The Matabele Campaign (1896)
Colonel R. S. S. Baden Powell

Baden-Powell in South Africa, 1896

CHAPTER III.
OUR WORK AT Bulawayo.

Organization of supply and transport—The Volunteer troops—Experiences on patrol—Sir Charles Metcalfe reports the enemy just outside the town—The first sight of the enemy—Fight on the Umgusa River, 6th June—Maurice Gifford—Reconnaissance of the Inugu stronghold—Burnham the Scout—Rebellion breaks out in Mashonaland—The difficulties of supply—The humours of official correspondence—Colonel Spreckley writ down an ass—Colonials would serve under Sir Frederick Carrington, but not under the ordinary Imperial officer.

4th June.—Office work from early morning till late at night. To say there is plenty of work to be done does not describe the mountain looming before us. The more we investigate into such questions as the force and strong points of the enemy, and the resources at our command wherewith to tackle him, the more huge and hopeless seems the problem.

Our force is far too small adequately to cope with so numerous and fairly well-armed an enemy, with well-nigh impregnable strongholds to fall back on, and with his supply and transport train ample and effective —as furnished by his wives and children.

Our force, bold as it is, is far too small, and yet we cannot increase it by a man, for the simple reason that if we did, we could not find the wherewithal to feed it. There is practically no reserve of food in the country, rinderpest has suddenly destroyed the means of bringing it, and here we lie, separated from the railway by a sandy road 587 miles in length!

Nor on the spot has any adequate provision been made to meet the future wants of the small force we have. All the food-stuffs in the place have been brought together, and the commissariat organization and system has so far amounted to showing to an officer requiring rations for his troop a pile of stores, with “There you are! Take what you want.”

One of the first steps has been to telegraph for Colonel Bridge, who bad been left at Mafeking, to come and organize a system of transport and supply. Then we have to make a medical staff and an ordnance department.

In the meantime three columns are organized, and such provision as is possible is being made for their supply for patrols of about three weeks’ duration, to the northward of Bulawayo. And we hope to start them off tomorrow.

During the brief intervals from office work for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, one has most interesting glimpses of the sunny street, crowded with throngs of “swashbucklers,” each man more picturesque than— his neighbour. Cow­boy hat, with puggree of the colour of his corps, short-sleeved canvas shirt, cord breeches, and puttees, with bandolier across his chest, and pistol on his hip, is approximately the kit of every man you meet. The strong brown arms and sunburnt faces, the bold and springy gait, all show them soldiers, ready-made and ripe for any kind of work. Good shots and riders, and very much at home upon the veldt, no wonder that they form a “useful crew"—especially when led, as they are, by men of their own kidney.

Among the leaders are Mickey MacFarlane, erstwhile the dandy lancer, now a bearded buccaneer and good soldier all the time; Selous, the hunter—pioneer of Matabeleland; Napier and Spreckley, the light-hearted blade, who is nevertheless possessed of profound and business-like capacity; Beal, Laing, and Robertson, cool, level-headed Scotsmen with a military training; George Grey, “Charlie” White, and Maurice Gifford, for whom rough miners and impetuous cowboys work like well-broken hounds.

Indeed, the Volunteer troops seem to have thoroughly adapted themselves to the routine of soldiering, as well as to the more exciting demands of the field of action.

Night guards, daily standing to arms before sunrise, patrols, and other un­congenial duties are all carried out with greatest regularity; but the following amusing account of a morning patrol which appeared in the Matabele Times this week shows some of the drawbacks under which they carry on their work:—

“Standing to arms at 4 a.m. is not in itself a joy, but its cruelty is accen­tuated when the troop orderly takes that opportunity of informing you that you are to leave the laager at 5.30 and go on patrol to Matabele Wilson’s, in company of three other unfortunates, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the road be clear travelling.

“On the occasion of which I write this was my fate, and our little party, with noses that needed constant attention with a handkerchief, and numbed fingers clasping cold rifles, stood shivering outside the stable gates, viewing life despondently and swearing at the remount staff. All things, pleasant and otherwise, have an end, and at last, in response to frequent knocks, the gate opened, and we followed a depressed-looking official to where four alleged horses, with drooping heads and downcast mien, disconsolately champed the half-ton of rusty iron which South Africans call a bit, and dreamed of oats. Each man chose a horse, and with the assistance of sundry stable-boys induced him to leave his empty manger and move wearily out into the street. Here great care was necessary in mounting, as it was yet to be ascertained whether the crocks could stand up straight under the weight of a rider, but at last we fell in, and by dint of spur and rein reached the laager.

“The corporal in charge of the patrol then went to wake up the orderly officer and get his orders, and my horse edged sideways towards the wind­mill; he wanted — something to lean against. By-and-by out comes the corporal, we awakened our mounts, and started.  Our orders are to go out to Wilson’s and meet a patrol from the Khami River, then return to town, and “You’re not to gallop all the way,” added the corporal. We at once said we wouldn’t, and just then one of the horses fell down in endeavouring to step over a gutter. We dismounted and put the turn-out on its feet again, and proceeded.

“Just past the Dutch laager some one said, “By Jove, the laager smells peculiar.” Another man said, “Yes, the big laager is just the same.” We passed a bush and struck the source of the odour, a dead ox; and promptly apologized to the laagers.

“All went well for a mile or so, and the corporal says, “Let’s have a trot.” We rammed in the spurs and shook the reins; one, horse started a feeble lolloping trot which he maintained for at least twenty yards before he fell down; two horses shook their heads and whisked their tails, but took no further notice of the appeal for more speed; and the fourth, a grey, with fine prominent points, stopped dead short. We all passed a few remarks about the gentlemen who had selected the horses for duty, and resumed our wonted “crawl march.”

“More rinderpest, and my horse made a movement as if to lean against the smell, but it was too strong for him, and he moved on, to prevent being knocked over. On passing dead horses and cattle we used to draw in a long breath and endeavour to spur up a trot that would carry us out of range, before we were again compelled to breathe or “bust,” but our horses used generally to land us in the middle of the stink and then pull up. You would see a man get black in the face trying to hold his breath, and at last have to burst out and refill his lungs with the very richest of the odour.

“Passing the remains of the kraal where the transport riders, Potgieter and his mate, were murdered, we saw the heaps of earth piled over the victims’ bodies. Here one of our number dismounted to light his pipe. This was the last we saw of him; he never caught up, though we only walked our horses; and he finally rolled up at the fort, half an hour after we had arrived, on foot, having tied his horse on to a tree. He said he found it considerably easier walking.

"Dawson‘s Fort is splendidly placed, and commands a fine view of the surrounding country; the walls are built up with stone topped with two courses of sandbags, shelter for the garrison being afforded by sails; permanent running water passes the foot of the hill.

“A number of donkey waggons were outspanned on the road beneath the fort, and out by Wilson’s house, where now a hotel flourishes with the success usual in Matabeleland, we could see the coolies working in the gardens, planting to renew the crops of vegetables reaped with zeal and thoroughness by troops and travellers evidently determined that the enemy shouldn’t have them any way. Rinderpest is very much in evidence round the fort, and oxen lie dead literally in troops, long regular lines of carcasses lying together.

“At the foot of the hill leading to the fort one of the horses gave out altogether, having clean knocked up in five miles of travelling, the whole of which was done at a walking pace.

“If the loudly expressed wishes of the unfortunate Wight who had to walk and carry a heavy rifle from Wilson’s to Bulawayo under a hot sun, have any effect on the official who was responsible for sending horses barely strong enough to move their own shadows on a duty in the course of which speed might have been necessary to save their riders’ lives, he will some day find himself on a weak horse as per sample supplied to us, and a score of Matabeles with sharp assegais and a taste for fancy experiments in the torture line after him, with the certainty that he will have to get off and try his individual sprinting powers before reaching a place of safety. Not that there could be the least spice of danger between here and Wilson’s, but that the official who would allow horses which to the most unversed eye are only fit for the sick lines to leave the stable at all, would just as readily send the same variety of mounts on hazardous service.”

5th June. — Colonel Plumer’s column, 460 strong, moved off to the country of the Guai River, northwest of Bulawayo. And Macfarlane’s column of 400 went away to the north. Spreckley’s column was to make its start next day, but the unexpected happened to prevent it.

At ten o’clock at night, just as Sir Frederick was thinking we had done enough office work for the day, Sir Charles Metcalfe and the American scout Burnham rode up and came into the office, looking a bit dishevelled and torn. They had been riding out in the evening to visit Colonel Beal’s column from Salisbury, which was camped about three miles out of the town.

Seeing fires close to the road, and near to where they thought the camp must be, they had ridden up to them, and found themselves in the camp of a large impi of the enemy. They only escaped by making their way home by a detour through the bush. The news seemed almost too improbable to be true, and yet the bearers of it were not men to get excited and bring in a false report. So I telephoned to a piquet we had at Government House (about two miles out of town) to send a patrol to investigate. But the subsequent reports were not wholly satisfactory, and I roused up Spreckley in the middle of the night to show me the way, and we rather upset the sleep of the inhabitants of Government House by appearing there to make further inquiries at about three in the morning. Nothing satisfactory to be learned there; so back to Bulawayo, and, getting a fresh horse and a police-trooper as guide, I went out again towards Beal’s camp.

There, in the early dawn, I was at last able to see the enemy clear enough. On the opposite bank of the Umgusa River they were camped in long lines, fires burning merrily, and parties of them going to and from the stream for water. I took my information on to Beal’s camp. I was much taken with the coolness with which the news was received there. It was not above two miles and a half from that of the enemy. The men were ordered to get their breakfasts without delay, and a patrol of a sergeant and two men was sent out to the stream to see if there were good water there, and also (apparently as an afterthought) whether they, too, could see any enemy there. Before we had finished breakfast they returned.

“Well, is it all right? Is there water there?” “Yes.”

“Is it good water?” “I couldn’t tell.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Matabele were there, and wouldn’t let us come near.”

So we saddled up and moved off towards the spot to await the arrival of more troops from Bulawayo, for I had sent my police-trooper back with a note to tell them there that “it was good enough,” and asking that Spreckley’s mounted column should be sent out to join us. Presently they came up, followed by a few volunteers in carts who wanted to join in the fun.

Our strength was 250 mounted men, with two guns and an ambulance. The country was undulating veldt covered with brush, through which a line of mounted men could move at open files.

As we advanced, we formed into line, with both flanks thrown well forward—especially the right flank under Beal, which was to work round in rear of the enemy on to their line of retreat—a duty which was most successfully carried out. The central part of the line then advanced at a trot straight for the enemy’s position.

The enemy were about 1,200 strong, we afterwards found out. They did not seem very excited at our advance, but all stood looking as we crossed the Umgusa stream, but as we began to breast the slope on their side of it, and on which their camp lay, they became exceedingly lively, and were soon running like ants to take post in good positions at the edge of a long belt of thicker bush. We afterwards found that their apathy at first was due to a message from the M’limo, who had instructed them to approach and to draw out the garrison, and to get us to cross the Umgusa, because he (the M’limo) would then cause the stream to open and swallow up every man of us. After which the impi would have nothing to do but walk into Bulawayo and cut up the women and children at their leisure. But something had gone wrong with the M’limo’s machinery, and we crossed the stream without any contretemps. So, as we got nearer to the swarm of black heads among the grass and bushes, their rifles began to pop and their bullets to flit past with a weird little “phit,” “phit,” or a jet of dust and a shrill “wh-e-e-e-w” where they ricocheted off the ground. Some of our men, accustomed to mounted infantry work, were now for jumping off to return the fire, but the order was given: “No; make a cavalry fight of it. Forward! Gallop!”

The Umgusa Fight – June 6th Our line of 200 men, in attacking the enemy 1200 strong, did not stop to fire, but charged right into them, which so unnerved them that they broke up and fled, and were pursued for five miles, losing nearly 200 killed.

Then, as we came up close, the natives let us have an irregular, rackety volley, and in another moment we were among them. They did not wait, but one and all they turned to fly, dodging in among the bushes, loading as they ran. And we were close upon their heels. zigzagging through the thorns, jumping off now and then, or pulling up, to fire a shot (we had not a sword among us, worse luck!), and on again.

The men that I was with—Grey’s Scouts—never seemed to miss a shot. The Matabele as they ran kept stopping behind bushes to fire. Now and again they tried to rally, but whenever a clump of them began to form or tried to stand, we went at them with a whoop and a yell, and both spurs in, and sent them flying. Of course, besides their guns they had their assegais. Several of our horses got some wounds, and one man got a horrid stab straight into his stomach. I saw another of our men fling himself onto a Kafir who was stabbing at him; together they rolled on the ground, and in a twinkling the white man had twisted the spear from its owner’s hand, and after. a short, sharp tussle, he drove it through the other’s heart.

In one place one of the men got somewhat detached from the rest, and came on a bunch of eight of the enemy. These fired on him and killed his horse, but he himself was up in trice, and, using magazine fire, he let them have it with such effect that before they could close on him with their clubs and assegais, he had floored half their number, and the rest just turned and fled. And farther on a horse was shot, and, in the fall, his rider stunned. The natives came looping up, grinning at the anticipated bloodshed, but Sergeant Farley, of Grey’s Scouts, was there before them, and hoisting up his comrade on to his horse, got hire safe away.

Everywhere one found the Kafirs creeping into bushes, where they lay low till some of us came by, and then they loosed off their guns at us after we had passed.

Eight to one One of our men came on a party of eight enemy. They shot his horse, but he was himself up in a moment, and, opening magazine fire on them, quickly killed or dispersed his assailants.

I had my Colt’s repeater with me with only six cartridges in the magazine, and soon I found I had finished these—so, throwing it under a peculiar tree, where I might find it again, I went on with my revolver. Presently I came on an open stretch of around, and about eighty yards before me was a Kafir with a Martini-Henry. He saw me and dropped on one knee and drew a steady bead on me. I felt so indignant at this that I rode at him as hard as I could go, calling him every name under the sun; he aimed,—for an hour, it seemed to me,—and it was quite a relief when at last he fired, at about ten yards distance, and still more of a relief when I realized he had clean missed me. Then he jumped up and turned to run, but he had not gone two paces when he cringed as if some one had slapped him hard on the back, then his head dropped and his heels flew up, and he fell smack on his face, shot by one of our men behind me.

At last I called a halt. Our horses were done, the natives were all scattered, and there were almost as many left behind us hiding in bushes as there were running on in front.

A few minutes spent in breathing the horses, and a vast amount of jabber and chaff, and then wt reformed the line and re­turned at a walk, clearing the bush as we went.

I had one shave. I went to help two men  who were fighting a Kafir at the foot of a tree, but they killed him just as I got there. I was undo the tree when something moving over my head caught my attention. It was a gun-barrel taking aim down at me, the firer jammed so close to the tree-stem as to look like part of it. Before I could move he fired, and just ploughed into the ground at my feet. He did not remain much longer in the tree. I have his knobkerrie and his photo now as mementoes.

At length we mustered again at our starting-point, where the guns and ambulance had been left. We found that, apart from small scratches and contusions, we had only four men badly wounded. One poor fellow had his thigh smashed by a ball from an elephant gun, from which he afterwards died. Another had two bullets in his back. Four horses had been killed.

And the blow dealt to the enemy was a most important one. A prisoner told us that the impi was composed of picked men from all the chief regiments of the rebel forces, and that a great number of the chiefs were present at the fight.

[P.S.—We learned some months afterwards from refugees and surrendered rebels that this was true, and that no less than fifteen headmen had been killed, as well as more than two hundred of their men.]

Of course this wag a very one-sided fight, and it sounds rather brutal to anyone reading in cold blood how we hunted them without giving them a chance—but it must be remembered we were but 250 against at least 1200. Lord Wolseley says—when you get natives on the run, keep them on the run (this we did, for half a mile beyond the spot where we pulled up, Beal with his column cut in from the flank and bashed them from a new direction), and our only chance of bringing the war to a speedy end is to go for them whenever we get the chance, and hit as hard as ever we can: any hesitation or softness is construed by them as a sign of weakness, and at once restores their confidence and courage. They expect no quarter, because, as they admit themselves, they have gone beyond their own etiquette of war, and have killed our women and children. We found one wounded man who had hanged himself after the fight. This is not an uncommon occurrence in these fights.

[P.S.—I did not at the time fully realize the extraordinary bloodthirsty rage of some of our men when they got hand to hand with the Kafirs, but I not only understood it, but felt it to the full myself later on, when I too had seen those English girls lying horribly mutilated, and the little white children with the life smashed and beaten out of them by laughing black fiends, who knew no mercy.]

Don’t think from these remarks that I am a regular native-hater, for I am not. I have met lots of good friends among them—especially among the Zulus. But, however good they may be, they must, as a people, be ruled with a hand of iron in a velvet glove; and if they writhe under it, and don’t understand the force of it, it is of no use to add more padding—you must take off the glove for a moment and show them the hand. They will then understand and obey. In the present instance they had been rash enough to pull off the glove for themselves, and were now beginning to find out what the hand was made of.

After the fight I made tracks for Bulawayo, got in in time for late lunch, made up for lost time in the office, and was quite ready to go to bed soon after dinner. But I called in at the club on my way, to have a peep at the wonderfully picturesque collection of warriors, who were, many of them,­ most of them in fact, still in their fighting-kit (for many had no other), talking over the day’s doings.

7th June.—Rode out early, with a police-orderly to guide me, to inspect the fort at Hope Fountain, ten miles south of Bulawayo, from which one could just see the tops of Matopo Mountains, in which so many of the rebel chiefs are said to be taking up their position. This fort had been attacked about ten days ago, but the enemy never came on with any boldness, and drew off after losing eleven killed. The mission station close by, a very pretty little homestead with nice gardens and trees, had been looted and burnt by the rebels.

I got back to Bulawayo just in time to see Spreckley’s column march off to patrol the country northeast of Bulawayo. A fine body of 400 of the roughest, most workman-like fighters one could wish to see. It comprised both infantry and mounted infantry, artillery, and a levy of wild-looking friendly Matabele. In the afternoon I rode over yesterday’s battlefield with Vyvyan, recovered my gun,—which, by the way, Sir Frederick has christened “Rodney,”—and photographed the chap who potted me out of the tree.

8th and 9th June.—Office work from early morning up to late at night.

10th June.—Lunched with Maurice Gifford, who had lost his arm in one of the first fights of the war. He is not really in a fit state to be about,—it still hurts him badly, poor chap, and. he is a bit feverish,—but quite anxious to have another go at the enemy. He says he feels the pain as if it were in his hand, whereas the arm was taken off at the shoulder.

News came in from MacFarlane of a skirmish he had had near Redbank. In the afternoon I rode out with Vyvyan to Tabas’ Induna, a flat-topped hill that stands up bold and abruptly out of the sea-like veldt ten miles from Bulawayo. It was the place of execution for many of Lobengula’s Indunas. Beautiful view from the top over a widespread yellow prairie, with sharp blue mountains on the horizon.

11th June.—The hospital, which has a number of wounded men among its sick, stands away at one corner of the town, and is fortified and garrisoned in case of attack. Eight nuns work their lives out nursing there, and the men, if not demonstrative, are to the full appreciative and grateful, and would do anything for them.

Close to the hospital, on a rise, stands the “Eiffel Tower”: a skeleton lookout tower about eighty feet high, from which the country round for many miles can be watched. The look-out man today says he can see a fight going on in the far distance to the north, apparently somewhere in MacFarlane’s direction.

De Moleyns, adjutant of the 4th Hussars, arrived from England, anxious for a job, and we took him on as head of the Remount Department.

12th June.—Office as per usual. But vague rumours of what the enemy are doing in the Matopos made me impatient, especially owing to their vagueness. So in the evening I started off with Burnham, the American scout, to go and investigate. Delightful night ride to Kami Fort, sixteen miles southwest of Bulawayo. Jam, cookies, and tea with the two officers there, and a few hours’ sleep on that best of beds—the veldt tempered with a blanket and a saddle.

13th June.—At 4 a.m. we were off again, Burnham and I and Trooper Bradley of the Mounted Police, who knew this part of the country well.

We got to Mabukutwane Fort—one of the natural koppies strengthened with sandbags, &c.—in time for breakfast. Here we found some excitement, as a transport rider in charge of waggons had just come in from the road, reporting that he had been fired on by Matabele about two miles out. A patrol was sent out, and we sent warnings to waggons and to the coach, which was due to pass today, telling them to wait at the fort till the road had been reconnoitred. It ended in nothing—the patrol returned, having found no Matabele nor any spoor of them.

So, having been joined by Taylor, the Native Commissioner, we rode off across the veldt towards the Matopos, some six miles distant from the fort. On arriving at Mapisa’s Kraal, a friendly chief, we off-saddled our horses (but never let our guns out of our hands, for even friendlies are not to be too blindly trusted), and, taking two or three of his scouts with us, we climbed up into some koppies which commanded a view of the enemy’s position, and of the Matopos generally. Awful country, a weird, jumbled mass of grey granite boulders thickly interspersed with bush, and great jagged mountains.

The Matabele had never before been reduced to the necessity of taking to these mountain fastnesses, but they were the regular refuge of the Makalakas, the original inhabitants of the country, when raided by their Matabele con­querors. This particular stronghold before us, the Inugu Mountain, with its neighbouring gorges and its labyrinths of caves, had been chosen by Lobengula as the safest refuge in the country, and consequently he had made it the home of his favourite queen, Famona.

Inugu mountain stronghold Near the western end of the Matopos, and occupied by about fifteen hundred rebels. Their plan was to induce us to enter the gorge near Famona’s Kraals, and then to hold the entrance, and cut off our retreat.

It is now held by an impi of about a thousand Matabele. Their outposts, in talking with some of Mapisa’s spies (they shout to each other at a safe distance across a valley), have said that they mean to draw the white troops on when they come to attack them, till they have got them well inside the gorge under the mountain, and then to “give them snuff.”

[P.S.—A month later, as will presently be seen, they tried this on with Laing’s and Nicholson’s columns.]

While we were staring our eyes out at the position, taking bearings, and making sketches, &c., I suddenly saw a distant cow, and, by getting on to a better rock, I soon discovered a herd of cattle feeding in the valley below the enemy’s position. Here was a chance for a lark—to mount, swoop down, and round up the cattle under their very noses, before they had time to interfere! But to my surprise, on mooting the idea, the natives with us let out that these cattle did not belong to the enemy, but to another friendly chief, Farko, who lived near by.

That the enemy should leave these cattle untouched was a revelation to me, and I then saw that the so-called friendlies were on pretty good terms with the rebels. But for this chance eye-opener—of having, in the first in­stance, seen a solitary cow in the distance—I might have been led to trust to friendlies and their reports. It was well I didn’t.

Having seen all we could, and made a map, Burnham and I started out for home; reached Kami in the middle of the night, and early neat day were back in Bulawayo.

scout burnham The American scout, of much experience both among Red Indians and Matabele.

Burnham a most delightful com­panion on such a trip; amusing, in­teresting, and most instructive. Having seen service against the Red Indians, he brings quite a new experience to bear on the scouting work here. And, while he talks away, there’s not a thing escapes his quick-roving eye, whether it is on the horizon or at his feet. We got on well together, and he much approved of the results of your early development in me of the art of “inductive reasoning”—in fact, before we had examined and worried out many little indications in the course of our ride, he had nicknamed me “Sherlock Holmes.”

[P.S.—We planned to do much scouting together in the future, but, unfortunately, it never came off, as he was soon” afterwards compelled, for domestic reasons, to go down country.]

The following is an extract from a business-like offer I received today ­one of the developments of war in modern times:­

“A and B, certified engineers, wish to place our services at the disposal of the Chartered Company in any offensive or defensive operations against the rebels. Speciality-Construction of forts, bridges, and dynamite operations. References,” &c., &c.

It is another step towards carrying on war by contract.

14th and 15th June.—Office again, up till late into the night. Colonel Bridge arrived with his staff-clerks, and much relieved our pressure of work by taking over the commissariat and transport arrangements, which are our main anxiety. Indeed, we are on half-rations of tinned meat now; fresh meat unprocurable, and prospects of immediate further supply rather vague.

16th June.—Yesterday, with the arrival of Colonel Bridge, our clouds seemed to be lightening up a bit. Today a thunderclap has come. Telegrams from Salisbury (sent round by Victoria and Macloutsie, owing to the direct wire being cut) tell us of murders of whites in three widely separate parts of Mashonaland. It almost looks as though the Matabele rebellion were repeating itself there. If so, the outlook is very bad indeed. Salisbury is 270 miles from here by road. We have here a number of troops who were sent from Salisbury to help us, and now their want will be acutely felt over there. In Mashonaland they have only one line of road to the coast for their supplies, and if that gets cut, we cannot help them; we have not sufficient for ourselves.

Indeed, if we cannot manage to get up immense supplies within the next two or three months (it takes over a month for a mule-wagon to get here from Mafeking), I don’t see how we are going to hold onto the country. The rains may set in in October, and, once they have begun, the transport of supplies and troops becomes impossible; the veldt becomes a bog, and the rivers rise into turgid torrents.

Our only chance of maintaining our hold on the country is to plan outlying posts, and to fill them up with a sufficient stock of food to keep them throughout the four months of the rainy season. And, in the mean­time, we must also thoroughly smash up the enemy.

Owing to rinderpest, it seems almost impossible to get sufficient waggons in Cape Colony to bring up the required supplies. So that we’re in a quandary. Either we smash up the enemy, and get up supplies for outlying posts before the rains come on, or else have draw in our horns, con­centrate nearer to our base, organizing all measures for a real effective campaign directly the rains are over. But the loss of prestige, of time, and of property involved in this second course would be deplorable, so we mean to have a good try to gain the first, and win the race against weather, rinderpest, and other bad luck.

17th June.—Having heard of some Matabele firing on a party of our men, about three miles out on the Salisbury Road, yesterday, De Moleyns and I took an early morning ride with one of the morning patrols. Started in the dark at 4 a.m., and moved out along that road. Presently we came upon an armed native squatting at the roadside, so muffled up in a blanket and a sack that he did not hear us coming. We captured him, and then found that he was a sentry of one of our own outlying “Cape Boys” piquets.

A Cape Boy Sentry During a night patrol we came on a Cape Boy wrapped in a blanket. whom at first we took to be an armed native. We asked who he was. He replied, "A sentry." "Where is your piquet (support)? "Ticket?" said he, misunderstanding. "I don’t carry a ticket. I am a soldier."

I said to him, “Where is your piquet?”

He replied, with much haughtiness, “I not carry a ticket; I am soldier!”

[Explanation.—All ordinary natives have to carry a “ticket” or pass, so that they may not be taken up and shot as spies.]

We went on, but saw no signs of Matabele. At daybreak we got to Beal’s camp, had a cup of coffee there with Daly (formerly in the 13th), and got home in time for breakfast, much refreshed by our morning’s ride, and especially as we saw, on our way home, paauw, guinea-fowl, hares, and pheasants. Office all day.

More outbreaks telegraphed from Mashonaland. No doubt now that it is rebellion there too.

It is a curious experience sitting with Sir Richard Martin, Lord Grey, and the General, in the telegraph office, and listening to a conversation being ticked to us from Salisbury, some 800 miles away, just as if the sender (Judge Vintcent) were in the next room—the message being a string of startling details of more murders, impis gathering, heroic patrols making dashing rescues, preparations for defence, and state of food supplies and ammunition.

18th to 21st June.—Days of office—work, literally from daylight till—well, long, long after dark. Not a scrap of exercise, nor time to write ‘a letter home. Office work, however interesting it may be, would incline sometimes to become tedious, were it not for rays of humour that dart in from time to time through the overcharged cloud of routine. Here are some items that have come to us in the past few days, and which have tended to relieve the monotony of the work.

A letter from a lady, who writes direct to the General, runs as follows (she desires information as to the whereabouts of her brother):—”I apply to you direct, in preference to my brother’s commanding officer, because it is said, ‘Vant mieux s’adresser au bon Dieu qu’ a tous sex saints.’

“If anything has happened to my brother, I hold Mr. Ch—— accountable, for it, as, but for his playing lickspittle to Oom Kruger—but for his base betrayal of the Johannesburgers, which has made England the laughing stock of all her enemies, there need have been no kissing at all. Probably the poor natives hoped to be magnanimous, a la Kruger, by screwing £25,000 out of each of their prisoners, and that England would follow suit by trying our chief defenders at bar as convicts, in spite of a protesting jury.”

Then, from the officer commanding one of the outlying forts, comes a letter to say:— “. . . This being only a small fort, and no fighting to be done, I consider it only a waste of time to remain here. If you cannot place me in a position where active service can be done, I beg respectfully to submit my re­signation.” I have had many letters of that kind from various volunteer officers.

Then, from England: “Dear Sir,—Could you kindly give me any details as to the death of my brother Charles? He is supposed to have been eaten by lions about four years ago in Mashonaland.”

My orderly (a volunteer) was not to be found today when I wanted him, but a loafer, hanging about the office door, said that the orderly had left word with him that “he was going out to lunch, but would be back soon, in case he were wanted.”

One volunteer trooper, apparently anxious that the routine of soldiering should, in his corps at any rate, be carried out in its entirety, takes it upon himself to write to me as follows:­

“I beg to request that the following charges may be made the subject of inquiry by court martial:— 

“(1) I charge the orderly officer, whoever he may be, with neglect of duty, in that he did not visit the guardroom last night when I was there.

“(2) I charge the corporal of the guard with neglect of duty, in that he was absent from the guardroom at 9.32 p.m., at the Spoofery.

“(3) I charge the same corporal of the guard with not officially informing the guard that there was a prisoner in the guardroom.

“(4) I charge the corporal of the guard with using unbecoming language, in that he used the phrase, ‘Why the h-l don’t you know?’ to me.”

Another trooper, not quite so enthusiastic, writes to tell me that at his fort the drill and discipline are “heart-rending.”

An Italian surgeon writes that he is “anxious to be engaged in the British Army in Matabeleland.” He hopes that the General will “approve his generous intention,” and will “grant him the admission in the army which many persons, not more worthy than him, so easily obtain.”

Among the many interesting experiences of a campaign, carried on, as this one is, under a varied assortment of troops, is that entailed in receiving reports from officers of very diverse training. Some are verbose in the extreme, others are terse to barrenness. But the latter is a most rare fault, and may well be called a fault on the right side. As a rule, reports appear to be proportioned on an inverse ratio to work performed. The man who has done little, tries to make it ap­pear much, by means of volu­minous descrip­tion. I often feel inclined to issue printed copies, as ex­amples to officers commanding columns, of Cap­tain Walton’s celebrated de­spatch, when, under Admiral Byng, he de­stroyed the whole of the Spanish fleet off Passaro­“

“Sir,—We have taken or destroyed all the Spanish ships on this coast; number as per margin

 — Respecty yours,

G. WALTON, Capt.”

There is no superfluous verbosity there. Vyvyan ill with a very bad throat, and Ferguson away with one of the columns, so I have plenty to keep me occupied. The outbreak in Mashonaland ever spreading like wildfire, till it covers an area of 500 miles by 200—some 2000 whites against 18,000 to 20,000 blacks.

We have asked for imperial troops to be sent up without delay, both to Matabeleland and Mashonaland, only to the extent of about 500 in each country, for every nerve will have to be strained to feed even these—but we haven’t a chance of winning our race without them. It is a great relief to realize that they are on their way, bringing with them their own transport and supplies.

22nd June.—Spreckley’s column returned from its three weeks’ patrol without having found the enemy in force, but it broke up his “bits” into smaller pieces, destroyed many kraals, took prisoners, and, best of all, captured much cattle and corn.

23rd June.—Dined at Spreckley’s house in the “suburban stands,” as the wooded slope outside the town is termed. A very pretty “paper” house. These “paper” houses are common in Bulawayo—they are really wire-wove, with wooden frames, iron roofs, cardboard walls, with proper fireplaces, windows and doors, verandahs, &c. Just like a stone-built house in appear­ance, but portable; sent out from Queen Victoria Street in pieces.

Spreckley himself is an ass in one respect, namely, because he did not take up soldiering as his profession instead of gold and pioneering—success­ful though he has been in this other line. He has all the qualifications that go to make an officer above the ruck of them. Endowed with all the dash, pluck, and attractive force that make a man a born leader of men, he is also steeped in common sense, is careful in arrangement of details, and possesses a temperament that can sing “Wait till the clouds roll by” in crises where other men are tearing their hair.

Owing to all the extra work in the office due to the Mashonaland outbreak, I had been unable to go on a little expedition with Burnham. A rumour had reached us that the natives in the southwest of the country intended rising. Hitherto they had remained quiet, and the road towards Mafeking had not been stopped; but now there appeared the danger of this road being blocked, and of our supplies, &c., being cut off from us. At the western end of the Matopos lived a priest of the M’limo, and the people took their orders from him. If he now were to direct them to rise, our line of com­munications would be in great danger. So we wanted him captured. The difficulty was that if a large party went there, he would have early intimation of its coming, and would decamp in good time. So a young fellow named Armstrong, the Native Commissioner of that district, and Burnham volunteered to go alone and capture, or, if necessary, shoot him.

Today we had a telegram from Burnham giving the result of it. He had gone to Mangwe , and, accompanied only by Armstrong, he had ridden over to the cave of the local priest of the M’limo—pretended that if the M’limo would render him invulnerable to Matabele bullets he would give him a handsome reward—saw the priest begin to go through the ceremony (so there was no mistake as to his identity), and then shot him. It was a risky game, as in the next valley were camped a large number of natives who had come for a big ceremony with the M’limo the next day. But the two men got away all right, having to gallop for it. The natives never rose to stop the road.

Silencing the Oracle The M’limo is an invisible deity believed in by the Makalakas and Matabele alike. In different districts of the country are priests of the M’limo living in caves, who are consulted by the people as mouthpieces of the god. Those priests gave out the order for the rebellion. It was to prevent one of these men giving his orders that Messrs. Armstrong and Burnham endeavoured to effect his arrest, but, failing in the attempt, owing to the natives becoming alarmed, Burnham shot the priest.

26th June.—I had not been outside the office for four days, and was feeling over-boiled with the sedentary work, so after dinner I saddled up and rode off ten miles in the moonlight to Hope Fountain. Here I roused out Pyke, the officer in command. (Had lost an arm in the previous Matabele war when with Forbes’ Patrol down the Shangani after Lobengula.) He roused out Corporal Herbert, and we rode down in the dark to the Matopos, and had a very interesting look round there in the early morning. I much enjoyed it. Was back in the office by 10.30, all the better for a night out.

Pyke is one of three fine, athletic brothers who are all serving here in different corps.

This evening we had a cheery little dinner at the hotel, to which came Sir Richard Martin, Colonel and Mrs. Spreckley, Captain and Mrs. Selous, Captain and Mrs. Colenbrander—all heroes and heroines of the rebellion.

How Spreckley made us laugh, fooling around the piano as if he were just going to sing!

It is daily a source of wonder to me how the General manages to handle some of the local officers and men. Of course, with the better class it is impossible not to get on well, but there are certain individuals who to any ordinary Imperial officer would be perfectly “impossible.” Sir Frederick, however, is round them in a moment, and either coaxes or frightens them into acquiescence as the case demands; but were any general, without his personal knowledge of South Africa and its men, to attempt to take this motley force in hand, I cannot think there would be anything but friction in a very short space of time. A little tact and give-and-take properly applied reaps a good return from Colonial troops, but the slightest show of domineering or letter-of-the-regulations discipline is apt to turn them crusty and “impossible.” A very good instance of the general feeling that seems to influence the local troops is shown in the following letter which the General has received. (The writer of it leaves it to the discretion of the General where to insert commas and stops.)

“To: Mr. Frederick Carrington-General.
“Sir, Seeing in the papers and news from the North the serious phase that affairs are taking I am willing to raise by your permission a set of Good hard practical colonials here that have seen service Farmers Sons and Chuck my situation and head them off as a Yeomanry Corps I have been under you Sir in the B.B.P. (Bechuanaland Border Police) and am well acquainted with the Big gun Drill and a Good Shot with the maxim. We will consider it an honor to stand under you sir but object to eye glasses and kid gloves otherwise “
Yrs to command,
“H”

“Eyeglass and kid gloves” standing in the estimation of this and other honest yeomen of the colony for “Imperial officer.” Unfortunately the Colonials have had experience of one class or another of regular officers, which has not suited their taste, and his defects get on their nerves and impress themselves on their minds, and they are very apt to look on such individual as the type of his kind, and if they afterwards meet with others having different attributes, they merely consider them as exceptions which prove the rule. No doubt there are certain types among us, and our training and upbringing in the service are apt to gradually run us in the groove of one type or another.

The type which perhaps is most of a red rag to the Colonial is the highly trained officer, bound hand and foot by the rules of modern war, who moves his force on a matured, deliberate plan, with all minutia correctly prepared beforehand, incapable of change to meet any altered or unforeseen circum­stances, and who has a proper contempt for native foes and for colonial allies alike. And there is, on the other hand, the old-woman type, fussy, undecided, running ignorantly into dangers he wots not of; even in a subordinate position his fussiness will not allow him to be still, and so he fiddles about like a clown in the circus, running about to help everybody at everybody’s job, yet helping none.

Happily—and the Colonials here are beginning to realize it—these types are not the rule in the service, but the exception. What is now more often met with is the man who calmly smokes, yet works as hard and as keenly as the best of them.

Quick to adapt his measures to the country he is in, and ready to adopt some other than the drill-book teachings where they don’t apply with his particular foe. Understanding the principle of give-and-take without letting all run slack. The three C’s which go to make a commander—coolness, common sense, and courage—are the attributes par excellence of the proper and more usual type of the British officer. For be it understood that “coolness” stands for absence of flurry pettiness, and indecision; “common sense” for tactics, strategy, and all supply arrangements; while “courage” means the necessary dash and leadership of men.

	Colonel R. S. S. Baden-Powell. The Matabele Campaign 1896. Chapter IV. (in preparation)
	The Baden-Powell Library. A Selection of excerpts from the works of Lord Baden-Powell and works relating to his life and career.
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