THE ZULU IMPI
After burying the elephant tusks, and having taken careful notes of the
bearings and peculiarities of the country so that I might be able to
find the spot again, we proceeded on our journey. For a month or more I
trekked along the line which now divides the Orange Free State from
Griqualand West, and the Transvaal from Bechuanaland. The only
difficulties met with were such as are still common to African
travellers—occasional want of water and troubles about crossing sluits
and rivers. I remember that I outspanned on the spot where Kimberley
now stands, and had to press on again in a hurry because there was no
water. I little dreamed then that I should live to see Kimberley a
great city producing millions of pounds worth of diamonds annually, and
old Indaba-zimbi’s magic cannot have been worth so much after all, or
he would have told me.
I found the country almost entirely depopulated. Not very long before
Mosilikatze the Lion, Chaka’s General had swept across it in his
progress towards what is now Matabeleland. His footsteps were evident
enough. Time upon time I trekked up to what had evidently been the
sites of Kaffir kraals. Now the kraals were ashes and piles of tumbled
stones, and strewn about among the rank grass were the bones of
hundreds of men, women, and children, all of whom had kissed the Zulu
assegai. I remember that in one of these desolate places I found the
skull of a child in which a ground-lark had built its nest. It was the
twittering of the young birds inside that first called my attention to
it. Shortly after this we met with our second great adventure, a much
more serious and tragic one than the first.
We were trekking parallel with the Kolong river when a herd of blesbock
crossed the track. I fired at one of them and hit it behind. It
galloped about a hundred yards with the rest of the herd, then lay
down. As we were in want of meat, not having met with any game for a
few days past, I jumped on to my horse, and, telling Indaba-zimbi that
I would overtake the waggons or meet them on the further side of a rise
about an hour’s trek away, I started after the wounded buck. As soon as
I came within a hundred yards of it, however, it jumped up and ran away
as fast as though it were untouched, only to lie down again at a
distance. I followed, thinking that strength would soon fail it. This
happened three times. On the third occasion it vanished behind a ridge,
and, though by now I was out of both temper and patience, I thought I
might as well ride to the crest and see if I could get a shot at it on
the further side.
I reached the ridge, which was strewn with stones, looked over it, and
saw—a Zulu Impi!
I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Yes, there was no doubt of it. They
were halted about a thousand yards away, by the water; some were lying
down, some were cooking at fires, others were stalking about with
spears and shields in their hands; there might have been two thousand
or more of them in all. While I was wondering—and that with no little
uneasiness—what on earth they could be doing there, suddenly I heard a
wild cry to the right and left of me. I glanced first one way, then the
other. From either side a great Zulu was bearing down on me, their
broad stabbing assegais aloft, and black shields in their left hands.
The man to the right was about fifteen yards away, he to the left was
not more than ten. On they came, their fierce eyes almost starting out
of their heads, and I felt, with a cold thrill of fear, that in another
three seconds those broad “bangwans” might be buried in my vitals. On
such occasions we act, I suppose, more from instinct than from anything
else—there is no time for thought. At any rate, I dropped the reins
and, raising my gun, fired point blank at the left-hand man. The bullet
struck him in the middle of his shield, pierced it, and passed through
him, and over he rolled upon the veldt. I swung round in the saddle;
most happily my horse was accustomed to standing still when I fired
from his back, also he was so surprised that he did not know which way
to shy. The other savage was almost on me; his outstretched shield
reached the muzzle of my gun as I pulled the trigger of the left
barrel. It exploded, the warrior sprung high into the air, and fell
against my horse dead, his spear passing just in front of my face.
Without waiting to reload, or even to look if the main body of the
Zulus had seen the death of their two scouts, I turned my horse and
drove my heels into his sides. As soon as I was down the slope of the
rise I pulled a little to the right in order to intercept the waggons
before the Zulus saw them. I had not gone three hundred yards in this
new direction when, to my utter astonishment, I struck a trail marked
with waggon-wheels and the hoofs of oxen. Of waggons there must have
been at least eight, and several hundred cattle. Moreover, they had
passed within twelve hours; I could tell that by the spoor. Then I
understood; the Impi was following the track of the waggons, which, in
all probability, belonged to a party of emigrant Boers.
The spoor of the waggons ran in the direction I wished to go, so I
followed it. About a mile further on I came to the crest of a rise, and
there, about five furlongs away, I saw the waggons drawn up in a rough
laager upon the banks of the river. There, too, were my own waggons
trekking down the slope towards them.
In another five minutes I was there. The Boers—for Boers they were—were
standing about outside the little laager watching the approach of my
two waggons. I called to them, and they turned and saw me. The very
first man my eyes fell on was a Boer named Hans Botha, whom I had known
well years ago in the Cape. He was not a bad specimen of his class, but
a very restless person, with a great objection to authority, or, as he
expressed it, “a love of freedom.” He had joined a party of the
emigrant Boers some years before, but, as I learned presently, had
quarrelled with its leader, and was now trekking away into the
wilderness to found a little colony of his own. Poor fellow! It was his
last trek.
“How do you do, Meinheer Botha?” I said to him in Dutch.
The man looked at me, looked again, then, startled out of his Dutch
stolidity, cried to his wife, who was seated on the box of the waggon—
“Come here, Frau, come. Here is Allan Quatermain, the Englishman, the
son of the ‘Predicant.’ How goes it, Heer Quatermain, and what is the
news down in the Cape yonder?”
“I don’t know what the news is in the Cape, Hans,” I answered,
solemnly; “but the news here is that there is a Zulu Impi upon your
spoor and within two miles of the waggons. That I know, for I have just
shot two of their sentries,” and I showed him my empty gun.
For a moment there was a silence of astonishment, and I saw the bronzed
faces of the men turn pale beneath their tan, while one or two of the
women gave a little scream, and the children crept to their sides.
“Almighty!” cried Hans, “that must be the Umtetwa Regiment that Dingaan
sent against the Basutus, but who could not come at them because of the
marshes, and so were afraid to return to Zululand, and struck north to
join Mosilikatze.”
“Laager up, Carles! Laager up for your lives, and one of you jump on a
horse and drive in the cattle.”
At this moment my own waggons came up. Indaba-zimbi was sitting on the
box of the first, wrapped in a blanket. I called him and told him the
news.
“Ill tidings, Macumazahn,” he said; “there will be dead Boers about
to-morrow morning, but they will not attack till dawn, then they will
wipe out the laager _so!_” and he passed his hand before his mouth.
“Stop that croaking, you white-headed crow,” I said, though I knew his
words were true. What chance had a laager of ten waggons all told
against at least two thousand of the bravest savages in the world?
“Macumazahn, will you take my advice this time?” Indaba-zimbi said,
presently.
“What is it?” I asked.
“This. Leave your waggons here, jump on that horse, and let us two run
for it as hard as we can go. The Zulus won’t follow us, they will be
looking after the Boers.”
“I won’t leave the other white men,” I said; “it would be the act of a
coward. If I die, I die.”
“Very well, Macumazahn, then stay and be killed,” he answered, taking a
pinch of snuff. “Come, let us see about the waggons,” and we walked
towards the laager.
Here everything was in confusion. However, I got hold of Hans Botha and
put it to him if it would not be best to desert the waggons and make a
run for it.
“How can we do it?” he answered; “two of the women are too fat to go a
mile, one is sick in childbed, and we have only six horses among us.
Besides, if we did we should starve in the desert. No, Heer Allan, we
must fight it out with the savages, and God help us!”
“God help us, indeed. Think of the children, Hans!”
“I can’t bear to think,” he answered, in a broken voice, looking at his
own little girl, a sweet, curly-haired, blue-eyed child of six, named
Tota, whom I had often nursed as a baby. “Oh, Heer Allan, your father,
the Predicant, always warned me against trekking north, and I never
would listen to him because I thought him a cursed Englishman; now I
see my folly. Heer Allan, if you can, try to save my child from those
black devils; if you live longer than I do, or if you can’t save her,
kill her,” and he clasped my hand.
“It hasn’t come to that yet, Hans,” I said.
Then we set to work on the laager. The waggons, of which, including my
two, there were ten, were drawn into the form of a square, and the
disselboom of each securely lashed with reims to the underworks of that
in front of it. The wheels also were locked, and the space between the
ground and the bed-planks of the waggons was stuffed with branches of
the “wait-a-bit” thorn that fortunately grew near in considerable
quantities. In this way a barrier was formed of no mean strength as
against a foe unprovided with firearms, places being left for the men
to fire from. In a little over an hour everything was done that could
be done, and a discussion arose as to the disposal of the cattle, which
had been driven up close to the camp. Some of the Boers were anxious to
get them into the laager, small as it was, or at least as many of them
as it would hold. I argued strongly against this, pointing out that the
brutes would probably be seized with panic as soon as the firing began,
and trample the defenders of the laager under foot. As an alternative
plan I suggested that some of the native servants should drive the herd
along the valley of the river till they reached a friendly tribe or
some other place of safety. Of course, if the Zulus saw them they would
be taken, but the nature of the ground was favourable, and it was
possible that they might escape if they started at once. The
proposition was promptly agreed to, and, what is more, it was settled
that one Dutchman and such of the women and children as could travel
should go with them. In half an hour’s time twelve of them started with
the natives, the Boer in charge, and the cattle. Three of my own men
went with the latter, the three others and Indaba-zimbi stopped with me
in the laager.
The parting was a heart-breaking scene, upon which I do not care to
dwell. The women wept, the men groaned, and the children looked on with
scared white faces. At length they were gone, and I for one was
thankful of it. There remained in the laager seventeen white men, four
natives, the two Boer fraus who were too stout to travel, the woman in
childbed and her baby, and Hans Botha’s little daughter Tota, whom he
could not make up his mind to part with. Happily her mother was already
dead. And here I may state that ten of the women and children, together
with about half of the cattle, escaped. The Zulu Impi never saw them,
and on the third day of travel they came to the fortified place of a
Griqua chief, who sheltered them on receiving half the cattle in
payment. Thence by slow degrees they journeyed down to the Cape Colony,
reaching a civilized region within a little more than a year from the
date of the attack on the laager.
The afternoon was now drawing towards evening, but still there were no
signs of the Impi. A wild hope struck us that they might have gone on
about their business. Ever since Indaba-zimbi had heard that the
regiment was supposed to belong to the Umtetwa tribe, he had, I
noticed, been plunged in deep thought. Presently he came to me and
volunteered to go out and spy upon their movements. At first Hans Botha
was against this idea, saying that he was a “verdomde swartzel”—an
accursed black creature—and would betray us. I pointed out that there
was nothing to betray. The Zulus must know where the waggons were, but
it was important for us to gain information of their movements. So it
was agreed that Indaba-zimbi should go. I told him this. He nodded his
white lock, said “All right, Macumazahn,” and started. I noticed with
some surprise, however, that before he did so he went to the waggon and
fetched his “mouti,” or medicine, which, together with his other
magical apparatus, he always carried in a skin bag. I asked him why he
did this. He answered that it was to make himself invulnerable against
the spears of the Zulus. I did not in the least believe his
explanation, for in my heart I was sure that he meant to take the
opportunity to make a bolt of it, leaving me to my fate. I did not,
however, interfere to prevent this, for I had an affection for the old
fellow, and sincerely hoped that he might escape the doom which
overshadowed us.
So Indaba-zimbi sauntered off, and as I looked at his retreating form I
thought I should never see it again. But I was mistaken, and little
knew that he was risking his life, not for the Boers whom he hated one
and all, but for me whom in his queer way he loved.
When he had gone we completed our preparations for defence,
strengthening the waggons and the thorns beneath with earth and stones.
Then at sunset we ate and drank as heartily as we could under the
circumstances, and when we had done, Hans Botha, as head of the party,
offered up prayer to God for our preservation. It was a touching sight
to see the burly Dutchman, his hat off, his broad face lit up by the
last rays of the setting sun, praying aloud in homely, simple language
to Him who alone could save us from the spears of a cruel foe. I
remember that the last sentence of his prayer was, “Almighty, if we
must be killed, save the women and children and my little girl Tota
from the accursed Zulus, and do not let us be tortured.”
I echoed the request very earnestly in my own heart, that I know, for
in common with the others I was dreadfully afraid, and it must be
admitted not without reason.
Then the darkness came on, and we took up our appointed places each
with a rifle in his hands and peered out into the gloom in silence.
Occasionally one of the Boers would light his pipe with a brand from
the smouldering fire, and the glow of it would shine for a few moments
on his pale, anxious face.
Behind me one of the stout “fraus” lay upon the ground. Even the terror
of our position could not keep her heavy eyes from their accustomed
sleep, and she snored loudly. On the further side of her, just by the
fire, lay little Tota, wrapped in a kaross. She was asleep also, her
thumb in her mouth, and from time to time her father would come to look
at her.
So the hours wore on while we waited for the Zulus. But from my
intimate knowledge of the habits of natives I had little fear that they
would attack us at night, though, had they done so, they could have
compassed our destruction with but small loss to themselves. It is not
the habit of this people, they like to fight in the light of day—at
dawn for preference.
About eleven o’clock, just as I was nodding a little at my post, I
heard a low whistle outside the laager. Instantly I was wide awake, and
all along the line I heard the clicking of locks as the Boers cocked
their guns.
“Macumazahn,” said a voice, the voice of Indaba-zimbi, “are you there?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Then hold a light so that I can see how to climb into the laager,” he
said.
“Yah! yah! hold a light,” put in one of the Boers. “I don’t trust that
black schepsel of yours, Heer Quatermain; he may have some of his
countrymen with him.” Accordingly a lantern was produced and held
towards the voice. There was Indaba-zimbi alone. We let him into the
laager and asked him the news.
“This is the news, white men,” he said. “I waited till dark, and
creeping up to the place where the Zulus are encamped, hid myself
behind a stone and listened. They are a great regiment of Umtetwas as
Baas Botha yonder thought. They struck the spoor of the waggons three
days ago and followed it. To-night they sleep upon their spears,
to-morrow at daybreak they will attack the laager and kill everybody.
They are very bitter against the Boers, because of the battle at Blood
River and the other fights, and that is why they followed the waggons
instead of going straight north after Mosilikatze.”
A kind of groan went up from the group of listening Dutchmen.
“I tell you what it is, Heeren,” I said, “instead of waiting to be
butchered here like buck in a pitfall, let us go out now and fall upon
the Impi while it sleeps.”
This proposition excited some discussion, but in the end only one man
could be found to vote for it. Boers as a rule lack that dash which
makes great soldiers; such forlorn hopes are not in their line, and
rather than embark upon them they prefer to take their chance in a
laager, however poor that chance may be. For my own part I firmly
believe that had my advice been taken we should have routed the Zulus.
Seventeen desperate white men, armed with guns, would have produced no
small effect upon a camp of sleeping savages. But it was not taken, so
it is no use talking about it.
After that we went back to our posts, and slowly the weary night wore
on towards the dawn. Only those who have watched under similar
circumstances while they waited the advent of almost certain and cruel
death, can know the torturing suspense of those heavy hours. But they
went somehow, and at last in the far east the sky began to lighten,
while the cold breath of dawn stirred the tilts of the waggons and
chilled me to the bone. The fat Dutchwoman behind me woke with a yawn,
then, remembering all, moaned aloud, while her teeth chattered with
cold and fear. Hans Botha went to his waggon and got a bottle of peach
brandy, from which he poured into a tin pannikin, giving us each a
stiff dram, and making attempts to be cheerful as he did so. But his
affected jocularity only seemed to depress his comrades the more.
Certainly it depressed me.
Now the light was growing, and we could see some way into the mist
which still hung densely over the river, and now—ah! there it was. From
the other side of the hill, a thousand yards or more from the laager,
came a faint humming sound. It grew and grew till it gathered to a
chant—the awful war chant of the Zulus. Soon I could catch the words.
They were simple enough:
“We shall slay, we shall slay! Is it not so, my brothers?
Our spears shall blush blood-red. Is it not so, my brothers?
For we are the sucklings of Chaka, blood is our milk, my brothers.
Awake, children of the Umtetwa, awake!
The vulture wheels, the jackal sniffs the air;
Awake, children of the Umtetwa—cry aloud, ye ringed men:
There is the foe, we shall slay them. Is it not so, my brothers?
_S’gee! S’gee! S’gee!_”
Such is a rough translation of that hateful chant which to this very
day I often seem to hear. It does not look particularly imposing on
paper, but if, while he waited to be killed, the reader could have
heard it as it rolled through the still air from the throats of nearly
three thousand warriors singing all to time, he would have found it
impressive enough.
Now the shields began to appear over the brow of the rise. They came by
companies, each company about ninety strong. Altogether there were
thirty-one companies. I counted them. When all were over they formed
themselves into a triple line, then trotted down the slope towards us.
At a distance of a hundred and fifty yards or just out of the shot of
such guns as we had in those days, they halted and began singing again—
“Yonder is the kraal of the white man—a little kraal, my brothers;
We shall eat it up, we shall trample it flat, my brothers.
But where are the white man’s cattle—where are his oxen, my brothers?”
This question seemed to puzzle them a good deal, for they sang the song
again and again. At last a herald came forward, a great man with ivory
rings about his arm, and, putting his hands to his mouth, called out to
us asking where our cattle were.
Hans Botha climbed on to the top of a waggon and roared out that they
might answer that question themselves.
Then the herald called again, saying that he saw the cattle had been
sent away.
“We shall go and find the cattle,” he said, “then we shall come and
kill you, because without cattle you must stop where you are, but if we
wait to kill you before we get the cattle, they may have trekked too
far for us to follow. And if you try to run away we shall easily catch
you white men!”
This struck me as a very odd speech, for the Zulus generally attack an
enemy first and take his cattle afterwards; still, there was a certain
amount of plausibility about it. While I was still wondering what it
all might mean, the Zulus began to run past us in companies towards the
river. Suddenly a shout announced that they had found the spoor of the
cattle, and the whole Impi of them started down it at a run till they
vanished over a rise about a quarter of a mile away.
We waited for half an hour or more, but nothing could we see of them.
“Now I wonder if the devils have really gone,” said Hans Botha to me.
“It is very strange.”
“I will go and see,” said Indaba-zimbi, “if you will come with me,
Macumazahn. We can creep to the top of the ridge and look over.”
At first I hesitated, but curiosity overcame me. I was young in those
days and weary with suspense.
“Very well,” I said, “we will go.”
So we started. I had my elephant gun and ammunition. Indaba-zimbi had
his medicine bag and an assegai. We crept to the top of the rise like
sportsmen stalking a buck. The slope on the other side was strewn with
rocks, among which grew bushes and tall grass.
“They must have gone down the Donga,” I said to Indaba-zimbi, “I can’t
see one of them.”
As I spoke there came a roar of men all round me. From every rock, from
every tuft of grass rose a Zulu warrior. Before I could turn, before I
could lift a gun, I was seized and thrown.
“Hold him! Hold the White Spirit fast!” cried a voice. “Hold him, or he
will slip away like a snake. Don’t hurt him, but hold him fast. Let
Indaba-zimbi walk by his side.”
I turned on Indaba-zimbi. “You black devil, you have betrayed me!” I
cried.
“Wait and see, Macumazahn,” he answered, coolly. “Now the fight is
going to begin.”