The prisoners captured at Inyati were grilled for information as to the whereabouts of their chiefs, Greatrix commenting that he would dearly love to be in on the interrogation. Neither he nor Probyn, nor any of the others they suspected, had lost any of their anger over the current atrocity, indeed it had been exacerbated by the circulars that had greeted their return and which were to be posted about the district, offering leniency to those who surrendered.
‘Proclamation of Clemency, which idiot thought this up?’ asked Greatrix. ‘Some office wallah in London who’s no idea of how things are here. Clemency? These people don’t even understand the word!’ He clutched one of the offending posters in his fist and brandished it at Probyn, his face almost puce with fury. ‘There’s only one thing these murdering swine understand and I’ll be more than happy to give it to them.’ He ripped the poster to shreds. Then, after an angry pause he added gruffly, ‘I hope we don’t get many more like last night, Kil, it were really distraughting … dis … I can’t remember the damn word but you know what I mean.’
They had not talked about it before, Probyn did not know how Greatrix could even bring himself to make this small reference to it now. Signifying his reluctance to dwell on this subject he gave a curt nod, saying quickly, ‘Well, better get some rest before we have to go out for another pop at them.’ The campaign on the Matopos was fast being organized.
Greatrix showed unusual zeal. ‘And I can’t wait, me old pal, I can’t wait!’
* * *
At last, halfway through that July of 1896 the campaign seemed about to take off, each of the columns encamped near the Matopos awaiting the final order.
Lance-Corporal Kilmaster, his friend Greatrix and eight hundred others were bivouacked near the central hills. Atop a great dome-shaped lump of granite was a burnt-out farm, from which wafted the sun-warmed perfume of blue gums. To either side a barrier of rugged kopjes which fortified the valley beyond, in which the enemy were hiding.
It was all so much more nerve-racking having to wait than to actively seek them out. But great preparation had gone into making this the final smash and it could not be hurried.
They realized something was about to happen with the arrival that night of Colonel Baden-Powell, for he was to act as guide, knowing the country extremely well. Probyn had much admiration for him, as indeed he did for his own company commander Major Kershaw a cool, brave, energetic officer. In such good hands he felt confident of the outcome and was eager to make a start.
But Baden-Powell was to ride out again soon afterwards, dampening the mood of enthusiasm and bringing a sense of anti-climax to the camp, the occupants settling down to another evening of boredom. With no smoking allowed and no fires upon which even to boil a billy, nerves were stretched beyond endurance. A dog yapped. Immediately a lieutenant sought out the owner and upbraided him furiously though restraining his volume. ‘The order was no dogs!’
‘Sorry, sir, he’s not usually any trouble,’ came the murmur.
‘He won’t be again!’ The lieutenant summoned one of the friendly natives.
In the time it took Probyn to blink the dog had been despatched with an assegai. Disliking such summary violence, he ordered his men to get their heads down and himself did likewise.
Four tense days went by; days of dew-soaked blankets, days of near starvation under a grilling noonday sun, and bitter nights.
At last the order came. That morning, the men were told to bake two loaves of bread and to get as much sleep as they could in the afternoon.
At the time they would normally be going to bed the whole column paraded without noise or trumpet call and at ten-thirty moved off into the moonlit Matopos. Marching in a large square ready against attack, they had now been joined by other celebrities, Sir Frederick Carrington, Lord Grey and Cecil Rhodes. There was also a detachment under Sir Frederick Frankland whose members had volunteered for the fun of it.
Navigating his horse around a thick patch of bush, Probyn wondered if these distinguished men shared the great pride and excitement that beat within his own heart, could certainly tell that those around him did even though they were forbidden to voice it, the only sound an occasional cough or a soft Yorkshire warning from the man in front, ‘’Ware ’oile!’ to signal a dip in the ground.
Soon after midnight they were within a mile of their goal. The square halted and in the bitter cold each man lay down to sleep where he stood. An hour before dawn they were up and moving towards the pass amongst the kopjes which led to the enemy’s valley. Here, just as dawn was rising, they formed ready for attack.
First came an advance force comprising the two corps of Cape Boys, two hundred friendly Matabele, twenty mounted white scouts, a Hotchkiss and two Maxims. Then came two mountain battery guns and the main body of white troops under Colonel Plumer amongst which was Probyn. His blood was pounding through his veins as they advanced in growing daylight into the broken bushy valley, surrounded on every side by rocky crags and kopjes, from which might spring the enemy, the fresh spoors they came across showed just how many they were up against. As yet, though, they had seen no life, except for small mammals darting about the rocks.
Then, making use of his telescope, Major Kershaw informed his men that there was a large camp ahead. The guns were brought up to the front and were soon shelling. Atop the surrounding kopjes warriors began to materialize.
A youngster in Probyn’s platoon turned to him in consternation, ‘Why haven’t we been ordered to fire, Corp?’
Probyn spoke calmly. ‘Don’t worry, lad, it’s a good sign the darkies showing themselves. It means we’re too strong for them to attack. Still,’ he made ready his rifle, ‘won’t harm to take a few pot shots.’
As the order was given there came a volley of enthusiastic firing, returned only half-heartedly by the rebels who appeared to take more pleasure in performing their war dance along the kopjes and shouting insults at those far below, before finally vanishing as if into thin air.
To those prepared for all-out battle, it was most frustrating, especially as this state of affairs of pot shots and insults was to continue for several days.
After more reconnoitring, mapping of ground and pinpointing the enemy’s position to the Chabez Gorge some fifteen miles east of camp, Baden-Powell returned to say that the way was impassable for wagons. It was therefore necessary to order some pack transport to take them to the Chabez stronghold and afterwards by the Umzingwani valley, towards the stronghold of the eastern end of Matopos. Once here they would be on the Tuli-Bulawayo road where the wagons having gone round by Hope Fountain or by Bulawayo could rejoin them.
Meantime, Major Kershaw took out a strong patrol for further reconnaissance of the Chabez position, Probyn and Greatrix amongst the riders. It was a nasty bit of country, with plenty of places for the rebels to hide, but they reached their destination without encountering any.
Grappling their way onto a high rocky ridge, Probyn and the others found themselves overlooking an enormous river gorge, the terrain a most difficult one to negotiate, with kopje and bush and deep ravines leading down to the river. From the thick jungle bush along the banks could be heard a distant lowing, evidence that cattle were hidden there. The soldiers were also given an excellent view of the numerous caves which formed the rebels’ hideaway, and out of them now poured a good number of Matabele, disporting themselves on the various kopjes to show that they knew of their enemy’s presence, though not inclined to attack.
It was the general consensus that the soldiers should make themselves scarce. Happy with this splendid piece of reconnaissance, they descended and made their return to camp.
On the return march, Probyn was riding some distance ahead of the main patrol alongside Major Kershaw and a handful of others when suddenly his sharp eyes spotted a large party of enemy, some way off but heading towards them. Given this information, the major quickly steered his horse behind a tangle of rocks and euphorbia, the others close at heel, where they spied through the chink
s as the danger came almost within touching distance.
Heart in mouth, throat parched with dust, hardly daring to breathe, Probyn crouched beside his superiors and watched the large impi pass by in their white war ornaments – a ball of clipped feathers at each brow, white oxtails, kilts of catskin and monkeys’ tails, assegais and knobkerries, ox-hide shields and bodies like polished bronze. They had rifles too: Lee-Metfords, Martinis, Winchesters, blunderbusses and elephant guns. It seemed the column would never end, so quiet the padding of their feet that Probyn felt they must surely hear him breathing.
The danger passed, but not the frustration. With the memory still fresh of those massacred innocents, it was hell to be so near to the perpetrators yet not strong enough to attack. But, came his grim thought, they now knew where to find them.
The rest of the patrol, being too large for the rebels to attack, came galloping up some time later. Greatrix, amongst them, had been most fearful that his friend had been killed and was delighted to find him unharmed.
On return to camp there was much activity, the wagons taking a detour by a less rocky route, a train of packhorses carrying four days’ supply accompanying the column which that evening started its eastwards march to the Chabez. Before dawn they were formed ready for attack against the high ground overlooking the river gorge.
Major Kershaw, being familiar with the territory, was detailed to command the assault. Positioning his squad, Lance-Corporal Kilmaster glanced at each to check on their mood but need not have feared for all were keen to be at the enemy, having awaited this moment for days. His own state was like that of the night he had first partaken of ale – not that befuddled condition one experienced after a surfeit, but just enough to lift him to the point where nothing in the world seemed to matter. Far from being drunk his wits were considerably sharpened by the thought of what was to come and what was expected of him, his one fear being that he would let down those who were depending on him. He had no fear of death.
Whilst others were sent around to have a look in at the back of the position and see whether a second attack could effectively be made, Major Kershaw’s party made its assault on the steep cliffs and, once on the move all doubt vanished. Despite the lack of food and sleep and other privations all fatigue was miraculously washed away, Probyn’s mind as clear as a bell and eyes in the back of his head. Rallying his squad ever upwards towards the skyline, he was soon atop the ridge and ordering them to lie down and fire as the enemy came swarming out of their caves to meet them, their alarm cries echoing around the heights. Soon, added to the rifle fire, two seven-pounders were hauled onto the summit and joined the action. Shells started to fly, exploding above the heads of the rebels and scattering them, whence a huge cheer went up from the ranks. ‘Run, you buggers, run!’ laughingly exhorted the man to Probyn’s right whilst he, equally thirsty for blood, took aim at one after another, damning each to hell.
More heavy firing resounded from the artillery, the next three shrapnel bursts scattering the main force of rebels and driving them down into the river gorge where they came to brief blows with their adversaries before finally fleeing to a rousing cheer from the British.
The contest thus ended, an exhilarated Probyn made his way down to a breakfast of water and biscuits with Greatrix.
But the day was only just begun. Leaving the dismounted men and baggage, the mounted troops embarked on a raid towards the cattle valley near Ingyanda’s stronghold, moving along the open valley close under the foot of the Matopos for four or five miles until they came on some cattle paths leading from the grazing grounds into the hills. Here, another successful skirmish was fought, again the rebels being driven back, as they were to be on the next occasion, and the next. Soon it would be time for a final stand-off.
* * *
During one of Baden-Powell’s reconnaissances, he had captured an elderly woman, which resulted in pleasing information which Janny the Cape Boy relayed to his friends when next he saw them, saying that she was a charming old lady of high birth.
‘Oh yes, very charming,’ Greatrix could not help the sarcasm. ‘They cut our people to ribbons then sing like birds when they’re caught themselves. I wouldn’t put it past any of this lot to be playing on both sides either.’ He indicated the friendly Matabele who travelled with them.
Janny went on. ‘She says Umlugulu has joined the other impis and they are not far from here.’
‘That makes five,’ nodded Probyn, seemingly unworried by this news. ‘Still it’s good to have them all in one place.’
‘The rebels are much disheartened by the heavy blows we have dealt them,’ continued Janny. ‘Many of them would like to give in but their chiefs will not let them.’
‘How are they off for food?’ asked Greatrix, having become obsessed with the lack of it.
‘They have plenty of meat and ammunition but are tired of war. It keeps them from sowing next year’s crop and they are losing faith in the Mlimo who promised that all the whites would die of rinderpest.’
‘Oh, not him again!’
Probyn smiled at his friend’s outburst and tapped Greatrix’s knee as a gesture of encouragement. ‘Won’t be long now, pal!’
On the morning of the fifth of August whilst it was still dark, at half past four the column paraded, then moved off silently, close under the heights occupied by enemy lookouts. Having first to pass through two outer ranges of hills and through a wooded pass into a semi-circular valley, two sides of which were occupied by rebel impis, at sunrise they found themselves in the pass that led to another valley, and in this one they were completely sheltered from view by bush. The back of the valley was formed by a single high ridge of smooth granite and from it five offshoots ran down into the valley like fingers. At the top of these fingers rose rocky peaks amongst the bush jungle of the lower valley, these peaks forming the strongholds of the individual impis. Forced to remain concealed for the moment, Probyn surveyed the scene. One did not have to be a general to see that if the guns could be got onto a particular ridge they could effectively fire on each impi in turn. A pleased smile twitched his lips as this was indeed carried out, Colonel Plumer ordering the guns with a strong escort of a hundred and thirty men under Captain Beresford to gain a position on the high ridge.
Whilst waiting, Major Kershaw took a peek through his telescope, reporting on Beresford’s progress up the rocky incline, reporting too that on almost every hill he could see natives who were completely unaware of their presence. The troops enjoyed a grin.
But it was not long before the glint of Beresford’s party attracted the rebels and alarm spread. There was no noise nor shouting but the kopjes were suddenly alive with activity.
Major Kershaw had just looked at his watch to report that Beresford had been gone an hour when there came the rattle of shots, followed closely by the roar of volleys and rapid sustained fire, this reverberating around the hills and developing into a continuous roar which was added to by the roll of the Maxims and big guns.
‘By Jove!’ announced a surprised Major Kershaw to his lieutenant, ‘I didn’t expect to hear that sound so early in the day! The Mats must be more wide awake than we’d imagined.’
A moment later a panting messenger arrived with the news that Captain Beresford had been attacked on all three sides at once but had formed his small party into a square on a plateau though he remained hotly engaged. ‘But they’re managing to hold the niggers at bay, sir!’
Recognizing that serious fighting was afoot, Colonel Plumer ordered the immediate advance of the main body.
Major Kershaw held his whistle at the ready.
Each platoon commander addressed his men, Probyn’s lieutenant announcing, ‘This is the big one, chaps! Score as many as you can, I’ve a large wager riding on us getting a higher bag than the West Ridings.’
The whistle blew. This was what Probyn had been waiting for! With a warrior’s cry he galloped into attack, cheering his men on as he rode. Reaching the foot of the ridge the conquering
horde dismounted, left their horses under cover of rocks and began to clamber up the hill, firing as they went. The rebels fired back but with little accuracy, the only casualty being Private White who was shot in the buttock by one of his friends below. As the soldiers clambered nearer and nearer to the summit the rebels suddenly appeared to lose heart and fell back to another ridge, thus making victory seem almost effortless. However, this was soon to be disproved. Some of the enemy had lodged themselves in rocks and were pluckily determined to hold their own, giving impressively accurate fire. Lieutenant Hervey made a valiant dash to dislodge them but fell mortally wounded, his sergeant-major shot dead. In the few seconds he had to take stock Probyn was to witness other such scenes of valour; the enemy making a mad dash to take a vacated Maxim, an officer acting alone jumping forth and beating them to it, jumping into the saddle and spraying the fleeing blacks with lead; a lone Matabele rushing out to perform his war dance, dodging the machine gun bullets for a good few seconds before he was cut down. The native muleteers showed courage too, assisting with their carbines, though apart from one or two the so-called friendly natives who had been employed in carrying Maxims and Hotchkiss showed a marked lack of loyalty; as Greatrix had foretold, the moment the enemy got close they merged into their ranks.
Flat on his belly, awaiting the order to move, Probyn glanced quickly about him concerned for his friend, but there was Greatrix, unscathed, firing like a man possessed. With only a second in which to feel gratified, Probyn was up again and driving forward with the squadron to take the main cave, but just as they reached the entrance Major Kershaw went down! And even as Probyn answered the reflex to stoop by his officer and examine the two bullet holes in his tunic he knew it was useless, at the same time a sergeant falling nearby with a shot through the head. Self-preservation had him up and running again.
The two sides collided in a violent tangle of stabbing, feet skidding on the gory rocks, blood spurting in fountains, skulls stove in, flesh and bone and brain spilling onto the rocks, guts and skin and hair, on and on and on and then in the midst of that brutal carnage that seemed as if it would never end, a war rocket soared into life, exploding in a firework display over the bloodstained hills with such deafening intensity that both sides were shocked into a momentary truce.
Family of the Empire Page 41