AFTER WAR—PEACE
We leave Salisbury for the Coast—Bikes _versus_ Horses—Ancient Ruins in
Mashonaland—Another possible Clue to the Builders—Camp at Umtali—Maori
B——n—Gold–Mining in Mashonaland—New Umtali—Cecil Rhodes buys a
ready–made Town—Portuguese Territory—Massi Kessi—The Railway—Lions on
the Line—Fever rampant—Beira—The Sea at Last—Durban and its ‘rickshaw
Men—Port Elizabeth—Rhodes’ Reception—Peace and Goodwill—Cape Town—The
Personality of Table Mountain—We leave the Cape, a varied Crew—Home.
_2nd December._—On the road at last. Although Salisbury has its charms
as a dwelling–place, we were getting a bit anxious to be nearer the
coast, and this afternoon we started with our three waggons and Cape
cart and our riding horses.
Our last and least pleasing item in Salisbury was the hotel bill—for
twelve days—five of us—_£_258. Board and lodging being two guineas a
day, exclusive of drink, which is at the rate of 3s. for a whisky and
soda. Eggs had touched 47s. a dozen. Ducks are still at 30s. each.
Flour _£_7, 10s. per 100 lbs. Tinned meat 2s. 3d. per lb. Fresh mutton
4s. 6d. per lb.
However, in spite of siege scarcity, I must say our manager, Rosenthal,
did us wonderfully well. He contrived to give us eggs and bacon,
omelets and fresh vegetables, cooked by a French _chef_, so we could
not complain.
When we had outspanned near Ballyhooley (a place almost as pretty as
its original in Ireland), and had just finished dinner, Lord Grey
arrived there too, ahead of his waggons, with Lady Grey and Lady
Victoria, and Howard, and they came and dined with us, pending arrival
of their outfit. The ladies are bound for Beira, and for the ship that
we hope to go in.
_3rd December._—This Mashonaland is far prettier than Matabeleland, in
some places beautiful, and very green after the recent rainstorms.
The wayside stores and inns, having been three years longer in
existence than those in Matabeleland, are far more complete, well–built
and home–like, with some flower gardens, farmyards, pig–styes,
dove–cotes, etc. etc.—but all looted and empty, with recent graves and
rough crosses near them.
_4th December._—The country now is all green, wooded with rocky, bushy
ridges and frequent tumbled–up granite koppies (some quite fantastic),
and water in the streams.
My horse, the sole survivor of four, is picking up flesh rapidly with
good grazing and corn, and being well looked after by a soldier servant
whom I have got from the Irish company of the mounted infantry. This
man, M’Grath, pleased me this morning by describing the horse as a
“tedious feeder” (pronounced in the richest brogue)—meaning he was slow
in eating his corn.
I gave up the horse this day in favour of the bike, and had a most
enjoyable ride. Bikes have been issued to the police to use in place
of horses, as the latter are hard to feed, and die in large numbers
every year of horse sickness. But I think they ought to have tandem
bikes,—not single ones,—because police should always go in pairs on
long patrols. On a tandem one man can watch the ground and steer, while
the other can look about for enemies and can use his revolver—which
cannot be done by single bikers.
_5th December._—We passed the mounted infantry and the wounded going
down from Salisbury to the coast, and met the men for the new police
force just coming up. A large number of them are Australians—a very
fine–looking lot of young fellows.
This would make a grand country for colonising. Judging from the few
families we have seen, the locally–born children are as healthy and
well–grown as you could wish. The great want in the town is that
of cooks and domestic servants. With a good supply of these would
follow much marrying and settling down on the part of many of the
young prospectors, police, and farmers, who at present pour all their
earnings into the hands of canteen–keepers. It is a pity that some
system of importing a good class of women domestic servants is not
tried, similar to that employed in Canada.
At Marendellas (fifty–one miles from Salisbury) we passed one of
the fortified road posts, where we saw the graves of poor Evans,
Barnes, and Morris, and of several men, all killed in action in the
neighbourhood. At Headlands (eighty–eight miles) and Fort Haynes
(a hundred and five miles), similar forts, were more such graves,
including that of Captain Haynes, R.E., and others killed in the attack
on Makoni’s.
Near Fort Haynes were said to be some ancient ruins—so we rode over to
see them. There were the remains of an old kraal, strongly fortified
with a circular stone wall, a wide ditch, and a triple circle of
trees which are now very big. It was certainly an ancient ruin, but
not of the class of the Zimbabye ruins near Victoria. The General
even said he had seen better stone walls in the Cotswold country.
But in a neighbouring koppie, which was the burial–place of Makoni’s
father,—and a very sacred place with the natives,—we found a bit of
wall made of square–cut stones neatly fitted together, much more like
the Zimbabye style. The rocks within this wall formed some natural
circular enclosures; one rock stood up on end, and several of them
were pock–marked. I don’t think that Bent mentions whether the stones
at Zimbabye are also pock–marked, but Ross, the Native Commissioner
with us, said they were. Well! the Phœnician temple at Hadjiar–Kim in
Malta, and the Giants’ Tower in Gozo, both contain pock–marked stones
and rocks. These are supposed to be artificially worked to represent
the firmament. Perhaps this should be another clue as to who were the
builders of Zimbabye and other prehistoric ruins in Mashonaland, since
they seem to have treated pock–marked stones as sacred.
Taberer, Chief Native Commissioner, who was with us, attributes the
fortified kraals to the Vorosi people, who inhabited the country before
the Mashonas, and have now disappeared northwards. They are a far
cleverer race than most South African natives. The rock drawing’s in
Mashonaland generally attributed to Bushmen, he says, are by them, and
are superior to the usual Bushmen drawings.
_7th December._—We got into broken, mountainous, and bushy country,
and descended the Devil’s Pass, a hundred and seventeen miles from
Salisbury a long descent among granite koppies and shady woods. A lion
had been seen on the road the previous day here, but we saw nothing,
though we used all our eyes. I biked the afternoon trek, and got
thoroughly drenched by a downpour in doing so. Next day I went to look
for lions in most liony–looking country, but only saw one solitary
steinbuck—which I shot.
_9th December._—Umtali at last! A small town in a green basin among the
mountains. A pretty, but dull place. “A fair field and no favour” is
the reception with which Sir Wilfred Lawson would meet were he to come
here. The surrounding greenery and its backing of wooded hills remind
one of beautiful Sierra Leone. And, if the fever fiend be absent, still
the drink fiend is there in his place.
Although we found rooms engaged for us at one of the hotels, we
prepared to camp just outside the town. And we certainly are most
comfortable in camp. The General lives in my little Cabul tent, and
we other four fill a bell–tent. Our dining–room is a space between
two waggons, roofed in with a roomy “buck–sail.” Our table is a door
laid on a trestle bedstead from a looted farm. And when we dine, we
might imagine ourselves in a room, did not the lanterns light up in
strong relief the massive wheels and under–carriages of the waggons
on either side of us. Our conversation, too, is nearly drowned by the
crunching of the mules feeding at their manger, which is hung along the
dissel–boom (pole), and he who sits at the head of the table stands a
good chance of being landed by a kick which he is well within reach of.
To–night we had to dinner “Maori” B., who was with me with the Native
Levy in Zululand in 1888. Celebrated over Africa for his yarns of
fighting and adventure. Originally of a fine old Irish family—arrested,
while a schoolboy from Cheltenham on his way to shoot at Wimbledon,
on suspicion of being a Fenian; enlisted as a gunner; blew up his
father with a squib cigar; shot his man in a duel in Germany; biked
into the Lake of Geneva; went to New Zealand, where for twelve years
he fought the Maoris; ate a child when starving; and afterwards hunted
the bushrangers in Australia; took a schooner in search of a copper
island, or anything else of value; next, a Papal Zouave; under Colonel
Dodge, in America, he fought the Sioux. When with Pullein’s corps in
South Africa, his men shot at him while bathing; he beat them with
an ox–yoke; they stole an ostrich and hid it; a row among themselves
followed, begun by a Kentish navvy, who complained he did not get his
fair share of the “duck.” B. denies that in the Maori war the Maoris
displayed a flag of truce for more ammunition, but to ask the troops to
stop firing shells into town, so as to let them have water—“else how
can you expect us to fight?” they said. Then he became gold–digger;
later, fought in the Galeka war, then the Zulu, Dinizulu, first
Matabele campaigns, and lastly the present operations, in which he is a
major in the Umtali forces.
[Illustration: MAORI B——E]
_10th December._—The General and our party went out to the Pennalonga
Mine, seven miles through pretty wooded hills, every one of which
showed signs of having been prospected. At the mine, Jeffreys, the
manager, and his bright bride did us right hospitably, and after lunch
we went over part of the mine. Their working is simple: having found
the reef in a watercourse in the mountain–side, they have followed it
with “drives” both ways, and have met it with other drives from the
opposite side of the hill. The ore (of “gallina”) containing something
much over 20 oz. of silver and 11 dwt. of gold, a lot of it very pretty
with the garnet–like crystals of chromate of lead. We walked into one
adit about four hundred feet, and saw the working; cross–cuts showed
the reef eighteen feet across. The air was not very good, and we could
with great difficulty keep our candles alight.
They have just put up a 5–stamp battery to be worked with a turbine,
the water being led from the top of the mountain above the mill by
pipes which are now being laid, so that in a short time the mine should
be in full work. The only obstruction at present is the famine price
of food, which prevents the Company employing sufficient black labour
(which they have to feed).
There are several other mines in the valley, but none so forward as
this, though one has a splendid waterfall to supply its power in the
future.
We saw some gold–washing done as the prospectors do it. With a pestle
and mortar the quartz is crushed to powder, and then washed in water in
a shallow pan (which has a tip in it for the use of unskilful washers,
for washing is a knack).
The liquid mud is then swirled around and shaken, so that the heavier
ingredients work to the bottom of the sediment, and the waste is poured
off. As this in its turn gets washed out with fresh water, a little
“tailing” of yellow dust is seen at the edges of the sediment, which
is then washed out till nothing is left in the pan but the thin little
streak of gold dust. If 8 dwts. of this can be extracted from a ton of
ore, it will be sufficient to repay expenses of mining.
_15th December._—Packed up our kits and started on our last trek, from
Umtali to the coast. Umtali itself is very pretty, but when five miles
from there we came to the top of Christmas Pass, and began to descend,
we had splendid view of grand, rolling mountains, with wide, rich
valleys and wooded hills.
We crossed the site of New Umtali, whither Umtali is to be moved to be
on the railway line. (While we were at Umtali, the inhabitants came
to claim compensation from Rhodes. Of course he had some new way of
meeting the difficulty. It was reported that he took each man in turn,
got at his price, and by the afternoon had bought Umtali as it stood
for £40,000.)
At New Umtali I spotted _such_ a site for a house!—with a view in front
of it that will make me yearn that way for a good long time to come.
Our road went down and down (splendid run had one been on a bike; the
whole distance, Umtali to Chimoio, has been done in nine hours on a
bike), diving down into deep, dark valleys between thickly wooded
hills, then through forest plains, with peeps between the trees of
great blue mountains looming high on either side.
Frequent along the road are inns—clean and neat, all kept by
Englishmen—in thatched wattle and daub huts.
[Illustration: A ROADSIDE HOTEL IN MASHONALAND
The nearest hut is the “Coffee–Room.”
The farther one is the “Bedroom.”
The “Smoking–Room” is in the open
air.]
At Massi Kessi (_alias_ Macequece) we got into Portuguese territory.
Massi Kessi was the place where the Chartered Company’s forces
(consisting of thirty–three men) were attacked by the Portuguese to the
number of seven hundred (five hundred of them native troops). A few
volleys and rounds of case–shot from the British sufficed to drive
back the enemy; and their officers, unable to rally the men, stood on
one side and surrendered. The British force then went on to the fort—a
very strong place from which the Portuguese had sallied—and took it
with all its contents. These included the flag (which had been left
flying in the hurried departure of the garrison), some guns, machine
guns, and mess furniture, which are still in use with the Chartered
Company’s forces. That Massi Kessi has since been replaced by the
present township, eight miles from it.
This is a township of one square of about fifteen houses altogether,
of which one is the Government House, and twelve are drinking bars.
In Rhodesia liquor is not allowed to be sold to coloured men, but in
Portuguese territory there is no restriction; consequently all our
drivers (seven) and those of Mr. Rhodes’ and Lord Grey’s waggon, which
were with us, all got more or less drunk—most of them more. They had
saved up their pay in anticipation of this occasion. I was not sorry
to hear that two of them, having got hopelessly incapable, were robbed
of £30 by the liquor–seller. We had to adopt strong measures with our
own hands the next two nights to keep their fighting and noise within
tolerable bounds in camp.
_17th December._—At the Revuwe River and hut hotel we were overtaken by
Cecil Rhodes, Sir Charles Metcalfe, and others, also travelling to the
coast.
Rhodes had asked us to stay at his beautiful old place near Cape Town,
Groot Schur, but when he met us this morning, he said, “I am sorry to
find that I shall not be able to give you accommodation at my house. It
has been burnt to the ground. It is a great pity, because there were
some old things there that could not be replaced. I liked my house.
Providence has not been kind to me this year: what with Jameson’s raid,
rinderpest, rebellion, famine, and now my house burnt, I feel rather
like Job, but, thank God, I haven’t had sores yet. Still, there remains
some of the year, and there is yet a chance for me to develop some
totally new kind of boil. That would be the height of evils, to have a
boil called after one. Fancy being inventor of the Rhodes boil!” And
then he sent a telegram: “Having heard indirectly that my house has
been burnt, please put up tents in the garden, as I don’t want to live
at an hotel.”
Our last trek, eight miles to–day, brought us to the railway. It was a
delight to come on an embankment with its rails and telegraph in the
midst of wildest–looking bush—and then to hear the shriek of the engine
as an empty train came rumbling up to fetch us to the coast. All that
night and up to four o’clock next day we rattled along through the
bush, at first among small hills, latterly over the flats—all the time
in deep, soggy heat. How one longed for a breeze—and when it came, how
disappointing it was—like hot eider–down pressing against one. At times
in the thicker bush one could well imagine oneself on the new railway
in Ashanti.
_18th December._—Early in the morning, about four, a hurried whistling
of the engine and much jabbering of our nigger servants in the baggage
truck apprised us that three lions were calmly walking along the line
in front of us, thinking the road had been made especially for them.
They deigned to make way for the beast that breathed flame and smoke,
and they skipped off into the jungle. A month ago a prospector named
Brown was killed by lions while walking along the line here.
Now and again we pass camps of railway men, a white overseer’s tent,
with a few straw huts of native labourers; and once or twice small
stations where up and down trains pass each other, and travellers can
get food; but we had no need to avail ourselves of them, for our
train was full (too full for comfort) of railway officials and others,
each of whom had brought a box of food, chiefly champagne, beer, and
sandwiches; and at odd hours of night as well as day one thirsty soul
or another would get at his box, break bulk, and wake up everybody
to have a snack. They meant well, but eternal champagne and beef,
especially at 5 a. m., when one would have given worlds for a cup of
tea or coffee and some bread and butter—it was _cloying_, to say the
least.
Fever was evident everywhere. At one station the telegraph clerk
handed us in some perfectly illegible and nonsensical telegrams. He
was half–unconscious with fever, and we never discovered who were
the senders or what the purport of these messages. We had to change
engines, as our driver had an attack of fever. At a new bridge five out
of eleven white men were down.
At Fontes Villa, a little town built on piles, at present the railway
headquarters, we _déjeûnered_ with the manager of the line in a
beautifully green verandah. Such fruit! mangoes, bananas, grenadillas,
limes, and pineapples. Thermometer 115° in the shade.
Smart, gentlemanly young fellows acting in all the lower as well as
upper railway capacities, but with lots of life and lots of death, for
Fontes Villa possesses two cemeteries—one, the “old” one (three years
old), being full, the new one had been made nearer to the station, to
be more “handy,” and this one also looks like being full very soon.
About twenty miles farther on, somebody spied the masts of a ship above
the bush, and soon we ran into the station at Beira.
Beira is a long town of about 1500 inhabitants, the houses built along
a spit of sand for two miles between the sea and a mangrove creek. With
good wharf, storehouses, a tile–roofed hospital, and a curiosity in
a great square red and white lighthouse, substantial–looking, but on
close inspection showing itself to be of corrugated iron, painted.
We did not wait to look at these, but got ourselves and baggage
transferred without delay to the s. s. _Pongola_, lying off the shore
in the mouth of the Pungwe River. The Pungwe here opens from its flat
mangrove banks into an estuary some ten miles across.
After dinner (which happily was laid on deck, after the manner of the
Florio–Rubbatino ships in the Mediterranean), the General, Rhodes, Sir
Charles Metcalfe, and I went ashore to call on Colonel Machado, the
Portuguese commandant. We found him a handsome, clever–looking man
of forty–five, speaking English well, and full of knowledge of the
country, and very friendly; but his house was mighty hot, and we were
glad to get back into our homeward car in the open air.
The roads in Beira are of deep soft sand by nature, but their
imperfections had been got over by art. A little tram line runs along
the main street, with offshoots to all the by–roads. Public and private
tram–cars, holding four persons each, run along the rail, propelled by
shoving niggers.
_19th December._—After a general farewell visit of friends from the
shore, we got under way at 10 a. m.
How good it is to feel the first few heaves of the screw as the ship is
being turned in the yellow tide to set her head for home!
We steamed out through the seventeen miles of sandbanks that form the
mouth of the Pungwe and Busi Rivers. We stuck for half an hour on one
shoal, but floated off with the rising tide, and soon dropped the low
flat shore of Beira out of sight.
_22nd December._—Passed along the coast of Zululand in the morning,
seeing familiar spots like Etschowe (Signal Hill), the Tugela, and
finally reached Durban—steaming boldly into the harbour and alongside
the wharf, where ships were moored two deep. At Durban we landed the
troops, and spent four hours.
How the place has grown since I was here seven years ago! The long road
from the Point to the town is lined with villas and gardens in place of
sandhills and shanties. The streets are full of bustling people—English
ladies, carriages, tram–cars, and ‘rickshaws’. The latter in swarms,
with Zulu runners dressed up in war headdresses and with rattles on
their legs, “playing at horses” as they run, great children that they
are—tossing their plumes and stepping up to their noses.
Saw old Reuben Beningfield, and had happy reminders of old shooting
days with him; Little, 9th Lancers, and Sir Walter Hely Hutchinson,
the Governor, and Jameson, who does not alter one jot, and many other
friends. At six we sailed again for Port Elizabeth.
After this brief flash of life in civilisation we are once more getting
along, butting against obstructive wave power, and pressing into the
darkling haze.
_23d December._—Cloud–wrack and wind, and pale, deceitful sea. Heaving
along, we churn our way, till out of the dark swish of the driving rain
on a rushing, riotous sea, we suddenly emerge into sunshine and calm in
Port Elizabeth roadstead.
Amid the blaze of bunting, and a babel of steamers’ whistles and
cheering masses, we follow Cecil Rhodes ashore into the Liverpool of
South Africa—and Liverpool at Christmas time (for to–day is Christmas
Eve). A banquet lunch of five hundred in the Feather Market, and a
dinner at the club at night. Torchlight procession, bands, and “waits.”
The whole town—with deputations, too, from all the other “Eastern
Province” towns—was keen to do him and Sir Frederick honour; and we,
the staff, came in for the full benefit of reflected hospitality. They
did us royally! But the genuineness of the feeling towards Rhodes was
unmistakable and impressive. It was not a gust of got–up welcome,
but a spontaneous burst of enthusiasm, in a place that formerly was
distinctly hostile to him. He made five separate speeches in the course
of the day—all characteristic.
_Christmas Day._—From the rush and whirl of yesterday, one woke to
absolute peace in a bright, English–looking bedroom, looking on an
English garden with a something more than English wealth of flowers.
One could not stay in bed on such a cheerful, sunny morning. After
a grand fresh–water tub, Vyvyan and I sallied out to stretch our
legs. We started at half–past eight, and only returned ravenous to
the club three hours later, after walking out and round the whole
of Port Elizabeth. Our walk showed us the miles of busy railway and
shipping–wharves, and the stores along the sea–front. Then, by mutual
consent, we got out on to the veldt outside the town, both impelled
by the same object, viz. to get our coats off. The feeling of sleeves
on our arms, when we had been going bare–armed for months, was too
irritating to be borne; so we offed coats, rolled up our sleeves, and
were happy on the open, breezy racecourse downs, with views of inland
veldt and mountains. Then the Park and Botanical Gardens; and the upper
town, with avenues of pretty suburban houses, deep sunk in their shady
verandahs, with their trim and flowery gardens. In every other one,
jolly English children were playing about, and raising their cheery
shouts. I only thought how good an object lesson it would be to ship a
load of “Little Englanders” out even to this spot alone, just to open
their eyes to what a busy, homely colony it is (and yet it is only one
of many), and to see what an enormous future generation of strapping
colonists is growing up in the glorious sunlight here, for the service
of their mother–country.
After breakfast to church. Everything exactly ordered as if at home:
the Christmas Day choral service, with a good choir and a fine organ.
And as the anthem of peace and goodwill rolled forth, it brought home
to one the fact that a year of strife in savage wilds had now been
weathered to a peaceful close.
_L’ENVOI._
There is little more to add.
That night we were on the ocean steamer _Moor_. Two days later found us
at the Cape.
_2nd January._—Table Mountain grows grander and more living every time
I see him. His personality grows on one, like that of the Taj Mahal
at Agra. I can quite understand certain races worshipping a mountain
as their idea of Divinity. Always steadfast and stupendous. You may
turn your back on Him and wander away for a while; but whenever you
choose to look back, He is there, the same as ever. You have only to
go back into His shadow, to find a haven from the chilling wind or
withering sun. And you may climb up to Him, to where He sits above the
clouds,—which is feasible in proportion to the state of training you
are in,—and when you have reached the summit, you can lay you down in
peace upon His breast, and contemplate the world below which you have
left behind.
_6th January._—Cape Town is very busy now, with crowded streets, big
shops, electric lighting everywhere, electric trams cavorting through
the streets and out to Claremont: such a change from the sleepy,
old–world place it used to be. It is much _en fête_ for Rhodes.
To–day we embarked on the _Dunvegan Castle_ (Captain Robinson);
splendid new boat. Also on board Cecil Rhodes, Miss Rhodes, and Colonel
Frank Rhodes; Lady Grey and Lady Victoria Grey; Sir C. Metcalfe; Olive
Schreiner and her husband; Lord C. Bentinck; Hon. J. Ward, M.P.;
Rochfort Maguire and his wife; Wilson Tod and Critchley, 4th Hussars;
“Bob” Coryndon (also styled Selous the Second), Ronny Moncreiffe, Sir
Horace MacMahon, and Eustace Blewitt, etc. etc., and hardly any Jews! A
most interesting shipload.
And we left the Cape and its old mountain bathed in the glow of its
summer sun—sorry, and yet glad, to go.
A good deck cabin, and the many comforts of Sir Donald Currie’s finest
ship, coupled with the varied cheery company on board, made the time
fly by. We slipped past Cape de Verd on the 13th, and Madeira at night
on the 18th.
_27th January._—It is a day to be remembered, is that of a return from
foreign parts.
[Illustration: DOLCE FAR NIENTE
General Sir F. Carrington and Mr. Cecil Rhodes on the homeward voyage
_N.B._—A lady critic has written to say that although not an admirer of
my sketches generally, in this instance she is pleased with “Rhodes’
feet”!]
As we head into the green heights around Plymouth, there is one excited
old Colonist, buttonholing everyone in turn, shouting with eager irony,
“Saw you ever veldt like yon green hills?” And as a fog of driving
sleet bursts like a blizzard on us, a mad heart–choking cheer goes up
of joy to see real snow again.
A little red–bearded Scottish missionary is dancing wildly about the
deck, with his coat–tails flying, yelling, “Man! I haena seen the snaw
for twenty years!”
Why does not some one laugh at him? We can’t.
We are back once more in the yellow fog and the grimy slush of thawing
snow in dear old, same old England.
Then, from the rushing hum of the special train, through the roar of
the sloppy, lamp–lit streets, to the comfort and warmth—of Home.
PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This was not intended for publication, and if it should happen
to meet the eye of the gentleman alluded to, I trust he will be
magnanimous enough not to sue me for libel—especially as I make the
statement believing it to be true.
[2] A more detailed account of the operations in the Matopos—together
with a complete and interesting description of the organisation and
work of the Matabeleland Relief Force—will be found in Lieut.–Colonel
Plumer’s book, _An Irregular Corps in Matabeleland_.
[3] See map of Shangani column, p. 304.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Matabele Campaign, by R. S. S. Baden-Powell