I am now the white man’s child,” replied Sandilla; “my father is wise, and I would do all things as he does.” When his warriors left his “Great Place,” to join the gathering in the Amatolas, he found one lingering long behind the rest. “What are you doing here?” asked the Chief; “you are like a solitary locust when the swarm has gone; so, the sooner you hop after it the better.”
“December 17th.—The frontier to-night is delirious with joy. The town is illuminated, and beacon lights telegraph from the hill-tops that Sir Harry Smith has arrived.”
Chapter XVIII.
Ride in the Winterberg
I have lately ridden within the space of a fortnight—and resting half that fortnight—two hundred and fifty miles, through the country lately infested, and still haunted, by the savage enemy. It presents a glorious contrast to last year; the hand of Providence has put aside the hand of man. The majestic Winterberg mountain, nearly nine thousand feet high, rose before us in our ride, green almost to its summit. The valleys beneath us, as we passed from one mountain-top to the other, were “smiling with corn;” the grass on the plains waved as in our English meadow-lands; the woodman’s axe rang in the forests, near the scene of many a bloody fray; and, although small groups of Kaffirs doubtless looked down upon us from many “a leafy nook,” we passed up the steep ascents in the midst of deep jungle and impervious thickets, unmolested. On the road to Fort Hare, a spot was pointed out to me, on which a Hottentot waggon-driver had breathed his last. He was shot by the enemy, who had carried off his oxen, scarcely a month before. A fortnight after I had travelled that way, with but slight escort,—Colonel Campbell, 91st, being the only one of our party who was armed,—a man, formerly of the Royal Artillery, was killed by an assegai, thrown by an unseen hand, from some huts formerly occupied by some of Macomo’s tribe.
In spite of terrible associations, my ride in the Winterberg Mountains was a peaceful one, and full of interest. The monkeys swung from bough to bough, the canaries sang their untiring melodies, the bell-bird chimed its solemn-sounding note, and there was little to break the calm of the scene save the advance of the Christian Chief, Kama, with a dozen dusky followers, all armed and mounted, on his way to Graham’s Town.
The Winterberg is a district taking its name from the mountains so called—berg meaning mountain, in Dutch. The tops of these mountains are often covered with snow. The close of the first day’s journey from Graham’s Town brought us to the Koonap River, which we found almost impassable for horses. The troopers of the dragoon orderlies were towed over in the wake of the boat, trembling, snorting, kicking, some turning heels uppermost, and others at last submitting to their fate, and falling exhausted on the bank on reaching it. The river roared and tumbled, and the passage across, in the old boat, with its uncertain rope, would have frightened fine ladies. But people must cease to be fine ladies in Africa. Some of our horses were left picqueted with a guard of soldiers, and I confess to some uneasiness during the night, as I lay listening to the noisy torrent below our little inn, half expecting to hear shots exchanged between the guard and the enemy. The inn itself was a “sign of the times.” The host, Mr Tomlinson, an old Life Guardsman, had made the place defensible, and stood his ground during the heat of the war. My bed-room window, hung with white curtains of primitive English dimity, was still bricked up half way, and travellers passing by rested their arms against the loop-holed walls, and told of cattle lost and Kaffirs killed, with an air of as little concern as they would have worn in relating the prices of a country fair.
I was not sorry to hear, the next morning, that our steeds had neither been stolen by the enemy nor swept down the river.
After a night’s rest at Fort Beaufort, we left it, on the 12th of November, for Fort Hare, a strange-looking garrison, consisting of innumerable formal houses of a single room each, reminding one of the account of some barracks in England, in which an officer can lie in his bed, stir the fire, open the window, and shut the door, without much alteration in his position.
The scenery around Fort Hare is very grand, and not at all in accordance with the prim little edifices of “wattle and daub” which form precise squares and most unpicturesque alleys of a pale gingerbread hue. In approaching Fort Hare, we were obliged to plunge our horses into the Tyumie stream, amidst a crowd of Kaffir girls, who were swimming, laughing, and shouting to each other, like a bevy of sable Naiads, from the bashes and the boughs overhanging the long-disputed waters.
On the 15th I started, under the care of the Rev. Mr Beaver, from Fort Beaufort, for my ride among the mountains. Colonel Campbell, of the 91st, accompanied us on the first day’s journey, beguiling the day with many graphic anecdotes of the war; and the rest, beside some clear spring, after passing up the steep ascents between the Blinkwater and Post Retief, was delightful. This Blinkwater post was ably defended, during the war, against a hundred and fifty of the enemy at least, by Serjeant Snodgrass, of the 91st Regiment, and six or eight soldiers. Serjeant Snodgrass was honourably mentioned in general orders, in consequence.
Another rest at Retief, and we advanced the next day. As drew near the noble Winterberg, it presented the appearance of a huge elephant with a howdah (of basaltic rock) on its back; a fringe of grey stone round it gave an idea of its trappings. Our destination was Glenthorn, the residence of Mr Pringle, one of that family of Yair, familiarly mentioned by Sir Walter Scott. My short stay, of barely two days, at Glenthorn, prevented me from seeing much that was interesting; but a Bushman’s cave tempted me, in spite of sun, dust, wind, and a “tempest coming up,” to scramble through a little forest of shrubs. In this haunt, for it could scarcely be called a cave, we discovered some of those curious paintings which present a singular memento of these creatures of an almost extinct race. I have seen various facsimiles of such drawings published, but the subjects they were intended to represent have been seldom sufficiently defined to illustrate their original meaning. The one we saw was perfect in its representation of an eland and buffalo hunt. One strange pigmy creature sat sideways on horseback, in full chase of the game; another stood at bay, as if to prevent the animals from leaving the path into which they had turned; and others were awaiting them with their poisoned bows and arrows.28 These drawings were done in variously coloured ochres—brown, red, yellow, and some black. This lovely spot was more like the dwelling-place of fairies than of the hideous aborigines of South Africa. A stream rippled under the trees, and the green turf was spangled with flowers of many colours. The monkeys had doubtless deserted it at our approach, but their ropes (a peculiar kind of creeper, hanging like swings from the yellow-wood trees) attested their constant presence there. We tried to imagine the Bushmen resting here after their day’s hunt, and recording its events on the scarp of rock facing us, at the head of the wooded eminence, now almost roofed in with tall trees and parasitical plants. Here they prepared the poisons, for madness, disease, or death, as suited their wild purposes, from the wild bulbs which grew in such bright profusion—deceitful things! Now, the birds were singing above us in the sunshine. The Bushman’s foresight with regard to provision, in this uncertain country, might afford a lesson to the white man. If they cannot consume at a meal the little lizards, locusts, etc, on which they prey, they impale them, leaving them on the thorny bushes, to return to when in need. (This is the system of the butcher-bird.)
The Bushmen who have lately been exhibited in London, were described as belonging to a race of people, “caught on the banks of the Great Fish River,” which is altogether a mistake, as the few Bushmen left in Africa have now gone far to the northward. The Boers beyond the Orange River know their haunts, and often supply them with game, to prevent them from stealing and destroying their sheep, for, what they cannot eat on the spot, they will kill and mutilate, in the spirit of sheer mischief. These unfortunate little beings live literally among the clefts of rocks, subsisting on locusts, roots, and anything else they can find in the eating way.
A Dutch farmer, who for some time had regularly furnished a small colony of Bushmen with game, became surprised at the non-appearance of the periodical envoys for it, and therefore went up to their “dwelling-places among the conies.” A wretched scene presented itself: the measles had broken out in the community, and the dead, the dying, the sick, the old and the young, men, women, and children, were all heaped together within the caves and nooks of the steep krantzes. He dragged them from their covert, but they would listen to no suggestions calculated, if acted on, to remedy or lighten the disease, and all he could do was to rescue some of the children from the pest-house in the wilderness.
Unlike these Bushmen, and some other savages, the Kaffirs are most cautious in endeavouring to avoid all infections maladies; and, when the smallpox swept off the aborigines in numbers, the different tribes of the Kafirs established cordons sanitaires, and framed and abided by the most stringent laws of quarantine.
I could write many pages on the subject of Mr Pringle’s charming and admirably-planned location. I shall long think of the Bushman’s haunt, the little chapel in the fertile valley, and, above all, the kindly welcome I met with at Glenthorn, but such agreeable reminiscences must be reserved for another time; these pages are dedicated to a history of war and turmoil, and I must not pause to dwell on pleasant memories connected with my journey through those mountain-ranges.
None of Mr Pringle’s family deserted the mansion during the war. It was made defensible, and afforded a refuge for many who dared not remain on their isolated farms. It was quite a little garrison in itself, and was never even attacked by the Kaffirs.
On our way to the Mancazana, we rested again at Mr Macmaster’s farm—a place with a pretty, peaceful-looking garden, backed by such cliffs! and interesting from its being associated with the poet Pringle, and his works, many of them having been written on this romantic spot. In the Maacazana valley we passed by the ruins of several farms, and at the post we heard an indistinct rumour of the deaths of five officers29; that such a number had been killed was clear, but to what regiment they belonged I could not ascertain. In no happy frame of mind I reached Mr Gilbert’s farm, within seven miles of Fort Beaufort; here again were the evidences of war—bullet-marks on the walls, palisades torn up, and gates well battened. A charger, formerly belonging to Captain Bertie Gordon, of the 91st, stood peaceably eating his forage in the yard, but his once sleek skin was rough, and his frame looked worn. Poor “Prussian!” his owners regretted his changed appearance, and so did I.
On our return to Beaufort, we learned further particulars of this frightful affair in the field, which were eventually fully confirmed. The sorrowing comrades of these poor officers have raised a monument to their memory, on the site of the General’s camp on the Conga (see Appendix I).
The following particulars, extracted from the “Cape Frontier Times,” correspond so entirely with the information I received from Sir George Berkeley himself, from Colonel Somerset, and other private sources, that I subjoin them in preference to writing my own impressions on the subject.
A most magnificent view of the adjacent country, from a peninsula stretching out upon the Kei, had tempted some of the officers of the General’s camp to form a plan for visiting it. The day before they started on this expedition, Captain Baker, of the 73rd, dined with Sir George Berkeley, who told me that had he known the intention of these ill-fated men to visit a locality so far from the camp, so thickly wooded and precipitous, he would not have permitted their departure. Captain Faunee, and Lieutenant Nash, 73rd, were to have accompanied the party, but happily their duties prevented them from doing so, Lieutenant Littlehales started with them, but, rain coming on, and having a severe cold, which he was unwilling to increase in the field, he turned back. In the evening of Saturday, the 13th of November, “he became alarmed at the absence of his brother officers; and, half-an-hour afterwards, Captains Somerset, Berkeley Seymour, (the General’s Staff) and Captain Bisset, C.M.R., started in search of them, and descended into the bed of the river. It was dark, and they returned at two o’clock on Sunday morning, their search having been unsuccessful. Two hours afterwards, the same officers, with a company of the 73rd, took up the spoor of the missing officers again, and succeeded in finding the unfortunate men in a deep chasm near the river. They were all lying near each other. It is conjectured that they had all been to the top of the mountain, from which elevation they had been seen by the Kaffirs, who had posted a large body to intercept them on their return.” Since the event, this has been ascertained to have been the case. “At this time, a large quantity of cattle was perceived going down to the Kei, with a number of the enemy; a dispatch was immediately sent back to the camp, and the party was reinforced by detachments from the head-quarter division, and Colonel Somerset’s.” The latter headed the people from his own camp. After a night march of great fatigue, the troops were all anxiety for the attack: the 73rd were furious, and the sight of the dead bodies, stripped of everything, and with every proof about them of having fought desperately against the savages, enraged their brother soldiers more and more at every step they took.
The force selected for the engagement, consisted of a hundred and thirty of the Cape Mounted Riflemen, three hundred of a native levy, thirty or the 7th Dragoon Guards, and two hundred of the 73rd Regiment; there were also about eighty farmers: the native infantry were under the command of Captain Owen. When the dispositions for attack had been made, “the troops were formed into small divisions, and a point of attack assigned to each. During these operations, the General and Staff climbed the Table Mountain, to the top, and Colonel Somerset endeavoured to cross a ford on the river; but, being baffled in his design, joined the General. A number of cattle being descried in the bend of the Kei, Colonel Somerset, with his people, wound down a pass to reach them.” The Kaffirs stood their ground here unusually well, but the 73rd dashed at them in gallant style, and soon dislodged them, while the Provisionals, Captain Hogg’s levy, and the Cape Corps, pushed onwards for the cattle. Colonel Somerset was busy exchanging shots with the enemy at one of their drifts, Lieutenant Macdonald, C.M.R., having been the first, with his detachment, to commence the attack at the river.
