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.