The Matabele Campaign

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER XVII

Through Mashonaland

13th November to 2nd December

I proceed with the General to Mashonaland – A new fashionable Pastime to be found in Spooring – Charter – Our Daily Trek – Salisbury – The inevitable Alarmist Rumours and their Inventors – Celebrities in Salisbury – A Visit to the Hospital – Cecil Rhodes in Council – A Run with the Hounds, with a Check at the Telegraph Line – A Countess saves her Sewing–Machine and kills a Lion – Marshal MacMahon’s Aide–de–Camp as a Trooper in Mashonaland – The Delays incident to being at the End of a Wire – The Rains begin – The Situation in Mashonaland.

13th November.– Up early. Paid off and sorrowfully said “Good–bye” to Diamond and Umtini, my two nigger servants.

And in the afternoon the General moved on from Enkeldoorn towards Salisbury. The party consisted of Sir Frederick, Vyvyan, Ferguson, Gormley (our principal medical officer), Leech (who manages our transport), three waggons, a Cape cart, and lots of riding–horses, servants, office–clerks, etc.

This night we camped at Adlum’s Farm (the green mamba house, where I had “dined” the night before), and found Lord Grey and party also camped here on their way to Salisbury.

I had walked the march on foot, hoping to find buck, and called, coatless and dirty, just as I was, at Lord Grey’s camp in passing to our own. Lady Grey insisted on my sitting down to dinner then and there with them – and a very jolly dinner it was. It made rather a good picture when Lister held the saucepan of rice, while I helped it out to Lady Victoria, who was “asking for more.”

Lady Victoria has developed the talent for spooring, which will therefore probably become the fashionable pastime among the young ladies of this country; if not, on introduction in England, instead of the usual “Do you bike?” you will ask, “Do you spoor?”

That night I had a real good sleep, for out of the previous eighty–seven hours only sixteen had been slept, and many of the others had been expended in pretty good bodily exertion.

Sir Frederick had brought me English letters.

15th November.– Charter. One has heard of it so much, and seen it writ large in the map so often, that it comes as a surprise to find it is only a tiny laager of half a dozen waggons, round which huts are being built, ready for the rainy season. An unhealthy–looking place on low ground, beside a stagnant, muddy stream.

Here Sir Frederick, as usual, met an old friend in the first trooper he saw. “Good day, my lad. Not much of a place to be quartered in, this.”

“No, sir.”

“I have seen you before, somewhere.”