Odds and ends of private letters began to reach us from the front: some were brought in by native carriers—Maholi and Mashona boys who, now that the danger was all past were glad to return to the service of the white men (full of soft words of explanation and apology for having left so abruptly)—and some by despatch riders with official news. Mrs Grant got a long letter from her husband and Mr Stair a few lines from Gerry Deshon, and several other people received belated documents, which were thumbed and passed under many more eyes than they were originally intended for, within a few hours of their arrival. Mrs Marriott had a letter from her husband which changed the face of life for her and turned her into a laughing, weeping child. No one asked to see her letter.
Every one was able to glean some scrap of information to apply like a healing ointment to an aching wound, and every one seemed to have something to weep or smile over, except me. Neither letter nor message came for me! It is true that I gathered from others that Anthony Kinsella was well and had done splendid work, and incidentally I heard that he had despatched private letters to Fort George by carrier. But that carrier never came. If there was a letter for me, then like many another it never reached its destination. Often in the months that came after, sodden native pouches containing white pulp which had once been letters were found lying on the veldt—in one or two instances with a skull near by to tell a little tragic, eloquent tale.
Every one wrote that they would be back very shortly—as soon as Lobengula came in and gave himself up. He had sent a specious letter to Dr Jameson to say that he was coming, and the Doctor was still waiting for the promise to be fulfilled. But the days went by and the King of the Matabele did not materialise. As a matter of fact, he was hastening to put as great a distance as possible between himself and Buluwayo. He was for the North. It seemed to him that the high fertile country beyond the Zambesi would be a good place to get out of the white man’s range and found a new dynasty, and thither he was hurrying with such speed as his fat and enormous body would permit. He was far too unwieldy to walk even if he had not been nicked with gout; so his warriors carried him, and at other times dragged him along in a Bath-chair. When that broke down at last, and his oxen died from lack of food and rest, he commanded his men to span themselves to the waggon and pull him along, and they did so; whilst close upon the spoor of the waggons came trooping crowds of women and children and boys driving cattle; all making for the new land of despotism that was to be founded beyond the waters of the Zambesi.
In the meantime a feeling of insecurity and impatience began once more to prevail in the rest of the country. It was realised that no progress of any consequence could be made, no real advancement furthered until the question of the Matabele powers was settled for ever. Lobengula, if he would not surrender, must be laid by the heels, and there were men “sitting” in Buluwayo who were eager enough and able enough to do the laying.
It was no use letting him settle and grow powerful on the other side of the Zambesi, ready to swoop down and give more trouble some day. There could be no security until every belligerent native had laid down his arms and returned to peaceable occupation.
It was a great relief to the whole country when the news came that a column had started out after the King. Then indeed we knew that the beginning of the end had come, and that we might thereafter possess our souls in peace and security.
Laager was broken in Fort George, and we slept in real beds once more. The coaches from “up” and “down” country began to pass through again, and we got regular mails and were no longer cut off from the civilised world. I was soon reminded of this fact by letters from Salisbury urging me to take coach and rejoin my sister-in-law there. My brother Dick was one of those who were remaining in Buluwayo to see things finally “fixed up.” However, it did not seem to me to be urgently indicated that I should join Judy just then. Instead, I left my hotel and at the invitation of Mrs Marriott took up my residence with her in her little series of huts.
It was round about Christmas time and a sprightly air began to prevail in the township. One day some waggons arrived with machinery for a neighbouring mine and when they had off-loaded at the Mining Company’s stores in the town some one said:
“Why should not we borrow one of these nice waggons and go for a picnic somewhere away from this old town in which we have lived too long and wearily?”
And some one else said: