On the twenty-seventh of October 1893 Major Grey and his force of three hundred men set forth on the race for Bulawayo.
From Mafeking their route skirted the eastern border of Bechuanaland, to their west lay the Kalahari Desert. The land they trekked was largely bare yet there was much to be avoided – clumps of tall coarse grass and the treacherous white-thorned mimosa, holes dug by aardvark and meerkat – and it made for tedious travel, especially for those steering the wagons and Maxims, wheels banging and jolting over ruts and stones, the going being even rougher for an amateur like Greatrix. Even after only a few miles his suffering was obvious to Probyn who rode beside him, trying to keep him in conversation to take his mind off it.
When finally they outspanned to boil a kettle and rest the horses and change the oxen, it was with a little prayer of thanks that Greatrix slid painfully from his saddle, his equally exhausted dog flopping to the ground.
‘Oh, Lord have mercy, I think me hip joints are about to pop out of their sockets!’ It was the first complaint he had uttered, though his face and movements told all as he took a few tentative steps.
Holding both pairs of reins, Probyn tried to coax a smile. ‘You look like you’ve cacked your strides.’
‘Some pal you are!’ The choking cloud of dust kicked up by horse and wagon was just beginning to settle. Thoroughly coated in it and having a perpetual need to clear his throat, Greatrix ran a hand over his dry lips. ‘Oh Lord, I’m gagging for a cup o’ char. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stick this.’
‘Don’t worry it’ll get better,’ comforted Probyn, wiping the dust from his own sweating face. ‘Lie down, I’ll see to the hosses then get us some tea.’
Greatrix kept bending and unbending his painful limbs for a moment longer, then lay down, using his horse as shade, his helmet balanced on his chest, whilst the dog sniffed at him anxiously, and from the parched earth brown grasshoppers flicked themselves on and off his recumbent form.
Eventually he was forced to sit up again in order to drink the tea that his friend had provided, though they remained quietly pensive. Having drained his water bowl, the dog collapsed beside them, nose dry with dust, tongue lolling, snapping occasionally at a grasshopper or a buzzing fly, then finally capsizing into sleep.
Greatrix was reconsidering the wisdom of bringing him along. ‘Poor little devil. How old d’you reckon he is, Kil?’
Probyn lifted a hand to tilt his helmet, revealing a dark patch of sweat under his arm, and studied the canine’s white coat that was now loaded with ochre. ‘About nine months.’
Greatrix sighed and lit the pipe that had taken the place of his cigarettes for this long journey. ‘Only a babby. Don’t know how he’ll manage the rest of the way. It were cruel to bring him.’ Puffing, he glanced away, distracted by a twinkling daylight star on a far off hilltop, which informed them of Colonel Goold-Adams’s position. Its distant glimmer appeared only to taunt the sufferer, especially with the accompanying order to remount. ‘Oh blessed Lord, I’ll look like bandy Bertha before we catch up with him!’
A sympathetic Probyn grabbed the other’s mug, then helped him stand. ‘Away Trixie, it won’t be so bad tomorrow.’
‘Trixie? Do you mind, you make me sound like a music hall tart!’
Laughing, Probyn assisted his friend into the saddle, then took to his own stirrups. The dog seemed reluctant to move. After several urgings Greatrix jammed the pipestem between his teeth and was forced to dismount, slinging the animal over his saddle. ‘A good job you’re not a Saint Bernard!’ scolded its master.
A cloud of dust marked the progress of the column as it wound its way across an arid plain. The pace was hard and would have been harder were it not for the fact that the oxen needed regular rest. Major Grey, a veteran of the Zulu War and a strict disciplinarian, was rigid in his determination that an Imperial force would be first into Bulawayo and it was well after dark before they off-saddled, by which time Greatrix was almost weeping in agony.
Again Probyn bade him take the easier chores whilst he hobbled and fed the horses and brought his friend a meal, answering the other’s argument by saying that when Greatrix became accustomed to the strenuous life he could return the favour. The devotion he showed was a mark of how close the two had become. That he had known Greatrix less than a month had no bearing, for in the first few moments in which they had met this young man had inspired genuine affection. It was the sort of friendship he had craved since joining the army and he was determined to nurture it. What was more, Greatrix had taken his mind off his father, for which he was doubly grateful. There was nothing he could do about the situation at home, so why continue to worry? It was not a callous thought, just a desperate need to get on with his life, and Greatrix was responsible for helping him in this.
* * *
The punishment was to continue for the best part of a week, during which Boney, having grown footsore, was to spend as much time in the saddle as his master. Striking out at daybreak, following the route of the twinkling heliograph, making camp to the whirring of crickets and the eerie call of a night bird, they pursued their goal over parched open veld, dry and stony river beds, under scorching sun and freezing nights. The oxen became ever weaker due to lack of water; consequently the troops were permitted to outspan more often, which was of vast relief to Greatrix whose muscles were only now becoming attuned to the torture.
Alas, when one torment ceased another began, this one shared by all. The rains broke. From being parched the veld suddenly became a quagmire, wagons, oxen and horses all becoming bogged down in the waterlogged sand and delaying the column to a chronic pace. At least, opined Greatrix, rain dripping from his pith helmet, they could be glad of one thing: the twinkling star of the north no longer beckoned, the heliograph being ineffective in cloudy weather. With no idea of how much further there was to go they could just settle down and get on with things at their own pace.
But the instant the sun came out to mop up the deluge the major was urging them on again.
New life began to burst its way through the yellow matted grass, the veld slowly turning a brilliant green. As difficult to manoeuvre as the rains had made it, they had also brought benefit in that the water wagons were constantly full and there was now no need to scrabble about to win a capful of water from a dried-up hole.
On the eighth day after starting out they reached Gaberones, a big kraal with many hundreds of inhabitants. They had come just over eighty miles.
Told of this and congratulated by Probyn for his endurance, Greatrix admitted that he was rather pleased with himself. ‘You know, I’d never have envisaged a week ago, that I’d grow so used to life in the saddle.’
‘See, it’s as I told you,’ replied Probyn. ‘You come to regard the horse as a mere extension of yourself, don’t you?’
Greatrix readily agreed. ‘Aye. Like a huge wart on your arse.’
Forced to laugh, Probyn admitted that he too was relieved to be stopping here for a couple of nights, especially as they had been received with much hospitality from the natives.
The headman sent enough sheep to the camp to provide a delicious meal for all plus other offerings in beautifully woven baskets, though there was no alcohol, for the King of Bechuanaland strictly forbade its sale even amongst white men.
They were to receive other visitors besides the natives. A missionary couple named Gower and their son and daughter were to join the column when it resumed its quest for Bulawayo. The arrival of a young white woman caused quite a stir amongst the soldiers, all eager to engage her in conversation and though she and her family were to prefer the company of Major Grey, Probyn was to make her acquaintance later when he and Greatrix volunteered to return the baskets to their owners, this in itself being an excuse to glimpse female nakedness.
As the young soldiers wandered to the kraal chatting, a male voice accosted them, the missionary and his family coming alongside on their way back to their own quarters.
‘My! That�
��s a grand Yorkshire accent.’ The man of God mimicked their intonation although when he spoke again it was with a less abrasive tongue. ‘Where are you two young men from?’ Upon being told, Gower showed affinity. ‘We hail from Bradford! Though many years ago.’
They spoke nostalgically about their shared birthplace for a while. His friend no conversationalist, Probyn did most of the talking, showing admiration for their intrepidness. ‘But are you not afraid to live amongst so many savages, Mr Gower?’
‘Oh, there may still be savages amongst them,’ agreed the missionary, ‘but many are good Christians now, take Simon here,’ he indicated the man who accompanied them.
Probyn glanced at the slender, reddish-brown, half-naked figure and considered him to be walking far too close to the young woman for his liking. What normal father would willingly expose his daughter to such attentions? Greatrix’s face showed he was of similar opinion. Both made no comment.
Simon spoke for himself, a dignified address in English. ‘I wish to thank you, sirs, for coming to my country to save us from the privations of our enemy.’
‘You mean the Matabele?’ said Probyn, secretly eyeing the movement of the young woman’s legs beneath the dress, a sight which spurred longing and which he tried to fight. Apart from a tanned face she was quite attractive, a skein of fair hair protruding from the nape of her straw bonnet.
‘Simon is referring to the Boers,’ corrected Miss Gower, ‘whom, given an opportunity, would make slaves of these people. Their republics must never be allowed to grow.’
Simon confirmed this. ‘I do not like them. They treat the Ngwato as if we are not human and would steal our land if we allowed it. My king is loyal to the British, he wishes for his people to remain within your protection. I myself love Her Majesty the Queen. I should very much like to put myself at your disposal during your journey to the land of the Ndebele.’
Impressed by the man’s loyalty, Probyn said they would be pleased for Simon to accompany them. Nevertheless, he found it hard to come to grips with the way that this so-called Christian shamelessly paraded his nakedness before white women, though with so much hospitality and such kind words he kept his disapproval to himself.
Parting company with the others, he whispered to Greatrix, ‘She’s quite a looker, isn’t she? Her dad can’t have much about him. I wouldn’t have my daughter anent savages.’
Greatrix agreeing, the pair wandered into the kraal with the baskets, keeping their eyes peeled for a glimpse of nubile womanhood. But in this village the female occupants were shielded by a fence of reeds, behind which they could grind their mealies and cook and take care of their babies in privacy.
Later however, their disappointment was to be assuaged. The induna came to say that his people would like to give the visitors a dance, his announcement closely followed by the arrival of around fifty villagers. Bare-chested men armed with clubs and spears, with tufts of horsehair and feathers on their heads and bunches of lambs’ tails dangling behind formed a crescent in readiness. But it was those who took up the rear which caught Probyn’s interest. Women with nought but a fringed girdle to protect their modesty, heads shaved except for a tuft on the crown that was daubed with earth and adorned with beads, red and bronze limbs encircled with bracelets of copper, iron and brass. Nudging Greatrix who needed no encouragement to stare, a grinning Probyn made himself comfortable for the show, glancing only occasionally at the men who put everything they had into the dance and made tremendous leaps into the air, preferring to ogle those curvier forms on the outer edge who accompanied the rhythm with a shrill chittering, breasts and buttocks a-quiver as they shuffled to the intoxicating beat of the drum.
The soldiers were silently rapt, only one member of the audience appearing not to approve the display. Frightened by the deep booming shouts of the men, Greatrix’s dog leapt at them barking and snapping at every movement, hackles bristling.
‘Boney!’ Annoyed and alarmed Greatrix tried to bring it to heel but, intent on protecting its master, it continued to press its attack.
‘You’d better keep that dog under tighter control when we get to Matabeleland,’ warned a sergeant. ‘Or we’ll have to shoot it.’
Aiding his friend, Probyn tried to coax Boney back to the audience too but his voice was drowned by the natives’ chanting.
The dog leapt again and fell to earth with a yelp under a blow from a dancer’s club. There was much raucous laughter. Infuriated, Greatrix would have launched himself at the culprit had not Probyn and the sergeant held him back and ordered him to sit still. Fortunately the dog was merely stunned and, looking bewildered, crept back to him, whimpering, its owner keeping a tight hold on him henceforth.
As the audience watched with bated breath, excitement churning every core, the dance became more frenzied and warlike, the dancers making vicious stabbing motions with their spears, attacking invisible enemies, felling and skewering them where they lay. Unable to tear his eyes away, Probyn imagined himself pitted against these savages and a thrill of danger ran through him. Wilder still became the dance, the warriors singing and stamping and chanting and stabbing until with a great unified roar that signified triumph, that all their foes were vanquished, they came to a sudden climax, and the audience rose as one to applaud.
It had been, all agreed, a splendid end to the day.
As the company of dancers broke up and loped back to their kraal, another member of the outside world simultaneously came to visit the army camp, a wizened-looking individual, obviously accustomed to living out of doors for his skin was as tanned as his clothes were bleached. He introduced himself to the major as Ronald Williams.
Within earshot Probyn and Greatrix lingered to eavesdrop on the conversation.
‘Please sit with us, Mr Williams!’ Major Grey, normally a strict disciplinarian, was in great spirits and called for refreshments for the visitor. ‘And where are you come from?’
‘Salisbury,’ came the answer, along with thanks for the provision of food.
‘Surely you have not travelled so far alone?’ The major was confounded.
‘Never do otherwise.’ The weather-beaten man seemed unconcerned by the other’s exclamation and took a sip of hot tea.
‘But you are at terrible risk of attack, sir!’
‘Not down here.’ Another sip of tea. ‘Besides, Lobengula’s flown.’
Major Grey’s attitude changed, the men around him becoming similarly keen. ‘And what of Bulawayo? Have you news of Colonel Goold-Adams?’
‘Oh yes, I passed him a while back. He’s camped on the border.’
The major was astounded. ‘Of Matabeleland? But a runner brought us news of that position several days ago, he must be further on by now surely!’
Williams shrugged.
Struck by the obvious conclusion, Major Grey spat bitterly, ‘Then Jameson must have taken Bulawayo.’
‘That’s what I heard,’ said Williams.
Probyn and Greatrix looked at each other in dismay. All their hardship had been for nothing! Won in conquest, the whole of Matabeleland now belonged to the British South Africa Company and Cecil Rhodes.
* * *
Major Grey had immediately ordered someone to wire for confirmation. The news that had come back was disheartening. Whilst Colonel Goold-Adams still dithered at the border, too afraid to cross, Jameson had indeed stolen the Empire’s glory.
In a short speech to his troops the following day, the major confirmed the rumours, expressing commiseration that they had come so far and so hard for no gain. ‘But all is not totally lost,’ he added. ‘Lobengula is still at large and he is a prize to be won at all costs. Therefore, we are to proceed with our journey.’
It was hardly news designed to encourage them. King or no, Lobengula was a poor substitute for his landholdings and four hundred miles was a long way to go to capture him. But the column set off once again, the missionaries and Simon with them.
With Matabeleland still a long way off, shooting posed no d
anger and they were able to bag plenty of game along the way to supplement their rations. There was, too, a burst of excitement when a pride of lions was spotted under a tree, the first Probyn had ever seen, and in open-mouthed wonder he watched the competition to bag them, four of the animals stopped by a hail of bullets, the fifth allowed the sporting chance to escape. It was such a terrific thrill to gaze upon these fierce creatures at close hand, to run one’s hand over the tawny flanks that one had only ever seen in picture books, to ruffle the thick manes and smell the musky odour. Acknowledging the congratulations of their men, the sharpshooting officers ordered a series of photographs to be taken, after which the lions were strung on poles by natives, and the column went on its way.
Such jolly interval was to be rare, more often it was frequent cloudbursts that interrupted their passage, clogging hoof and wheel and boot, and being enough to dispirit even the most stalwart of men. Their clothes rotted by sun and rain, flesh and fabric torn by spikes of cactus, the soldiers were beginning to look like vagabonds.
Travelling through bush country, where at least there was plenty of game to stave off hunger, it took five days to reach another town. Boney’s pads were by now cracked and causing pain and in need of expert care. Greatrix had consulted a farrier who, apart from offering liniment, was only able to suggest smearing the pads with fat, which Greatrix had already applied and which was little use. Bandages were chewed off in seconds.
‘He needs some sort of little boots,’ said Probyn, picking off the ticks that hung from his horse’s belly like clusters of blackcurrants then stamping on them contemptuously. ‘If we can get hold of a bit of leather we could fashion some.’
Family of the Empire Page 31