The Matabele Campaign. Baden-Powell of Gilwell Robert Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powell

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

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This was not intended for publication, and if it should happen to meet the eye of the gentleman alluded to, I trust he will be magnanimous enough not to sue me for libel – especially as I make the statement believing it to be true.