The Matabele Campaign
by Baron Robert Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powell Baden-Powell of Gilwell · English · Gutenberg #47158 · 549,656 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Matabele Campaign
Author: Baron Robert Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powell Baden-Powell of Gilwell
Release date: October 20, 2014 [eBook #47158]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN ***
THE
MATABELE CAMPAIGN
1896
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
PIGSTICKING
CAVALRY INSTRUCTION
RECONNAISSANCE AND SCOUTING
THE DOWNFALL OF PREMPEH
[Illustration: A MATABELE WARRIOR MAKING DISPARAGING REMARKS
The enemy would come out on the rocks before a fight, and dance and
work themselves up into a frenzy, shouting all sorts of epithets and
insults at the troops.]
THE
MATABELE CAMPAIGN
BEING A NARRATIVE OF THE CAMPAIGN
IN SUPPRESSING THE NATIVE RISING
IN MATABELELAND AND
MASHONALAND
1896
BY
MAJOR–GENERAL R. S. S. BADEN–POWELL
13TH HUSSARS
FELLOW OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY
WITH NEARLY 100 ILLUSTRATIONS
FOURTH EDITION
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
1901
PREFACE
UMTALI, MASHONALAND,
_12th December 1896_.
MY DEAR MOTHER,—It has always been an understood thing between us,
that when I went on any trip abroad, I kept an illustrated diary for
your particular diversion. So I have kept one again this time, though
I can’t say that I’m very proud of the result. It is a bit sketchy and
incomplete, when you come to look at it. But the keeping of it has had
its good uses for me.
Firstly, because the pleasures of new impressions are doubled if they
are shared with some appreciative friend (and you are always more than
appreciative).
Secondly, because it has served as a kind of short talk with you every
day.
Thirdly, because it has filled up idle moments in which goodness knows
what amount of mischief Satan might not have been finding for mine idle
hands to do!
. . . . . .
R. S. S. B.–P.
TO THE READER
The following pages contain sketches of two kinds, namely, sketches
written and sketches drawn. They were taken on the spot during
the recent campaign in Matabeleland and Mashonaland, and give a
representation of such part of the operations as I myself saw.
They were jotted down but roughly, at odd hours, often when one was
more fit for sleeping than for writing, or in places where proper
drawing materials were not available—I would ask you, therefore, to
look leniently upon their many faults.
The notes, being chiefly extracts from my diary and from letters
written home, naturally teem with the pronoun, “I,” which I trust
you will pardon, but it is a fault difficult to avoid under the
circumstances. They deal with a campaign remarkable for the enormous
extent of country over which it was spread, for the varied components
and inadequate numbers of its white forces, and especially for the
difficulties of supply and transport under which it was carried
out—points which, I think, were scarcely fully realised at home. The
operations were full of incident and interest, and of lessons to those
who care to learn. Personally, I was particularly lucky in seeing a
good deal of Matabeleland, and something of Mashonaland, as well as
in having a share in the work of organisation in the office, and in
afterwards testing its results in the field. Incidentally I came in for
a good taste of the best of all arts, sciences, or sports—“scouting.”
For these reasons I have been led to offer these notes to the public,
in case there might be aught of interest in them.
The “thumbnail” sketches claim the one merit of having been done on the
spot, some of them under fire. Most of the photographs were taken with
a “Bulldog” camera (Eastman, 115 Oxford Street), and enlarged. A few
were kindly given by Captain the Hon. J. Beresford, 7th Hussars.
Several of the illustrations have also appeared in the _Graphic_ and
_Daily Graphic_, and are here reproduced through the courtesy of the
proprietors of those journals.
R. S. S. B.–P.
MARLBOROUGH BARRACKS, DUBLIN,
_19th March 1897_.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. OUTWARD BOUND 3
II. STATE OF AFFAIRS IN MATABELELAND 24
III. OUR WORK AT BULUWAYO 43
IV. SCOUTING 89
V. THE REBELS DECLINE TO SURRENDER 122
VI. CAMPAIGN IN THE MATOPOS 145
VII. OUR WORK IN THE MATOPOS 171
VIII. FIGHTING IN THE MATOPOS 195
IX. THE FINAL OPERATIONS IN THE MATOPOS 228
X. THE SITUATION IN MATABELELAND AND MASHONALAND 249
XI. THE DOWNFALL OF UWINI 275
XII. SHANGANI COLUMN—THROUGH THE FOREST 305
XIII. SHANGANI PATROL—RETURN MARCH 326
XIV. IN THE BELINGWE DISTRICT 348
XV. THE DOWNFALL OF WEDZA 372
XVI. CLEARING THE MASHONA FRONTIER 401
XVII. THROUGH MASHONALAND 431
XVIII. THE SITUATION IN RHODESIA 458
XIX. AFTER WAR—PEACE 477
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
A MATABELE WARRIOR MAKING DISPARAGING REMARKS
_Frontispiece_
SKETCH MAP 2
BRITANNIA 7
MAFEKING TO BULUWAYO 13
GOING OUT FOR A FIGHT 39
THE UMGUSA FIGHT: 6TH JUNE 55
EIGHT TO ONE 58
THE BITER BIT 61
INUGU MOUNTAIN STRONGHOLD 69
SCOUT BURNHAM 71
A CAPE BOY SENTRY 74
SILENCING THE ORACLE 83
SOLITARY SCOUTING 91
THE VALUE OF SKIRT–DANCING 95
THE STRONGHOLDS IN THE MATOPOS 103
INUGU MOUNTAIN, A 103
CHILILI VALLEY, B 104
INYANDA’S, SIKOMBO’S, AND UMLUGULU’S POSITIONS,
(LOOKING SOUTH) 104
CAUGHT IN THE ACT BY A CAPE BOY 123
“IMPEESA” 128
PREPARING LUNCH 139
A HUMAN SALT–CELLAR 142
THE ATTACK ON BABYAN’S STRONGHOLD: 20TH JULY 153
AMATEUR DOCTORING 157
A MATABELE WARRIOR 176
THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF WAR 180
A CHANCE SHOT 185
OUR FIELD TELEGRAPH 187
COLONEL PLUMER AND STAFF 193
MY BOY PREPARING BREAKFAST 197
RUNNING AFTER A LADY 201
THE BATTLE OF AUGUST 5TH 205
AFTER THE FIGHT 211
THE DEATH OF KERSHAW 215
CAPE BOYS BARING THEIR FEET FOR THE ATTACK 218
IN THE MIDST OF LIFE 221
BRINGING AWAY THE DEAD 223
THE OPERATING TENT 225
SHELLING THE ENEMY OUT OF THE MATOPOS 241
A COMFORTABLE CORNER ON AN UNCOMFORTABLE EVENING 246
THE PEACE INDABA WITH THE MATOPO REBELS 251
ROUTES TO MATABELELAND AND MASHONALAND 261
OUR WORKING KIT 269
GIANTS’ PLAYTHINGS 280
COLD AND HUNGRY 291
WARM AND COMFORTABLE 293
NO RESPECTER OF PERSONS 300
THE SHANGANI COLUMN 304
FOLLOWING UP THE SPOOR 313
THE HORSE GUARD 317
“A MERCIFUL MAN,” ETC. 324
FRESH HORSE–BEEF 328
A NEW ENEMY 336
ENTERING A CAVE STRONGHOLD 343
“GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!” 346
FRESH MEAT 354
STROLLING HOME IN THE MORNING 356
“HALT! WHO COMES THERE?” 357
PARLEYING WITH REBELS 365
NATIVE SURGERY 367
WEDZA’S STRONGHOLD 370
PRINCE ALEXANDER OF TECK 381
7TH HUSSARS AT WEDZA’S 385
WEDZA’S KRAAL 388
“LITTLE MISS TUCKET SAT BY A BUCKET” 389
TIRED OUT 394
A SMELTING FURNACE 397
ANCIENT RUINS 397
A DANGEROUS PRACTICE 403
A ROADSIDE INN IN MATABELELAND 406
A CAVE STRONGHOLD 410
OUR HORSES 415
THE YOUNG IDEA LEARNING TO SHOOT 421
A CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL 426
“DIAMOND” 432
HEADQUARTERS’ MESS 433
SPECIMEN OF OLD ROCK–PAINTING BY NATIVES
IN MASHONALAND 436
BLACK AND WHITE 441
THE OPENING MEET OF THE SALISBURY HOUNDS
(AFTER THE WAR) 445
THE COUNTESS RESCUES HER SEWING MACHINE 452
THE SPECIAL SERVICE MOUNTED INFANTRY 459
A FORT 461
A WAR–DANCE 465
OUR NATIVE ALLIES 468
MAORI B——E 484
A ROADSIDE HOTEL IN MASHONALAND 487
DOLCE FAR NIENTE 499
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP of The Theatre of operations]
THE
MATABELE CAMPAIGN, 1896
CHAPTER I
OUTWARD BOUND
_2nd May to 2nd June_
An Attractive Invitation accepted—Voyage to the Cape on the R.M.S.
_Tantallon Castle_—The Mounted Infantry—Cape Town—Mafeking—Coach Journey
through Bechuanaland Protectorate—Rinderpest rampant—Captain Lugard
_en route_ to new Fields of Exploration—Khama and his Capital—Coaching
compared to Yachting—Tati–Mangwe Pass—The Theatre of War.
“WAR OFFICE, S. W.,
_28th April 1896_.
“SIR,—Passage to Cape Town having been provided for you in the s.s.
_Tantallon Castle_, I am directed to request that you will proceed to
Southampton and embark in the above vessel on the 2nd May by 12.30 p.
m., reporting yourself before embarking to the military staff officer
superintending the embarkation.
“You must not ship more than 55 cubic feet.
“I am further to request you will acknowledge the receipt of this
letter by first post, and inform me of any change in your address up to
the date of embarkation.
“You will be in command of the troops on board.
“I have the honour, etc.,
“EVELYN WOOD, Q.M.G.”
What better invitation could one want than that? I accepted it with
greatest pleasure.
I had had warning that it might come, by telegraph from Sir Frederick
Carrington, who had that day arrived in England from Gibraltar _en
route_ to South Africa. He was about to have command of troops in
Matabeleland operating against the rebels there. His telegram had
reached me at Belfast on Friday afternoon, when we were burying a poor
chap in my squadron who had been killed by a fall from his horse. I
had a car in waiting, changed my kit, packed up some odds and ends,
arranged about disposal of my horses, dogs, and furniture, and just
caught the five something train which got me up to town by next day
morning. At midday the General sailed for South Africa, but his orders
were that I should follow by next ship; so, after seeing him off, I
had several days in which to kick my heels and live in constant dread
of being run over, or otherwise prevented from going after all. But
fortune favoured me.
_2nd May._—Embarked at Southampton in the _Tantallon Castle_ (Captain
Duncan) for Cape Town. On board were 480 of the finest mounted infantry
that man could wish to see, under Colonel Alderson; also several other
“details.” Then, besides the troops, the usual crowd of passengers, 200
of them—German Jews, Cape Dutch, young clerks, etc., going out to seek
their fortunes in El Dorado. (You don’t want details, do you, of this,
my fourth voyage to the Cape?)
_4th May._—Perfect weather, palatial ship, and fast. Delightful cabin
all to myself. Best of company. Poorish food, and a very good time all
round.
_6th May._—Madeira. You know. Breakfast WITH FRUIT at Reid’s Hotel. The
flowers and gardens. Scramble up on horses to the convent, up the long,
steep, cobbled roads, and the grand toboggan down again in sliding
cars. How I would like to live there for—a day! Then back on board, and
off to sea by eleven. Deck loaded up with Madeira chairs and fruit
skins.
_8th May._—Daily parades, inspection of troop decks, tugs of war,
concerts on deck, and gradual increase in personal girth from sheer
over–eating and dozing.
Our only exercise is parade for officers at seven every morning in
pyjamas, under a sergeant–instructor, who puts us through most fiendish
exercises for an hour, and leaves us there for dead.
We just revive in time to put the men through the same course in their
turn, stripped to the waist, so that they have dry shirts to put on
afterwards. “Knees up!” I’d like to kill him who invented it—but it
does us all a power of good.
_10th to 13th May._—Hot and muggy off the coast of Africa from Cape de
Verd to Sierra Leone, though out of sight of land. Not many weeks since
I was here, homeward bound from Ashanti—same old oily sea, with rolling
swell, and steamy, hot horizon.
_14th May._—A passenger, who so far had spoken little except to ask for
“another whisky,” found dead in bed this morning, and buried overboard.
Poor chap! He had opened a conversation with me the night before, and
seemed a well–intentioned, gentle soul, although a drunken bore.
[Illustration: BRITANNIA
At the Fancy Dress Ball on board the belle of the ship appeared as
Britannia. The only incongruity was the helmet, whose peak did not agree
with the wearer’s nose: the hat had therefore to be reversed, and the
back–peak was bent for additional comfort.]
Now was the best part of the voyage as far as climate went—bright,
breezy days and deep blue sea, and the ship just ripping
along—perfection.
_15th to 18th May._—Athletic sports, tableaux, concerts, _and_ the
fancy dress ball, and our dinner–party to the captain.
The ball was interesting in showing the diverse taste of diverse
nationalities. Four Frenchmen and one lady so prettily and well got
up. The British officer, save in one or two instances (of which, alas!
I wasn’t one), could not rise to anything more original than uniform.
An ingenious young lady put us all to shame appearing as Britannia,
“helmet, shield, and pitchfork too,” all complete. (Nose and helmet
didn’t hit it off,—at least—yes—the nose _did_ hit it (the helmet) off,
and the hat had to be worn the wrong way round to allow more room.)
_19th May._—At 4 a. m. I awake with an uncanny feeling. All is silence
and darkness. The screw has stopped, the ship lies like a log, the
only sound is the plashing of the water pouring from the engine, and
occasionally sharp footsteps overhead.
And, looking from my port, I see, looming dark against the stars, the
long, flat top of grand old Table Mountain—its base a haze from which
electric lights gleam out and shine along the water.
A busy day. No news except that Sir Frederick had gone on up to
Mafeking, and I was now to follow.
General Goodenough inspected our troops upon the wharf among the Cape
carts, niggers, cargo, trollies (drawn by the little Arab–looking
horses), and the Cape Town dust. The troops go off by train to Wynberg
Camp to await Sir Frederick’s orders.
Old Cape Town just the same as ever. Same lounging warders and
convicts digging docks. Malays and snoek fish everywhere. Adderley
Street improved with extra turreted, verandahed buildings. The Castle
venerable, low, and poky as of yore, and—of course—under repair. Short
visits there, to Government House, and to that beautiful old Dutch
house in Strand Street where one learns the Dutch side of the questions
of the day.
By nine o’clock at night we’re all aboard the train for Mafeking—a
thousand well–remembered faces seem to be there on the platform
cheering us away as we steam out into the night.
Hard beds, cold night, bumpity flap we go.
_20th May._—Rattling along over the Karoo. Stony plains with frequent
stony hills and mountains. The clearest atmosphere, and air like
draughts of fresh spring water. Up hill, down dale—the train crawling
up at foot’s pace with heart–breaking, laboured panting of the engine,
then down the other side rattling and swaying about like a runaway
coster’s barrow.
Three times in the day we stop at wayside stations where there’s a kind
of _table d’hôtel_ prepared—much as it is in India, only less so.
Very little life along the line, beyond an occasional waggon with its
lengthy team of oxen or of donkeys, creeping at its very slowest pace
along the plain.
Our own pace, however, is not much to boast about; we don’t go fast,
and often stop to execute repairs.
The scenery remains much the same, except that the stony plain gives
place to white grass veldt sparsely dotted with little thorn–bushes—its
only beauty (and that is matchless of its kind) the wonderful colours
of the distant hills, especially at dawn or sunset.
We pass by little groups of iron–roofed houses—sanatoria where people
come to live—or die—whose lungs are gone.
Kimberley. Miles of mineheads, mounds of refuse, town of tin houses and
dust, a filthy refreshment room,—and on we go.
_22nd May._—At last, after three nights and two days jogging along in
the train, we rattle into Mafeking at 6 a. m.
“_Into_ Mafeking?” Well, there’s a little tin (corrugated iron) house
and a goods shed to form the station; hundreds of waggons and mounds
of stores covered with tarpaulins, and on beyond a street and market
square of low–roofed tin houses. Mafeking is at present the railway
terminus. The waggons and the goods are waiting to go north to
Matabeleland, but here they’re stranded for want of transport, since
all the oxen on the road are dying fast from rinderpest. However, every
train is bringing up more mules and donkeys to use in their stead.
Near to the station is the camp of the 7th Hussars and mounted infantry
of the West Riding and the York and Lancaster Regiments. These troops
are waiting here in case they may be wanted in Matabeleland.
Thus Mafeking is crowded.
Sir Frederick is here, and we, the staff, take up our quarters for
a few days in a railway carriage on a siding. The staff consists of
Lieutenant–Colonel Bridge, A.S.C., as Deputy Assistant Adjutant–General
(for Transport and Supply), Captain Vyvyan, Brigade Major; Lieutenant
V. Ferguson, A.D.C.; my billet is Chief Staff Officer.
While here at Mafeking we are the guests of Mr. Julius Weil, the
genius—in both senses—of this part of South Africa. He works the
machinery of transport and supply of the Chartered Company; his
“stores” have in them everything that man could want to buy. “Weil’s
Rations” are known half the world over as the best tinned foods for
travellers; he owns the best of dogs and horses; he is Member of the
Legislative Assembly of the Cape: and withal he is young and lively!
_23rd May._—Our only news from Matabeleland is that Cecil Rhodes
has safely got across from the East Coast, through Mashonaland, to
Buluwayo, with a column under Beal. And that Plumer’s force, specially
raised here in the south, had got within touch of Buluwayo without
fighting. Rhodes had said the neck of the rebellion now was broken—and
with it go the necks of all our hopes.
But still we shove along.
Packed up our kits, and in the afternoon embarked, the four of us (the
General, Vyvyan, Ferguson, and self), in the coach for Buluwayo. The
coach a regular Buffalo–Bill–Wild–West–Deadwood affair; hung by huge
leather springs on a heavy, strong–built under–carriage; drawn by ten
mules. Our baggage and three soldier–servants on the roof; two coloured
drivers (one to the reins, the other to the whip). Inside are four
transverse seats, each to hold three, thus making twelve “insides.”
Luckily we were only four, and so we had some room to stretch our legs.
We each settled into a corner, and off we went, amid the cheers of
the inhabitants of Mafeking. One, more eager than the rest,—a former
officer of Sir Frederick’s in the Bechuanaland Police,—jumped on, and
came with us for thirty miles, trusting to chance to take him back
again.
That night we reached Pitsani, a single roadside inn,—the
starting–place of Jameson’s raid into the Transvaal. We stopped, and
supped, and slept, and started on at daybreak. This stopping to sleep
was but a luxury which we did not come in for afterwards along the road.
[Illustration: MAFEKING TO BULUWAYO
Ten days and nights by coach.]
_24th May._—Does it bore you, a daily record of this uneventful
journey? Well, if it does, you easily can skip it, which is more than
we could do, alas!
All day over a sandy track, on open, white grass veldt, which
generally changed into hilly country, dotted with thorn–bushes. All
waterless. The mules, of which we get a change every ten or twelve
miles, in very poor condition—so our pace is very slow.
Reached Ramoutsa after dark, after 65–mile drive. Tin hotel, and large
native kraal town (said to have 10,000 inhabitants in its mass of
beehive huts). Boyne living here; a well–known hunter on the Kalehari,
and had shot with “Ginger” Gordon (15th Hussars).
A native “reed dance” was going on in the “stadt” (as they call the
native town),—every man blowing a reed–whistle which gives two notes,
and, played in numbers, gives a quaint, harmonious sound. The men dance
in a circle, stamping the time; the women waggle round and round the
circle, outside it. Altogether a very “or’nery” performance, especially
as all were dressed in European store–clothes.
_25th May._—Struggling on with weak mules to Gaberones (18 miles in
5½ hours) And on again. Every mile now began to show the grisly,
stinking signs of rinderpest. Dead oxen varied occasionally with dead
mules—the variety did not affect the smell—_that_ remained the same.
Occasionally we passed a waggon abandoned owing to the loss of animals.
The road at times was hard, but generally soft red sand. The scenery
had a sameness of level, white, grass land and thorn–bush.
Reached a big kraal (Matchudi’s) of 700 inhabitants, at midnight. Deep
sandy road. It took our fresh (!) team over half an hour to get us
outside the village. Our pace was now so slow, and the whacking of the
whip so painful merely to listen to (happily, the mules don’t seem to
feel it half so much as we), that we did much of the journey walking on
ahead. Sun baking hot, and flies as thick as dust, and _that_ was bad.
_27th May._—By walking with a gun we managed to get a good supply of
partridges and guinea–fowl as we went along. To–day we passed the
downward coach, in which was Scott–Montague, M.P. He gave us lots of
information; and we felt we were not having the worst of the journey,
when we saw him packed in with twelve other “insides,” one of whom a
woman, and another her baby, _which wasn’t very well!_
Reached Pala—a group of stores—at midnight. Here were collected
some two hundred waggons, stopped by loss of all their oxen from
rinderpest. Three thousand two hundred beasts dead at this one place!
_28th May._—We trekked along all day. Bush country; lots of partridges.
One of our mules died on the road. Passed through Captain Lugard’s camp
about 11 p. m. Only Hicks, his manager, awake. He had thirteen waggons,
and nearly two hundred mules and donkeys. He is taking an exploring
expedition of eleven white men to the Lake N’Gami district, prepared to
remain away two years if necessary.
_29th May._—Outspanned, 4.30 a. m., and had our first wash since
starting, in liquid mud from water–holes. The road was now through
heavy sand. We walked over 20 miles of our journey on foot.
Reached Palapchwe (Khama’s capital) at midnight.
Found a dozen telegrams awaiting us, describing fights round Buluwayo,
such as put some hopes into us again.
Here we slept in beds!
_30th May._—Before breakfast, who should stroll in, all by himself, but
Khama! Thin, alert, and looking quite young, in European clothes.
He had not much to say. He knew me as George’s brother, and asked
about the baby niece.
His town is certainly well–ordered, and he manages everything himself.
There are three or four European stores; otherwise the town is an
agglomeration of kraals, and thus stands in several sections, each
under its own headman. It is situated on an undercliff of a bush–grown
ridge; is fairly well supplied with water; and commands a splendid view
over 100 miles of country. Khama had moved his people here only a few
years ago, from Shoshong, which used to be his capital farther west.
He rules his country effectively. No liquor may be sold, even among
white men; and all along the road while in his country we found the
rinderpest carcasses had been burned.
But he might with advantage do something for the road. Leaving
Palapchwe at 10 a. m., we bumped and jolted down the stony hill in a
manner calculated to mash up not only the coach and its insides, but
_their_ insides as well. Any person or persons afflicted with liver
should go and live a week at Palapchwe, and drive down this hill
daily—once a day would be enough!
And then beyond—across the plains, grown with mopani bush—the road was
all deep sand. We merely crept along. But still we had broken the back
of our journey—
Mafeking to Palla 225 miles
Palla to Palapchwe 110 ”
Palapchwe to Tati 107 ”
Tati to Buluwayo 115 ”
————
Total 557 ”
A certain sameness of scenery and want of water all the time, but
compensated for by the splendid climate, the starry nights, and the
“flannel–shirt” life generally.
Every one of the few wayfarers, in waggons or otherwise, along the road
is interesting, either as a hunter, gentleman–labourer, or enterprising
trader. They all look much the same: Boer hat, flannel shirt, and
breeches—so sunburnt that it is hard at first to tell whether the man
is English, half–caste, or light Kaffir.
One we met to–day, creeping along with a crazy, two–wheeled cart drawn
by four donkeys. He himself had only been two months in South Africa:
came from Brighton. Heard that food and drink were at a premium in
Buluwayo; so had loaded up this drop–in–the–ocean of a cargo of meal
and champagne, and was steadily plodding along with it to make his
fortune. We lightened his load by two pints, and weightened his pocket
with two pounds. And we afterwards heard he sold his whole consignment
at a very good profit long before he got to Matabeleland.
_31st May._—All day and all night we go rocking and pitching, rolling
and “scending” along in the creaking, groaning old coach: just
_exactly_ like being in the cabin of a small yacht in bad weather—and
the occasional sharp swish of the thorn–bushes along the sides and
leathern curtains sounds just like angry seas. Then frequently she
heels over to a very jumpy angle, as if a squall had struck her. One of
these days the old thing will go over.
Strange that in all this endless, uninhabited, and bushy wilderness
there is scarcely any game.
We carry our own food, chiefly tinned things, with us, and at
convenient outspans (when we are changing mules) we boil our kettle and
have a meal of sorts and thoroughly enjoy it—especially the evening
meal, under the stars.
_1st June._—Reached Tati Gold Fields, 1 a. m. A collection of three or
four tin stores, one of them an hotel, where we rolled into bed for a
short rest.
We breakfasted with Mr. Vigers, the Resident Commissioner. Tati is a
British Protectorate of older standing than the Chartered Company,
and independent of it. It has its own administrative machinery,—a
mining population of whites and blacks and “wasters,” and yet not a
single policeman! “Wasters?”—oh, it’s a South African word, and most
expressive; applies to the specious loafer who is so common in this
country,—the country teems with him in high grades as well as low,
_hinc multæ lacrimæ_ in the history of South African enterprises.
Twenty miles beyond Tati we crossed the dry bed of the Ramakan River,
the border of Matabeleland. Close by the river stands the ruin of a
“prehistoric” fort, built of trimmed stones. There are several similar
forts about the country, offshoots of the famed Zimbabye ruins near
Victoria.
We nearly killed our General to–day in crossing a dry river bed. The
descent into the drift was so steep that the wheelers could not hold
back the coach, so our drivers sent them down it at a gallop. Half–way
down there was a sill of rock off which the coach took a flying leap
into the sand below. We inside were chucked about like peanuts in a
pot, and Sir Frederick was thrown against the roof and his head and
neck were stiff for some time afterward.
Had dinner (!) at a roadside shanty “Hotel,” where the waiter smoked
while he served us.
_2nd June._—Signs of war and of colonisation at last. We reached
Mangwe, 6.30 a. m. An earthwork fort with a waggon encampment outside
it. In this laager were all the women and children, chiefly Dutch, from
farms around; the men acting as garrison under command of Van Rooyen
and Lee,—two well–known hunters, who were here in Lobengula’s time.
In the fort they showed with pride some half a dozen Matabele prisoners
they had captured in a fight. I looked well at them, fearing that they
might be the only enemy that I should see. Happily I might have spared
my eyes.
We now went through the Mangwe Pass. The road here winds its way
through a tract of rocky hills and koppies, which are practically the
tail of the Matopo range, running eastward hence for sixty miles. It
would have been a nasty place to tackle had the Matabele held it. They
might easily here have cut off Buluwayo from the outer world, but their
M’limo, or oracle, had told them to leave this one road open as a
bolt–hole for the whites in Matabeleland. They had expected that when
the rebellion broke out, the whites would avail themselves _en masse_
of this line of escape; they never reckoned that instead they would
sit tight and strike out hard until more came crowding up the road to
their assistance.
The scenery is striking among these fantastic mounts of piled–up
granite boulders, with long grass and bushy glades between. For ten
miles the road runs between these koppies, then emerges on the open
downs that constitute the Matabele plateau,—the watershed, 4000 feet in
altitude, between the Zambesi and Limpopo.
Now we come to forts every six or eight miles along the road for
protection of the traffic. They are each manned by about thirty men of
the local defence force,—men in the usual shirt–sleeve costume, but
fine serviceable–looking troops. Some forts are the usual earthwork
kind; others are such as would make a sapper snort, but are none the
less effective for all that. They are just the natural koppie, or pile
of rocks, aided by art in the way of sandbag parapets and thorn–bush
abattis fences,—easily prepared and easily held. One we came to had
been threatened by Matabele the previous night, and some rebels had
been reported near the road this same morning,—so things were getting a
little more exciting for us.
By and by we met a troop of mounted men twenty–five miles out from
Buluwayo. These had come out to act as escort. At first glance, to one
fresh from Aldershot or the Curragh, they looked a pretty ragged lot
on thin and unkempt ponies; but their arms and bandoliers were all in
first–rate order, and one could see they were the men to go anywhere
and do anything that might be wanted in the fighting and campaigning
line. However, we did not take them with us, Sir Frederick telling them
to follow on at leisure, a couple of scouts from a fort being sent
ahead of us at the worst part to see that the road was clear.
The coach in which Lord Grey, the Administrator, had come a short
time before us had been seen and pursued by Matabele, but we had no
excitement, and soon after midnight we rolled into Buluwayo.
CHAPTER II
STATE OF AFFAIRS IN MATABELELAND
Buluwayo—Too many Heads may spoil the Campaign—The Situation—Origin of
the Rebellion—The Power of the M’limo—The Outbreak of Rebellion—Defence
Measures and Rescue Patrols—Native Police—Sorties from Buluwayo inflict
Blows on the Enemy—MacFarlane’s Attack relieves the Pressure on the
Town—Plumer’s Relief Force continues the driving back of the Enemy—Sir
Frederick Carrington’s Plan of Campaign.
_3rd June._—Unpacked ourselves at 1 a. m. from our lairs in the corners
of the coach, with something akin to regret at leaving the old thing
after ten days and nights in her. But it _was_ a blessing to bed down
in a house, and the bath on waking was worth gold. (Bathroom was the
verandah in the main street.)
Our lodging was next door to the club buildings, now used as a
barrack for Grey’s Scouts, and defended with a small bastion of tin
biscuit–cases and sacks filled with earth. By breakfast–time I had
investigated Buluwayo.
A red earth flat laid out by ditches, in blocks and streets, over two
miles long and half a mile wide. The centre portion of the town well
filled with buildings, all single–storeyed, some brick, some tin, some
“paper” (_i.e._ wire–wove, ready–made in England, sent out in pieces),
all with verandahs. The more outlying blocks only boasting a house
or shanty here and there. Most of the houses built with a view to
ultimate extension; _e.g._ one consisted of, evidently, the scullery,
back kitchen, and “offices,” the front to be added later, when better
times came round. The gardens, streets, and vacant lots richly sown
with broken bottles, meat tins, rags, and paper; scarcely a garden,
shrub, or tree in th place. The houses generally, if they are not
“Bottle stores” (_i.e._ public–houses), are either dry–goods stores or
mining syndicate offices. Everywhere enterprise and rough elements of
civilisation,—not forgetting the liquor branch.
Half a mile southward of the town lies a bush–covered rising ground, on
which are a good number of “villas,” with their two or three acres of
bush fenced in to form their gardens in the future. At present they are
deserted, the owners living in town while the Matabele are about.
In the centre of the town is the market square with its market house—a
big brick building which is now used as the main refuge and defence of
the town. Round the market house is drawn up a rectangular laager of
waggons, built up with sacks full of earth to form a bullet–proof wall.
Outside the laager the ground for twenty or thirty yards is rendered
impassable by means of “entanglements” of barbed wire and a fence of
the same, as well as by a thick sprinkling of broken bottles all over
the ground itself.
Up on the roof of the hall is a look–out turret, from which, by
touching a button, an observer can at will fire any of the electric
mines which have been laid in the various approaches to the market
square.
Although most of the people who have houses in Buluwayo are now living
in their homes again, there are numbers of families from suburban or
outlying farms who are still living in the laager. And at the western
end of the town is another smaller laager of waggons round a house, in
which a number of Boer farmers, with their families, are living.
We had a very nice house “commandeered” (_i.e._ taken over by
Government at a fair rental), and handed over to us for our use as a
dwelling–house, ready supplied with furniture, etc.; and then the
offices of one of the gold–mining companies were similarly commandeered
and assigned to us for offices. In a very short time we had settled
down and were hard at work—and there was lots to do.
Of course our first business was to interview all the heads of affairs,
and so to form an idea of the situation.
Sir Richard Martin (with whom I had served previously, when on the
mission to Swaziland, under Sir F. de Winton) is Deputy Commissioner,
appointed since Jameson’s raid to regulate the use and moves of the
armed forces in the Chartered Company’s territories, so as to prevent
any further adventurous departures on their part. Lord Grey is
Administrator of the Government of the whole country of Rhodesia, which
includes Matabeleland and Mashonaland, etc.—a tract of country 750,000
square miles in extent, or equal to Spain, France, and Italy together.
Mr. Cecil Rhodes, while bearing no official position, practically
represents the management of the country as well as of the Company,
and his advice and experience are of the greatest value, since all the
other “heads” are new arrivals in the country. And it is in this number
of heads that our danger would apparently, and our difficulty will
most certainly be. Virtually, of course, the General is _the_ head
while active operations are in progress, but he has to cut his cloth
according to the style approved by the Deputy Commissioner, according
to the expense sanctioned by the Administrator, and according to the
general design required by the High Commissioner, while not totally
disregarding the local experience of Mr. Rhodes and others. Altogether,
the principle of strategy, which directs that “the General in command
should merely have his objective pointed out to him, and a free hand
given him,” seems to be pretty well trenched upon by the present
arrangement, though, under the circumstances, it could not well be
helped. This, however, has always been the case in the history of South
African warfare,—frequently with fatal results,—so it is nothing new:
the only thing is to make the best of it, and pull together as much as
possible.
And this is what we find is the situation of affairs.
Matabeleland had been captured by the Chartered Company’s troops,
acting from Mashonaland, in 1893, and Lobengula driven to his death
as a fugitive. Since then the country had been governed by the
Administrator and his magistrates and native commissioners in the
various districts into which the country was divided.
By 1896 the white population had increased to nearly four thousand,
guarded by an armed police force distributed about the country. At the
end of 1895 the greater part of this police was taken from Rhodesia, in
order to take part in Jameson’s raid into the Transvaal.
Just about the same time the terrible scourge of rinderpest came down
upon the land. Three years before, it had made a start in Somaliland,
and had steadily and persistently worked its way down the continent
of Africa—and it now crossed the mighty barrier of the Zambesi, and
was sweeping over the great cattle–country, Matabeleland. With a view
to checking its ravages, the Government took all possible steps for
preventing the transmission of infection, and, amongst others, that of
slaughtering sound cattle was adopted. This procedure was perfectly
incomprehensible to the native mind, and before long it was mooted
among them that the white man’s idea in slaughtering the cattle was to
reduce the native to the lowest straits, and to starve him to death.
The natives had only been very partially beaten in the war in 1893, and
the memory of it rankled strongly in their mind. They had thought the
war was merely a passing raid, and it was only now they were realising
that the whites had come to stay, and to oust them from their land.
They were only waiting for their opportunity to rise and drive out
their invaders.
Then, ever since the war, there had been a partial drought over
the land, and what little crops there were had been devoured by
unprecedented flights of locusts. All these misfortunes tended to
spread among the people a general feeling of sullen discontent.
And this was increased to a feeling of bitter resentment against the
whites, because they, the Matabele, found that the one remedy for want
which in the old days they had been wont to ply so readily—namely,
the wholesale raiding of their weaker neighbours—was under the new
régime denied them. Nowadays, not only was every such raid prevented
or punished as unlawful, but even in their home life their liberties
were interfered with, and trifling thefts of cattle from a neighbour’s
herd, or the quiet putting away of a lazy slave or of a quarrelsome
stepmother, were now treated as crimes by policemen of their own blood
and colour, but creatures of the white man, strutting among them with
as much consequence and power as any of the royal indunas.
These things developed their hatred against the whites, and served
as plausible reasons for their conduct when the chiefs came to be
questioned later on in giving in their surrender.
Meanwhile, the chiefs and headmen, hoping to get back their ancient
powers, fomented this feeling for all that they were worth. And they
had a ductile mass to handle, for to the vast majority of their people
the question of rights and wrongs was an unknown quantity, but the lust
of blood—especially blood of white men, when, as they anticipated,
it could be got with little danger to themselves—was an irresistible
incentive.
The withdrawal of the armed forces from the country for the Transvaal
raid gave them their opportunity.
The Matabele have no regular religion beyond a reverence for the souls
of ancestors, and for an oracle–deity adopted from the Mashonas, whom
they call the M’limo. The M’limo is an invisible god, who has three
priests about the country, one in the north–east beyond Inyati, one
in the south in the Matopo hills, and one south–west near Mangwe. The
pure–bred Matabele, as well as the aboriginal natives, the Makalakas
and the Maholis, all go to consult these priests of the M’limo as
oracles, and place a blind belief in all they say. In addition to
the three high priests, there are four warrior–chiefs of the M’limo.
These men working in with the priests brought about the outbreak
of rebellion. Three of these warrior–indunas are Matabele, the
fourth—Uwini—heads the Makalakas.
Choosing well their opportunity, when, as they thought, all the white
fighting men had left the country, and none but women, children, and
dotards were left behind, they spread the message through the land—with
that speed which only native messages can take. They called on all
the tribes to arm themselves, and to assemble on a certain moon round
three sides of Buluwayo. The town was to be rushed in the night, and
the whites to be slaughtered without quarter to any. The road to Mangwe
was to be left conspicuously open, so that any whites who might escape
their notice would take the hint and fly from the country. Buluwayo
was not to be destroyed, as it would serve again as the royal kraal
for Lobengula, who had returned to life again. After the slaughter at
Buluwayo the army would break up into smaller impis, and go about the
land to kill all outlying farmers and to loot their farms. The M’limo
further promised that the white men’s bullets would, in their flight,
be changed to water, and their cannon–shells would similarly turn into
eggs.
The plan was not a bad one, but in one important particular it
miscarried, and so lost to the Kafirs the very good chance they had of
wiping out the white men.
About 24th March the outbreak began—but prematurely. In their eagerness
for blood some bands of rebels, acting contrary to their instructions,
worked their wicked will on outlying settlers and prospectors before
attempting the night surprise on Buluwayo. _That_ was their mistake—it
gave the alarm to the whites in town and enabled them to prepare their
defence in good time.
Among the Insiza Hills, some thirty–five miles east of Buluwayo, on
that fateful day, seven white men with their coloured servants were
butchered at Edkins Store, and at the Nellie Reef Maddocks a miner was
murdered, while a few miles farther on a peaceable farming family were
brutally done to death. The white–haired old grandfather, the mother,
two grown–up girls, a boy, and three little yellow–haired children—all
bashed and mangled.
At another place a bride, just out from the peace and civilisation of
home, had her happy dream suddenly wrecked by a rush of savages into
the farmstead. Her husband was struck down, but she managed to escape
to the next farm, some four miles distant—only to find its occupants
already fled. Ignorant of the country and of the people, the poor girl
gathered together what tinned food she could carry, and, making her way
to the river, she made herself a grassy nest among the rocks, where
she hoped to escape detection. For a few terrible days and nights she
existed there, till the Matabele came upon her tracks, and shortly
stoned her to death—another added to their tale of over a hundred and
fifty victims within a week.
The only comfort is that their gruesome fate saved many other lives,
for the news spread fast, and as more reports from every side came in
of murdered whites, those in Buluwayo realised that the rising was
a general one, and merciless. They promptly took their measures for
defence.
The laagers were formed, as I have described, to accommodate the seven
hundred women and children in the place; while the eight hundred men
were organised in troops, and armed and horsed in an incredibly short
space of time.
Patrols were promptly sent out to bring in outlying farmers, and to
gather information as to the rebels’ moves and numbers.
Ere long the rebel forces were closing round Buluwayo. North, east,
and south they lay, to the number of seven thousand at the least.
Throughout the country their numbers must have been but little under
ten to thirteen thousand.
Nearly two thousand of them were armed with Martini–Henry rifles. A
hundred of the Native Police deserted, and joined them with their
Winchester repeaters. Many of them owned Lee–Metfords, illicitly
bought, stolen, or received in return for showing gold–reefs to
unscrupulous prospectors. And numbers of them owned old obsolete
elephant guns, Tower muskets, and blunderbusses. So that in addition to
their national armament of assegais, knobkerries, and battle–axes, the
rebels were well supplied with firearms and also with ammunition.
In saying that the Native Police deserted and joined the rebels, I
must in justice add that it was chiefly the younger members of the
force who did so: the old hands remained loyal, and though at first
they were disarmed as a precautionary measure, they proved most useful
to our side later on, though very few in numbers. Much has been said
against them as having been the cause of the revolt, through their
overbearing conduct. I am perfectly convinced that the rebellion would
have occurred just the same had there been no such body as the Native
Police in existence. At the same time, I don’t mean to say that they
did not abuse their powers. I should think that they most probably
did, but that is no reason why they should incontinently be done away
with. I don’t see, for one thing, how proper government of the natives
is going to be carried out without a native police: the only thing is
that the force must be very closely and effectively commanded. The same
difficulty has been encountered, and has thus been dealt with, by us
in Natal, in India, in West Africa, everywhere, in fact, where natives
form a large proportion of the population.
But I am wandering from my point into discussion and argument, which
are not in my line. I am supposed to be giving you a résumé of what had
been happening up to the time of Sir Frederick’s taking over command in
Matabeleland.
Directly after the outbreak, Colonel Napier, with his usual energy,
lost no time in getting together a few men, and, with a party of sixty,
he went off to the Shangani, thirty miles north–east of Buluwayo, and
brought into safety over forty white settlers.
At the same time, Captain the Hon. Maurice Gifford, with forty–four
men, made a dash to Cumming’s Store, through difficult country in the
Insiza Hills, fifty miles east of Buluwayo, and rescued over thirty
people, losing one man killed and six wounded.
Captain F. C. Selous raised a troop of forty mounted men the same day,
and made a bold reconnaissance southward of Buluwayo for thirty miles,
to the Matopos.
Three days later (29th March), Captain MacFarlane, with thirty men,
went out to Jenkins’ Store, and relieved Pittendrigh’s party, who were
hard pressed there. One man was killed and two wounded in this affair.
On the 4th April, Maurice Gifford again went out, with 140 men, to
Fonsecas, just north of Buluwayo, where he was hotly attacked by the
enemy, losing four men killed and seven wounded. He himself lost his
arm on this occasion, and Captain Lumsden, who took his place, was
mortally wounded. MacFarlane, with sixty men, relieved him.
Brand and Niekerk took a strong patrol down to the mining camp in the
Gwanda district, to find the miners had already safely got away south.
On their return journey this patrol was attacked and very nearly cut
off in passing through the eastern end of the Matopos. Out of their
total of a hundred they lost five killed and fifteen wounded besides
thirty horses killed; but with sheer hard fighting they got through in
the end.
Then, when the enemy closed on Buluwayo, as if to swamp it, Bissett
led the garrison out in a sortie on 22nd April. There was a stubborn
fight, in which neither side gained any ultimate decisive advantage,
but it was remarkable for the fact that perhaps in no fight in history
have there been so many deeds of gallantry performed among so small a
body of men. No less than three men have since been recommended for the
Victoria Cross for separate acts of heroism in this fight.
Three days later, Captain “Mickey” MacFarlane—an old friend of ours
in the 9th Lancers—again led out the Buluwayo Field Force, and this
time dealt the enemy a very heavy blow, such as changed the aspect
of affairs, and relieved Buluwayo from any immediate danger of being
rushed.
In these early fights and patrols the Buluwayo Force had lost twenty
men killed and fifty wounded, while over two hundred settlers in
surrounding districts had been murdered. Meanwhile, a relief force
was being organised at Salisbury in Mashonaland, three hundred miles
to the north, under Colonel Beal, and another at Kimberley and
Mafeking, nearly six hundred miles to the south, under Colonel Plumer
of the York and Lancaster Regiment. In the last week in May these two
forces appeared in the neighbourhood of Buluwayo from their opposite
directions, Cecil Rhodes arriving with that from the north; Lord Grey
arriving about the same time as Colonel Plumer’s from the south.
[Illustration: GOING OUT FOR A FIGHT
Grey’s Scouts riding out of Buluwayo to “have a shy” at the enemy.]
Meanwhile, Colonel Napier, with the bulk of the Buluwayo Force, had
gone out to meet the Salisbury Force, and in combination with it did
much to clear the country east of Buluwayo.
[_P.S._—A most interesting detailed account of the outbreak, and of
these early operations—including the acts of individual gallantry on
the part of Baxter, Crewe, Henderson, Grey, and others—will be found in
Captain F. C. Selous’ book, _Sunshine and Storm in Rhodesia_.]
Colonel Plumer had raised, organised, and equipped his force of eight
hundred Cape Colony men and horses in an incredibly short space of
time; but that is one beauty of South Africa—that it teems with good
material for forming a fighting force at a moment’s notice. Nor did the
“M.R.F.” (Matabele Relief Force), as Plumer’s corps was styled, lose
any time in getting to work after its arrival at Buluwayo. For three
days (23rd–26th May) it was hammering at the various impis threatening
Buluwayo on the north and east with complete success.
Thus, when we arrived a week later, we found that the immediate
neighbourhood of Buluwayo had been cleared of enemy, but the impis were
still hanging about in the offing, and required to be further broken up.
The General’s plan, accordingly, was to send out three strong columns
simultaneously to the north–east, north, and north–west, for a distance
of some sixty to eighty miles, to clear that country of rebels, and
to plant forts which should prevent their reassembly at their centres
there, and would afford protection to those natives who were disposed
to be friendly. The southern part of the country, namely, the Matopo
Hills, was afterwards to be tackled by the combined forces on their
return from the north. Such was the situation in the beginning of June.
And now I’ll continue the diary.
CHAPTER III
OUR WORK AT BULUWAYO
Organisation of Supply and Transport—The Volunteer Troops—Experiences
on Patrol—Sir Charles Metcalfe reports the Enemy just outside the
Town—The first sight of the Enemy—Fight on the Umgusa River, 6th
June—Maurice Gifford—Reconnaissance of the Inugu Stronghold—Burnham the
Scout—Rebellion breaks out in Mashonaland—The Difficulties of Supply—The
Humours of Official Correspondence—Colonel Spreckley writ down an
Ass—Colonials would serve under Sir Frederick Carrington, but not under
the ordinary Imperial Officer.
_4th June._—Office work from early morning till late at night. To say
there is plenty of work to be done does not describe the mountain
looming before us. The more we investigate into such questions as the
force and strong points of the enemy, and the resources at our command
wherewith to tackle him, the more huge and hopeless seems the problem.
Our force is far too small adequately to cope with so numerous and
fairly well–armed an enemy, with well–nigh impregnable strongholds
to fall back on, and with his supply and transport train ample and
effective—as furnished by his wives and children.
Our force, bold as it is, is far too small, and yet we cannot increase
it by a man, for the simple reason that if we did, we could not find
the wherewithal to feed it. There is practically no reserve of food in
the country, rinderpest has suddenly destroyed the means of bringing
it, and here we lie, separated from the railway by a sandy road 587
miles in length!
Nor on the spot has any adequate provision been made to meet the future
wants of the small force we have. All the food–stuffs in the place have
been brought together, and the commissariat organisation and system
has so far amounted to showing to an officer requiring rations for his
troop a pile of stores, with “There you are! Take what you want.”
One of the first steps has been to telegraph for Colonel Bridge, who
had been left at Mafeking, to come and organise a system of transport
and supply. Then we have to make a medical staff and an ordnance
department.
In the meantime three columns are being organised, and such provision
as is possible is being made for their supply for patrols of about
three weeks’ duration, to the northward of Buluwayo. And we hope to
start them off to–morrow.
During the brief intervals from office work for breakfast, lunch,
and dinner, one has most interesting glimpses of the sunny street,
crowded with throngs of “swashbucklers,” each man more picturesque than
his neighbour. Cowboy hat, with puggree of the colour of his corps,
short–sleeved canvas shirt, cord breeches, and puttees, with bandolier
across his chest, and pistol on his hip, is approximately the kit of
every man you meet. The strong brown arms and sunburnt faces, the bold
and springy gait, all show them soldiers, ready–made and ripe for any
kind of work. Good shots and riders, and very much at home upon the
veldt, no wonder that they form a “useful” crew—especially when led, as
they are, by men of their own kidney.
Among the leaders are Micky MacFarlane, erstwhile the dandy lancer,
now a bearded buccaneer and good soldier all the time; Selous, the
famous hunter–pioneer of Matabeleland; Napier and Spreckley, the
light–hearted blade, who is nevertheless possessed of profound and
business–like capacity; Beal, Laing, and Robertson, cool, level–headed
Scotsmen with a military training; George Grey, “Charlie” White, and
Maurice Gifford, for whom rough miners and impetuous cowboys work like
well–broken hounds.
Indeed, the Volunteer troops seem to have thoroughly adapted themselves
to the routine of soldiering, as well as to the more exciting demands
of the field of action.
Night guards, daily standing to arms before sunrise, patrols, and other
uncongenial duties are all carried out with greatest regularity; but
the following amusing account of a morning patrol—which appeared in the
_Matabele Times_ this week—shows some of the drawbacks under which they
carry on their work:—
“Standing to arms at 4 a. m. is not in itself a joy, but its cruelty is
accentuated when the troop orderly takes that opportunity of informing
you that you are to leave the laager at 5.30 and go on patrol to
Matabele Wilson’s, in company of three other unfortunates, for the
purpose of ascertaining whether the road be clear travelling.
“On the occasion of which I write this was my fate, and our little
party, with noses that needed constant attention with a handkerchief,
and numbed fingers clasping cold rifles, stood shivering outside the
stable gates, viewing life despondently and swearing at the remount
staff. All things, pleasant and otherwise, have an end, and at last,
in response to frequent knocks, the gate opened, and we followed
a depressed–looking official to where four alleged horses, with
drooping heads and downcast mien, disconsolately champed the half–ton
of rusty iron which South Africans call a bit, and dreamed of oats.
Each man chose a horse, and with the assistance of sundry stable–boys
induced him to leave his empty manger and move wearily out into the
street. Here great care was necessary in mounting, as it was yet to
be ascertained whether the crocks could stand up straight under the
weight of a rider, but at last we fell in, and by dint of spur and rein
reached the laager.
“The corporal in charge of the patrol then went to wake up the orderly
officer and get his orders, and my horse edged sideways towards the
windmill; he wanted something to lean against. By and by out comes the
corporal, we awakened our mounts, and started. ‘Our orders are to go
out to Wilson’s and meet a patrol from the Khami River, then return to
town,’ and ‘You’re not to gallop all the way,’ added the corporal. We
at once said we wouldn’t, and just then one of the horses fell down in
endeavouring to step over a gutter. We dismounted and put the turn–out
on its feet again, and proceeded.
“Just past the Dutch laager some one said, ‘By Jove, the laager smells
peculiar.’ Another man said, ‘Yes; the big laager is just the same.’
We passed a bush and struck the source of the odour, a dead ox; and
promptly apologised to the laagers.
“All went well for a mile or so, and the corporal says, ‘Let’s have a
trot.’ We rammed in the spurs and shook the reins; one horse started
a feeble lolloping trot which he maintained for at least twenty yards
before he fell down; two horses shook their heads and whisked their
tails, but took no further notice of the appeal for more speed; and the
fourth, a grey, with fine prominent points, stopped dead short. We all
passed a few remarks about the gentlemen who had selected the horses
for duty, and resumed our wonted ‘crawl march.’
“More rinderpest, and my horse made a movement as if to lean against
the smell, but it was too strong for him, and he moved on, to prevent
being knocked over. On passing dead horses and cattle we used to draw
in a long breath and endeavour to spur up a trot that would carry us
out of range, before we were again compelled to breathe or ‘bust,’ but
our horses used generally to land us in the middle of the stink and
then pull up. You would see a man get black in the face trying to hold
his breath, and at last have to burst out and refill his lungs with the
very richest of the odour.
“Passing the remains of the kraal where the transport riders, Potgieter
and his mate, were murdered, we saw the heaps of earth piled over the
victims’ bodies. Here one of our number dismounted to light his pipe.
This was the last we saw of him; he never caught up, though we only
walked our horses; and he finally rolled up at the fort, half an hour
after we had arrived, on foot, having tied his horse on to a tree.
He said he found it considerably easier walking. Dawson’s Fort is
splendidly placed, and commands a fine view of the surrounding country;
the walls are built up with stone topped with two courses of sandbags,
shelter for the garrison being afforded by sails; permanent running
water passes the foot of the hill.
“A number of donkey waggons were outspanned on the road beneath the
fort, and out by Wilson’s house, where now a hotel flourishes with the
success usual in Matabeleland, we could see the coolies working in the
gardens, planting to renew the crops of vegetables reaped with zeal and
thoroughness by troops and travellers evidently determined that the
enemy shouldn’t have them any way. Rinderpest is very much in evidence
round the fort, and oxen lie dead literally in troops, long regular
lines of carcasses lying together.
“At the foot of the hill leading to the fort one of the horses gave out
altogether, having clean knocked up in five miles of travelling, the
whole of which was done at a walking pace.
“If the loudly expressed wishes of the unfortunate wight who had to
walk and carry a heavy rifle from Wilson’s to Buluwayo under a hot sun,
have any effect on the official who was responsible for sending horses
barely strong enough to move their own shadows on a duty in the course
of which speed might have been necessary to save their riders’ lives,
he will some day find himself on a weak horse as per sample supplied to
us, and a score of Matabeles with sharp assegais and a taste for fancy
experiments in the torture line after him, with the certainty that he
will have to get off and try his individual sprinting powers before
reaching a place of safety. Not that there could be the least spice of
danger between here and Wilson’s, but that the official who would allow
horses which to the most unversed eye are only fit for the sick lines
to leave the stable at all, would just as readily send the same variety
of mounts on hazardous service.”
_5th June._—Colonel Plumer’s column, 460 strong, moved off to the
country of the Guai River, north–west of Buluwayo.
And Macfarlane’s column of 400 went away to the north.
Spreckley’s column was to make its start next day, but the unexpected
happened to prevent it.
At ten o’clock at night, just as Sir Frederick was thinking we had
done enough office work for the day, Sir Charles Metcalfe and the
American scout Burnham rode up and came into the office, looking a bit
dishevelled and torn. They had been riding out in the evening to visit
Colonel Beal’s column from Salisbury, which was camped about three
miles out of the town. Seeing fires close to the road, and near to
where they thought the camp must be, they had ridden up to them, and
found themselves in the camp of a large impi of the enemy! They only
escaped by making their way home by a détour through the bush. The news
seemed almost too improbable to be true, and yet the bearers of it were
not men to get excited and bring in a false report.
So I telephoned to a piquet we had at Government House (about two
miles out of town) to send a patrol to investigate. But the subsequent
reports were not wholly satisfactory, and I roused up Spreckley in
the middle of the night to show me the way, and we rather upset the
sleep of the inhabitants of Government House by appearing there to make
further inquiries at about three in the morning. Nothing satisfactory
to be learned there; so back to Buluwayo, and, getting a fresh horse
and a police–trooper as guide, I went out again towards Beal’s camp.
There, in the early dawn, I was at last able to see the enemy clearly
enough. On the opposite bank of the Umgusa River they were camped in
long lines, fires burning merrily, and parties of them going to and
from the stream for water. I took my information on to Beal’s camp.
I was much taken with the coolness with which the news was received
there. It was not above two miles and a half from that of the enemy.
The men were ordered to get their breakfasts without delay, and a
patrol of a sergeant and two men was sent out to the stream to see if
there were good water there, and also (apparently as an after–thought)
whether they, too, could see any enemy there. Before we had finished
breakfast they returned.
“Well, is it all right? Is there water there?”
“Yes.”
“Is it good water?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Matabele were there, and wouldn’t let us come near.”
So we saddled up and moved off towards the spot to await the arrival of
more troops from Buluwayo, for I had sent my police–trooper back with
a note to tell them there that “it was good enough,” and asking that
Spreckley’s mounted column should be sent out to join us. Presently
they came up, followed by a few volunteers in carts who wanted to join
in the fun.
Our strength was 250 mounted men, with two guns and an ambulance.
The country was undulating veldt covered with brush, through which a
line of mounted men could move at open files.
As we advanced, we formed into line, with both flanks thrown well
forward—especially the right flank under Beal, which was to work round
in rear of the enemy on to their line of retreat—a duty which was most
successfully carried out.
The central part of the line then advanced at a trot straight for the
enemy’s position.
The enemy were about 1200 strong, we afterwards found out. They did not
seem very excited at our advance, but all stood looking as we crossed
the Umgusa stream, but as we began to breast the slope on their side of
it, and on which their camp lay, they became exceedingly lively, and
were soon running like ants to take post in good positions at the edge
of a long belt of thicker bush. We afterwards found that their apathy
at first was due to a message from the M’limo, who had instructed them
to approach Buluwayo and to draw out the garrison, and to get us to
cross the Umgusa, because he (the M’limo) would then cause the stream
to open and swallow up every man of us. After which the impi would have
nothing to do but walk into Buluwayo and cut up the women and children
at their leisure. But something had gone wrong with the M’limo’s
machinery, and we crossed the stream without any contretemps. So, as
we got nearer to the swarm of black heads among the grass and bushes,
their rifles began to pop and their bullets to flit past with a weird
little “phit,” “phit,” or a jet of dust and a shrill “wh–e–e–e–w” where
they ricocheted off the ground.
Some of our men, accustomed to mounted infantry work, were now for
jumping off to return the fire, but the order was given: “No; make a
cavalry fight of it. Forward! Gallop!”
Then, as we came up close, the niggers let us have an irregular,
rackety volley, and in another moment we were among them. They did not
wait, but one and all they turned to fly, dodging in among the bushes,
loading as they ran. And we were close upon their heels, zigzagging
through the thorns, jumping off now and then, or pulling up, to fire a
shot (we had not a sword among us, worse luck!), and on again.
[Illustration: THE UMGUSA FIGHT. 6TH JUNE
Our line of 200 men, in attacking the enemy 1200 strong, did not stop
to fire, but charged right into them, which so unnerved them that they
broke up and fled, and were pursued for five miles, losing nearly 200
killed.]
The men that I was with—Grey’s Scouts—never seemed to miss a shot.
The Matabele as they ran kept stopping behind bushes to fire. Now and
again they tried to rally, but whenever a clump of them began to form
or tried to stand, we went at them with a whoop and a yell, and both
spurs in, and sent them flying. Of course, besides their guns they had
their assegais. Several of our horses got some wounds, and one man got
a horrid stab straight into his stomach. I saw another of our men fling
himself on to a Kafir who was stabbing at him; together they rolled on
the ground, and in a twinkling the white man had twisted the spear from
its owner’s hand, and after a short, sharp tussle, he drove it through
the other’s heart.
In one place one of the men got somewhat detached from the rest, and
came on a bunch of eight of the enemy. These fired on him and killed
his horse, but he himself was up in a trice, and, using magazine fire,
he let them have it with such effect that before they could close on
him with their clubs and assegais, he had floored half their number,
and the rest just turned and fled.
And farther on a horse was shot, and, in the fall, his rider stunned.
The niggers came louping up, grinning at the anticipated bloodshed, but
Sergeant Farley, of Grey’s Scouts, was there before them, and hoisting
up his comrade on to his horse, got him safe away.
[Illustration: EIGHT TO ONE
One of our men came on a party of eight enemy. They shot his horse,
but he was himself up in a moment, and, opening magazine fire on them,
quickly killed or dispersed his assailants.]
Everywhere one found the Kafirs creeping into bushes, where they lay
low till some of us came by, and then they loosed off their guns at us
after we had passed.
I had my Colt’s repeater with me—with only six cartridges in the
magazine, and soon I found I had finished these—so, throwing it under a
peculiar tree, where I might find it again, I went on with my revolver.
Presently I came on an open stretch of ground, and about eighty yards
before me was a Kafir with a Martini–Henry. He saw me, and dropped on
one knee and drew a steady bead on me. I felt so indignant at this that
I rode at him as hard as I could go, calling him every name under the
sun; he aimed,—for an hour, it seemed to me,—and it was quite a relief
when at last he fired, at about ten yards distance, and still more of
a relief when I realised he had clean missed me. Then he jumped up and
turned to run, but he had not gone two paces when he cringed as if some
one had slapped him hard on the back, then his head dropped and his
heels flew up, and he fell smack on his face, shot by one of our men
behind me.
At last I called a halt. Our horses were done, the niggers were all
scattered, and there were almost as many left behind us hiding in
bushes as there were running on in front.
A few minutes spent in breathing the horses, and a vast amount of
jabber and chaff, and then we reformed the line and returned at a walk,
clearing the bush as we went.
I had one shave. I went to help two men who were fighting a Kafir at
the foot of a tree, but they killed him just as I got there. I was
under the tree when something moving over my head caught my attention.
It was a gun–barrel taking aim down at me, the firer jammed so close to
the tree–stem as to look like part of it. Before I could move he fired,
and just ploughed into the ground at my feet.
He did not remain much longer in the tree. I have his knobkerrie and
his photo now as mementos.
At length we mustered again at our starting–point, where the guns and
ambulance had been left. We found that, apart from small scratches and
contusions, we had only four men badly wounded. One poor fellow had his
thigh smashed by a ball from an elephant gun, from which he afterwards
died. Another had two bullets in his back. Four horses had been killed.
And the blow dealt to the enemy was a most important one. A prisoner
told us that the impi was composed of picked men from all the chief
regiments of the rebel’s forces, and that a great number of the chiefs
were present at the fight.
[_P.S._—We learned some months afterwards from refugees and surrendered
rebels that this was true, and that no less than fifteen headmen had
been killed, as well as more than two hundred of their men.]
[Illustration: THE BITER BIT
I had stopped for a moment under a tree, to look at a man who had just
been shot, when there was a slight movement among the branches above
me, and a Matabele who was hiding there fired down, but missed me. He
was immediately afterwards shot—and I photographed him later.]
Of course this was a very one–sided fight, and it sounds rather brutal
to anyone reading in cold blood how we hunted them without giving them
a chance—but it must be remembered we were but 250 against at least
1200. Lord Wolseley says “when you get niggers on the run, keep them
on the run” (this we did, for half a mile beyond the spot where we
pulled up, Beal with his column cut in from the flank and bashed them
from a new direction), and our only chance of bringing the war to a
speedy end is to go for them whenever we get the chance, and hit as
hard as ever we can: any hesitation or softness is construed by them as
a sign of weakness, and at once restores their confidence and courage.
They expect no quarter, because, as they admit themselves, they have
gone beyond their own etiquette of war, and have killed our women and
children. We found one wounded man who had hanged himself after the
fight. This is not an uncommon occurrence in these fights.
[_P.S._—I did not at the time fully realise the extraordinary
bloodthirsty rage of some of our men when they got hand to hand with
the Kafirs, but I not only understood it, but felt it to the full
myself later on, when I too had seen those English girls lying horribly
mutilated, and the little white children with the life smashed and
beaten out of them by laughing black fiends, who knew no mercy.]
Don’t think from these remarks that I am a regular nigger–hater, for
I am not. I have met lots of good friends among them—especially among
the Zulus. But, however good they may be, they must, as a people, be
ruled with a hand of iron in a velvet glove; and if they writhe under
it, and don’t understand the force of it, it is of no use to add more
padding—you must take off the glove for a moment and show them the
hand. They will then understand and obey. In the present instance they
had been rash enough to pull off the glove for themselves, and were now
beginning to find out what the hand was made of.
After the fight I made tracks for Buluwayo, got in in time for late
lunch, made up for lost time in the office, and was quite ready to go
to bed soon after dinner. But I called in at the club on my way, to
have a peep at the wonderfully picturesque collection of warriors, who
were, many of them,—most of them in fact,—still in their fighting–kit
(for many had no other), talking over the day’s doings.
_7th June._—Rode out early, with a police–orderly to guide me, to
inspect the fort at Hope Fountain, ten miles south of Buluwayo, from
which one could just see the tops of Matopo Mountains, in which so many
of the rebel chiefs are said to be taking up their position. This fort
had been attacked about ten days ago, but the enemy never came on with
any boldness, and drew off after losing eleven killed. The mission
station close by, a very pretty little homestead with nice gardens and
trees, had been looted and burnt by the rebels.
I got back to Buluwayo just in time to see Spreckley’s column march
off to patrol the country north–east of Buluwayo. A fine body of 400
of the roughest, most workman–like fighters one could wish to see. It
comprised both infantry and mounted infantry, artillery, and a levy of
wild–looking friendly Matabele.
In the afternoon I rode over yesterday’s battlefield with Vyvyan,
recovered my gun,—which, by the way, Sir Frederick has christened
“Rodney,”—and photographed the chap who potted me out of the tree.
_8th and 9th June._—Office work from early morning up to late at night.
_10th June._—Lunched with Maurice Gifford, who had lost his arm in
one of the first fights of the war. He is not really in a fit state
to be about,—it still hurts him badly, poor chap, and he is a bit
feverish,—but quite anxious to have another go at the enemy. He says he
feels the pain as if it were in his hand, whereas the arm was taken off
at the shoulder.
News came in from MacFarlane of a skirmish he had had near Redbank.
In the afternoon I rode out with Vyvyan to Taba–s’–Induna, a
flat–topped hill that stands up bold and abruptly out of the sea–like
veldt ten miles from Buluwayo. It was the place of execution for many
of Lobengula’s Indunas. Beautiful view from the top over a widespread
yellow prairie, with sharp blue mountains on the horizon.
_11th June._—The hospital, which has a number of wounded men among
its sick, stands away at one corner of the town, and is fortified and
garrisoned in case of attack. Eight nuns work their lives out nursing
there, and the men, if not demonstrative, are to the full appreciative
and grateful, and would do anything for them.
Close to the hospital, on a rise, stands the “Eiffel Tower”: a skeleton
look–out tower about 80 feet high, from which the country round for
many miles can be watched. The look–out man to–day says he can see a
fight going on in the far distance to the north, apparently somewhere
in MacFarlane’s direction.
De Moleyns, adjutant of the 4th Hussars, arrived from England, anxious
for a job, and we took him on as head of the Remount Department.
_12th June._—Office as per usual. But vague rumours of what the enemy
are doing in the Matopos made me impatient, especially owing to their
vagueness. So in the evening I started off with Burnham, the American
scout, to go and investigate. Delightful night ride to Kami Fort,
sixteen miles south–west of Buluwayo. Jam, cookies, and tea with the
two officers there, and a few hours’ sleep on that best of beds—the
veldt tempered with a blanket and a saddle.
_13th June._—At 4 a. m. we were off again, Burnham and I and Trooper
Bradley of the Mounted Police, who knew this part of the country well.
We got to Mabukutwane Fort—one of the natural koppies strengthened with
sandbags, etc.—in time for breakfast. Here we found some excitement, as
a transport rider in charge of waggons had just come in from the road,
reporting that he had been fired on by Matabele about two miles out. A
patrol was sent out, and we sent warnings to waggons and to the coach,
which was due to pass to–day, telling them to wait at the fort till the
road had been reconnoitred. It ended in nothing—the patrol returned
having found no Matabele nor any spoor of them.
So, having been joined by Taylor, the Native Commissioner, we rode
off across the veldt towards the Matopos, some six miles distant
from the fort. On arriving at Mapisa’s Kraal, a friendly chief, we
off–saddled our horses (but never let our guns out of our hands, for
even friendlies are not to be too blindly trusted), and, taking two
or three of his scouts with us, we climbed up into some koppies which
commanded a view of the enemy’s position, and of the Matopos generally.
Awful country, a weird, jumbled mass of grey granite boulders thickly
interspersed with bush, and great jagged mountains.
The Matabele had never before been reduced to the necessity of taking
to these mountain fastnesses, but they were the regular refuge of
the Makalakas, the original inhabitants of the country, when raided
by their Matabele conquerors. This particular stronghold before us,
the Inugu Mountain, with its neighbouring gorges and its labyrinths
of caves, had been chosen by Lobengula as the safest refuge in the
country, and consequently he had made it the home of his favourite
queen, Famona.
[Illustration: INUGU MOUNTAIN STRONGHOLD
Near the western end of the Matopos, and occupied by about fifteen
hundred rebels. Their plan was to induce us to enter the gorge near
Famona’s Kraals, and then to hold the entrance, and cut off our
retreat.]
It is now held by an impi of about a thousand Matabele. Their outposts,
in talking with some of Mapisa’s spies (they shout to each other at a
safe distance across a valley), have said that they mean to draw the
white troops on when they come to attack them, till they have got them
well inside the gorge under the mountain, and then to “give them snuff.”
[_P.S._—A month later, as will presently be seen, they tried this on
with Laing’s and Nicholson’s columns.]
While we were staring our eyes out at the position, taking bearings,
and making sketches, etc., I suddenly saw a distant cow, and, by
getting on to a better rock, I soon discovered a herd of cattle
feeding in the valley below the enemy’s position. Here was a chance
for a lark—to mount, swoop down, and round up the cattle under their
very noses, before they had time to interfere! But to my surprise, on
mooting the idea, the niggers with us let out that these cattle did not
belong to the enemy, but to another friendly chief, Farko, who lived
near by.
That the enemy should leave these cattle untouched was a revelation to
me, and I then saw that the so–called friendlies were on pretty good
terms with the rebels. But for this chance eye–opener—of having, in the
first instance, seen a solitary cow in the distance—I might have been
led to trust to friendlies and their reports. It was well I didn’t.
Having seen all we could, and made a map, Burnham and I started out for
home; reached Kami in the middle of the night, and early next day were
back in Buluwayo.
Burnham a most delightful companion on such a trip; amusing,
interesting, and most instructive. Having seen service against the Red
Indians, he brings quite a new experience to bear on the scouting
work here. And, while he talks away, there’s not a thing escapes his
quick–roving eye, whether it is on the horizon or at his feet. We got
on well together, and he much approved of the results of your early
development in me of the art of “inductive reasoning”—in fact, before
we had examined and worried out many little indications in the course
of our ride, he had nicknamed me “Sherlock Holmes.”
[Illustration: SCOUT BURNHAM
The American scout, of much experience both among Red Indians and
Matabele.]
[_P.S._—We planned to do much scouting together in the future, but,
unfortunately, it never came off, as he was soon afterwards compelled,
for domestic reasons, to go down country.]
The following is an extract from a business–like offer I received
to–day, one of the developments of war in modern times:—
“We, A—— and B——, certified engineers, wish to place our services at
the disposal of the Chartered Company in any offensive or defensive
operations against the rebels. _Speciality_—Construction of forts,
bridges, and dynamite operations. References,” etc. etc.
It is another step towards carrying on war by contract.
_14th and 15th June._—Office again, up till late into the night.
Colonel Bridge arrived with his staff–clerks, and much relieved
our pressure of work by taking over the commissariat and transport
arrangements, which are our main anxiety. Indeed, we are on
half–rations of tinned meat now; fresh meat unprocurable, and prospects
of immediate further supply rather vague.
_16th June._—Yesterday, with the arrival of Colonel Bridge, our clouds
seemed to be lightening up a bit. To–day a thunderclap has come.
Telegrams from Salisbury (sent round by Victoria and Macloutsie, owing
to the direct wire being cut) tell us of murders of whites in three
widely separate parts of Mashonaland. It almost looks as though the
Matabele rebellion were repeating itself there. If so, the outlook is
very bad indeed. Salisbury is 270 miles from here by road. We have here
a number of troops who were sent from Salisbury to help us, and now
their want will be acutely felt over there. In Mashonaland they have
only one line of road to the coast for their supplies, and if that gets
cut, we cannot help them; we have not sufficient for ourselves.
Indeed, if we cannot manage to get up immense supplies within the next
two or three months (it takes over a month for a mule–waggon to get
here from Mafeking), I don’t see how we are going to hold on to the
country. The rains may set in in October, and, once they have begun,
the transport of supplies and troops becomes impossible; the veldt
becomes a bog, and the rivers rise into turgid torrents.
Our only chance of maintaining our hold on the country is to plant
outlying posts, and to fill them up with a sufficient stock of food to
keep them throughout the four months of the rainy season. And, in the
meantime, we must also thoroughly smash up the enemy.
Owing to rinderpest, it seems almost impossible to get sufficient
waggons in Cape Colony to bring up the required supplies. So that
we’re in a quandary. Either we smash up the enemy, and get up supplies
for outlying posts before the rains come on, or else we draw in our
horns, concentrate nearer to our base, organising our measures for a
real effective campaign directly the rains are over. But the loss of
prestige, of time, and of property involved in this second course would
be deplorable, so we mean to have a good try to gain the first, and win
the race against weather, rinderpest, and other bad luck.
[Illustration: A CAPE BOY SENTRY
During a night patrol we came on a Cape Boy wrapped in a blanket, whom
at first we took to be an armed native. We asked who he was. He replied,
“A sentry.” “Where is your piquet (support)?” “Ticket?” said he,
misunderstanding, “I don’t carry a ticket. I AM A SOLDIER!”
All natives who are friendly have to carry a pass or “ticket,” and a
Cape Boy, though black, would much resent being mistaken for a local
native.]
_17th June._—Having heard of some Matabele firing on a party of our
men, about three miles out on the Salisbury Road, yesterday, De
Moleyns and I took an early morning ride with one of the morning
patrols. Started in the dark at 4 a. m., and moved out along that road.
Presently we came upon an armed nigger squatting at the roadside, so
muffled up in a blanket and a sack that he did not hear us coming. We
captured him, and then found that he was a sentry of one of our own
outlying “Cape Boys’” piquets.
I said to him, “Where is your piquet?”
He replied, with much haughtiness, “I not carry a ticket; I am soldier!”
[_Explanation._—All ordinary natives have to carry a “ticket” or pass,
so that they may not be taken up and shot as spies.]
We went on, but saw no signs of Matabele. At daybreak we got to Beal’s
camp, had a cup of coffee there with Daly (formerly in the 13th), and
got home in time for breakfast, much refreshed by our morning’s ride,
and especially as we saw, on our way home, paauw, guinea–fowl, hares,
and pheasants. Office all day.
More outbreaks telegraphed from Mashonaland. No doubt now that it is
rebellion there too.
It is a curious experience sitting with Sir Richard Martin, Lord
Grey, and the General, in the telegraph office, and listening to a
conversation being ticked to us from Salisbury, some 800 miles away,
just as if the sender (Judge Vintcent) were in the next room—the
message being a string of startling details of more murders, impis
gathering, heroic patrols making dashing rescues, preparations for
defence, and state of food supplies and ammunition.
_18th to 21st June._—Days of office–work, literally from daylight
till—well, long, long after dark. Not a scrap of exercise, nor time to
write a letter home.
Office work, however interesting it may be, would incline sometimes to
become tedious, were it not for rays of humour that dart in from time
to time through the overcharged cloud of routine. Here are some items
that have come to us in the past few days, and which have tended to
relieve the monotony of the work.
A letter from a lady, who writes direct to the General, runs as follows
(she desires information as to the whereabouts of her brother):—“I
apply to you direct, in preference to my brother’s commanding officer,
because it is said, ‘Vaut mieux s’adresser au bon Dieu qu’ à tons ses
saints.’
“If anything has happened to my brother, I hold Mr. Ch—— accountable
for it, as, but for his playing lickspittle to Oom Kruger—but for
his base betrayal of the Johannesburgers, which has made England the
laughing–stock of all her enemies, there need have been no kissing at
all. Probably the poor natives hoped to be magnanimous, _à la_ Kruger,
by screwing £25,000 out of each of their prisoners, and that England
would follow suit by trying our chief defenders _at bar_ as convicts,
in spite of a protesting jury.”
Then, from the officer commanding one of the outlying forts, comes
a letter to say: “... This being only a small fort, and no fighting
to be done, I consider it only a waste of time to remain here. If you
cannot place me in a position where active service can be done, I beg
respectfully to submit my resignation.” I have had many letters of that
kind from various volunteer officers.
Then, from England: “Dear Sir,—Could you kindly give me any details as
to the death of my brother Charles. He is supposed to have been eaten
by lions about four years ago in Mashonaland.”
My orderly (a volunteer) was not to be found to–day when I wanted him,
but a loafer, hanging about the office door, said that the orderly had
left word with him that “he was going out to lunch, but would be back
soon, in case he were wanted.”
One volunteer trooper, apparently anxious that the routine of
soldiering should, in his corps at anyrate, be carried out in its
entirety, takes it upon himself to write to me as follows:—
“I beg to request that the following charges may be made the subject of
inquiry by court martial:—
“(1) I charge the orderly officer, whoever he may be, with neglect of
duty, in that he did not visit the guard–room last night when I was
there.
“(2) I charge the corporal of the guard with neglect of duty, in that
he was absent from the guard–room at 9.32 p. m., at the Spoofery.
“(3) I charge the same corporal of the guard with not officially
informing the guard that there was a prisoner in the guard–room.
“(4) I charge the corporal of the guard with using unbecoming language,
in that he used the phrase, ‘Why the h—l don’t you know?’ to me.”
Etc. etc. etc.
Another trooper, not quite so enthusiastic, writes to tell me that at
his fort the drill and discipline are “_heart–rending_.”
An Italian surgeon writes that he is “anxious to be engaged in the
British Army in Matabeleland.” He hopes that the General will “approve
his generous intention,” and will “grant him the admission in the army
which many persons, not more worthy than him, so easily obtain.”
Among the many interesting experiences of a campaign, carried on, as
this one is, under a varied assortment of troops, is that entailed
in receiving reports from officers of very diverse training. Some
are verbose in the extreme, others are terse to barrenness. But the
latter is a most rare fault, and may well be called a fault on the
right side. As a rule, reports appear to be proportioned on an inverse
ratio to work performed. The man who has done little, tries to make it
appear much, by means of voluminous description. I often feel inclined
to issue printed copies, as examples to officers commanding columns,
of Captain Walton’s celebrated despatch, when, under Admiral Byng, he
destroyed the whole of the Spanish fleet off Passaro—
“SIR,—We have taken or destroyed all the Spanish ships on this coast;
number as per margin.—Respectfully yours,
G. WALTON, _Capt._”
There is no superfluous verbosity there.
Vyvyan ill with a very bad throat, and Ferguson away with one of the
columns, so I have plenty to keep me occupied.
The outbreak in Mashonaland ever spreading like wildfire, till it
covers an area of 500 miles by 200—some 2000 whites against 18,000 to
20,000 blacks.
We have asked for imperial troops to be sent up without delay, both
to Matabeleland and Mashonaland, only to the extent of about 500 in
each country, for every nerve will have to be strained to feed even
these—but we haven’t a chance of winning our race without them.
It is a great relief to realise that they are on their way, bringing
with them their own transport and supplies.
_22nd June._—Spreckley’s column returned from its three weeks’ patrol
without having found the enemy in force, but it broke up his “bits”
into smaller pieces, destroyed many kraals, took prisoners, and, best
of all, captured much cattle and corn.
_23rd June._—Dined at Spreckley’s house in the “suburban stands,” as
the wooded slope outside the town is termed. A very pretty “paper”
house. These “paper” houses are common in Buluwayo—they are really
wire–wove, with wooden frames, iron roofs, cardboard walls, with proper
fireplaces, windows and doors, verandahs, etc. Just like a stone–built
house in appearance, but portable; sent out from Queen Victoria Street
in pieces.
Spreckley himself is an ass[1] in one respect, namely, because he
did not take up soldiering as his profession instead of gold and
pioneering—successful though he has been in this other line. He has
all the qualifications that go to make an officer above the ruck of
them. Endowed with all the dash, pluck, and attractive force that make
a man a born leader of men, he is also steeped in common sense, is
careful in arrangement of details, and possesses a temperament that
can sing “Wait till the clouds roll by” in crises where other men are
tearing their hair.
Owing to all the extra work in the office due to the Mashonaland
outbreak, I had been unable to go on a little expedition with Burnham.
A rumour had reached us that the natives in the south–west of the
country intended rising. Hitherto they had remained quiet, and the
road towards Mafeking had not been stopped; but now there appeared the
danger of this road being blocked, and of our supplies, etc., being
cut off from us. At the western end of the Matopos lived a priest
of the M’limo, and the people took their orders from him. If he now
were to direct them to rise, our line of communications would be in
great danger. So we wanted him captured. The difficulty was that if a
large party went there, he would have early intimation of its coming,
and would decamp in good time. So a young fellow named Armstrong,
the Native Commissioner of that district, and Burnham volunteered
to go alone and capture, or, if necessary, shoot him. To–day we
had a telegram from Burnham giving the result of it. He had gone to
Mangwe, and, accompanied only by Armstrong, he had ridden over to the
cave of the local priest of the M’limo—pretended that if the M’limo
would render him invulnerable to Matabele bullets he would give him a
handsome reward—saw the priest begin to go through the ceremony (so
there was no mistake as to his identity), and then shot him. It was a
risky game, as in the next valley were camped a large number of natives
who had come for a big ceremony with the M’limo the next day. But the
two men got away all right, having to gallop for it. The natives never
rose to stop the road.
_26th June._—I had not been outside the office for four days, and was
feeling over–boiled with the sedentary work, so after dinner I saddled
up and rode off ten miles in the moonlight to Hope Fountain. Here
I roused out Pyke, the officer in command. (Had lost an arm in the
previous Matabele war when with Forbes’ patrol down the Shangani after
Lobengula.) He roused out Corporal Herbert, and we rode down in the
dark to the Matopos, and had a very interesting look round there in the
early morning. I much enjoyed it. Was back in the office by 10.30, all
the better for a night out.
[Illustration: SILENCING THE ORACLE
The M’limo is an invisible deity believed in by the Makalakas and
Matabele alike. In different districts of the country are priests of the
M’limo living in caves, who are consulted by the people as mouthpieces
of the god. These priests gave out the orders for the rebellion. It was
to prevent one of these men giving his orders that Messrs. Armstrong and
Burnham endeavoured to effect his arrest, but, failing in the attempt,
owing to the natives becoming alarmed, Burnham shot the priest.]
Pyke is one of three fine, athletic brothers who are all serving here
in different corps.
This evening we had a cheery little dinner at the hotel, to which
came Sir Richard Martin, Colonel and Mrs. Spreckley, Captain and Mrs.
Selous, Captain and Mrs. Colenbrander—all heroes and heroines of the
rebellion.
How Spreckley made us laugh, fooling around the piano as if he were
just going to sing!
It is daily a source of wonder to me how the General manages to
handle some of the local officers and men. Of course, with the better
class it is impossible not to get on well, but there are certain
individuals who to any ordinary Imperial officer would be perfectly
“impossible.” Sir Frederick, however, is round them in a moment, and
either coaxes or frightens them into acquiescence as the case demands;
but were any general, without his personal knowledge of South Africa
and its men, to attempt to take this motley force in hand, I cannot
think there would be anything but ructions in a very short space of
time. A little tact and give–and–take properly applied reaps a good
return from Colonial troops, but the slightest show of domineering or
letter–of–the–regulations discipline is apt to turn them crusty and
“impossible.” A very good instance of the general feeling that seems
to influence the local troops is shown in the following letter which
the General has received. (The writer of it leaves it to the discretion
of the General where to insert commas and stops.)
“To Mr. Frederick Carrington—General.
“Sir Seeing in the papers and news from the North the serous phase that
affairs are taking I am willing to raise by your permission a set of
Good hard practical colonials here that have seen service Farmers Sons
and Chuck my situation and head them off as a Yeomanry Corps I have
been under you Sir in the B.B.P (Bechuanaland Border Police) and am
well acquainted with the Big gun Drill and a Good Shot with the maxim.
We will consider it an honor to stand under you Sir but object to eye
glasses and kid gloves otherwise
“Yrs to command
“H——“
“Eyeglass and kid gloves” standing in the estimation of this and other
honest yeomen of the colony for “Imperial officer.”
Unfortunately the Colonials have had experience of one class or another
of regular officers, which has not suited their taste, and his defects
get on their nerves and impress themselves on their minds, and they
are very apt to look on such individual as the type of his kind, and
if they afterwards meet with others having different attributes, they
merely consider them as exceptions which prove the rule.
No doubt there are certain types among us, and our training and
upbringing in the service are apt to gradually run us in the groove of
one type or another.
The type which perhaps is most of a red rag to the Colonial is the
highly–trained officer, bound hand and foot by the rules of modern war,
who moves his force on a matured, deliberate plan, with all minutiæ
correctly prepared beforehand, incapable of change to meet any altered
or unforeseen circumstances, and who has a proper contempt for nigger
foes and for colonial allies alike.
And there is, on the other hand, the old–woman type, fussy, undecided,
running ignorantly into dangers he wots not of; even in a subordinate
position his fussiness will not allow him to be still, and so he
fiddles about like a clown in the circus, running about to help
everybody at everybody’s job, yet helping none.
Happily—and the Colonials here are beginning to realise it—these types
are not the rule in the service, but the exception. What is now more
often met with is the man who calmly smokes, yet works as hard and as
keenly as the best of them.
Quick to adapt his measures to the country he is in, and ready to
adopt some other than the drill–book teachings where they don’t apply
with his particular foe. Understanding the principle of give–and–take
without letting all run slack. The three C’s which go to make a
commander—coolness, common sense, and courage—are the attributes _par
excellence_ of the proper and more usual type of the British officer.
For be it understood that “coolness” stands for absence of flurry,
pettiness, and indecision; “common sense” for tactics, strategy, and
all supply arrangements; while “courage” means the necessary dash and
leadership of men.
CHAPTER IV
SCOUTING
_26th June to 14th July_
Single Scouts preferable to Patrols—How to conceal
yourself—Skirt–Dancing a Useful Aid to evading an Enemy—The Enemy’s
Ruses for catching us—The Minutiæ of Scouting—The Matopo Hills—Positions
of the Enemy—A Typical Patrol—The Value of Solitary Scouting—Its
Importance in Modern War—The Elementary Principles of Scouting.
_14th July._—A bit of a break in the diary, not because there was
nothing doing, but just the opposite.
For one thing, we have been pretty busy in sending off three small
columns to the assistance of Mashonaland. And also, personally, I
have been fully occupied in another way: that is, in repeating my
experiences of the 26th June, and frequently by day, and very often by
night, I have been back in the Matopos, locating the enemy’s positions.
I go sometimes with one or two whites, sometimes with two or three
black companions; but what I prefer is to go with my one nigger–boy,
who can ride and spoor and can take charge of the horses while I am
climbing about the rocks to get a view.
It may seem anomalous, but it is in the very smallness of the party
that the elements of success and safety lie. A small party is less
likely to attract attention; there are fewer to extricate or to afford
a target, if we happen to get into a tight place; and I think that one
is more on the alert when one is not trusting to others to keep the
look–out.
Then we have a nice kind of enemy to deal with. Except on special
occasions, they don’t like going about in the dark, and cannot
understand anybody else doing it; and they sleep like logs, and keep
little or no look–out at night. Thus one is able to pass close through
their outposts in the dark, to reconnoitre their main positions in
the early dawn (when they light up fires to thaw away their night’s
stiffness), and then to come away by some other route than that by
which you entered.
[Illustration: SOLITARY SCOUTING
Scouting alone gave better results than reconnaisance in parties.
Accompanied by a reliable “boy,” who could keep a good look–out and take
care of the horses, one was able to do a lot of effective scouting. We
generally moved by night, and worked in the early dawn.]
So long as you are clothed, as we are in non–conspicuous colours, you
can escape detection even from their sharp eyes; but you must not move
about—directly you move, they see you, and take steps to catch you.
Half the battle in keeping yourself hidden, while yet seeing everything
yourself, is to study the colour of your background; thus, if clothed
in things that match the rocks in colour, you can boldly sit out in
front of a rock, with little risk of detection, so long as you remain
motionless; if you are hiding in the shadow alongside of a rock or
bush, take care that your form thus darkened is not silhouetted against
a light background behind you. To show even your hand on a skyline
would, of course, be fatal to your concealment.
[_P.S._—Do not wear any bright colours about you. I noticed that after
I had been on the sick list and resumed my scouting expeditions, the
enemy caught sight of me much more quickly than they used to, though
I took just as much care, and remained just as motionless; and I then
came to the conclusion that this was due to the fact that I had,
in accordance with the doctor’s advice, taken to wearing a flannel
cummerbund wound round my waist—and the only flannel at that time
procurable was of a brilliant red; and this was what caught their eye.]
Of course, anything liable to glitter or shine is fatal to concealment;
rifle, pistol, field–glasses, wrist–watch, buckles, and buttons should
be dulled, abolished, or held in such a way as not to catch the rays
of the sun by day or of the moon by night.
For efficient scouting in rocky ground, in the dry season,
indiarubber–soled shoes are essential; with these you can move in
absolute silence, and over rocks which, from their smoothness or
inclination, would be impassable with boots.
It is almost impossible to obliterate your spoor, as, even if you brush
over your footprints, the practised eye of the native tracker will read
your doings by other signs; still, it is a point not to be lost sight
of for a minute when getting into position for scouting, and a little
walking backwards, doubling on one’s tracks over rocky ground, lighting
a fire where you are not going to cook your food, or one of an hundred
similar subterfuges may often relieve you from the attentions of a
too–inquisitive enemy.
When they have found you watching them, they will not, as a rule, come
boldly at you, fearing that you are merely a lure to draw them on into
some ambuscade or trap,—for that is one of their own pet games to
play,—but they will work round to get on to the track you have made in
getting to your positions. Having found this, and satisfied themselves
that you are practically alone, their general rule is to lie in ambush
near the track, ready to catch you on your return. Naturally one never
returns by the same path. (_P.S._—Once I had to do it, later on, at
Wedzas, when there was no other way, and nearly paid the penalty.)
[Illustration: THE VALUE OF SKIRT–DANCING
When pursued by Matabele among the boulders of the Matopo country it was
of the greatest advantage to be equipped with rubber–soled shoes, and
to have that command of your feet which is acquired in the practice of
skirt–dancing.]
Sometimes they try to shoot or to catch one; but so long as one keeps
moving about, they do not seem to trust much to their marksmanship;
and I have heard them shouting to each other, “Don’t shoot at the
beast, catch him by the hands, catch him by the hands!” Then they would
come clambering over the rocks, but clambering awkwardly—for, lithe,
and active though they be, the Matabele are not good mountaineers,
especially in that part of it which Montenegrins say is the most
difficult (possibly because they themselves shine pre–eminently at it),
namely, in getting rapidly downhill. Consequently, if one is wearing
indiarubber–soled shoes (not hobnailed boots, for with them you merely
skate about the slippery boulders), it is not a difficult matter to
outpace them, provided you have the natural gift or requisite training
for “placing” your feet. I am a fair blunderer in most things, but I
was taken in hand in the days of my youth by a devotee of the art of
skirt–dancing, and never, till I was forced by dark–brown two–legged
circumstances to skip from rock to rock in the Matopos, did I fully
realise the value of what I then learned, namely, the command of the
feet.
The enemy are also full of tricks and ruses for catching us by
luring us into ambuscades. Thus they will show scouts, cattle,
women, and, at night, fires, in the hope of our coming close to
capture or investigate, and so putting ourselves in their hands. But
even if we were so simple as to be tempted, we should probably see
something of their spoor which would put us on our guard. And in this
respect the stupidity of the native is almost incredible; he gathers
his information almost entirely by spooring, and yet it is only
occasionally that he seems to remember that his own feet are all the
time writing their message to his enemies. Now and again he thinks of
it, and leaps across a path or sandy patch; but I suppose that, knowing
the hopelessness of trying effectually to conceal his trail, he has
acquired the habit of disregarding its importance.
There is naturally a strong attraction in reconnoitring, for, apart
from the fun of besting the enemy, the art of scouting is in itself as
interesting as any detective work.
It is almost impossible to describe all the little signs that go to
make up information for one when scouting. It is like reading the page
of a book. You can tell your companion—say a man who cannot read—that
such and such a thing is the case.
“How do you know?” he asks.
“Because it is written here on this page.”
“Oh! How do you make that out?”
Then you proceed to spell it out to him, letters that make words,
words that make sentences sentences that make sense. In the same
way, in scouting, the tiniest indications, such as a few grains of
displaced sand here, some bent blades of grass there, a leaf foreign
to this bit of country, a buck startled from a distant thicket, the
impress of a raindrop on a spoor, a single flash on the mountain–side,
a far–off yelp of a dog,—all are letters in the page of information
you are reading, and whose sequence and aggregate meaning, if you are
a practised reader, you grasp at once without considering them as
separate letters and spelling them out—except where the print happens
to be particularly faint. And that is what goes to make scouting the
interesting, the absorbing game that it is.
A small instance will show my meaning as to what information can be
read from trifling signs.
The other day, when out with my native scout, we came on a few
downtrodden blades of common grass; this led us on to footprints in a
sandy patch of ground. They were those of women or boys (judging from
the size) on a long journey (they wore sandals), going towards the
Matopos. Suddenly my boy gave a “How!” of surprise, and ten yards off
the track he picked up a leaf—it was the leaf of a tree that did not
grow about here, but some ten or fifteen miles away; it was damp, and
smelt of Kaffir beer. From these signs it was evident that women had
been carrying beer from the place where the trees grew towards the
Matopos (they stuff up the mouth of the beer–pots with leaves), and
they had passed this way at four in the morning (a strong breeze had
been blowing about that hour, and the leaf had evidently been blown ten
yards away). This would bring them to the Matopos about five o’clock.
The men would not delay to drink up the fresh beer, and would by this
time be very comfortable, not to say half–stupid, and the reverse of on
the _qui vive_; so that we were able to go and reconnoitre more nearly
with impunity—all on the strength of information given by bruised grass
and a leaf.
There should have been no reason for my going out to get information
in this way had we had reliable native spies or fully trained white
scouts. But we find that these friendly natives are especially useless,
as they have neither the pluck nor the energy for the work, and at
best are given to exaggerating and lying; and our white scouts, though
keen and plucky as lions, have never been trained in the necessary
intricacies of mapping and reporting. Thus, it has now fallen to my lot
to be employed on these most interesting little expeditions.
Under present conditions we, staff and special service officers, have
to turn our hand to every kind of job as occasion demands, and one man
has to do the ordinary work of half a dozen different offices. It is
as though, the personnel of a railway having been suddenly reduced by
influenza or other plague just when the bank holiday traffic was on, a
few trained staff were got from another company temporarily to work it.
We find a number of porters, station–masters, cleaners, firemen, etc.
available, but we have to put in a lot of odd work ourselves to make
the thing run; at one minute doing the traffic management, at the next
driving an engine, here superintending clearing–house business, then
acting as pointsmen, and so on.
It makes it all the more interesting, and in this way I have dropped in
for the scouting work.
The net result of our scouting to date is that we have got to know the
nature of the country and the exact positions of the six different
rebel impis in it, and of their three refuges of women and cattle. Maps
have been lithographed accordingly, and issued to all officers for
their guidance. These maps have sketches of the principal mountains to
guide the officers in finding the positions of the enemy.
The Matopo district is a tract of intricate broken country, containing
a jumble of granite–boulder mountains and bush–grown gorges, extending
for some sixty miles by twenty. It lies to the south of Buluwayo,
its nearest point being about twenty miles from that town. Along its
northern edge, in a distance of about twenty–five miles, the six
separate impis of the enemy have taken up their positions, with their
women and cattle bestowed in neighbouring gorges.
On the principle “_Gutta cavat lapidem non vi sed saepe cadendo_,”
we have taken innumerable little peeps at them, and have now “marked
down” these impis and their belongings in their separate strongholds, a
result that we could never have gained had we gone in strong parties.
[Illustration: THE STRONGHOLDS IN THE MATOPOS
Our outposts were at Hope Fountain, Kami, Mabukutwane, and Fig Tree.
From these we reconnoitred, passing through the enemy’s scouts on the
north bank of the Umzingwane, and marking the positions of the impis in
the hills by their fires, tracks, etc.
A, Inugu; Imbēsa’s impi of young warriors; women; cattle.
B, Chilili; women and cattle.
C, Babyan and Priest of M’limo.
D, Babyan’s impi.
E, Sikombo’s women and cattle.
F, Inyanda’s impi.
G, Sikombo’s impi.
H, Mnyakavula’s impi.
K, Umlugulu’s impi.]
[Illustration: INUGU MOUNTAIN, A]
Commencing at the western end, near the Mangwe road is the stronghold
of the Inugu Mountain (see A in map), a very difficult place to tackle,
with its cliffs, caves, and narrow gorges. The impi occupies the
mountain, while the women and cattle are in the neighbouring Famona
valley.
Five miles N.E. of this is the Chilili valley (B), in which are women
and cattle of Babyan’s impi. This impi is located deep in the hills
near Isibula’s Kraal on the Kantol Mountain (D); while Babyan himself,
and probably the priest of the M’limo, are in a neighbouring valley at
(C).
[Illustration: CHILILI VALLEY, B]
Eighteen miles to the eastward, eight miles south of Dawson’s Store on
the Umzingwane River, we come to a bold peak (F), that is occupied by
Inyanda’s people, with a valley behind it (E), in which are Sikombo’s
women and cattle.
[Illustration: INYANDA’S, SIKOMBO’S, AND UMLUGULU’S POSITIONS
Looking south.]
A couple of miles farther west, Sikombo’s impi is camped behind a
dome–shaped mountain (G) close to the Tuli road.
On the west side of this road Umlugulu’s impi was stationed when we
first began our reconnaissance, but he moved nearer to Sikombo at (H),
with Mnyakavula close by on (K). Each impi numbered roughly between one
and two thousand men. Their outposts were among the hills along the
northern bank of the Umzingwana River. We used to pass between these by
night, arriving near the strongholds at daybreak.
The following account, taken from the _Daily Chronicle_, gives an idea
of what one meets with when out on reconnaissance with a patrol:—
“Is it the cooing of doves that wakes me from dreamland to the stern
reality of a scrubby blanket and the cold night air of the upland
veldt? A plaintive, continuous moan, moan, reminds me that I am at one
of our outpost forts beyond Buluwayo, where my bedroom is under the lee
of the sail (waggon tilt) which forms the wall of the hospital. And
through the flimsy screen there wells the moan of a man who is dying.
At last the weary wailing slowly sobs itself away, and the suffering
of another mortal is ended. He is at peace. It is only another poor
trooper gone. Three years ago he was costing his father so much a year
at Eton; he was in the eleven, too—and all for this.
“I roll myself tighter in my dew–chilled rug, and turn to dream afresh
of what a curious world I’m in. My rest is short, and time arrives for
turning out, as now the moon is rising. A curious scene it is, as here
in shadow, there in light, close–packed within the narrow circuit of
the fort, the men are lying, muffled, deeply sleeping at their posts.
It’s etiquette to move and talk as softly as we are able, and even
harsh–voiced sentries drop their challenge to a whisper when there
is no doubt of one’s identity. We give our horses a few handfuls of
mealies, while we dip our pannikins into the great black ‘billy,’ where
there’s always cocoa on the simmer for the guard. And presently we
saddle up, the six of us, and lead our horses out; and close behind us
follow, in a huddled, shivering file, the four native scouts, guarding
among them two Matabele prisoners, handcuffed wrist to wrist, who are
to be our guides.
“Down into the deep, dark kloof below the fort, where the air strikes
with an icy chill, we cross the shallow spruit, then rise and turn
along its farther bank, following a twisting, stony track that leads
down the valley. Our horses, though they purposely are left unshod,
make a prodigious clatter as they stumble adown the rough, uneven way.
From force of habit rather than from fear of listening enemies, we drop
our voices to a whisper, and this gives a feeling of alertness and
expectancy such as would find us well prepared on an emergency. But
we are many miles as yet from their extremest outposts, and, luckily
for us, these natives are the soundest of sleepers, so that one might
almost in safety pass with clattering horses within a quarter of a mile
of them.
“There must be some merit in wrapping up your head when cold,—even
at the expense of your nether limbs,—for here in Southern Africa the
natives have identically the same way as the men of Northern India
have of keeping up their warmth, and as they feel the cold increase,
so do they ‘peel’ their legs to find the wherewithal to further muffle
up their heads. The keen crispness of the air is in keeping with our
spirits, as, all awake, we trek along the hazy veldt. And what a lot
of foes one sees when one is looking out for them! Surely that’s a
man—yes—no—an upright bush! Ah, there! I saw one move. It is but the
sprig of a nearer tree deluding a too–watchful eye; the Kaffirs do not
move about as a rule alone at night, while if one is seen, you may be
sure there is a party close at hand, and so one needs to keep a very
sharp look–out. By going thus at night, we are hoping that we may slip
past the Matabele outposts stationed on the hills, and so gain the
country that we want to see beyond. Were we to attempt this feat by
day, or with a larger party, we should undoubtedly attract attention
and have to take a longish circuit. As it is, we make our way for some
ten miles along this valley, keeping off the stony path and in the
grass, so as to deaden sound as far as possible. High above on either
hand the hills loom dark against the stars, and on their summits our
enemy’s outposts, we know, are quietly sleeping.
“Now and again we cross a transverse donga or tributary watercourse
that runs into our stream, the donga sometimes rising to the dignity
of a ravine with steep and broken sides. And when we have found a
place, and safely crossed it, we turn and approach it from the other
side, so that should we happen later on to be pursued and want to get
across it in a hurry, we shall know the landmarks that should guide
us to the ‘drift.’ The stars are palpitating now and striving hard to
increase their gleam, which means that dawn is at hand. The hills along
our left (we are travelling south) loom darker now against the paling
sky. Before us, too, we see the hazy blank of the greater valley into
which our present valley runs. Suddenly there’s a pause, and all our
party halts. Look back! there, high up on a hill, beneath whose shadow
we have passed, there sparkles what looks like a ruddy star, which
glimmers, bobs, goes out, and then flares anew. It is a watch–fire,
and our foes are waking up to warm themselves and to keep their watch.
Yonder on another hill sparks up a second fire, and on beyond, another.
They are waking up, but all too late; we’ve passed them by, and now
are in their ground. Forward! We press on, and ere the day has dawned
we have emerged from out the defile into the open land beyond. This is
a wide and undulating plain, some five miles across to where it runs
up into mountain peaks, the true Matopos. We turn aside and clamber up
among some hills just as the sun is rising, until we reach the ashes
of a kraal that has been lately burned. The kraal is situated in a cup
among the hills, and from the koppies round our native scouts can keep
a good look–out in all directions. Here we call a halt for breakfast,
and after slackening girths, we go into the cattle kraal to look for
corn to give our horses. (The Kaffirs always hide their grain in pits
beneath the ground of the ‘cattle kraal’ or yard in which the oxen are
herded at night.) Many of the grain–pits have already been opened, but
still are left half–filled, and some have not been touched—and then in
one—well, we cover up the mouth with a flat stone and logs of wood. The
body of a girl lies doubled up within. A few days back a party of some
friendlies, men and women, had revisited this kraal, their home, to get
some food to take back to their temporary refuge near our fort. The
Matabele saw them, and just when they were busy drawing grain, pounced
in upon them, assegaing three,—all women,—and driving off the rest as
fast as they could go. This was but an everyday incident of outpost
life.
“And having fed our horses, each of us now got his ‘billy’ out,—a
‘billy’ (cooking–tin) is carried here by every officer and trooper
in a case upon his saddle,—and, having lit a fire, we got our coffee
boiled, and breakfast under way. Then two of us, taking with us our
two prisoners, clamber up a koppie, from whose top we hope to get a
view of the enemy’s country. There is something ludicrous in, and yet
one cannot laugh at, this miserable pair. Linked wrist to wrist, they
move as would a pair of sullen Siamese twins. The grass is prickly
hereabouts, and both want to keep to the tiny goat–track that we are
following, and so they have to sidle up like crabs, going hand in hand
along it. At length we gain the top; there is a splendid panorama,
and now that the sun is well up, the mountains out across the plain
look but a few hundred yards away, so clear is every rock, so deep
the shadows. The prisoners have no hesitation in telling us exactly
where their friends are camped upon the mountains, and where they keep
their women and their cattle. We sit and stare for half an hour, and
then agree that, having come so far without accident, we may as well
go farther, and get a nearer view of these redoubtable strongholds.
We return down to our party, and as we descend, we remember that our
native scouts and the prisoners have had a pretty long walk as it is.
They had shown us what we had come out to see, and we now proposed to
send them back.
“So, having seen them shuffling homeward, we turned our horses’ heads
towards the mountains, and continued our way across the open valley.
On and on, keeping everywhere a bright look–out against surprise.
The veldt was rolling grassy downs, all covered, sometimes sparsely,
sometimes densely, with bushes,—mostly thorns. Every open speck of
sand, every track, was keenly scrutinised for ‘spoor’ (or tracks of
men), and though there was not a soul to be seen about the veldt, the
signs of their propinquity were here too glaring to be missed.
“Leaving our horses, with the remainder of the men, well hidden behind
a rise, we two walked on on foot, each carrying a rifle with him. It
was an anxious time, as very soon the bush had shut us out of sight of
our support, but still we kept along, anxious to gain the summit of a
rounded, rocky hill, whence we could see all round, and so foresee all
danger.
“Now, on the paths before us were fresh tracks of an ox, behind whom
had walked a man with naked feet, and going a little lame on one—the
left toes dragged, he used a stick. They had passed along before
sunrise, because across the tracks there ran the spoor of guinea–fowl
heading towards their feeding–ground in yonder patch of maize. A single
ox thus driven in the night assuredly meant a pack–ox smuggling in
supplies to one of the rebel strongholds. More paths converged into
the one we followed, bringing more and more people, women’s feet and
children’s, oxen and donkeys, all fresh, and heading in the same
direction.
“Then, mounting on the rocks, we followed with our eyes the direction
of the path through thicker bush until it reached a solitary mountain.
There we could see a thin wreath of smoke curling up from the bush,
and, looking through our powerful telescope, we soon could see some
other fires high up the hillside close to some mighty caves. Dogs were
barking, cattle lowing, at the back of one particular shoulder of the
hill; and while we stared to try and distinguish figures in the rocks,
a sudden flash up near the mountain–top just caught our eye. Then,
focusing the glass upon it, soon we saw the dark brown figures of some
twenty natives squatting up about the skyline, and the frequent glint
and sparkle showed they carried guns and assegais. Nearer and nearer
we crept, gaining another koppie, whence we had a better view, and
from here we marked the line that our attacking parties ought to take,
and where to post our guns with best advantage. We might have stayed
there longer, for it was a tempting spectacle to sit and watch. But the
niggers in the hills are calling to each other, evidently suspicious,
if not actually aware of our presence—and they have eyes as strong as
telescopes. Now some crows fly startled from the bush a few hundred
yards to our right. Some one is moving there! Up springs a plover
screaming farther on—they’re on the move. We have seen all that we
want to see. To stay in one place for long when scouting is risky at
any time; to–day it looks even dangerous. So we quietly slip away—not
by the path we came—for that is the way you run into your enemy’s
ambuscades.
“Then, as we went along, a novel footprint caught our eye, and struck
us much as Friday’s must have struck old Crusoe. A deep indented
hollow of the fore part of a foot showed plainly in the grass to one
side of the path, heading as to cross it, and in the grass beyond the
other side the deep indent was seen of a heel in the earth. This was
the spoor of a man, running much in the same direction as ourselves,
yet wishing to avoid notice, because he jumped the path. Evidently a
messenger going out the way we had come, and knowing of our presence
there, and on his way to warn the outposts, through whom we had passed
in the dark, to catch us on our homeward road. Our horses now had had
their second feed, the men had had a kind of meal, and so we started on
again. We had to visit two more hills, but found them both unoccupied.
And then we turned our heads for home. Caution became more than ever
necessary now. There was only left the short afternoon of daylight, our
horses were no longer over fresh, and we had five–and–twenty miles to
go, ten of them along a defile valley. So with an advanced file sent
well ahead, and one dropped well in rear, we journeyed on, each man
keeping an ever–restless, bright look–out.
“And though we talked and chatted from time to time for many a weary
mile, you never saw your neighbour’s eyes look at you for a moment.
While talking, one had still to keep one’s eyes afield. And what a
mixture in our little band of eight! Under the similar equipment of
cocked–up Boer or cowboy hat, with ragged shirt and strong cord pants,
with cartridge–bandolier, and belt from which hung knife and pipe,
tobacco–bag and purse, all grimy and unkempt, and sunburnt to a rich,
dark brick colour, each individual was an interesting study in himself.
Here is one with _pince–nez_—(_pince–nez_ on a trooper!)—a Cambridge
man of highest education, who thought he would take to farming in
Rhodesia; but his plans are interrupted by the war, and while that
lasts he takes his place, like others, in the ranks. Beside him rides a
late A.B. seaman in the Royal Navy, a fine young fellow, full of pluck,
who will press on where devils fear to tread, but he is disappointing
as a scout, for, after having been close up to the enemy, he cannot
tell how they are posted, what their strength, or any other points
that the leader wants to know. This other man an architect, and yon a
gold–prospector—in fact, there’s a variety enough among them to suit
almost any taste.
“The sun has set and darkness has drawn on before we are well out of
the defile; but we are now beyond the rebel outposts, and getting
nearer home, so there’s nothing much to—bang! phit!—and a bullet flits
just over our heads! It came from behind; we halt and hear the clatter
of hoofs as the man who was left as rearguard comes galloping up the
road. A moment later he appears in the dusk rounding the next turn. He
no sooner sees us than he halts, dismounts, drops on one knee, takes
aim, and fires straight at us. We shout and yell, but as he loads
to fire again, we scatter, and push on along the road, and he comes
clattering after us. The explanation is that nervousness, increased
by darkness coming on, has sent the man a little off his head, and,
ludicrous though it be, it is a little unpleasant for us. None of his
comrades care to tackle him. ‘It is a pity to shoot him,’ ‘His horse is
tired and cannot catch us up,’ and ‘He’ll be all right as soon as he
has got over the first attack of fright’; and so we leave him to follow
us, keeping a respectful distance. At length the fires twinkle ahead,
and, tired and hungry, we get back to camp.
“At dawn our missing man turned up—without his horse, it had dropped
dead from fatigue. He had a wondrous tale of how he had pursued a host
of enemies. The sole reward he got was a ducking in the spruit.”
A small party such as that mentioned in this account of a scouting
expedition is often necessary, as in this case, for ensuring the safety
of the scouts in getting to and from their work through defiles and
the like, where it might happen that the way would have to be forced
past the enemy’s outposts. But once on their ground, the escort should
be carefully concealed. Their work is over for the time being, and the
essential part of the expedition, that is, the scouting by one or two
trained individuals, has commenced.
The scout must then be left with a perfectly free hand, and must not
be tied to any certain hour for return. He can only judge for himself
later on whether it is necessary to be away for two or three hours
only, or for a whole night, before he comes back to the party. And
that is one of the considerations which make me prefer to start from
home or camp without escort in the original instance, as it leaves one
altogether unfettered by considerations as to the feeding, resting,
etc., of the patrol, or of necessarily making one’s way back to the
exact spot where it would be posted.
_P.S._—As will be seen in the following chapters, the rebel impis and
their women and cattle were all found, when the troops came to attack
them later on, in the exact positions assigned to them in the sketch
map issued. Such “locating” would have been impossible had we tried to
effect it by reconnaissances of the usual kind, that is, by parties
of men. The natives would have gathered to oppose our coming, or—what
is more likely—to prevent our getting away again; instead of gently
stealing our honey bit by bit, we should have brought the whole swarm
of bees about us, and the probability is that they would then have
deserted that hive to take a new and more inaccessible one. Instead
of being able to lead the troops straight to the enemy, we should
merely have been able to say, “There is the spot where we fought them;
they seemed to come from yonder; but it looks as if they had now gone
somewhere else.” And reconnoitring parties would again have had to
follow them, with similar results, probably losing men every time, and
gaining nothing.
The value of solitary scouting does not seem to be sufficiently
realised among us nowadays. One hears but little of its employment
since the Peninsula days, when Marbot gave the English officers
unqualified praise for their clever and daring enterprise in this line.
It is not only for savage warfare that I venture to think it is so
important, but equally for modern civilised tactics. A reconnaissance
in force in these days of long–range weapons and machine–guns can have
very little chance of success, and yet for the same reasons an accurate
knowledge of the enemy’s position, strength, and movements is more than
ever necessary to the officer commanding a force. One well–trained,
capable scout can see and report on an object just as well as fifty
ordinary men of a patrol looking at the same thing. But he does so with
this advantage, that he avoids attracting the attention of the enemy,
and they do not alter their position or tactics on account of having
been observed; and he can venture where a party would never be allowed
to come, since the enemy, even if they see him, would hesitate to
disturb their piquets, etc., by opening fire on a solitary individual,
although they would have no such scruples were a reconnoitring party
there instead.
It is difficult to find in history a battle in which the victory or
defeat were not closely connected with good or deficient reconnaissance
respectively. Good preliminary reconnaissance saves premature wearing
out of men and horses through useless marches and counter–marches, and
it simplifies the commander’s difficulties, and he knows exactly when,
where, and how to dispose his force to obtain the best results.
But, as I have said above, such reconnaissance can often be carried out
the most effectually by single reconnoitrers or scouts. And a peace
training of such men is very important.
Without special training a man cannot have a thorough confidence in
himself as a scout, and without an absolute confidence in himself, it
is not of the slightest use for a man to think of going out to scout.
Development of the habits of noting details and of reasoning
inductively constitute the elements of the required training. This
can be carried out equally in the most civilised as in the wildest
countries,—although for its complete perfecting a wild country is
preferable. It is to a large extent the development of the science of
woodcraft in a man—that is, the art of noticing smallest details, and
of connecting their meaning, and thus gaining a knowledge of the ways
and doings of your quarry; the education of your “eye–for–a–country”;
and the habit of looking out on your own account. Once these have
become, from continual practice, a second nature to a man, he has but
to learn the more artificial details of what he is required to report,
and the best method of doing so, to become a full–fledged scout.
We English have the talent of woodcraft and the spirit of adventure and
independence already inborn in our blood to an extent to which no other
nationality can lay claim, and therefore among our soldiers we ought to
find the best material in the world for scouts. Were we to take this
material and rightly train it in that art whose value has been denoted
in the term “half the battle,” we ought to make up in useful men much
of our deficiency in numbers.
Houdin, the conjurer, educated the prehensibility of his son’s mind
by teaching him, in progressive lessons, to be able to recapitulate
the contents of a shop window after a single look at it; there is the
first stage of a scout’s training, viz. the habit of noticing details.
The second, “inductive reasoning,” or the putting together of this and
that detail so noticed, and deducing their correct meaning, is best
illustrated in the Memoirs of “Sherlock Holmes.”
CHAPTER V
THE REBELS DECLINE TO SURRENDER
_14th July to 18th July_
Plumer’s Victory at Taba–si–ka–Mamba—How the M’limo Oracle is
worked—Reorganisation of the Buluwayo Field Force—The Price of Beer—I
am nicknamed “Impeesa”—The Proclamation of Clemency—The Local Settler’s
View of it—The Rebel’s View of it—The Enemy hopeful—The General’s
Plan of Campaign—Reconnaissance of the Central Matopos—Preparing for
Operations in the Hills—Reconnaissance of Babyan’s Stronghold.
Meanwhile, during the first week in July, the three columns, which had
been out clearing the country to the northward of Buluwayo, returned,
having had a great amount of hard work with only a modicum of fighting.
The rebels of that region had been effectually broken and dispersed
in all direction—except at one spot, near Inyati, some fifty miles
north–east from the town.
[Illustration: CAUGHT IN THE ACT BY A CAPE BOY
The Cape Boys (natives of Cape Colony), when well led, were found to
be most useful for attacking the cave strongholds of the enemy. They
thought it the height of fun to discover a back way into a cave, and
catch its defenders from an unexpected quarter.]
Colonel Plumer accordingly took a column out there,—nearly 800
strong,—and, after a clever and most successful night–march, surprised
the enemy, at dawn, on 5th July, in a desperate–looking koppie
stronghold called Taba–si–ka–Mamba. There was some tough fighting,
and the newly arrived corps of “Cape Boys” (natives and half–castes
from Cape Colony), much to everybody’s surprise, showed themselves
particularly plucky in storming the koppies; but, as in the case of
most natives, their _élan_ is greatly a matter of what sort of leaders
they have, and in this case there was every reason for them to go
well. Major Robertson, their commandant, an old Royal Dragoon, is a
wonderfully cool, keen, and fearless leader under fire.
In the end the place and its many caves was taken. Our loss amounted
to 10 killed, 12 wounded. The enemy lost 150 killed, and we got some
600 prisoners, men, women, and children, 800 head of cattle, and a very
large amount of goods which had been looted from stores and collected
at this place as the property of the M’limo. It was a final smash to
the enemy in the north, though M’qwati, the local priest of the M’limo,
and M’tini, his induna, both escaped.
The M’limo’s cave was found, a most curious place, which I visited
later on: a sort of anteroom in which suppliants had to wait while the
priest went away to invoke the M’limo’s attention; then a narrow cleft
by which they would walk deep into the rock, and which narrowed till it
looked like a split just before the end of the cave. And through this
crevice they made their requests and got their answer from the M’limo.
In reality, another cave entered the hill from the opposite side and
led up to this same crevice, and it was by this back entrance that the
priest re–entered, and, sitting in the dark corner just behind the
crevice, he was able to personate an invisible deity with full effect.
Of such caves there are three or four about the country, where the
rebels just now get their orders as to their course of action.
Office work still very heavy—especially as we have broken up the
original Buluwayo Volunteer Field Force as an unworkable and rather
overpaid organisation (the troopers getting 10s. a day _and_ their
rations!), and are now busy organising it anew as a regularly enlisted
armed police force at 5s. a day, under military law and discipline.
Nicholson, 7th Hussars, is working this task, and is a first–rate man
for it.
The office work, although exacting, is most interesting all the same;
the only drawback is that there are not more than twenty–four hours in
a day in which to get it done. I certainly do look forward, though, to
the hour of luncheon; yes, it sounds greedy—but it is for the glimpse
of sunlight that I look forward, _not_ the lunch. That is scarcely
pleasant either to look forward to or to look back on—consisting as it
generally does of hashed leather which has probably got rinderpest,
no vegetables, and liquid nourishment at prohibitive prices,—_e.g._
local beer at 2s. a glass. I live on bread, jam, and coffee, and _that_
costs 5s. a meal; and prices are rising! Eggs are 32s. a dozen, and not
guaranteed fresh at that!
Many of the strongholds to which I had at first learned the way with
patrols, I have now visited again by myself at nights, in order to
further locate the positions of their occupants. In this way I have
actually got to know the country and the way through it better by night
than by day, that is to say, by certain landmarks and leading stars
whose respectively changed appearance or absence in daylight is apt to
be misleading.
The enemy, of course, often see me, but are luckily very suspicious,
and look upon me as a bait to some trap, and are therefore slow to
come at me. They often shout to me; and yesterday my boy, who was with
my horse, told me they were calling to each other that “Impeesa” was
there—_i.e._ “the Wolf,” or, as he translated it, “the beast that does
not sleep, but sneaks about at night.”
[Illustration: “IMPEESA”—“the beast that does not sleep, but sneaks
about at night.”
Marking the Matabele camp–fires in the Matopos.]
_14th July._—Last night I was riding alone across the veldt; I came
suddenly upon a Matabele driving a horse and a mule towards the
Matopos. He turned and fled, and I galloped after him to give him a
fright, and then returned to the beasts, which I drove before me safely
to camp. They were our own branded animals, which had been looted.
On getting back to Buluwayo at 9.30 p. m., after having been away for
some days’ solitary scouting, varied by such patrols as that described
in the last chapter, I found that reports had come in from the officer
commanding Fig Tree Fort, saying that rebel impis were on the move
there. Ferguson had at once been sent off by the General, with 50 men
of the newly–formed police, and Laing’s column of about 150, which had
lately come in from the Belingwe District. No sooner had the troops got
there (on the 13th) than they found that the Matabele impis were merely
pictures in the mind’s eye of the commandant, a Dutchman, who had been
imbibing not wisely, but too well.
_15th July._—“Well! of all the murkiest rot that ever I heard of, this
is the murkiest!” These words, and others to the same effect, but,
to use the speaker’s term, “murkier,” saluted my waking senses at an
unseemly hour of this morning. For a moment I was inclined to reach for
my gun, or, at all events, to let fly my feelings at the two loafers
who stood yarning at my window–sill (we live on the ground floor in
Buluwayo, because there is not a second to our house, nor, indeed,
to any house in the place except “Williams’ Buildings,” and they are
“buildings” being not yet built); but presently a lazy feeling of
curiosity got the better of my momentary irritation, and I played the
eavesdropper. It was merely a discussion of the situation between two
late troopers of the Buluwayo Field Force, dealing more particularly
with the “Proclamation to the Rebels,” which had been issued last
night. Their review of it was remarkable, not only for the vigour,
and—well—the originality of their language, but also because it covered
exactly the ground over which all travelled again when they came to
discuss it with me, or in my hearing, during the remainder of the day.
One thing that struck them all was that this proclamation of clemency
which was now to be published to the rebels was made in England and not
in Rhodesia, and that “it was made by people who had no more conception
of how things were in this part of the world than a boiled dumpling had
of horse–racing”; at least, that was what they inferred from the tenor
of its wording. I do not say that they had read and inwardly digested
the exact literal meaning of the wording. I think, on the contrary,
that they had only grasped a general idea of it all; the very heading
of a “Proclamation of Clemency” at such a juncture having filled their
thoughts with rage, and left them to read the rest with biassed minds.
Unfortunately for the proclamation, within a few hours of its
publication there came from Mashonaland another of the horrid
telegrams with which we are only too familiar now. After telling of
three different murders of friendly natives by rebels on the previous
day, it went on to say: “The wife and two daughters of Mobele, the
native missionary, reached Salisbury from Marendellas this morning.
They related how the missionary was killed by rebels while he was
endeavouring to save the life of James White, who was lying wounded.
White was also killed. Then three little children of the missionary
were killed. And the women themselves were maltreated and left
for dead. They did not know their way to Salisbury, so followed
the telegraph line, and travelled by night only, suffering great
privations.”
It is a far cry from Mashonaland to England, and distance lessens
the sharpness of the sympathy, but to men on the spot—men with an
especially strong, manly, and chivalrous spirit in them, as is the case
in this land of pioneers—to them such cases as these appeal in a manner
which cannot be realised in dear, drowsy, after–lunch Old England. A
man here does not mind carrying his own life in his hand—he likes it,
and takes an attack on himself as a good bit of sport; but touch a
woman or a child, and he is in a blind fury in a moment—and then he is
gently advised to be mild, and to offer clemency to the poor benighted
heathen, who is his brother after all. M’, yes! And though woman is
his first care, and can command his last drop of blood in her defence,
woman is the first to assail him on his return, with venom–pointed pen,
for his brutality!
Then my friends at the window went on to talk on the clause which
permitted loyally–disposed natives to carry arms. “Loyal!”—as if any
native could be loyal if it did not happen to suit his circumstances,
and even then, why should he be allowed arms? “He was not likely to be
at war with his brothers and cousins, and the absence of arms would be
a good assurance of peace; whereas, after the late bitter experience,
how would confidence ever be instilled into farmers to induce them to
come and rebuild the blackened ruins of farmsteads whose owners had
been murdered by the selfsame natives glowering yonder, assegais and
gun in hand?”
My friends were deploring the fact that their would–be rulers far away
are quite out of touch with the circumstances of the case. Writers in
the press, they said, gaily condemn the burning down of kraals and
consequent destruction of the grain stores, which are all the natives
now depend upon for food. But burning down a kraal is more or less a
formal act, which has a deal of meaning for the native comprehension.
That the store of grain is lost thereby is quite a fallacy. The grain
is buried here in pits beneath the kraal; grain will not burn in pits,
it can only be destroyed by drowning.
I was glad when at last my early arguers moved on to get their morning
coffee. Had I been so minded, I might have soothed their feelings
by telling them the latest news we had from captured rebels; that
they need not vex their souls over the wording or the terms of the
proclamation so thoughtfully provided for our use by those at home,
for whether put in that or any other form, there was not the slightest
chance of its being seriously accepted by the rebels. Our informants
came from four different ways, and agreed like one in showing that
although North–Western Matabeleland has thoroughly been cleared,
the lower and more trappy part, in the Matopos, as well as the
North–Eastern parts, remain the home of mutiny, and there, at least,
the impis will not think of giving in until the white man comes to
fight them, and they promise boastfully that he shall suffer then.
The proclamation offering terms to the rebels by which they may
surrender has gone forth to them by the best messengers that could be
got, that is, by men who have been captured in the field, or who have
come in offering to give themselves up, and also by native policemen,
who, having been disarmed on suspicion of rebellious tendencies, have
been since retained in open arrest. But so far the result has not been
fully satisfactory, although it has done some good, and undoubtedly
the thin end of the wedge towards peace has been inserted, but it will
yet need some driving to get it home and finally to split the log of
rebellion.
Many of the rebels would probably give in if the leaders would but let
them. They are tired of war, and sick of being hustled about. But then
these leaders have a strong power over them, and they are fighting with
the halter round their necks, for they know their crimes are far too
great to be condoned, and thus they try to carry on until the bitter
end.
In the north, where they have suffered most hard blows, the impis
are much broken up, and there it is that some of the people are
surrendering of their own accord; they are coming in, in driblets and
small bodies it is true, but still this is a beginning. There are,
so far, no chiefs among them. Then, on the other hand, there exists
a large proportion who still have the idea that they yet may beat
the whites, and drive them from the land, and they are encouraged in
maintaining this idea by spies’ reports, which tell them how the white
men are daily going down–country to the Cape. Now that the road has
been rendered safe and open by the operations in the Matopos, hired
waggons, in addition to the bi–weekly coaches, are taking passengers in
scores. The high cost of living at famine prices, and all business at a
standstill, are the reasons for this exodus.
Then the M’limo, fearful for his own old skin, continues to issue most
encouraging news and orders. He has revived with much success the story
that disease is sweeping off the whites in Buluwayo, and promises
that any warrior “doctored” by his charm is proof against the British
bullets, which on his hide will turn to water. They only have to wait
till all the whites are dead or fled, and then they will enjoy the good
things of the town, and live in palaces of corrugated iron. All this
they believe implicitly.
The rebels in the south have every reliance, and with reason, on the
impregnability of their rock–strongholds; and their confidence is
strengthened by their store of grain and cattle, which were being
brought, long before the outbreak, into the hills by the M’limo’s
orders. Of arms and ammunition they have plenty, although the puzzle
is to say from whence they come. But there they are—Martinis,
Lee–Metfords, Winchesters, besides the blunderbusses and elephant guns,
which at the close quarters of this fighting make very deadly practice.
And then our so–called friendlies are known to be supplying them with
information of our moves, as well as with such luxuries as Kaffir beer
and cartridges.
It is only, even now, internal jealousies among the rebel chiefs that
save the whites from being blotted out. The attempt to make Nyamanda
king, if ever seriously intended, fell through abortively; each of the
great chiefs desires that honour for himself, and thus the different
impis do not amalgamate to crush us; but they let our puny force go
round and punch them all in turn, in such a way as breaks them daily
smaller.
The proclamation has gone forth to these men too; but answer comes
there none, except at times when scouting parties meet, and then the
rebels shout to us, from their look–out rocks, such words as these:
“And so you want to end the war, do you? Yes, it will be ended soon,
for none of you will live to keep it on.” And then they add a stream
of highly–coloured threats of personal damage they will do to our nice
white corpses. The tired, desponding tone of impending submission which
one would hope to hear is altogether absent from their talk.
Then, even those who have surrendered have done it in a mere
half–hearted way; that is to say, scarce one among them has produced
his gun. Of course, the terms of their surrender include the giving
up of their arms; but that is an extent to which they do not wish to
yield. They cannot tell when they may want to break out again, and
where would they be then without their guns? That is the way they
reason with themselves. It suits them, for the time, to come and
“konza” to make peace, to save their skins and sow their crops; but,
all the same, they stow away their guns and ammunition in their holes
among the rocks, and hand up, as their “arms,” their oldest assegais
and shields. Thus, even when the present military force has broken
up the impis in the field, and cleared their strongholds out, there
will remain a tale of work for local police to do in carrying out
disarmament. And it is then, and only then, that peace can settle
firmly on the land.
The doses being given now may seem too bitter to our tender–hearted
countrymen at home; but, “though bitter now, they’re better then.” It
seems the only way to get these men to understand there is a greater
power than their M’limo; and once the lesson has been unmistakably
brought home to them, there is some hope that a time of peace _en
permanence_ may dawn for them. It is the end for which we all are
striving here. And the present system of Sir Frederick Carrington is
the most promising that could be devised to suit the circumstances.
With his tiny force, he goes from point to point where impis are
collected; in every case he strikes them hard, and promptly builds a
fort there on the spot, and leaves a party in possession. The people
round are told they may surrender. The forts are then to act as police
posts in the future, to ensure the peace of every outside district, by
standing as a sword of Damocles to all offenders, and a handy tower of
refuge for friendlies who are oppressed.
We shall soon be in a position to judge the value of the rebels’
threats, for all is now prepared for our campaign in the Matopos;
Laing’s column (200 strong) being encamped near the western end,
Plumer’s (of 800) at “Usher’s No. 1,” near the central part. This
latter camp I visited late at night on the 15th.
[Illustration: PREPARING LUNCH
While out on patrol one day we were invited to lunch by a friendly
chief. Lunch was prepared at our feet, the whole process from start to
finish being gone through—from the cutting of the sheep’s throat (as
above) to his final dishing–up.]
_16th July._—Early this morning I picked up Pyke and Taylor (the Native
Commissioner), and we rode on to inspect the country between the centre
and west of the enemy’s position. At Jozan’s Kraal (friendly), about
four miles north of the enemy, we stopped to talk, get news, and lunch.
Lunch was got for us by our host, Jozan, as follows:—A live sheep was
brought, and laid before us on some leafy twigs; its throat was then
gently cut, the liver taken out, and fried in an iron bowl. Off this
we made our meal, without any bread or other concomitant, excepting
salt, which was held by a human salt–cellar for us. We took our salt by
dipping each his hunk of meat into the nigger’s grimy palm.
We had a good look at the enemy’s position, and then we got thirty of
Jozan’s men, armed with assegais and shields, to go with us across the
neutral valley and examine the great kraal that lay opposite, in which
watch–fires had been burning the night before. As we got near to it,
we spread out our little army into a crescent shape, with two horns
advanced, and we attacked the village in style; but the only enemy
there were two men and one ox, and these cleared out in a great hurry
before we got in. We burned the kraal, and then reconnoitred into the
koppies beyond, where we found another kraal, also deserted, which we
burned. Among other odds and ends of loot in this kraal, we found a
high–jump standard, evidently stolen from the Athletic Sports Ground
near Buluwayo.
But my release from town and office life now came. As I knew the
Matopos country and the enemy’s whereabouts, I was sent to act as
guide to Colonel Plumer, who was to have the immediate direction of
operations in the Matopos, Vyvyan taking the office work off my hands.
[Illustration: A HUMAN SALT–CELLAR
During lunch one of the natives produced some salt for us, and sat
holding it for us throughout the meal, so that we could dip our bits of
meat into it.]
_17th July._—The General now took up his quarters in camp, to direct
affairs against the Matopos. And the following day I took Pyke,
Richardson (interpreter), and four native scouts into the Matopos,
to get a view of Babyan’s stronghold: Babyan’s being the central and
important impi of all, and in close communication with the westernmost
impi at Inugu.
We approached the position through open, park–like country interspersed
with piles of granite boulders a hundred feet in height; from these
koppies we could hear the look–out men calling a warning cry to each
other, and now and again we could see them, perched up on high,
watching our movements. I was sorry then that we had brought natives
with us, as, if the enemy were to come and have a try at us now, it
would be easy enough for us three, had we been alone, to gallop away;
but, having the boys on foot with us, we should now have to stick to
them and help them away. So they hampered us somewhat. But still we
didn’t do badly.
The valley in which the enemy lay was surrounded by rugged koppies;
one of these was a great, dome–shaped mass of granite; we went for it,
as being easy to climb, and less trappy and liable to ambush. Upon its
crest stood the ruins of a farm belonging to Usher, and a path led
up a little gully to the huts. Instead of taking this path, we were
sufficiently wily to go round the hill for a bit; then, leaving our
horses hidden in a clump of bushes, with two sharp–eyed boys in charge,
we quickly scrambled on to the top of the koppie. Two or three of the
enemy, who had been using this as a look–out place, bolted away before
us. We had a very useful view from here of the lie of the ground, and
of the position of the enemy, as shown by the smoke of his camp–fires.
One felt tempted to stay there, and drink in every detail and map it
down; but suddenly I saw the head and shoulders of a crouching figure
dash across the opening between two rocks at the foot of our position,
followed by another, and another—not fifty yards from us. They were
racing to cut us off in the glen! They had seen us on the top, and
guessed that our horses would naturally have been left on the pathway.
But they were sold—as were also another party, whom we could see
hastening out into the bush to cut us off on our homeward path. We gave
them a few shots, and then scuttled down the far side of the rock, got
our horses, sent our boys trotting along ahead of us, and we quietly
got away through the bush by a totally different route to that by which
we came.
CHAPTER VI
CAMPAIGN IN THE MATOPOS[2]
_19th July to 24th July_
A Night March—Attack on Babyan’s Stronghold—The Cape Boys in Action—No
Stretchers for the Wounded—Amateur Doctoring—The Enemy’s Attempt
to cut us off is spoiled—Result of the Action—I am sent to find
Laing—Laing’s Action at Inugu—His Laager attacked—Fort Usher—Enemy on
the Move—Sleeping in Camp.
_19th July._—At last our time came. The order was given to the men
in the morning, “Bake two days’ bread, and sleep all you can this
afternoon.” At what was usually our bedtime the whole column paraded
without noise or trumpet call, and at 10.30 we moved off in the
moonlight into the Matopos. I was told off to guide the column, because
I knew the way. I preferred to go alone in front of the column, for
fear of having my attention distracted if any one were with me, and of
my thereby losing my bearings. And there was something of a weird and
delightful feeling in mouching along alone, with a dark, silent square
of men and horses looming along behind one. Neither talking nor smoking
was allowed—for the gleam of a match lighting a pipe shines a long way
in the darkness. Except for the occasional cough of a man or snort of a
horse, the column, nearly a thousand strong, moved in complete silence.
Once a dog yelped with excitement after a buck started from its lair;
the orders for the night expressly stated that no dog should go with
the column, and accordingly this one was promptly caught and killed
with an assegai.
Soon after midnight we were within a mile of the place; the square
halted, and each man lay down to sleep just where he stood—and jolly
cold it was!
An hour before dawn we were up and on our way again, moving quietly
onwards until we were close to the pass among the koppies which led
into the enemy’s valley. Here, just as dawn was coming on, we left the
ambulance and a reserve of men, together with our greatcoats and other
impedimenta, and formed our column for attacking the stronghold.
First came an advance force comprising the two corps of Cape Boys,
Robertson’s and Colenbrander’s. Cape Boys are natives and half–castes
from the Cape Colony, mostly English–speaking, and dressed and armed
like Europeans. There were also 200 friendly Matabele under Taylor,
the Native Commissioner, 20 mounted white scouts under Coope, and a
Hotchkiss and two Maxims under Llewellyn. This force was under my
command.
Then came the main body of white troops under Colonel Plumer; this
consisted of three troops of the newly raised police under Nicholson,
the M.R.F. (Plumer’s corps), with two mountain battery guns. Also a
detachment from the Belingwe column under Sir Frederick Frankland,
which had volunteered to join in the fight (and had had to march all
night from a distant camp to overtake us) and see the fun.
Sir Frederick Carrington was there also, though properly speaking he
was on the sick–list with bronchitis,—not a thing to be trifled with
when you have an old bullet–wound in your lung,—and with him were Lord
Grey and Cecil Rhodes.
And so we advanced in the growing daylight into the broken, bushy
valley, which was surrounded on every side by rough, rocky cliffs and
koppies. Fresh paths and spoor showed that hundreds of rebels must
be living here, and at last I jumped with joy when I spotted one thin
streak of smoke after another rising among the crags on the eastern
side of the valley. My telescope soon showed that there was a large
camp with numerous fires, and crowds of natives moving among them.
These presently formed into one dense brown mass, with their assegai
blades glinting sharply in the rays of the morning sun. We soon got the
guns up to the front from the main body, and in a few minutes they were
banging their shells with beautiful accuracy over the startled rebel
camp.
While they were at this game, I stole onwards with a few native scouts
into the bottom of the valley, and soon saw another thin whisp of smoke
not far from me in the bush; we crept cautiously down, and there found
a small outpost of the enemy just leaving the spot where they had been
camped for the night. At this point two valleys ran off from the main
valley in which we were; one, running to the south, was merely a long
narrow gorge, along which flowed the Tuli River; the other, on the
opposite side of the river from us, ran to the eastward and formed a
small open plateau surrounded by a circle of intricate koppies. While
we were yet watching at this point, strings of natives suddenly
appeared streaming across this open valley, retiring from the camp on
the mountain above, which was being shelled by our guns. They were
going very leisurely, and, thinking themselves unobserved, proceeded to
take up their position among the encircling koppies. I sent back word
of their movements, and calling together the Native Levy, proceeded
at once to attack them. To do this more effectually, we worked round
to the end of the main valley and got into some vast rock strongholds
on the edge of the Tuli gorge. These, though recently occupied by
hundreds of men, were now vacated, and one had an opportunity of seeing
what a rebel stronghold was like from the inside; all the paths were
blocked and barricaded with rocks and small trees; the whole place was
honeycombed with caves, to which all entrances, save one or two, were
blocked with stones; among these loopholes were left, such as to enable
the occupants to fire in almost any direction. Looking from these
loopholes to the opposite side of the gorge, we could see the enemy
close to us in large numbers, taking up their position in a similar
stronghold. Now and again two or three of them would come out of a cave
on to a flat rock and dance a war–dance at our troops, which they could
see in the distance, being quite unsuspicious of our near presence.
They were evidently rehearsing what they would do when they caught
the white man among their rocks, and they were shouting all sorts of
insults to the troops, more with a spirit of bravado than with any
idea of their reaching their ears at that distance. Interesting as the
performance was, we did not sit it out for long, but put an abrupt end
to it by suddenly loosing a volley at them at short range and from this
unexpected quarter.
Then, clambering down among the rocks, we crossed the Tuli River and
commenced the ascent of the towering crags in which the enemy were
located. Of course this had to be done on foot, and I left my horse
tied to a tree, with my coat and all spare kit hung in the branches.
Our friendlies went very gaily at the work at first, with any amount of
firing, but very little result; the enemy had now entirely disappeared
into their caves and holes among the rocks, merely looking out to fire
and then popping in again. Our own niggers climbed about, firing among
the rocks, but presently did more firing than climbing, and began to
take cover and to stick to it; finally, two of them were bowled over,
and the rest of them got behind the rocks and there remained, and no
efforts could get them to budge. I then called up the Cape Boys and
the Maxims (in which Lord Grey assisted where it was difficult to
move owing to the very bad ground); these reinforcements came up with
no loss of time and went to work with a will. It was delightful to
watch the cool, business–like way in which Robertson brought his Boys
along. They floundered through the boggy stream and crawled up the
smooth, dome–shaped rocks beyond, and soon were clambering up among
the koppies, banging and cheering. Llewellyn, too, brought his guns
along at equal speed, and soon had them in position on apparently
inaccessible crags, where they came into action with full effect at
every chance the enemy gave them.
The fight gradually moved along the eastern valley, in the centre of
which was a convenient rock from which I was able to see all that
was going on, and it formed a good centre for directing the attacks,
as the enemy were in the rocks on every side of us. The Cape Boys,
after making a long circle round through part of the stronghold,
reassembled at this spot, and from it directed their further attacks on
the different parts requiring them, and it became the most convenient
position for the machine guns, as they were able to play in every
direction in turn from this point. For the systematic attack on the
stronghold a portion of it is assigned to each company, and it is a
pleasing sight to see the calm and ready way in which they set to work.
They crowd into the narrow, bushy paths between the koppies, and then
swarm out over the rocks from whence the firing comes, and very soon
the row begins. A scattered shot here and there, and then a rattling
volley; the boom of the elephant gun roaring dully from inside a cave
is answered by the sharp crack of a Martini–Henry; the firing gradually
wakes up on every side of us, the weird whisk of a bullet overhead is
varied by the hum of a leaden–coated stone or the shriek of a pot–leg
fired from a Matabele big–bore gun; and when these noises threaten
to become monotonous, they are suddenly enlivened up by the hurried
energetic “tap, tap, tap” of the Maxims or the deafening “pong” of
the Hotchkiss. As you approach the koppies, excitement seems to be in
the air; they stand so still and harmless–looking, and yet you know
that from several at least of those holes and crannies the enemy are
watching you, with finger on trigger, waiting for a fair chance. But it
is from the least expected quarter that a roar comes forth and a cloud
of smoke and the dust flies up at your feet.
[Illustration: THE ATTACK ON BABYAN’S STRONGHOLD: 20TH JULY
The stronghold was a circle of rocky koppies round a small open plateau.
Having gained this central position, we directed our attacks against the
surrounding koppies in turn, and drove the enemy from them.]
It’s laughable to watch a Cape Boy prying into a cave with his long
bayonet held out before him, as if to pick some human form of winkle
from his shell. Suddenly he fires into the smoke which spurts from the
cave before him. Too late: he falls, and then tries to rise—his leg is
shattered. A moment later, three of his comrades are round him; they
dash past him and disappear into the hole, two dull, thud–like shots
within, and presently they come out again, jabbering and gesticulating
to each other; then they pick up the injured man by his arms and drag
him out into the open, and, leaving him there for the doctor’s party
to find, they are quickly back again for further sport. At one moment
they appear like monkeys on unexpected points of rock, at another like
stage assassins creeping round corners and shooting,—or being shot. As
we turn the corner, going up one of the paths, we find ourselves face
to face with a similar string of rebels trotting down the path. For
a moment the thought crosses one’s mind, Shall we stop to fire or go
for them? but before the thought has time to fashion itself, we find
ourselves going for them. Nor do they wait for our bayonets: they turn
helter–skelter, rushing up the path, diving among the rocks and grass,
for though fond of administering cold steel, it is the last thing they
wish to meet with themselves, and so we treat them to the next best
thing, a few well–aimed shots.
Out on our central rock again, we get reports from various detached
attacking parties, showing that at at every point the rebels are being
cleared or killed in their dens; but plenty of individuals of them
still are left, and of this we have practical demonstration in the
frequent visitation of bullets and other missiles, and some of them
do their shooting pretty accurately, the Maxim attracting the aim of
many a marksman among them. One of these marksmen we have nicknamed
“Old Pot–legs,” from the nature of the missile (the iron legs of Kaffir
cooking–pots) with which he treats us at intervals of ten minutes or
so. Another on the other side we have christened “Rinderpest,” because
he is a plague to us with his Lee–Metford rifle.
Meantime, several of our men have got hit, and have been brought in to
our central rock, some of them brought out at considerable risk, too,
by their officers and other men. But there are no stretchers to put
them on, our bearer corps of friendly natives, who had been detailed to
accompany the force, having entirely disappeared during the advance.
(We afterwards found that they had dropped the stretchers in the Tuli
River, and had dispersed themselves into the safest hiding–places they
could find.) Nor was our surgeon here at first, Surgeon–Captain Lunan,
for wherever firing was the hottest, there he went—to try and make it
hotter. So in the meantime we did the best amateur work we could on the
wounded men brought in. Of these there were six, all badly wounded,
in addition to two more killed; and it is a pathetic comedy to watch
the burly Royal Artillery sergeant transforming himself into a nurse
for the occasion with a rough good–heartedness that does not stop to
consider whether his patients are black or white.
[Illustration: AMATEUR DOCTORING
We had two killed and six wounded. Our doctor was away in another part
of the field, and our native stretcher–bearers had thrown away the
stretchers and had bolted. So we established our “hospital” under the
lee of a rock, and did what we could with “First Aid” dressings.]
At last the firing slackens off; our Maxim and our marksmen have
stopped the fire of “Rinderpest,” “Pot–legs,” and Co. for good, and
our parties return from their attacks in different directions, pretty
tired, but cheerful; and now, having cleared the stronghold, we might
well return to the main body, who are still in the main valley behind,
but without stretchers we cannot carry the wounded, so, while we take a
rest, our flag–waggers signal back for stretchers to be sent with white
men to carry them, and not the useless friendlies.
But, from our apparent inaction, the Matabele, who still are watching
us, gather that we are in some sort of distress; presently they are
calling to one another among the rocks between us and the main body,
and very soon we find that they are collecting in force in the Tuli
River gorge, intent on cutting us off should we attempt to rejoin our
friends.
[The above was written while we paused inactive on the field, waiting
for the stretchers.]
A piquet, which we had posted in this direction, soon became pretty
warmly engaged with them, but the only danger of the situation was the
danger to the enemy themselves, for our main body, quickly realising
the state of affairs, came down upon their rear, and in a few moments,
finding themselves between two heavy fires, this wing of the rebels
broke up in hurried flight, leaving some twenty of their dusky bodies
huddled dead among the yellow grass. Very shortly afterwards a string
of white men carrying stretchers, escorted by a squadron of the M.R.F.
on foot, came up to our position, and soon we were comfortably on our
way to rejoin headquarters.
During the return march I sent the Cape Boys skirmishing into the
strongholds on either side of us, but they found them, in every
case, completely clear of living enemies, though numerous bodies and
blood–trails spoke to the success of the morning’s attack.
On reaching the main body, we lunched and slept, while the surgeons
got to work on the wounded; among these, unfortunately, a number of
amputations were found necessary, on account of the terrible wounds
inflicted by the Matabele missiles.
We learned with much regret of the death of Sergeant Warringham, who,
while we were fighting in the stronghold, had been shot when scouting
down the Tuli gorge, and had been brought in under a nasty fire by
Colonel Bridge, Captain Vyvyan, and others, patrolling near him. The
party, Colonel Frank Rhodes among them, had lost several horses shot,
but, with the greatest luck, came out unwounded themselves, except
Lieutenant Taylor, who was slightly hit.
From daylight up till two o’clock we had been at it, and though
practically only the advanced force had been engaged, the action was a
complete success, and Babyan had been broken up in his own stronghold.
And since he is the great leader among them, having been one of
Lobengula’s most trusted indunas, and also having visited the English
in their own country, his defeat should have a great moral effect among
the remaining rebel chiefs.
During the afternoon we returned to camp, arriving there after dark.
A curious incident occurred on this march back, which might have had
unpleasant effects on the man concerned. Lieutenant Lowther of Coope’s
Scouts was sent on ahead of the column to call up another ambulance
from the camp, but in doing so he lost his way, and was missing for
the next two days, eventually turning up at Fig Tree Fort, some
five–and–twenty miles distant, having met with various adventures with
small parties of the rebels on the way.
_21st July._—It had been part of the General’s plan that while we
were attacking Babyan, Captain Laing with his column should also
simultaneously attack the enemy’s impi on the Inugu Mountain, some
eight miles to the westward. During our attack yesterday morning we
had heard Laing’s guns banging away in a very lively manner in the
distance, so that we had expected, on returning to camp, to get some
news from him, but none came. We accordingly sent off some native
runners to go and find him, and to bring back information, in case he
should yet be among the mountains, and we also sent a mounted patrol
down to where his camp should be had he been successful, and returned
into the main valley of the Malema River.
But we could learn nothing of him; the natives returned and reported
that he was cut off by the enemy from all power of communication.
Naturally this began to make us feel somewhat anxious, as I had already
reported on the danger of the gorges in the neighbourhood of the Inugu,
and of the knowledge the enemy had of their tactical strength. So this
evening the General desired me to take a strong patrol of a hundred
men, and go and find Laing.
We left camp soon after dark, and followed the Malema valley in the
moonlight, until we were in the pass in the mountains which led down
to the Inugu. My idea was to move through the outlying hills to strike
the spoor which Laing had made in going into the hills, and simply
to follow that track until I found him. Even to strike the spoor,
one had to pass through some very nasty country, parts of which were
in occupation of the enemy; but as their main strength would now
be collected against Laing, and those that were left behind would
probably be asleep, I did not expect much opposition on their part.
At length we successfully struck the spoor, but, to my great surprise
and delight, we found it was quite fresh spoor, leading _outward_ away
from the mountains, and it very soon brought us to within sight of his
camp–fires; so, sounding a few trumpet–calls as we went, in order to
show that we were no enemy, we made our way into his camp about eleven
o’clock.
We found he had had a good fight, having been attacked in laager after
he had got well inside the gorge; he had eventually driven off the
enemy with the loss of nearly a hundred, his own losses being three
whites killed and ten wounded, twenty–five friendlies killed or missing
and eighteen wounded, and eighteen horses and mules killed. We did not
wait longer than to hear the good news, but started back at once for
our own camp, which we reached at three in the morning, and, needless
to say, the General was delighted to be roused up to receive the news.
Captain Laing’s column had left their camp in the Malema valley on the
19th, and had gone into the pass alongside the Inugu Mountain, but
without seeing a sign of an enemy. They had gone on to the end of this
pass, hoping to find a route by which they might come into Babyan’s
stronghold from the southward, and thus co–operate with us in our
attack on the 20th. They laagered for the night with their waggons on
the evening of the 19th in the widest part of the Inugu pass.
Just before dawn on the 20th, they had stood to arms, as usual, when
suddenly a number of shots were fired close outside the laager, and
the outlying piquet came running in, accompanied, rather than pursued,
by a crowd of Matabele. No alarm could have been more sudden, but the
men, being all at their places, were able to open fire on the moment,
and their volley checked a rush that had evidently been carefully
organised, when it was within twenty yards of the waggons. Although
checked in their attempt, the enemy did not at once recoil, but kept
up an irregular and hasty fire from what cover they could then gain
among stones and grass; but, disheartened by the readiness with which
they were received, and the telling fire of the defence, they began to
get away by twos and threes into the better cover of the rocks which
commanded the camp on all sides. It was now that the column suffered
most, for the enemy, firing at short range, with good rests and from
safe cover, picked off men and mules with great frequency. At one place
in particular a number of their best marksmen were collected together,
and did great execution until the 7–pounder was turned on them, and,
firing case at 50 yards, effectually stopped their fire. The Maxim gun
had here, too, attracted the special attention of the enemy, and four
successive men were struck down while firing it, until Captain Hopper
himself finally took the saddle.
Then the friendly natives in the laager were sent out to make a
diversion, either to draw the enemy on or to frighten him out of
his position, in either of which cases he would give our Maxims and
rifle fire a chance. The enemy, suspecting they were going to be cut
off, took the latter course; they began to retire in large numbers,
in consequence of which the defenders were enabled to inflict heavy
loss upon them, and sent them flying scattered and disheartened. But
in their short outing a large number of our Native Levy were killed,
wounded, or became missing, probably, in the latter case, taking to
caves on their own account.
The column now continued its original work, namely, that of
endeavouring to get round to Babyan’s stronghold, but, finding their
course altogether barred by mountains, they turned back, and made their
way out to the camp where I found them. Their action had, however, much
simplified ours in Babyan’s stronghold that day, for Babyan, having
heard of the approach of Laing’s column towards Inugu, while as yet
he knew nothing of our moves, had sent part of his impi to assist the
Inugu rebels; this force had come upon the scene of Laing’s fight only
to meet their friends in full flight, and had, therefore, taken no
part in that battle; and in the meantime, during their absence, we had
smashed up their own main body in their stronghold.
_22nd July._—Forgot that I had been up all night, and went for a bit
of solitary exercise into the hills, to investigate some signs I
had noted two days before of an impi camped in a new place. After a
tedious bit of work, I found that they had decamped. I then went to
the neighbourhood of Babyan’s stronghold, but could see no natives
about there. Also, in accordance with the General’s instructions, I
selected a position in which to build a fort to command this portion of
the Matopos. I chose a point where there was open, fairly flat ground
for half a mile in every direction, close to a permanent stream, at
a spot where there was a mighty thorn tree which would serve for a
“crow’s–nest” or raised platform from which a look–out man could see
well in every direction, and where a Maxim gun would command the whole
of the ground round the fort. On return to camp, I drew out the design
and plan of the proposed fort, and in the evening again went out there,
taking with me a portion of Robertson’s Cape Boys to start work upon
it the following morning. This fort was named Fort Usher, being near
the site of one of Usher’s farms.
_24th July._—It is reported that the rebels have again returned to the
Inugu gorge, so Nicholson was sent off to–day with a strong party to
investigate. A second impi is reported to be about the Chabez valley
about twelve miles westward of us in the Matopos; from Buluwayo they
report that a third is near the town (Laing has been ordered to move
in that direction); while a fourth is said to be thirty–five miles
west of Buluwayo, and five hundred of Gambo’s friendly natives are to
go against it, accompanied by Chief Native Commissioner Taylor. This
makes things seem pretty lively, but so very often these reports end in
nothing, especially when they emanate from Buluwayo.
One thing that adds to the excitement this evening, is that on seven
hills around the camp we can see the signal–fires of the enemy burning,
which may mean that they are contemplating a big attack on us. We have
withdrawn the party who were out building the fort, and concentrated
them in camp, and I shall sleep with my pistol–belt on. (I generally
only sleep with my pistol under my pillow and the lanyard round my
neck—this latter precaution I never omit.)
We sleep soundly, yet very lightly, in camp. If any one comes within
ten yards of me,—however softly he may tread,—I wake up without fail.
Bedtime is looked forward to with some zest here, for early rising and
hard work all day make one pretty ready for rest by the evening, and
very soon after supper one makes for one’s blankets.
The bedroom is usually the lee–side of a bush or scherm of cut
branches. The bed—if you are luxurious, and are marching with
waggons—is a valise–roll, comprising waterproof sheet, cork mattress,
blanket, and small feather pillow—but what is more usual, is just your
blanket, and your saddle for pillow. One’s toilet for the night is
simple: doff hat, don nightcap, and loosen your boot–laces, or, if you
have them, change your boots for shoes. Then you are ready to sleep,
and to turn out on the moment if there is a night alarm.
If you have a fire at your feet, you place the butt of the longest log
close to your hand, so that during the night you can keep it stoked
without having to get up for the purpose.
And then you take a last look at the glorious star–spangled ceiling
overhead, and, until all is blurred in sleep, you see in the dark
mantle above you the veil of ignorance that shrouds the earth from
heaven’s light beyond—the starry points of brightness that tend to
light us are holes made in that covering by the work of good men, whose
example and whose teaching encourage us to try and take our little part
in letting in the light in imitation of the greater radiant orb—to
lighten up the darkness till the daylight dawns.
CHAPTER VII
OUR WORK IN THE MATOPOS
_25th July to 2nd August_
Reconnaissance of the Chabez Valley—Kershaw completes the
Reconnaissance—War Correspondents—Pack–train organised—A Night March and
Attack on the Chabez Position—Successful Artillery Work by the Screw
Guns—Cattle–raiding—Bowled over, but not wounded—Inyanda’s Stronghold
cleared—Stores of Corn—Scene of Brand’s Fight of 10th April—“The Human
Animal in Battle”—His State of Mind and Thirsty Condition.
_25th July._—To–day I have had a long day reconnoitring, taking Pyke,
Jan Grootboom, and Tagili. Pyke, as I have before indicated, is one
of the best among a very good lot of young Colonial officers serving
in Plumer’s corps; and a very keen and useful scouting officer. Jan
Grootboom is a Cape Boy of Zulu extraction, and is a man of exceptional
courage and soldierly ability. As one of Grey’s Scouts—and one who
loathed the ordinary Kaffir—said of him: “He is not a proper nigger;
his skin is black, but he has a white man’s heart. I will shake hands
with him.” He is a clever scout, and a daring spy—one who has no
hesitation in disguising himself as a Matabele, on occasion, and going
in among their women to gather information. And he is a first–rate
man in a fight. So, altogether, he was of the greatest service to me.
Tagili is a good native scout, and faithful, but not “in the same
street” with Grootboom.
We went into the Matopos, to the gorge of the Chabez River, about
fifteen miles east of camp. It is a very nasty bit of country, and
we had to keep our eyes open as we went, for we knew the rebels were
about, although we could see nothing of them. This is a particularly
dangerous sign; if they see you are a strong party, too strong for them
to attack or capture, they do not mind showing themselves, and they
come out to get a better look at you; but if it is a small party, and
one which they have hopes of, they will hide and lie low, in order to
get you in their grasp. I think they had hopes of us, for we got pretty
close to their stronghold, and saw where they ought to be, but not one
of them showed up. As we prowled around, we came across frequent tracks
not many minutes old; possibly they went and waited for us on the path
by which we arrived, but if they did so, they were sold, for we came
back by an entirely different route.
The Chabez River rises in the valley of the Umzingwane, and runs south
through the Matopos. It enters the Matopos through an enormous gorge,
in the cliffs and heights of which the rebels have numerous caves,
while they keep their cattle in the thick bush jungle along the river
banks.
We first approached the place by the upper ground among the mountains,
then, making our way round, we got into the Umzingwane valley, from
which we could look into the mouth of the gorge, and could see what an
impossible country it was for working in. We spent some time guessing
at the enemy’s position, determining which would be the best way to
attack them, and in mapping the ground; and then we retired a short
distance across the valley to a koppie, from which we could watch the
place without fear of anybody approaching us unseen.
But the way we had come was an impossible one for waggons, and I
wanted to ascertain whether it was possible to bring them by a better
route along the Umzingwane valley; so, leaving Pyke and Grootboom to
watch the stronghold,—for we hoped that as evening came on, the enemy
would light up their fires for cooking, and would thus betray their
position,—I made my way back along the valley in the direction of our
camp. Here I arrived after dark, having found this way also impossible
for waggons. It would therefore seem necessary to organise some pack
transport to take us to the Chabez stronghold, and afterwards, by the
Umzingwane valley, towards the strongholds of the eastern end of the
Matopos. Once here, we shall be on the Tuli–Buluwayo road, where the
waggons, having gone round by Hope Fountain, or by Buluwayo, could
rejoin us (_vide_ map, p. 103).
_27th July._—Major Kershaw took out a strong patrol for a further
reconnaissance of the Chabez position. He was able to get up to the
high ground overlooking the river gorge, and found that it broke up
into most difficult country, of koppies and bush and deep ravines
leading down to the river. While he was there, a good number of the
enemy showed themselves on the different koppies, evidently watching
his moves, but not inclined to attack him. On his return march to camp,
Major Kershaw, with one or two others, was riding at some distance from
the main party, when he came across a large party of the enemy going
towards the Chabez; he luckily saw them first, and was able to hide
until they had passed by.
Out in camp here Press correspondents have to bring me their messages,
in order to get them signed for transmission by the field telegraph,
and it is most interesting to see what marvellous news some of them
can manage to fake up out of very inadequate material. Anything to
be different from his rival! but is it always certain whether the
information sent is true or not? Poor old Mother Necessity is not “in
it” with a budding war correspondent. Many of them do not seem to
grasp the broader military features of what is going on; but the local
pressmen, being often fighting men themselves, are much the best in
this respect, and it is a great pity that it is not their news which is
cabled home.
_29th July._—To–day, when out scouting by myself, being at some
distance from my boy and the horses, I lay for a short rest and a
quiet look–out among some rocks and grass overlooking a little stream;
and I saw a charming picture. Presently there was a slight rattle of
trinkets, and a swish of the tall yellow grass, followed by the sudden
apparition of a naked Matabele warrior standing glistening among the
rocks of the streamlet within thirty yards of me. His white war
ornaments—the ball of clipped feathers on his brow and the long white
cow’s–tail plumes which depended from his arms and knees—contrasted
strongly with his rich brown skin. His kilt of wild cat–skins and
monkeys’ tails swayed round his loins. His left hand bore his assegais
and knobkerrie beneath the great dappled ox–hide shield; and, in his
right, a yellow walking–staff.
[Illustration: A MATABELE WARRIOR
In his war–paint of white cows’–tails, and ball of feathers on his head,
armed with assegais and shield.]
He stood for almost a minute perfectly motionless, like a statue cast
in bronze, his head turned from me, listening for any suspicious sound.
Then, with a swift and easy movement, he laid his arms and shield
noiselessly upon the rocks, and, dropping on all fours beside a pool,
he dipped his muzzle down and drank just like an animal. I could hear
the thirsty sucking of his lips from where I lay. He drank and drank as
though he never meant to stop, and when at last his frame could hold
no more, he rose with evident reluctance. He picked his weapons up,
and then stood again to listen. Hearing nothing, he turned and sharply
moved away. In three swift strides he disappeared within the grass as
silently as he had come. I had been so taken with the spectacle that
I felt no desire to shoot at him—especially as he was carrying no gun
himself.
_31st July._—We started on the war–path again. We broke up camp,
sending the waggons round to go by Hope Fountain on to the Tuli road,
there to meet us two days hence. Colonel Bridge had organised a
pack–horse train, and this now accompanied the column, carrying four
days’ supplies; but, as events proved, the horses, from overwork and
want of food, are scarcely up to the job.
In the evening we started on our march to the eastward, past the fort
which had been erected near Babyan’s old stronghold, and a couple of
miles beyond this we bivouacked, no fires nor lights being allowed.
At 3 a. m. we were roused up and continued the march. There was no
difficulty in finding the way, as I have got to know this ground pretty
well. The only difficulty was to lead so that the column, which was
marching in a big square, ready against an attack at any moment, should
be incommoded as little as possible by the frequent thick patches of
bush.
Just before dawn we arrived on Purser’s Farm, one of the most
delightful spots for a settler that I have seen in this country, but
with its homestead and gardens now all ruthlessly destroyed.
Here we formed ready for the attack against the high ground overlooking
the Chabez, which lay about a mile to our front. Kershaw, having
already been on the ground, was detailed to command the attack, while
I was sent round with Coope’s Scouts to have a look in at the back of
the position and to see whether a second effective attack could be
delivered from that direction. We accordingly got away down to a rocky
ridge which overlooked the entrance of the Chabez gorge; from this
point we had an excellent view of the back cliffs and their caves
which formed the enemy’s lair. And we sent back word to Colonel Plumer
that the guns would have a good opening here, and that the Cape Boys
would probably be able to deliver an effective attack. Presently we
could hear Kershaw’s men opening fire beyond the skyline of the ridge
overlooking the gorge, and we could see the enemy swarming out of their
caves to meet them. We accordingly worked our way nearer and nearer to
them, and for a long time we were unnoticed, but when, after a time,
the main body of our force began to appear in the valley, the alarm
cry of the enemy could be heard echoing along the heights; still they
seemed to consider us too distant to do them any harm, and they took no
precaution to hide themselves from our view.
In an incredibly short space of time M’Culloch with his mule–guns was
clambering up the rugged koppie on which we were posted, and the two
7–pounders were very soon fitted together and ready for action on the
summit of the rocks.
[Illustration:
THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF WAR
A Matabele officer’s lecture interrupted by an overhead shell. As seen
through my telescope.]
Meantime we could hear heavy firing going on among the heights
opposite, but could see very little of what was going on, as most of
it was taking place just over the skyline. But, seeing a small knot of
niggers clustered on one of the nearer ridges, the artillery let fly
a shell or two at them. It was very funny to note the effect of the
first one through my telescope. I was watching three men sitting on
the rock; one of them was talking eagerly to two others, gesticulating
with his right hand and scratching himself with his left. “Bang!” went
the gun close to my ear, but of course the little group before me
did not hear it; the man talked on and scratched away, it seemed for
well–nigh a minute. Suddenly the three of them were sprawling off the
rock in different directions, throwing themselves down apparently head
first, and then running for their lives! the shell had evidently just
passed over their heads. The next two or three shells were similarly a
little high, and burst out of sight on the other side of the ridge. It
afterwards turned out that they could not have been better sent, for,
dropping well into the next valley, they had scattered their charge
of shrapnel over the main force of rebels (four hundred men) who were
gathered there, and who had not then been found by Major Kershaw’s
party. A very few shells were enough for them; they scattered and fled
before they even came to blows with our men, merely given them a good
target as they retired down into the deep gorges of the lower Chabez
River.
This ended the skirmish, and we made our way down to the river and
there bivouacked for breakfast.
Then, leaving the dismounted men and guns and baggage, the mounted
part of the force went on for a r
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