Whilst each of the volunteers was rewarded with a share of Lobengula’s rich country on which to build a farm, it appeared that there was to be little compensation for those who had been expecting a battle. The uprising was virtually over. Beaten by the heavy rains and smallpox, great numbers of Matabele had begun to filter back to their villages. Lobengula was still at large though rumour had it that he was very sick. The volunteers had begun to disband, the Imperial force was to be withdrawn. And though there was deep concern over a Major Wilson whose men had become separated from the main force and had so far failed to return, overall the mood was one of finality.
‘So we just turn around and go back do we?’ a disgusted Greatrix asked Probyn, who could only shrug. ‘Well, God rest ye merry bloody gentlemen!’
* * *
Blocked in by swollen rivers, it was weeks before they could make a move anywhere, the interim being spent playing rugby in between downpours. It was the most boring Christmas Probyn had ever spent. Whilst others made their fun with prostitutes, he and Greatrix passed the time cleaning rifles or grumbling about what they would be doing if they were in England, or simply relating information about themselves, by the end of the period knowing just about everything there was to know about each other, and forming an even closer bond.
In January 1894, with the rains less frequent and the waters beginning to subside, Major Grey collected his troops and began to wend his way back south. Despite their sojourn the troops were soon once again in a lamentable condition, dirty and verminous, their clothes in tatters, and their boots falling to pieces from being constantly wet. To a pair as fastidious as Probyn and his friend it was anathema.
Added to these hardships there were Maxims to manhandle across soggy terrain, rivers to ford and as if this were not enough they had been ordered, on their way south, to capture the Mlimo or invisible god who had great influence and could incite the natives to fresh revolt.
‘I might be a bit slow,’ began Greatrix to his pal, rocking side by side on horses as ill-kempt as themselves, across a grassy plain dotted with mimosa trees, ‘but how do we catch a bloke who’s invisible?’
Probyn gave a half-hearted chuckle. ‘I think he has three priests what do his bidding.’
‘Mumbo bloody jumbo,’ sniffed Greatrix. ‘Gimme dat old time religion.’
Probyn was thoughtful. ‘I can’t remember the last time I went to chapel.’
Greatrix was silent for a while, frowning over some idea before putting voice to it, ‘Something’s always puzzled me. You know how John the Baptist was Jesus’s cousin? Well that’d make him God’s nephew wouldn’t it? That would mean God had a brother or sister. He might have relations all over the place.’
‘I think you’re verging on blasphemy there, Trix,’ warned Probyn, though amused.
‘Interesting thought though,’ finished Greatrix. Then he became alert. ‘Eh up, looks like a village ahead.’
Probyn matched his attentiveness as a kraal appeared over the crest of a hill. Their orders were to raid such villages and capture arms. This was the first they had come across and it was a tense time as they made their way towards its boundary.
The huts here were not so aesthetically pleasing, crude dwellings plastered with cow dung. The major’s demands were met by a wall of surliness, the defeated natives complaining that they had already yielded their weapons.
Saying he did not believe them, Major Grey despatched a posse of men to search the huts, knowing as he did so that it was futile; the weapons would be buried elsewhere. Nevertheless he was obliged to go through the motions.
When the hunt proved fruitless, orders were given for cattle to be confiscated, leaving only enough to prevent the natives from starvation, and the village to be set alight.
Watched by a sullen enemy, Probyn joined his comrades in setting fire to the huts, though he took no pleasure in it, and as he galloped from the burning kraal he voiced distaste for his incendiary work.
Greatrix admitted to similar weakness. ‘But all said and done, Kil, the Mats have done dreadful things. They deserve a bit of their own medicine.’
Probyn saw the truth in this. ‘I suppose so. It’s like me Uncle Owen says about coal mining; it’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it.’ Even so, if only on this point he had to agree with Miss Gower: white men were meant to set an example and under the bewildered, accusing gaze of a little girl, the flames of her burning home reflected in her wide brown eyes, he felt most disturbed.
There were to be other such forays along the way, all as disagreeable and unproductive, and the two friends shared the opinion that they would be glad to put Matabeleland behind them.
Thankfully the rains that had hampered their progress for months finally dwindled, with only an occasional thunderstorm to annoy.
Today had been one such annoyance, finally halting their progress, and the major had given the order to camp early for the night, his troops now tucked up under dripping canvas, though no less wet.
To the sound of raindrops beating down upon their tents, the cry of some fatally wounded animal, the rasping roar of a big cat and the gibbering whoop of hyenas, the men fell into an exhausted sleep.
Some time before dawn, Probyn woke to find that the rain had stopped. Not a drip to be heard. For a moment as he lay there half dazed he imagined that he heard whispering, then realized that a breeze had sprung up and was rustling the long grass. He was about to turn over when he heard a deep throaty growl. Instantly awake, he cocked his ears and heard the growl again, this time more menacing. It was Trix’s dog. Before he could react the dog had burst into a frantic barking and all hell broke loose, horses squealing in terror, men giving cries of alarm – ‘Attack!’ – and he bounded from his tent, rifle in hand.
Outside pandemonium reigned. Silhouetted against the night sky devilish figures were leaping and thrusting, inflicting terrible violence, the air rent by unearthly shrieks from the hobbled horses as assegais were plunged into their bellies. In a panic and just emerged from sleep, the soldiers opened fire, taking no aim but discharging their bullets willy-nilly as the figures vanished into the night, but it was not over, for, as the soldiers came to order and took up positions behind the wagons they were met by a volley of rifle fire.
Side by side with Greatrix, Probyn levelled his Martini-Henry and fired blindly into the void, unable to see his attackers but knowing where they were from the little flashes in the grass all around, from the amount of which it appeared they were surrounded. Time stood still as round after round of ammunition was directed at an invisible enemy, shoulders aching from constant harsh recoil, fingers seared by hot barrels, men around them swearing and slapping and whacking as cartridge cases became jammed in the breech. Then suddenly the heavens opened, the initial pitter patter soon becoming a torrent with great claps of thunder and flashes of lightning sporadically illuminating the scene. In an instant it became clear that to continue was futile, both sides unable to make out a thing beyond the deluge of rain, and firing ceased as quickly as it had begun.
Drenched to the skin, the soldiers remained vigilant for some time, guns levelled in readiness, eyes squinting against the lashing needles of rain, but when it became clear that their enemy had melted away, they finally dropped their guard, and made attempts to ascertain the damage.
Rain streamed down Probyn’s face. He began to tremble and, through the teeming curtain, tried to gauge his friend’s mood, wondering if Greatrix was experiencing the same sense of exhilaration, fear and loathing that threatened to burst from his own chest. Above the hiss of rain came the bloodcurdling screams of wounded horses that thrashed about in their hobbles. Already, jackals and hyenas had smelt the blood and were beginning to gather. He jumped, immediately alert at the sound of rifle fire, but realizing that it was of a merciful nature, he sank back to his heels.
Thankfully there were few human casualties other than those who had been outside the laager on picket duty, the discovery of their butchered corpses bringing
a thrill of horror to Probyn’s lips. Pitying the victims, but thankful not to count them as friends, he went back to the tent to reflect on this his first combat.
* * *
As if sent for a purpose, now that the fighting was over the rain began to ease. By dawn there was nary a cloud in the sky … nor a cow to be seen; the Matabele had retrieved their confiscated herd and spirited it away. A search party was sent out to try and recoup the cattle and to punish the attackers but they were to remain as elusive as the infamous Mlimo. Amongst the searchers, Probyn and Greatrix shared humiliation over the loss, the bluest of skies unable to lift their mood.
Longing for the opportunity to teach their enemy a lesson, they were to spend the morning drying out their equipment, the veld taking on the appearance of a laundry with damp vests and tunics spread upon rocks and branches, steaming under the grilling sun.
When the column set off again the sun travelled with them and they were to have no more rain that day. Moreover, there came the chance for them to wreak vengeance for the attack as they came upon a kraal, this time Probyn setting fire to the huts without compunction, and obtaining a large herd of cattle to boot.
Thus, the day ended well.
* * *
With a good supply of beef at their disposal and the risk of attack lessening as they came within days of the border, the mood of the men was to become more cheerful, knowing that they were on the way back to civilization. After so much rain the sunlit veld was a picture, the long, lush grass shimmering with flowers and butterflies.
Gradually the horizon began to take on its violet tinge, an orange disc of sun suspended above it, the sky marbled with gold. Shabby of aspect but in genial mood, Probyn and Greatrix mopped up the last of their beef stew and left the laager, preparing to take up their duties as night picket.
Before setting up, Probyn relieved himself upon a little clump of blue lobelia, then all buttoned up, picked up his rifle and adopted his role of sentinel.
Some yards away Greatrix held similar pose, his faithful dog by his side, other men posted at intervals surrounding the camp.
There came a whispering in the grass. Even before Boney started to growl Probyn knew instinctively what it was and shouted – ‘Attack!’ Simultaneous to the bugler’s call a horde of Matabele warriors rose out of the long grass and, beating on their dappled ox-hide shields, began to charge, those with rifles firing as they came.
Probyn fell to one knee and fired back several times before retreating a few paces then firing again, attempting to get back to the safety of the laager. Amid the gunfire there came the sound of manic barking as the dog went bounding through the long grass for the intruders, Greatrix calling him back, calling and firing frantically as the enemy pressed their attack.
The ring of pickets retreated, taking a few running steps then falling to one knee and delivering another short burst before retreating again. They were still outside the safety of the laager, from which covering fire continued apace. Natives fell like ninepins, no white man hit as yet, but there were many of them and despite their losses they came on with rifle and assegai. Probyn made another rearwards dash and managed to find cover behind an ant hill, from whence he got his first opportunity to check on Greatrix’s position. His friend was still exposed and, between firing and reloading, calling to his dog who totally ignored him and continued to bark from somewhere in the long grass.
Still the warriors came, jousting bullets with their shields. One after another in his sights Probyn unleashed round after round, some thudding into flesh, downing his foe, others whizzing uselessly through the grass, whilst enemy bullets hummed over his head like a flight of bees. His shoulder was throbbing from the constant recoil, his finger burnt and blistered from the barrel, and then suddenly nothing happened! He had a native in his sights, had squeezed the trigger and there was no response. Slapping frantically at the rifle he tried to dislodge the cartridge that had jammed it, the Matabele warrior was coming at him with assegai upraised, Probyn slapped and punched and bashed the rifle against the ant hill, terror bristling his scalp as the warrior noted his dilemma and with a triumphant booming cry closed in for the kill. Seizing his last chance Probyn levelled his bayonet and lunged for the oncoming native but the warrior took the blow upon his shield where, embedded, the rifle was jousted aside and ripped from its owner’s hands. Left with nothing to defend himself, Probyn raised his hands in self-protection, began to lower himself on one knee, the warrior was poised above him, assegai ready to impale, he made a grab for the white oxtail that dangled from the warrior’s arm in an attempt to deflect his aim, and then to a crack of rifle fire his attacker suddenly careened to his left and lay moaning. Without hesitation Probyn scrambled to retrieve his rifle from the long grass, aimed its bayonet and skewered the assassin, pulling it from the flesh to brandish it as another foe came running at him.
‘Whoa!’ Greatrix stalled in his dash, then, at the look of recognition from his friend, knelt down beside him and started firing again. ‘Get back to the laager. I’ll cover you!’
Realizing that it had been his friend’s bullet which had saved him, Probyn grasped the other’s shoulder, hesitant to leave.
‘Go!’ shouted Greatrix, unleashing another hail of bullets at the enemy and downing one after another. ‘And take that bloody stupid mutt with you!’
Probyn quickly wiped the blood-stained bayonet on the grass, vouching, ‘Soon as I get another rifle I’ll be back!’
‘Don’t bother, we’ve nearly got ’em all!’ Greatrix felled yet another warrior. ‘The silly buggers are firing too high!’
Probyn took a frantic glance around him. None of the pickets appeared to have been hit, most of them now within a few dashes of the laager. Even as their dead piled up the bold Matabele came onwards, leaping over their fallen comrades with a terrifying whoop. Answering Greatrix’s demands, Probyn called to the dog and made a dash for the safety of the wagons, crouching low so as to avoid being shot by his own side, the excited dog bounding after him.
Now there was only Greatrix outside the laager.
Throwing himself to the ground and rolling under a wagon, Probyn found sanctuary and immediately looked for a rifle with which to return his friend’s favour. But by the time he had found one Greatrix was at his side, both he and the dog unscathed, and the decimated impi in retreat.
With a gasp of satisfaction Probyn let loose half a dozen more shots at the fleeing enemy, then heaved another relieved sigh and projected a look of gratitude at his friend for saving his life. ‘I knew I’d find a use for you one day.’ At Greatrix’s scandalized laugh he added, ‘Thanks, me old chum. I hope I’m around to return the favour when you’re in a spot.’
Greatrix brushed this off with a joke. ‘You? Crackshot Kilmaster? You couldn’t hit the side of our house!’
‘You cheeky monkey!’ A grinning Probyn dealt him a shove, and there was much jesting to follow.
But in truth the incident had terrified the life out of him, and later in the darkness of his tent he was to contemplate his own acts of brutality, envisaging the warrior’s blood upon his bayonet, desperate to erase it from his mind but unable to do so, enacting the scene over and over again. It had not been the same at all as killing a pig.
Yet, above all, he was to ponder how nearly had his own blood been spilt, and the thought of Greatrix saving his life brought him close to tears.
12
Once they had crossed the river there were no further incidents, only hundreds of miles of humdrum trekking.
Back at Mafeking, they underwent a delousing, a luxurious bath, a haircut and a change of clothing before being packed off to Cape Town. It was almost the end of February when they arrived. The startling whiteness of the colonial buildings, the flame trees and proteas, the cerise robes of bougainvillaea, almost took their breath away after months on an open and featureless veld.
Despatched to Wynberg, they were told that there was little point in sending them back to Natal for the bat
talion would itself be returning to the Cape in September. Perhaps to go home! With this splendid thought, the close friends settled in to enjoy the last of their time together. Probyn would miss his chum when the moment came to rejoin his company and urged Greatrix to keep in touch which he promised to do whenever he could.
But there were others whom Probyn was keen to see too, and he wondered again if Mick had survived his bout of enteric and would be on that boat from Durban.
With thoughts also for his father’s health he was pleased to receive two letters, one from Aunt Kit and one from Meredith, both of which informed him that the coal strike was all but over. The miners were claiming a victory. Their Federation had been forced to concede a small reduction in wages but had triumphed in securing a new principle of wage fixing and things were steadily getting back to normal. Naturally his father would not be going back to work, but in health was much the same as when Probyn had visited.
He had little time to ponder on whether this was a good or a bad thing, for he was called before the adjutant and, to his great surprise, asked if he would like to be employed as an orderly room clerk for his remaining time here.
Why they had chosen him, Probyn could not say, maybe it was his attention to detail in his turnout, but he was happy to accept, and in the months that followed discovered that he had an aptitude for clerical work. Moreover, the access to other soldiers’ records provided an interesting diversion, and he was at liberty to find intimate details about whomsoever he chose, with which to entertain Greatrix on their days off.
Towards September, however, the friends were to be temporarily parted, for Probyn was required to spend a fortnight at Simon’s Town, to check the records of a company stationed there. It was not a venue he relished, for at the naval base sailors far outnumbered landlubbers and he feared his red tunic might be singled out for violent sport. Telling Greatrix he would bring him a fish, he bade his friend farewell.
Family of the Empire Page 33