Kitabı oku: «The Matabele Campaign», sayfa 4
Our only chance of maintaining our hold on the country is to plant 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 we draw in our horns, concentrate nearer to our base, organising our 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 nigger 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.
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, ‘Vaut mieux s’adresser au bon Dieu qu’ à tons ses 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, à 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 to–day 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 anyrate, 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 guard–room 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 guard–room 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 guard–room.
“(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.”
Etc. etc. etc.
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. – Respectfully 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 realise 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 Buluwayo – they are really wire–wove, with wooden frames, iron roofs, cardboard walls, with proper fireplaces, windows and doors, verandahs, etc. Just like a stone–built house in appearance, but portable; sent out from Queen Victoria Street in pieces.
Spreckley himself is an ass1 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 south–west 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, etc., 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. To–day 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.
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 ructions 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 serous 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 minutiæ correctly prepared beforehand, incapable of change to meet any altered or unforeseen circumstances, and who has a proper contempt for nigger 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 realise 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.
CHAPTER IV
Scouting
26th June to 14th July
Single Scouts preferable to Patrols – How to conceal yourself – Skirt–Dancing a Useful Aid to evading an Enemy – The Enemy’s Ruses for catching us – The Minutiæ of Scouting – The Matopo Hills – Positions of the Enemy – A Typical Patrol – The Value of Solitary Scouting – Its Importance in Modern War – The Elementary Principles of Scouting.
14th July.– A bit of a break in the diary, not because there was nothing doing, but just the opposite.
For one thing, we have been pretty busy in sending off three small columns to the assistance of Mashonaland. And also, personally, I have been fully occupied in another way: that is, in repeating my experiences of the 26th June, and frequently by day, and very often by night, I have been back in the Matopos, locating the enemy’s positions. I go sometimes with one or two whites, sometimes with two or three black companions; but what I prefer is to go with my one nigger–boy, who can ride and spoor and can take charge of the horses while I am climbing about the rocks to get a view.
It may seem anomalous, but it is in the very smallness of the party that the elements of success and safety lie. A small party is less likely to attract attention; there are fewer to extricate or to afford a target, if we happen to get into a tight place; and I think that one is more on the alert when one is not trusting to others to keep the look–out.
Then we have a nice kind of enemy to deal with. Except on special occasions, they don’t like going about in the dark, and cannot understand anybody else doing it; and they sleep like logs, and keep little or no look–out at night. Thus one is able to pass close through their outposts in the dark, to reconnoitre their main positions in the early dawn (when they light up fires to thaw away their night’s stiffness), and then to come away by some other route than that by which you entered.
So long as you are clothed, as we are in non–conspicuous colours, you can escape detection even from their sharp eyes; but you must not move about – directly you move, they see you, and take steps to catch you. Half the battle in keeping yourself hidden, while yet seeing everything yourself, is to study the colour of your background; thus, if clothed in things that match the rocks in colour, you can boldly sit out in front of a rock, with little risk of detection, so long as you remain motionless; if you are hiding in the shadow alongside of a rock or bush, take care that your form thus darkened is not silhouetted against a light background behind you. To show even your hand on a skyline would, of course, be fatal to your concealment.
[P.S.– Do not wear any bright colours about you. I noticed that after I had been on the sick list and resumed my scouting expeditions, the enemy caught sight of me much more quickly than they used to, though I took just as much care, and remained just as motionless; and I then came to the conclusion that this was due to the fact that I had, in accordance with the doctor’s advice, taken to wearing a flannel cummerbund wound round my waist – and the only flannel at that time procurable was of a brilliant red; and this was what caught their eye.]
Of course, anything liable to glitter or shine is fatal to concealment; rifle, pistol, field–glasses, wrist–watch, buckles, and buttons should be dulled, abolished, or held in such a way as not to catch the rays of the sun by day or of the moon by night.
For efficient scouting in rocky ground, in the dry season, indiarubber–soled shoes are essential; with these you can move in absolute silence, and over rocks which, from their smoothness or inclination, would be impassable with boots.
It is almost impossible to obliterate your spoor, as, even if you brush over your footprints, the practised eye of the native tracker will read your doings by other signs; still, it is a point not to be lost sight of for a minute when getting into position for scouting, and a little walking backwards, doubling on one’s tracks over rocky ground, lighting a fire where you are not going to cook your food, or one of an hundred similar subterfuges may often relieve you from the attentions of a too–inquisitive enemy.
When they have found you watching them, they will not, as a rule, come boldly at you, fearing that you are merely a lure to draw them on into some ambuscade or trap, – for that is one of their own pet games to play, – but they will work round to get on to the track you have made in getting to your positions. Having found this, and satisfied themselves that you are practically alone, their general rule is to lie in ambush near the track, ready to catch you on your return. Naturally one never returns by the same path. (P.S.– Once I had to do it, later on, at Wedzas, when there was no other way, and nearly paid the penalty.)
Sometimes they try to shoot or to catch one; but so long as one keeps moving about, they do not seem to trust much to their marksmanship; and I have heard them shouting to each other, “Don’t shoot at the beast, catch him by the hands, catch him by the hands!” Then they would come clambering over the rocks, but clambering awkwardly – for, lithe, and active though they be, the Matabele are not good mountaineers, especially in that part of it which Montenegrins say is the most difficult (possibly because they themselves shine pre–eminently at it), namely, in getting rapidly downhill. Consequently, if one is wearing indiarubber–soled shoes (not hobnailed boots, for with them you merely skate about the slippery boulders), it is not a difficult matter to outpace them, provided you have the natural gift or requisite training for “placing” your feet. I am a fair blunderer in most things, but I was taken in hand in the days of my youth by a devotee of the art of skirt–dancing, and never, till I was forced by dark–brown two–legged circumstances to skip from rock to rock in the Matopos, did I fully realise the value of what I then learned, namely, the command of the feet.
The enemy are also full of tricks and ruses for catching us by luring us into ambuscades. Thus they will show scouts, cattle, women, and, at night, fires, in the hope of our coming close to capture or investigate, and so putting ourselves in their hands. But even if we were so simple as to be tempted, we should probably see something of their spoor which would put us on our guard. And in this respect the stupidity of the native is almost incredible; he gathers his information almost entirely by spooring, and yet it is only occasionally that he seems to remember that his own feet are all the time writing their message to his enemies. Now and again he thinks of it, and leaps across a path or sandy patch; but I suppose that, knowing the hopelessness of trying effectually to conceal his trail, he has acquired the habit of disregarding its importance.
There is naturally a strong attraction in reconnoitring, for, apart from the fun of besting the enemy, the art of scouting is in itself as interesting as any detective work.
It is almost impossible to describe all the little signs that go to make up information for one when scouting. It is like reading the page of a book. You can tell your companion – say a man who cannot read – that such and such a thing is the case.
“How do you know?” he asks.
“Because it is written here on this page.”
“Oh! How do you make that out?”
Then you proceed to spell it out to him, letters that make words, words that make sentences sentences that make sense. In the same way, in scouting, the tiniest indications, such as a few grains of displaced sand here, some bent blades of grass there, a leaf foreign to this bit of country, a buck startled from a distant thicket, the impress of a raindrop on a spoor, a single flash on the mountain–side, a far–off yelp of a dog, – all are letters in the page of information you are reading, and whose sequence and aggregate meaning, if you are a practised reader, you grasp at once without considering them as separate letters and spelling them out – except where the print happens to be particularly faint. And that is what goes to make scouting the interesting, the absorbing game that it is.
A small instance will show my meaning as to what information can be read from trifling signs.
The other day, when out with my native scout, we came on a few downtrodden blades of common grass; this led us on to footprints in a sandy patch of ground. They were those of women or boys (judging from the size) on a long journey (they wore sandals), going towards the Matopos. Suddenly my boy gave a “How!” of surprise, and ten yards off the track he picked up a leaf – it was the leaf of a tree that did not grow about here, but some ten or fifteen miles away; it was damp, and smelt of Kaffir beer. From these signs it was evident that women had been carrying beer from the place where the trees grew towards the Matopos (they stuff up the mouth of the beer–pots with leaves), and they had passed this way at four in the morning (a strong breeze had been blowing about that hour, and the leaf had evidently been blown ten yards away). This would bring them to the Matopos about five o’clock. The men would not delay to drink up the fresh beer, and would by this time be very comfortable, not to say half–stupid, and the reverse of on the qui vive; so that we were able to go and reconnoitre more nearly with impunity – all on the strength of information given by bruised grass and a leaf.
There should have been no reason for my going out to get information in this way had we had reliable native spies or fully trained white scouts. But we find that these friendly natives are especially useless, as they have neither the pluck nor the energy for the work, and at best are given to exaggerating and lying; and our white scouts, though keen and plucky as lions, have never been trained in the necessary intricacies of mapping and reporting. Thus, it has now fallen to my lot to be employed on these most interesting little expeditions.
Under present conditions we, staff and special service officers, have to turn our hand to every kind of job as occasion demands, and one man has to do the ordinary work of half a dozen different offices. It is as though, the personnel of a railway having been suddenly reduced by influenza or other plague just when the bank holiday traffic was on, a few trained staff were got from another company temporarily to work it. We find a number of porters, station–masters, cleaners, firemen, etc. available, but we have to put in a lot of odd work ourselves to make the thing run; at one minute doing the traffic management, at the next driving an engine, here superintending clearing–house business, then acting as pointsmen, and so on.
It makes it all the more interesting, and in this way I have dropped in for the scouting work.
The net result of our scouting to date is that we have got to know the nature of the country and the exact positions of the six different rebel impis in it, and of their three refuges of women and cattle. Maps have been lithographed accordingly, and issued to all officers for their guidance. These maps have sketches of the principal mountains to guide the officers in finding the positions of the enemy.
The Matopo district is a tract of intricate broken country, containing a jumble of granite–boulder mountains and bush–grown gorges, extending for some sixty miles by twenty. It lies to the south of Buluwayo, its nearest point being about twenty miles from that town. Along its northern edge, in a distance of about twenty–five miles, the six separate impis of the enemy have taken up their positions, with their women and cattle bestowed in neighbouring gorges.
On the principle “Gutta cavat lapidem non vi sed saepe cadendo,” we have taken innumerable little peeps at them, and have now “marked down” these impis and their belongings in their separate strongholds, a result that we could never have gained had we gone in strong parties.
Commencing at the western end, near the Mangwe road is the stronghold of the Inugu Mountain (see A in map), a very difficult place to tackle, with its cliffs, caves, and narrow gorges. The impi occupies the mountain, while the women and cattle are in the neighbouring Famona valley.
Five miles N.E. of this is the Chilili valley (B), in which are women and cattle of Babyan’s impi. This impi is located deep in the hills near Isibula’s Kraal on the Kantol Mountain (D); while Babyan himself, and probably the priest of the M’limo, are in a neighbouring valley at (C).
Eighteen miles to the eastward, eight miles south of Dawson’s Store on the Umzingwane River, we come to a bold peak (F), that is occupied by Inyanda’s people, with a valley behind it (E), in which are Sikombo’s women and cattle.
A couple of miles farther west, Sikombo’s impi is camped behind a dome–shaped mountain (G) close to the Tuli road.
On the west side of this road Umlugulu’s impi was stationed when we first began our reconnaissance, but he moved nearer to Sikombo at (H), with Mnyakavula close by on (K). Each impi numbered roughly between one and two thousand men. Their outposts were among the hills along the northern bank of the Umzingwana River. We used to pass between these by night, arriving near the strongholds at daybreak.
The following account, taken from the Daily Chronicle, gives an idea of what one meets with when out on reconnaissance with a patrol: —
“Is it the cooing of doves that wakes me from dreamland to the stern reality of a scrubby blanket and the cold night air of the upland veldt? A plaintive, continuous moan, moan, reminds me that I am at one of our outpost forts beyond Buluwayo, where my bedroom is under the lee of the sail (waggon tilt) which forms the wall of the hospital. And through the flimsy screen there wells the moan of a man who is dying. At last the weary wailing slowly sobs itself away, and the suffering of another mortal is ended. He is at peace. It is only another poor trooper gone. Three years ago he was costing his father so much a year at Eton; he was in the eleven, too – and all for this.
“I roll myself tighter in my dew–chilled rug, and turn to dream afresh of what a curious world I’m in. My rest is short, and time arrives for turning out, as now the moon is rising. A curious scene it is, as here in shadow, there in light, close–packed within the narrow circuit of the fort, the men are lying, muffled, deeply sleeping at their posts. It’s etiquette to move and talk as softly as we are able, and even harsh–voiced sentries drop their challenge to a whisper when there is no doubt of one’s identity. We give our horses a few handfuls of mealies, while we dip our pannikins into the great black ‘billy,’ where there’s always cocoa on the simmer for the guard. And presently we saddle up, the six of us, and lead our horses out; and close behind us follow, in a huddled, shivering file, the four native scouts, guarding among them two Matabele prisoners, handcuffed wrist to wrist, who are to be our guides.
