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.