CLEARING THE MASHONA FRONTIER
_25th October to 15th November_
Filthiness is next to Healthiness—Through the Selukwe District—We join
Colonel Paget’s Column for the Attack on Monogula’s—On visiting the
Stronghold we find it deserted—We clear and destroy the Place—Gwelo—The
Difficulties of a Commandant—The End of the War in Matabeleland—We are
ordered to Taba Insimba—Enkledoorn Laager—Night March—We attack Taba
Insimba (Magneze Poort)—Doctoring wounded Enemies—A Patent Syringe—I
return to the General—Smoking on Sentry.
For the next four days we have continued our march,—practically across
country, as there were a few cart–tracks, some leading right and some
wrong, but I had got the right landmarks from one of Jackson’s boys
before he left us (which he did at the end of our patrol). We now left
his—the Belingwe—district and got into the Gwelo country.
_25th October._—Although it’s Sunday, which we generally make a day for
divine service and for rest, we have had to put in a lot of marching
in order to get to Paget in fair time. One cannot reckon on doing
so many miles a day in this country; you can only say it will be so
many hours. For instance, it took us five hours to do two miles two
different days in this march, _i.e._ in making drifts over bad rivers
like the Singweza and the Lundi.
We are a wonderfully dirty and ragged–looking crew now—especially me,
because I left Buluwayo six weeks ago to join this column only with
such things as I could carry on a led pony (including bedding and
food). My breeches and shirts are in tatters, my socks have nearly
disappeared in shreds. Umtini, my Matabele boy, has made sandals for me
to wear over—or at least outside—my soleless shoes.
And everywhere the veldt has been burnt by grass–fires—every breeze
carries about the fine black dust, and five minutes after washing, your
hands and arms and face are as grimy and black as ever—as if you were
in London again.
Bathing “the altogether” too often is apt to result in fever. Too much
washing of hands is apt to help veldt sores to originate—so we don’t
trouble to keep clean.
Veldt sores bother nearly every one of us. Every scratch you get
(and you get a good number from thorns, etc.) at once becomes a small
sore, gradually grows, and lasts sometimes for weeks. It is partly
the effect of hot sun and dry air too rapidly drying up the wound,
and also probably the blood is not in too good a state from living on
unchanging diet of tinned half salt beef and tinned vegetables. We have
very little variety, except when we loot some sheep or kill a buck. No
vegetables, and we are out of sugar, tea, cocoa, and rice.
[Illustration: A DANGEROUS PRACTICE
Washing, although indulged in as a luxury, is not to be commended as
a practice on the veldt. Bathing “the altogether” is apt to bring on
fever, and too frequent washing of the hands and face is apt to render
them susceptible to veldt sores.]
Matches are at a premium, pipes are manufactured out of mealie
corn–cobs and small reeds. Tobacco is very scarce—tea leaves were in
use till the tea came to an end.
_26th October._—We struck the Gwelo–Victoria road, and it seems quite
strange to be once more in civilised (!) country, and not to have to
find our own way over every river, and not to be on the look–out for
lions at night, etc. Even the spoor of natives fails to excite us much,
as most of them about here appear to be giving in. But we hope we may
not be too late to help Paget have a final slap at Monogula—one of
these koppie–holding gentry who has not yet experienced a bombardment
by artillery.
It is delightful marching among the hills of this Selukwe district;
they are well wooded, and run up here and there into mountains. A
lot of the trees are still in their autumn tints, while the others
are just budding out (for it is spring here), the young grass is
greenifying the low–lying land, and even the black burnt veldt is now
brightened up with a great variety of wild flowers—these are what I
call bluebells, cowslips, dandelions, snowdrops, sweet peas, sweet
williams, convolvulus, and poppies, and many more. Not that they are
these flowers actually, but as they have some faint resemblance, I
like to be reminded by them of the English flowers.
And the woods are cheery with the chirp and whistle of the birds, and
though there are no songsters among them, there is a fellow whose note
is like a robin, another like a chaffinch, and, best of all, one who
distantly resembles a thrush. And overhead the trilling pipe of a big
brown hawk brings back at once the glaring heat of India.
And then the peeps, between the trees of wooded peaks beyond show one
such colours as can’t be found in paint–boxes. Where would you get that
pearly lilac of the lit–up face of the rock or the pure deep blue of
the shadows?
All about among the hills are gold reefs pegged out with notice–boards,
and near them the wattle and daub houses of miners—all deserted and
looted, but not burnt.
_27th October._—The roads are awful for our wretched mules, so hilly,
stony, and dusty, but we have struggled on, and at last, on the 27th,
we have joined Colonel Paget’s column. This column consists just now
of merely a squadron of 7th Hussars, the West Riding Mounted Infantry
being away on patrol.
Such a breakfast they gave us on arrival, with milk (tinned), fish,
jam, etc. etc. Beautiful camp under the trees. English mails and
newspapers, the first for a month. News of Nansen’s return, and of my
brother George bringing Nansen home in his yacht _Otaria_, just what
I had hoped Admiral Markham was going to do, taking me with him; we
talked of it two years ago.
[Illustration: A ROADSIDE INN IN MATABELELAND
Passing, in the Selukwe district, an inn which had been looted but not
burnt by the rebels, the comic man of the mounted infantry acted the
part of landlord with the aid of a board and a couple of empty bottles.]
In the course of the day two messengers from N’dema (one of the two
great rebels of this district) came in to say that he had heard of
Wedza’s being knocked out of his stronghold, and so had come to
surrender, and soon after N’dema himself, and five of his chiefs
arrived. They were soon sent off to Gwelo under escort.
In the afternoon I went with Paget, Carew, and others, to have a look
at Monogula’s stronghold from a distance. It did not look a very
desperate place.
_28th October._—I started off with Carew, 7th Hussars, and a party
of ten men, and my orderly Parkyn, to call on Monogula. We went by
moonlight, so that he should not be alarmed at our numbers. On arriving
near the stronghold soon after daylight, the escort hid in the bush,
and, leaving our rifles with them, Parkyn and I rode out into the open
in front of the kraal, and, waving a towel as a flag of truce, we told
the rebels we were men of peace come to talk with them—that the men of
war were not far behind us, and would be there before another sun rose,
unless they (the rebels) came to talk over the situation. The great
White Queen was getting a little vexed with Monogula; all the other
chiefs of note had surrendered or been licked except him: if he did not
now take this chance of surrendering, he would be knocked out and his
lands given to another, etc. etc. Most eloquent we were! but all in
vain. Our shouts only roused up birds from their feeds of spilt grain
in the kraal. There was no reply, nor was there any fresh spoor on the
many paths. We went closer and closer up on the rocks,—nobody fired at
us—they were not there! We had a good look round, and then returned
to report to Colonel Paget, who had meanwhile moved up the laager to
within three miles of the place.
When blazing midday was over, the men and the 7–pounder were moved out
to the stronghold. The gun fired half a dozen shells into the place,
and the 7th Hussars then advanced along the ridge into the kraal, while
I came up from below with the Mounted Infantry. Suddenly there was an
outburst of firing in the kraal above us as we scaled the height—I knew
it was the 7th Hussars firing into it as a precautionary measure before
entering, but the Mounted Infantry supposed that the enemy had been
found, and it was a treat to see them dash forward, each man taking his
own line, and eager to be first up the rocky face of the koppie, and
they were very disgusted to find nobody to fight when they got to the
top.
A few weeks ago there had been a different tale to tell. A patrol
of 7th Hussars under Captain Carew had then got up to the wall that
defended the main kraal. One man was shot dead close to the wall,
when his companion, without a second’s pause, mounted the wall, and
pistolled the firer of the shot.
The body of the white man was taken by his comrades to their camp,
eight miles away, and buried there with honours. But when our column
passed that way two days ago, the cross was there, but the grave yawned
wide and empty. The enemy had been there since, and, as they often do,
had taken out the corpse to make up fetish “medicines” for themselves.
The caves under this koppie were typical of the usual thing met with
now. You creep in through a narrow little hole, down crevices between
rocks—every here and there a crevice leading to the open air gives
you light, and a chance of shooting anybody passing by or looking in
from outside. Then you come to a roomy cave, from which other tunnels
lead out downwards to more caves—the tunnel being occasionally a
perpendicular shaft of 20 or 30 feet, which is negotiated by means of
a tree–trunk roughly made into a ladder. The caves and their passages
worm about inside the koppie, with frequent peeps and bolt–holes to
open air, and so are grand refuges for a few desperate rebels. In
Monogula’s we placed thirty–four cases of dynamite, and at one grand
burst blew up the whole koppie, so that where there had been hill
there remained but a crater.
[Illustration: A CAVE STRONGHOLD
Elevation and section of the same koppie, showing the caves shaded.]
The natives, when they return, will scarcely recognise the site of
their once famous stronghold, and they will acknowledge that the white
man’s God is stronger than their own M’limo.
Previous to demolishing the caves, we had of course removed, for our
own use, the stores of grain which had been stowed away for the rebel
garrison. In searching for this grain, the men had lighted on a place
in which the bodies had been thrust of those rebels who had fallen when
our last patrol had visited the kraal, and, to our satisfaction, we
now found that nine were killed, and among them two Cape Boys, one of
whom, Hendricks by name, was noted as a rifle–shot. He had two bullets
through his head; so the shooting of the hussars must have been pretty
straight for the few minutes they were at it! Indeed, the shooting of
the Imperial troops in this campaign has been particularly good, and
has won the admiration of the Dutchmen fighting with us.
_29th October._—My patrol being now over, the mounted infantry started
to–day for their march down country to take ship for India, and I was
right sorry to part from so good a lot of soldiers. I only wished that
they could have had reward for all their keenness and hard work—in the
shape of a really good fight with the Matabele.
I, myself, now took my way to Gwelo, to be examined by a Court of
Inquiry as to why I had sanctioned the execution of Uwini. My only
defence is, that it was the only right thing under the circumstances.
In connection with what I had done in the case of Uwini, I was rather
struck by reading to–day, anent the siege of Delhi, the following
remark by John Nicholson to an officer who had said to him, “It is
hard, sir, when one has fagged horses and men to death, to be told that
one has exceeded orders.” “If you served under me,” were Nicholson’s
words, “that would be impossible; my instructions are, always to do
everything that can be done.”
Gwelo is on a bare, open flat, with a sea–like horizon of veldt. Half a
dozen small houses dotted about at two hundred yards apart. A crowded
collection of corrugated iron rooms within a rampart of logs and
earth forms the fort—kept very clean and neat, which is a change from
Buluwayo. But, otherwise, there is not much to commend Gwelo to the
artist, traveller, or temperance man.
Major Thorold in command has done wonders in bringing order into the
place, and his officers (local forces) ably support him, and—have a
very well–done mess.
But the command of Gwelo is no sinecure. There are “lawyers” in the
camp. The following are among their ebullitions:—Copy of cablegram
to Secretary of State, which would have gone, but that the would–be
sender was fourpence short of the £24 required for its transmission.
“Man named Thorold questioned my sobriety this morning, and called
doctor to decide. Doctor drunk himself, could not decide. I said,
willing to put in resignation, as a man is not a machine.... WHO IS
THIS THOROLD?”
Another man telegraphed to headquarters, to ask “When will Gwelo force
be disbanded? Without competent officers it is only a farce. Have
applied to be discharged; application simply ignored!”
The General had telegraphed to me to await him here, as he would
shortly be _en route_ for Salisbury, calling at Gwelo on the way.
All war is now over in Matabeleland—and Wedza’s may be said to have
been the final blow. Plumer’s corps near the Matopos, and Robertson’s
Cape Boys have been disbanded, and the 7th Hussars are ordered into
rainy–season quarters at Buluwayo.
But in Mashonaland the rebels still hold out, and now and then a wire
arrives to tell of further fights.
And one I heard of on arriving here was of saddest interest about Major
Evans of Alderson’s Mounted Infantry, who came out from England with
me. I knew him well on board, and two days before we sailed he had
married.... In his first action he fell, shot through the heart.
Of the officers of this Mounted Infantry who came out with me, several
others have been hit in action, viz. Captain Sir Horace MacMahon,
Lieutenants French and Eustace.
_3rd November._—Gwelo is said to have a great future before it, but
hasn’t much of a present—a little of it goes a long way. Combined
with this, a lion had killed two donkeys on the road five miles S.E.,
and seven lions had been seen five miles N.W., this morning, so I
determined to spend my next few days of waiting for the General in an
outing for shooting lions. At 2 p. m. I was to start, horses, etc., all
ready packed with food and blankets.
At 1 p. m. arrived a telegram from the General, saying that some rebels
were reported in the Insimba Hills, near Enkeldoorn, seventy miles N.E.
from Gwelo on the Salisbury road, and directing that either Paget or I
should take a column of two hundred there without delay. Nothing would
have suited us better. Being all ready to start, Paget sent me off
to divert the 7th Hussars, who were expected this afternoon from the
Selukwe, on to the Salisbury road, while he (Paget) followed on that
road direct with extra supplies. So that night found one again in camp
on the war–path.
[Illustration: OUR HORSES
The grey is the sole survivor of my five horses. Prince Teck is the
officer holding him.]
The next few days were spent marching through green bush country and
open grass vleis, uninhabited except by game.
Being now a sort of “serrefile” or hanger–on to the column, as Paget
had come in command, I had lots of time to amuse myself, riding at
a distance from the column with my gun ready. We saw wildebeeste,
hartebeeste, ostriches, sable and roan antelopes, etc. Carew and I got
two beauties of the latter on the 5th, and these supplied the whole
camp with fresh meat. I got also a very fine tiger–cat (almost like a
small leopard).
The longest march seems short when one is hunting game. Your whole
attention is fixed at the same time on “distant views,” and on the
spoor beneath your nose. Your gun is ready, and every sense is on
the alert to see the game. Lion or leopard, boar or buck, nigger or
nothing, you never know what is going to turn up. And what an appetite
one has at the end of a twelve–mile march, when the folding mess–table
is set up, and the Indian cook of the 7th has produced his excellent
repast!
My only trouble is that I have lost two of my three horses; they broke
loose from camp in the night, and strayed, poor starving brutes, in
search of grass, and could not be found. And my remaining horse is very
thin and weak. However, I got a pair of veldt schoen (Dutch shoes) at
Gwelo, and so can do much of the march on foot now.
Another blow to me is the loss of Diamond, my Zulu boy, who wants to go
home. I offered to take him to Beira, and to pay his passage home from
there—but no, he must go back _viâ_ Buluwayo. Why? Because he has a lot
of money there,—his savings,—which he has hidden, and no one else can
find them.
I didn’t know till to–day how to fry liver and bacon—the liver, after
being cut in thin strips, should be dipped into a plate of mixed salt,
pepper, and dry mustard, before going into the frying–pan. A small
matter, but it makes a difference.
We journey on by Iron–Mine Hill, Orton’s Drift to Enkeldoorn, seventy
miles from Gwelo, and forty from Charter.
Meantime, my clothes are in tatters. I remember a lady at a fancy
dress ball at Simla figuring as a “beggar maid.” She was dressed in a
black frock with bits of flesh–coloured silk stitched on to it here
and there to look like _holes_! Many people said it was rather _chic_
(some using the soft _ch_, others the hard). I am in the same state,
only there is no need to stitch on flesh–coloured silk, and I don’t
know that I look very _chic_; but it’s curious to find oneself getting
sunburnt in an entirely new place: when bathing, I found that my right
knee and thigh have their beautiful alabaster–like surface marred by
eight irregular blotches of ruddy sunburn!
Rain has been threatening occasionally. Two or three days have
been most oppressively hot, and clouds have gathered at nightfall,
with mutterings of thunder, and distant lightning. We have put our
waterproof sheets ready on going to bed, and sometimes have spread
the waggon–sails over the waggons, and have gone to sleep dreaming of
the fate in store for us campaigning in wet weather, with the roads
impassable for mud, and the drifts unfordable for days together. But
we have waked at dawn to find a bright, clear sky overhead, and the
promise of another sunny, breezy day. But the rains are evidently not
far off.
_9th November._—Reached Enkeldoorn, just three huts forming a coach
change–station, on open, rolling downs. The laager made by the Dutch
farmers of the surrounding district is three miles distant.
At Enkeldoorn I have been lucky enough to find a covered waggon
standing abandoned (one wheel smashed), and have taken possession of
it as my house, since the weather is very boisterous and promises rain
to–night.
_P.S._—The promise was fulfilled—it rained hard, and I was happy. I
liked the tilt of my waggon so well, that when we marched next day I
took it with me; a frame of poles made it into a very comfortable tent
in camp.
_10th November._—We moved to near the Dutch laager, and interviewed the
Native Commissioner and others. The laager a most impregnable jam of
waggons, strengthened with palisades, sandbags, etc., and surrounded
by an entanglement of reims and barbed wire. It was full of women and
children and Boers (two hundred of them), from all the farms within a
circle of twenty miles round. These farmers brought over two thousand
oxen (one man told me seven thousand) to the laager when the rebellion
broke out, and now there were but seventy left—such is Rinderpest.
The people in the laager lived on fresh meat very largely, the men
going out daily to shoot game. A pile of skulls and horns of sable and
roan antelope, wildebeeste, etc., showed how successful they had been.
The boys of the laager seemed to be fitted out with hats of such a
size that they would have to be grown into, and would then do for them
in their grown–up years. The young idea was also learning to shoot by
using crossbows, and it was interesting to see what good positions
they got into for firing in the quickest manner, using aim and trigger
just as with a gun. A crossbow should be an excellent instrument for
teaching the elements of rifle–shooting.
[Illustration: THE YOUNG IDEA LEARNING TO SHOOT
The little Dutch boys practise shooting at a mark (generally an empty
meat–tin) with the crossbow. With this weapon the aim and the use of the
trigger are very much the same as with the rifle, and in this way they
become good shots.]
The Boer pig–sty is a simple one. A round hole in the ground, eight
feet across, four feet deep; the pig, once in, can’t get out. A dry
ox–hide, laid over one side of the hole, serves as a shelter from sun
or rain.
Leaving our waggons (except two with rations, etc.) at Enkeldoorn that
evening, we marched a few miles in the direction of Taba Insimba, and
bivouacked at nightfall. Taba Insimba (Mountain of Iron) is a long
wall–like range, with a slice cut through it at one point, looking much
like the canal through the Isthmus of Corinth. In this cutting or pass,
or, as the Dutch call it, “poort,” the rebels are said to be living in
caves in the cliffs, strongly barricaded with stone walls—about eight
hundred of them—very defiant. Soon after our reaching Enkeldoorn they
had signalled our arrival with smoke–fires. The place is twenty–five
miles from Enkeldoorn, but our horses and mules are not up to dashing
to the place, so we have come as light as possible, carrying two days’
rations on our saddles, and leaving the waggons to follow.
Twenty Boers from the Enkeldoorn laager are with us, and also about a
hundred friendly natives with Taylor, the N.C.
_11th November._—Marched all morning, rested all the day, and marched
on again after dark, across the wide, perfectly–open flats, till, by 10
p. m., we were within a mile of the place, and then we off–saddled and
bivouacked—no talking nor smoking allowed. At 2.30 we were roused up,
and formed into our places for the attack. I like the weird, subdued
impatience of all the preliminaries for a night surprise.
Colonel Paget was to take the mounted infantry and small portable Maxim
on to the top of one cliff overlooking the gorge, so as to fire into
the caves in the opposite cliff; another party were to be below at the
foot of the gorge, to attack these caves under cover of the fire from
above. I was ordered to go with Carew’s squadron of 7th Hussars, taking
our horses (the remainder of the troop were dismounted), over the
ridge, and round to the back of the gorge, to cut off the enemy’s line
of retreat.
We reached the ridge just when it was getting sufficiently light,—as
the Dutchman would say, “to see the horns of an ox,”—clambered up
the steep, stony hill through the bush, then down the other side,
where there lay before us, in the early light, a panorama of bush and
tree–tops.
Our guide was one Bester, a Boer, whose farm was here. At the outbreak
of the rebellion his father had been wounded, his mother killed, and he
and his brother only escaped after killing a number of the rebels, and
being nearly killed themselves. We passed through the ashes of their
home on our way. His uncle I remembered well as field cornet on the
Transvaal border, in our operations against Dinizulu, in Zululand, in
1888.
The Magneze Poort, in which the rebels were (for we soon knew that they
_were_ there, by the barking of dogs, the talking of men, and calling
of women, etc.), was a huge cleft, with rocky sides, and a bubbling
torrent roaring through. On arriving in rear of the place, we found
ourselves in a valley between numerous bush–covered hills. The line
of retreat open to the defenders of the stronghold in the gorge was
across an open glade of long white grass, along the foot of the steep
mountain–side.
It was broad daylight by the time we had got to our position, and
we had not long been waiting there before we heard excited shouting
from the natives on the top of the opposite cliffs, answered by
those in the gorge below; then pop—bom—pop—pop, as the firing began;
rifles cracking, and blunderbores roaring back their muffled reply
from caves; soon the “isiqwakwa” (Maxim) joined in with its sharp
“rat–tat–tat–tat–tat,” from the top of the ridge. Ere long, a party of
the enemy were seen hastily making their way across the open grass in
front of us; a moment later, and a troop of the hussars had burst from
their hidden station in the bush, and were galloping, swords drawn and
gleaming, straight for the astonished rebels. But the charge was not to
be; the rocky stream, with boggy banks, was the slip that lay between
the cup and the lip, and baulked the sabreurs of their wish; but they
did not wait to lament. In a trice they were off their horses, carbine
in hand, and soon were popping merrily at the foes they could not get
at hand–to–hand. While thus engaged, Carew sent round another troop to
cut off any rebels who might succeed in running the gauntlet of fire.
Finding themselves stopped, some ran back among the rocks, and
contented themselves with wasting ammunition in long shots at us, while
others lay among the tall white grass—to wait until the clouds rolled
by. But these latter were soon moved by the clouds, in the shape of
Lieutenant Holford and a few dismounted men, moving on them through
the grass, and thus compelling their retreat at point–blank range, or
their surrender. This party counted fifteen dead bodies, and found
a few women and children, whom they brought back. Among these were,
unfortunately, four wounded—three children and one woman, hit by stray
bullets as they were lying hid in the grass.
[Illustration: A CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL
Some women and children had hidden themselves in the long grass between
the enemy and ourselves, and four of them were consequently struck by
stray bullets. They were brought in, and we bandaged them up and brought
them into camp. The men of the 7th Hussars made excellent amateur
nurses.]
Three times in this campaign have I taken out to the field with me a
few bandages and dressings in my holster, and on each occasion I have
found full use for them. I don’t know whether it is coincidence or
not—but here was another occasion. Our one doctor was with the main
body on the other side of the mountain, so I got to work on the poor
little devils. Curiously enough, the women and two of the children
were hit in the same place, _i.e._ through the lower part of the
thigh, clear of bone and of artery; simple wounds, and easily patched
up; while the fourth, a small boy with a very bad temper, had half
his calf torn away by a splinter of rock or a ricochet bullet. None
of them seemed to feel much pain except him, and he kept kicking and
grovelling his poor little leg in the dust when the girl who had charge
of him tried to do anything to it. So it was in a bad mess by the time
I got an opportunity to get to work on it. It did one good to see one
or two of the hussars, fresh from nigger–fighting, giving their help
in binding up the youngsters, and tenderly dabbing the wounded limbs
with bits of their own shirts wetted. I invented a perfect form of
field–syringe for this occasion, which I think I’ll patent when I get
home. You make and use it thus—at least I did: Take an ordinary native
girl, tell her to go and get some lukewarm water, and don’t give her
anything to get it in. She will go to the stream, kneel, and fill her
mouth, and so bring the water; by the time she is back, the water is
lukewarm. You then tell her to squirt it as you direct into the wound,
while you prize around with a feather (I had lost what I otherwise
invariably carry with me—a soft paint–brush). It works very well.
Well, we went on with the squadron among the hills, at the back of the
position, and burned a kraal. Vaughan, one of Carew’s subalterns, has
developed a talent as great, or greater, than that of any colonial,
for finding native corn or cattle, be they hidden never so wisely. He
brought in from the bush a bunch of lively, healthy cattle.
Then, firing having ceased everywhere, and smoke of burning kraals
being seen curling up in columns from the stronghold, we ceased from
war, and sat us down in a shady glade by the running stream, and soon
had breakfast under way.
Later on we got back to our laager, and found that the main body had
completely surprised the rebels before they could take to the caves
(they had been sleeping outside in huts), and, altogether, twenty–six
were killed; the rest had fled in different directions. Our people,
well hidden in the rocks and bush, had not had a single casualty.
So ended my most happy roaming on patrol.
The General was expected at Enkeldoorn next morning; so, in the
afternoon, I started off, riding one horse and leading another, to do
the twenty–five miles between us. At nightfall a heavy thunderstorm
rolled up, but I was lucky in being near a deserted farmhouse, where
I took shelter, with my horses, in the verandah. A wheelbarrow made me
a comfortable lounge in which to eat my frugal but rather indigestible
meal of cold pig, dough, and tea. I did not live inside the house, as
lurking Matabele fugitives might have watched me in, and could have
nicely caught me; but in the open verandah I should be quite a match
for them. I was glad next day I had acted so, for Lord Grey’s party,
camping near the house, found in the rafters of the room a fine, great,
green mamba snake.
Well, when the rain was over, I rode on in the night; the spoor I had
been following was now washed out, but I steered by moon and time
until I thought I was near Enkeldoorn, and, not seeing the camp, then
prepared to bivouac till daylight, when a sudden small flash, as of a
man striking a match, sparkled on a hill close by; and on I went, and
found myself at the laager, against the bayonet of a Boer sentry, whose
pipe–light had been my guide.
Delighted to hear about the fight, he gave me back the news that the
General had already arrived. Not long after, I had wedged myself in
between Vyvyan and Ferguson in their tent, and was sleeping like a log.
At home it may seem strange to talk of a sentry’s pipe, but, in this
country, smoking is not a very grave offence. A Colonial volunteer
officer, hearing of our army orders on the subject, thought to smarten
up his men a bit; so, finding one of his night sentries smoking, he
ordered him to consider himself a prisoner. The following was then
overheard by some one sleeping near:—
_Sentry._ “What, not smoke on sentry? Then where the——_am_ I to smoke?”
_Captain Brown._ “_Of course_ it’s not allowed; and I shall make you a
prisoner.”
_Sentry_ (taking his pipe from his mouth, and tapping Brown—who, in
time of peace, was his butcher—on the arm with the stem of it). “Now,
look here, Brown, don’t go and make a——fool of yourself. If you do,
I’ll go elsewhere for my meat!”
And Brown didn’t.