Our friendlies went very gaily at the work at first, with any amount of firing, but very little result; the enemy had now entirely disappeared into their caves and holes among the rocks, merely looking out to fire and then popping in again. Our own niggers climbed about, firing among the rocks, but presently did more firing than climbing, and began to take cover and to stick to it; finally, two of them were bowled over, and the rest of them got behind the rocks and there remained, and no efforts could get them to budge. I then called up the Cape Boys and the Maxims (in which Lord Grey assisted where it was difficult to move owing to the very bad ground); these reinforcements came up with no loss of time and went to work with a will. It was delightful to watch the cool, business–like way in which Robertson brought his Boys along. They floundered through the boggy stream and crawled up the smooth, dome–shaped rocks beyond, and soon were clambering up among the koppies, banging and cheering. Llewellyn, too, brought his guns along at equal speed, and soon had them in position on apparently inaccessible crags, where they came into action with full effect at every chance the enemy gave them.
The fight gradually moved along the eastern valley, in the centre of which was a convenient rock from which I was able to see all that was going on, and it formed a good centre for directing the attacks, as the enemy were in the rocks on every side of us. The Cape Boys, after making a long circle round through part of the stronghold, reassembled at this spot, and from it directed their further attacks on the different parts requiring them, and it became the most convenient position for the machine guns, as they were able to play in every direction in turn from this point. For the systematic attack on the stronghold a portion of it is assigned to each company, and it is a pleasing sight to see the calm and ready way in which they set to work. They crowd into the narrow, bushy paths between the koppies, and then swarm out over the rocks from whence the firing comes, and very soon the row begins. A scattered shot here and there, and then a rattling volley; the boom of the elephant gun roaring dully from inside a cave is answered by the sharp crack of a Martini–Henry; the firing gradually wakes up on every side of us, the weird whisk of a bullet overhead is varied by the hum of a leaden–coated stone or the shriek of a pot–leg fired from a Matabele big–bore gun; and when these noises threaten to become monotonous, they are suddenly enlivened up by the hurried energetic “tap, tap, tap” of the Maxims or the deafening “pong” of the Hotchkiss. As you approach the koppies, excitement seems to be in the air; they stand so still and harmless–looking, and yet you know that from several at least of those holes and crannies the enemy are watching you, with finger on trigger, waiting for a fair chance. But it is from the least expected quarter that a roar comes forth and a cloud of smoke and the dust flies up at your feet.
The Attack on Babyan’s Stronghold: 20th July
The stronghold was a circle of rocky koppies round a small open plateau. Having gained this central position, we directed our attacks against the surrounding koppies in turn, and drove the enemy from them.
It’s laughable to watch a Cape Boy prying into a cave with his long bayonet held out before him, as if to pick some human form of winkle from his shell. Suddenly he fires into the smoke which spurts from the cave before him. Too late: he falls, and then tries to rise—his leg is shattered. A moment later, three of his comrades are round him; they dash past him and disappear into the hole, two dull, thud–like shots within, and presently they come out again, jabbering and gesticulating to each other; then they pick up the injured man by his arms and drag him out into the open, and, leaving him there for the doctor’s party to find, they are quickly back again for further sport. At one moment they appear like monkeys on unexpected points of rock, at another like stage assassins creeping round corners and shooting,—or being shot. As we turn the corner, going up one of the paths, we find ourselves face to face with a similar string of rebels trotting down the path. For a moment the thought crosses one’s mind, Shall we stop to fire or go for them? but before the thought has time to fashion itself, we find ourselves going for them. Nor do they wait for our bayonets: they turn helter–skelter, rushing up the path, diving among the rocks and grass, for though fond of administering cold steel, it is the last thing they wish to meet with themselves, and so we treat them to the next best thing, a few well–aimed shots.