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 ass[1] 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 priest begin to go through the ceremony (so there was no mistake as to his identity), and then shot him. It was a risky game, as in the next valley were camped a large number of natives who had come for a big ceremony with the M’limo the next day. But the two men got away all right, having to gallop for it. The natives never rose to stop the road.