The Flight of the “Amakosa”

It’s the hour of the morn
When he who’s not born
With a silver spoon ready-made for him, will scorn
To muddle his head
By lying in bed,
But jumps into a tub of cold water instead;
Which disperses each dream,
And gets up his steam,
And makes him as fresh as new butter and cream;
Drives off sleep’s dizziness,
Fits him for business,
Screws up his system,
And seems to assist him
To follow whatever employments enlist him.

In short, it’s the hour when the whole Ville du Cap
(As the Frenchmen call Cape Town) wakes up from its nap
And prepares for its trade, its profession or craft, as
Labourer, lawyer, or dealer in baftas.

But every one knows
That although l’homme propose,
It isn’t in mortals themselves to “dispose,”
For that is undoubtedly toute autre chose--
Or to speak in plain English, when plain English suits--
A pair of decidedly different boots.

And so on this day
Quite a different way
Of spending its time--neither work nor yet play--
From what Cape Town chalked out
When first it had walked out
That morning, it found in its destiny lay.
For Brown, Jones, and Robinson, Thomson, Smith, Russel,
And Jack, Tom, and Harry, are all in a bustle,
Crying, “Holloa! what now?
What’s the news? what’s the row?
What the deuce can the matter be?
What can the clatter be?”
Kafirs escaped from the Amsterdam Battery!

It’s really true:
And one looks blue
And another knows hardly what to do:
Some stare, and some
Look shockingly glum,
While others declare it’s “remarkably rum.”
“Why don’t they bring Inspector King,
And his blue-coat ‘peelers?’--that’s the thing?”
While others shout,
“What are they about?
Why don’t they call the artillery out?”
But voices are drowned
By a martial sound
That all on a sudden rings out around;
And each who hears
Cries out, “Three cheers!
It’s the bugle-call of the Volunteers!”

Over the chimney-pots, over the tiles,
Over the gardens, two square miles,
Float the sounds of that warlike blast,
Proclaiming approaching relief at last.
Doubt has fled,
Fear hides its head,
And curiosity reigns instead.

* * *

In the square of the Church there’s a hubbub and fluster,
In the square of the Church the brave warriors muster--
Cavalry warriors armed, spurred, and booted,
With white-covered caps for the atmosphere suited,
Jackets of blue, rather short in the waist,
Garnished with silver in beautiful taste,
Trousers of blue with a broad silver border
And very long swords of the steel-scabbard order.
One by one,
To see the fun
The citizens into the Church square run,
And then they gaze
In delighted amaze
At the gallant scene the square displays,
As the warriors gather by twos and threes
Beneath the shadow of two small trees,
Twirling mustachios in solemn monotony--
Excepting the captain, who hasn’t yet got any,
While a few little boys
Are making a noise
And shouting, “Oh my!
Here comes a guy!
Oh come and look at this rummy fella
A riding up with his umberella!”
And truth to confess,
It did look a mess,
As a hero rode up on his gallant Black Bess,
And while he wore
His costume du corps,
In his hand a white-covered umbrella he bore.

The muster’s complete,
Each man’s in his seat,
Ready to do any desperate feat.
The captain springs
To his saddle, and flings
A look which alone attention brings;
Ere he gives the word,
And as soon as it’s heard,
Not a limb but in discipline’s rule is stirred,
And every one sees that those gaily clad men are all
Ready to die at the word of their general.
(I give him this title, for though it is true
He’s a captain alone--of this rifle corps blue--
The intelligent reader will also discern he’s
Her Majesty’s General--of the Attorneys.)

Away! list again to the trumpet, for hark! it
Sounds gallantly out from the square of Greenmarket.
Away! seek the steps of the classic Town Hall:
See the infantry Rifles respond to the call,
Officers, privates, and bandsmen, and all;
All looking valiant, and all to a man
Determined at least to be found in “the van.”

And now cavalry, infantry, all are assembled,
And Greenmarket Square ’neath their tramp has trembled;
And orders of all sorts on all sides are given,
And spurs in the flanks of the chargers are driven--
“March!” “Forward!” Away! “Drive on, coachee!” all tell a
Sad tale of what Horace calls aspera bella.

* * *

The way was long, the day was hot,
The Rifles very warm had got;
Their bright blue coats and silver gay
Seemed to befit a cooler day;
Their swords, their glory and their joy,
Hung in their sheaths, a useless toy;
The first of all the Rifles they
Who rode forth to the Kafir fray.
But, well-a-day! that luck was fled,
No Kafirs were discoverèd:
Though they, the bravest of their race,
Longed to be with them face to face.
No more with hopeful looks they glance,
And spur their steeds to make them prance;
But half their ardour, martial, gay,
In perspiration melts away.

Yet now they make a gallant push,
And bravely scour the scrubby bush.
Woe to the foe that lurks within,
While forward dashes headlong Glynn.
Woe to the foe!
“What’s that? Holloa!
Somebody’s hiding there, I know.
Huzzah! there he is,
With his coal-black phiz,
And his black woolly hair too all in a friz:
Yield, villain! yield, or prepare to feel
Two feet and a half of this trusty steel!”

The villian has yielded--they’ve captured him,
And they’ve tied up his wrists with a bit of a reim--
First fruits of the foray! oh, gallant Glynn,
’Tis thine the honour of war to win.
But what’s that remark?
Who talks of a lark?
Do tell us, oh do,
Is it really true?
From trooper to trooper the sentence that’s now heard,
“The woolly head chap’s Mr. Somebody’s cowherd.”
The gallant captain’s seen to smile,
Gravely shakes his head awhile,
Then, as he taps his sabre’s hilt, he
Cries, “Let him go! he’s found ‘not guilty.’”

Forward again in the roasting sun,
Horses and troopers, too, almost done,
March forth the cavalry, one by one;
And behind them the infantry’s green coats appear,
For they’re still in “the van” though they’re still in the rear.

Forward they move, but alas! alas!
Not a Kafir is seen through all the pass
(Though Private Saunders has brought a glass).
Camp’s Bay is reached, and each Rifleman’s breast
At that moment a thrill of joy confest,
As he gazed on the scene, and half-way up the hill he
Perceived in the distance the round house of Tilley.
And here awhile they rest from labour,
Rifle cast aside and sabre;
At the provisions do their worst,
With beer and soda slake their thirst;
But how they ate and how they drank,
As if each throttle were a tank--
To tell all this my pen would fail;
But even Porter turned to ale.

That night the warrior band returned,
But though their hearts with valour burned,
Not one his spurs as yet had earned.
Though hands were firm and nerves unshaken,
The Kafir foemen had saved their bacon,
And (saving the cowboy) no prisoner was taken.

* * *

The shades of the night
Had taken to flight,
The sun gave out all his heat and light;
When some one averred
That some one had heard
(Or perhaps had been told by some sharp little bird)
That the fir-trees which grow
In many a row,
And make ’neath our mountain so pleasant a show,
Concealed in their deepest and darkest recess
The runaway Kafirs who’d made all this mess;
To the terror and horror of those who lived near,
And who hinted they just entertained the slight fear
That between thirst and hunger--a terrible fix--
They might cut people’s throats as they’d cut their own sticks.
Away at the word goes the valiant crew,
Searching the fir forest right through and through:
“Steady!” cries Captain T----, “steady, men, steady!
Keep your eyes open--be silent and ready.”

Ha, ha, ha! there they go--
’Tis the foe; ’tis the foe--
But still not an inch of their skins dare they show.
Bang, bang! goes each gun:
Helter skelter, too, run
The Rifles, pursuing like mad or like fun--
When some one exultingly cries out “Here’s one!”

’Twas true! ’twas one! the ball had sped,
And entered the dying wretch’s head;
Forth from the wound the life-blood flowed,
And, stretched in the warriors’ very road,
A grisly baboon its carcase showed!
And the Riflemen stared,
Half puzzled, half scared,
While a private coarsely remarked, “I’m blowed.”
Thus the second day’s deeds to an end were brought,
But somehow the Kafirs were not yet caught.

* * *

How it turned out next day
’Twere not easy to say;
But five gallant gentlemen happened to stray
Through the woods for a search, and without any fuss,
Which so often brings forth the ridiculus mus,
Pounced right on the runaway Kafirs and bagged them--
That is, on fourteen (quite enough to have scragged them);
And this feat all their comrades in arms pronounced lucky--
For my part, I call it uncommonly “plucky.”

And thus ended the Rifle Corps Kafir campaign--
Whose like may the Rifle Corps ne’er see again,
For they’d very much trouble and very small gain.

But Cape Town all felt that, with such an array
Of valour to guard it by night and by day,
It might sleep in its bed,
And not trouble its head
About Kafirs in prison, or Kafirs who’d fled.
For myself I can vow,
If there’s ever a row,
I sha’n’t think a bit of the consequence now.
For regular regiments I care not a rap:
The Rifle Corps guards me, what can spoil my nap?