We started after an early breakfast. It was broiling hot by ten o’clock and I had known two hours before that dear old Bill had lost the way again; but he was so cheerful and smiling and confident that one couldn’t be angry. Hour after hour I got the same answer – ‘Wait – I’ll get it in a minute.’ It was late in the afternoon when I struck and declined to go on. The walking was very hard; there was no footpath at all, just bush, rocks, stones, dead wood, thorns and then tambookie grass twelve feet high with stems as thick as lead pencils. The grass sawed through the knees of my riding breeches and my knees were bare and bleeding; the caps on the toes of my boots were worn through by the sawing of the grass and sticks were jabbing my toes and tearing holes in the socks. We had nothing to eat and were very thirsty. Jock lay down when we stopped, picking out a bit of shade under a bush or tree, and his red tongue dangled and slobbered out about eight inches long and his eyes watched me with a queer puzzled look as if he was wondering why we did all this and not even a rifle or a shotgun with us.
I struck then and told Bill that, according to what he had told me, the Malalene Camp must be miles back near a kloof in the mountains and that it was my turn now to do the guiding and his turn to follow. He just laughed and said ‘Orright!’ At dark we struck a path, a new footpath very little used and, as we stood still to consider what to do, Jock walked very slowly along the path to the left and then stood and looked back at me. That was enough, we went after him.
About a mile or so further on, when we could no longer see the path, but just followed Jock – to whom I had signalled ‘Lead On’ – I heard him stop and then give a low growl and trot on again. A minute later we saw a light and walked into the Camp.
The three men in that Camp were old friends of mine and they knew Jock well and they welcomed the three of us. Jock was quite happy: he found some water for himself at once, had a good drink and lay down at my feet. Bill kept smiling and said nothing. Nothing happened. We had a jolly evening and I got back next day in less than an hour; and Bill, still smiling, said ‘I told you it was no distance.’
The only reason for telling you this story is to introduce you to three friends of Jock and to show you what they were like. Two were tall, wiry, powerful men with quick keen eyes and red hair; the third was a gentle looking fellow of medium height with grey eyes and darkish hair. They were partners in the new strike – a gold reef.
One of the tall men was Alan Wilson. A few years later he went to Rhodesia where he became a most gallant leader of most gallant men. When Lobengula fled from the settlers’ troops, Alan Wilson with thirty-two of his men followed up the Matabele Army of many thousands in order to capture the Matabele king and end the war. They found themselves surrounded in the night by thousands and instead of attempting to escape Alan Wilson sent one man back to tell our troops to come on while he and his company held the ground. They fought it out to the finish and were all killed where they stood, grouped on a little knoll. The Matabele told our people afterwards that before the fight began they stood up, took off their hats and ‘sang as the English sing at night’ – meaning that they sang ‘God save the Queen’. They also told us that the last man to fall was ‘the big white man with the red head and eyes like fire’. The monument to these men stands beside Cecil Rhodes’s grave in the Matopos. My brother Tom was one of Alan Wilson’s troopers but was turned out and put in hospital by Alan Wilson as they were starting, because the boy was ill with fever and could hardly sit his horse. Tom was killed in the Matabele rebellion. My son Alan, whom you know, is Alan Wilson’s godson!
The quiet one of the three partners was Knapp. The day we heard the news of Alan Wilson’s last stand, I met him in the Club. He was quiet, grave and pale as usual, but he looked grim too. As we shook hands, I said ‘Poor Old Alan’! His face flamed red up to the forehead and his usually calm eyes blazed at me as he shot out, ‘Poor!’ What would he exchange for that? Could God in Heaven grant him anything he would like better. So, although he misunderstood my words, I knew it was because he was feeling deeply that he was not with his partner that day. But his day came too and when I heard that, in the siege of Ladysmith, Knapp had led his squadron of the Imperial Light Horse (of which the third partner was then Colonel and desperately wounded) in the Long Valley fights, had saved a hard pressed force and had fallen, shot through the heart as he brought the last of them in, I knew that Knapp too had won what he would not exchange for anything and had gone to meet his old partner well content.
The third man was he whom his friends called ‘Sambo’ and who is known far and wide as Colonel Sir Aubrey Woolls-Sampson, KCB, a very distinguished soldier who has been in all the wars he could get into since he ran away from home at the age of fifteen; who has had as many adventures as would fill many books; who has been wounded so desperately three times that his life was despaired of, but who managed each time to get well enough soon enough to get into the fighting again. And of all his extraordinary adventures I give you just one to show the kind of life that Jock’s friends led and the kind of stuff of which they were made.
It was in the Sekhukhune War of 1879 in the Transvaal and Sambo must have been in his early twenties. The Kaffir Chief who had rebelled and who had beaten off the Commandos of the Old Dutch Republic was called to order by the British Government and a small force of irregular troops was sent to make him obey the law. He and his tribe retreated to his stronghold in the mountains where it was impossible to see more than a few yards at a time, and where the dense bush and gorges and rocks and caves gave the natives such cover that the troops could not get at them, or see them at all, and our men were being sniped and killed or wounded by invisible foes often at distances of ten to twenty yards. While creeping cautiously up a gully or gorge they would be surprised by a burst of fire from what looked like the solid face of rock and would find then that there was a slit of a hole somewhere, and behind this caves of unknown extent in which unknown numbers of armed natives were waiting for them. They felt that anywhere and everywhere there must be thousands of eyes watching every movement and waiting in dead silence for the chance to shoot. These natives had no modern guns, so they could not do any long range shooting, but they had, what was worse, old muzzle-loaders and large bore weapons which they loaded with slugs of lead and bits or iron. They could use these only at short range, so they waited for chances at a few yards – and the wounds were horrible.
There were many gallant attacks made and storming parties were always ready to attempt anything; but although these attempts were successful, they did not help much as the natives would give up one hill or range only to occupy another, and their knowledge of the caves and secret passages enabled them to avoid our troops, and often they would reoccupy a hill behind our men which they had been driven from a few days earlier.
In one of these storming attacks Sambo and his friend Dennison were crawling up a gully along the face of the hill where the rock stood up clear in one solid block for a great height. They reached a point where they could see over the bush for quite a distance. Lying in the grass and short bush with this vast wall beside them, they thought it was a good place for observation – a place where they could see all below them and could not be seen from anywhere. They compared notes and discussed plans in the lowest whispers, with long silences between. They had been there for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes when Sambo heard another voice – which sounded so close to his right shoulder that he switched round and put out a hand to grab the man, only to find that he was touching the great wall of rock. All Sambo and Dennison could do then was to grip their rifles, lie dead still and wait and watch. Then the voice came again: ‘Baas! Inkos!’ in a husky whisper. Then – ‘Baas Sambo! It is Jim Kukupan. It is Jim – Baas! It is Him who used to look after your horse in Pretoria!’ All this was spoken in Kaffir which Sambo understood and spoke well. Sambo looked up and down but could see nothing. Then speaking as coolly as if he had known all about it, he answered, ‘Yes! I remember you quite well, but what are you doi
ng here – where are you? Come out at once!’ Jim answered in whispers, telling Sambo to lie still, but look up where the ferns grew a few feet from his head and he would see a straw pushed out. It was the crack that they used as porthole of the big cave. He had gone home to his people to bring out his wife and children when he heard there was going to be a war, but he had been caught and compelled to fight against the white people and he and his family were hiding in the cave. It was his turn to watch at this outpost and to shoot any white man who passed the porthole, and while he was looking out he had seen and recognised his old master. He begged Sambo to let him come out with his family and surrender as he did not want to go against the white people. He could not hope to escape with his family for some days, so Sambo gave him directions where food would be left for his family, and also gave some money and wrote a pass for him to carry and to present to our sentries when he could get away.
That night the commanding officer held a council of war and decided to send a peace messenger to explain to the native chief that the English did not want to kill his people or take his land, but only to insist on his good behaviour in future. He called for volunteers, as it would be an extremely risky job going unarmed into the stronghold of a rebel native who did not understand anything about white flags or negotiations. Moreover it was essential that the messenger should understand both the language and the customs of the natives. Sambo and Dennison volunteered and were accepted. The next morning native scouts carried word of their going and by noon the Chief’s messengers met them and conducted them unarmed to the Chief’s stronghold, where they were given a hut for their use and were told to wait until morning as the King (as the natives call their chief) could not see them until then. Their horses were taken away, to be fed and watered, as the guards explained when Sambo and Dennison tried to retain them. The hut was an ordinary round native hut made of reeds and smeared with clay. It was rather larger than is usual and it was clean and new. It stood quite alone in a bare open space of about an acre, round which the huts of the chief and his followers were clustered.
When Sambo had been accepted and had received his instructions the previous evening, he had asked that word be sent to all the various posts of the force which was besieging the stronghold called Sekhukhune’s Mountain, that negotiations for surrender were in progress and that no hostile movement of any kind should take place, or anything be done which would alarm the suspicious natives and imperil the success of the mission. Unfortunately this was forgotten or not properly done, and thus, while Sambo and Dennison were on their way to the stronghold, one watchful and forgotten outpost spotted a number of natives stealing along the mountainside and half a dozen shells from the field gun, making a thousand echoes in the mountain and gorges, gave notice to all – the natives, their chief, the general and his troopers – of what had happened ‘while the white men talked peace’!
Sambo and Dennison heard the shots as they rode, unarmed and escorted by guards, through the last narrow passageway into the stronghold. There was no time to retreat, no space to turn and Sambo, putting on the boldest face and hoping for the best, rode on fearing the truth, but hoping that the shots had not been in the nature of an attack, or at worst had only scared and not hit anyone.
The position of the hut and the chief’s refusal to see them until next day were not reassuring. They did not sleep much. All through the night occasional sounds of bare feet outside and the incessant barking and howling of hundreds of mongrels let them know that any attempt to escape was hopeless. Through the cracks in the hut walls they could see the dull glow of a few fires round the open space or ‘square’ and from time to time the lights were darkened for a second by the passing of figures silently patrolling around their hut.
At the first sign of dawn they came out. A sentry showed them where they might sit – on the ground with their backs against the hut and facing the rising sun. Presently came a messenger, decorated with skins and feathers, swaggering along with springy stride and eyes aglow with a look that was far from friendly, to announce that the chief would come himself.
Half an hour passed. And then from somewhere behind the hut there came the sounds of commotion and women wailing and the tramping of many bare feet. The procession came round the hut bearing burdens and both Sambo and Dennison turned cold when they saw, laid out in line before them, the dead bodies of four women and two children.
The marksmanship of the watchful gunner had been too good; but he had mistaken the women and children going down to get food and water for men stealing round to effect a surprise attack on his post. It was impossible at that distance to distinguish. The men and women commonly wore the same blankets as cloaks – especially in the cool of day. Only an expert in native habits could have known they were women going for water and food; and the gunner was no expert – except with his gun. The natives drew aside from their dead and formed two lines, making an avenue of approach, and there was complete silence as from the far end of the open space the chief came slowly towards the hut. There was nothing kingly in the figure. The comforts and tinsel of civilisation had displaced the wild trappings of barbarism; and yet as he stood there, slightly grizzled in head and chin, the stooped figure draped in a gaudy blanket was not grotesque; and the utter calm of the fatalist in his eyes and features was more impressive far than words.
He stood for a while looking at the dead. Then for the first time his glance rested on the two envoys and he said in a quiet voice, devoid of all emotion: ‘You come with words of peace, white man, and while you talk peace this is what you do!’ And he glanced once more at the dead.
Sambo could speak their language well and knew their ways of thought. His nerve is equal to any occasion and he has the gift of expressing himself clearly and tersely. He told the simple truth with obvious sincerity and he delivered the message of his commander with the air of authority natural to him and appropriate to his position as the representative of the white chief dealing with the native. Many of the natives knew of him as a brave soldier and as a good master, and one who was not to be trifled with.
There was complete silence when his brief address ended. The old chief, whose eyes had been calmly turned on the dead, looked up after a minute’s pause and asked quietly, ‘And these who have been killed?’
‘It was not done in treachery. It was against the white chief’s orders. It was a mistake!’ Sambo replied earnestly.
Then the old chief looked him full in the eyes and with a slight uplifting motion of both to suggest the raising up, he said, ‘It was a mistake – that all! Well, make them alive again!’ And he turned slowly and walked off to his quarters.
They knew then what to expect. The chief had given the sign and from that moment on men, women and children crowded round to curse and scream and insult them. The day wore on and there was no word of another messenger to explain the shooting. The crowd dispersed at times and gathered again – ebb and flow. The two white men were allowed by the guards – who laughed at the request – to move round the hut so as to have shade from the burning sun.
One ferocious warrior, clay smeared and grotesquely bedecked, attracted their attention. Whenever the interest flagged and the crowd dispersed, this savage would dash out with assegai upraised yelling murderous threats and going through all the antics of a fury maddened maniac, rehearsing before them and over them and almost on them the barbaric rites of execution. His body streamed sweat, his lips were seamed with foam, as he plunged, leaped and darted about uttering his blood-curdling yells.
The pitiless persistence of this fiend was such that after a dozen of these dress rehearsals, during which Sambo and Dennison sat coolly watching him, never blinking an eye, even his admirers tired and at last his audience consisted of the two white men alone. The lack of appreciation, however, seemed only to stimulate him. He came at them with redoubled fury; but in the midst of a perfect avalanche of threats and curses, Sambo gave Dennison a jog and, without moving his eyes from their quiet contemplation of the e
xecutioner, said in a whisper, ‘Listen, Dennison, and don’t move. It’s Jim Kukupan!’
Little by little, in between the wild yells and threats of fearful torture, they got it all in guttural whispers. They were to die; but no one is killed within the chief’s kraal. At daybreak they would be taken under guard to the place of execution and there knocked on the head in the usual manner – their heads battered in with knobkerries. They would not be told anything. They were to ride their horses to allay their suspicions, but each horse would be led by two guards. When they reached the Killing Place a rest would be suggested and a little ceremony of goodbye would take place, as though they were to be released. They would be asked to dismount to receive the chief’s parting peace present and, as they dismounted and were off their guard, the men behind would club them and then all would join in to finish them off. Jim was to be one of the guards. They must try to find something with which to defend themselves.
It tool many dervish dances on Jim’s part before he could tell all this without risk of detection. The interested natives gathered again in small or large groups to approve Jim’s demonstrations, and in the midst of one of these displays Sambo laughed loudly as though unconscious of the real meaning and called out to the performing and foaming Jim, ‘Come here, boy, that’s a fine assegai you have, I would like to have it as a present to give to the white chief when I go back tomorrow, to show him that I have been here.’ In spite of the tragic cause there were loud guffaws of laughter. Sambo’s judgment was right; the humour of the men who were to die next day arranging to buy presents to take with them caught their fancy.
Jock of the Bushveld Page 41
