The white ants are another plague—books, dresses, carpets, etc, all fall a prey to their voracity in a few days; the very houses give way before them; and when they are on a march, never swerving from their path, some thousands in number, the earth has the appearance of being covered with ashes. Twice, then, have I seen the land subject to this curse; and in 1846 the droughts proved perhaps a worse misfortune. Here again the prophet’s words were applicable: “How do the beasts groan! the herds of cattle are perplexed because they have no pasture; yea, the flocks of sheep are made desolate!”
The rise of the rivers is another of the wonderful sights of Africa. At one moment the bed of the river presents little but a surface of mud; a distant murmur is heard, then a roar; nearer, yet nearer, and a wall of water is visible up the stream. On, on,—not foaming, nor leaping, nor glancing in the bright sun,—like a cheerful, honest, English torrent—but with a slow sluggish movement, the wall advances, swelling in its career, and gradually filling the great chasm with a dull and sluggish volume of lead-coloured fluid; while the cattle stand trembling and gazing on the brink of this African Styx, their Fingo herdsman making no bad representation of “Charon grim!”
Páto’s last message to Colonel Somerset might be admired for its coolness, if the intentions implied in it were serious in all their bearings. His ambassadress, a Kaffir woman, came into Graham’s Town lately, to tell Colonel Somerset that Páto desired to meet him (Note 1), and that speedily, as his (the Chief’s) tobacco-pouch was worn out, and he only waited for his enemy’s skin wherewith to make a new one! There is no doubt that Páto would readily appropriate the said skin of his persevering foe to the purpose required, but as to meeting Colonel Somerset, that is “quite another thing.”
Witchcraft is working its mischief in Kaffirland, accompanied with the most revolting ceremonies. After the first affair on the Amatolas, Sandilla presented Umyeki, one of his numerous fathers-in-law, with a trophy of victory. The skull, skin, and right hand of our unfortunate friend, Captain Bambrick, 7th Dragoon Guards, were considered by the young Gaika chief as worthy offerings to this celebrated witch-doctor, or worker of spells. These wizards outrival the chiefs in power, and have hitherto carried on their incantations with a success that baffles both missionary and military exertions.
The wizard, Umyeki, then gathers round him a vast assemblage of his fellow-savages; and, after going through the usual harlequinade attendant on those mysteries of Kaffirland, he exhibits a decoction, a mixture of herbs with Sandilla’s trophies, and as this boils and foams over on the fire he has prepared according to form, under it, he dips a stick into it, stirs it up, and then pointing the magic wand in the direction of our outposts, camps, bivouacs, and leaguers, he decrees as he thinks fit, sickness to one, fear to another, and so on; and thus by persuading his deluded and superstitious countrymen that he paralyses the colonial forces, the Kaffirs acquire fresh courage, and persevere in their aggressions. A clever artist has seized on this for a subject, which promises to make a fine picture. The demon look of the wizard, the curiosity depicted in the faces of some of the spectators, the terror of others who turn aside, or shrink away, with faces half-averted, are all well portrayed. Such a scene can only be imagined by people who are accustomed to the study of the Kaffir countenance.
Those who witnessed Sandilla’s first offer of amende to the British Government described it as singularly impressive, and were touched with some feelings of compassion for the restless Gaika. The image presented is a mournful one. Sandilla, at the age of twenty-four, hitherto Lord Paramount of the Amakosas, including Gaikas, I’Slambies, and many smaller tribes, sits moodily on the mountain-ridge, awaiting an answer to the conciliatory message wrung from him by force of the British arms; and, surveying in silence the territory he has forfeited,—lands extending as far as the eye can reach—mountains and deep valleys, green pastures, and sheltering bush—the home of the savage, all threaded by the Tyumie stream—those waters, of which he once vowed “the white man should never drink,”—on its fertile banks, the tents of the English now stand in proud array. The echoes round that vast space give back the bugle call, the fife’s shrill notes, the drum’s dull rolling sound, where once was heard the hunter’s shout, the jackal’s cry, the peevish whine of the wolf, the mocking laugh of the hyena, and but lately the wild whoop of the Gaika warriors. Silently sits that young Chief upon the mountain edge, but not alone—to him, at least, his people are true. A chieftain’s power is absolute, but, alas! it is only applicable to mischievous purposes. His vassals watch him, and a proud sorrow is depicted in their countenances as they gaze on him, turning from time to time their fierce and scowling eyes on the British Commissioner. In strong contrast to this, Sir Peregrine Maitland, with his Staff, rides slowly by—his calm features totally unmoved, as he hands a written decree to his delegate, and passes on. With their arms folded, and yet with every nerve on the alert, and hands ready to seize the short destructive assegais at their feet (these are used when compelled to close with the enemy), the warriors of the Amatola, unsubdued in spirit, haughtily await the “word” of the “White-headed Chief of the children of the foam,” to which Sandilla vouchsafes no reply. Apart, a young Gaika, Anta (Sandilla’s brother), speaks words of bitter scorn. Eye and hand sweep round the glorious territory, and at each pause in his vehement harangue, a low and solemn sound, like the distant roar of many waters, rolls through the circle of his auditors. No notice of what is passing is vouchsafed by the Amakosa Chief. At last, drawing his robe of tiger-skin around his withered limb, he moves slowly and, in spite of his lameness, with dignity, from the council-ground, and is lost in the deep recesses of the “bush.”
All this, I say, presents a mournful image to the mind, and many a romance has been formed on poorer incidents; but we must remember when we hear the broad assertion of philanthropists at home, that we are not justified in taking from the Kaffir, “the land of his fathers,” that the country is only his by might—no more his than ours, he having driven the aborigines from the dwelling-place God originally led them into. Where are these poor Bushmen now? Far up the country, among the steep recesses of the mountains, where they form a link between the animals of the wilderness and human nature. Thither civilisation may follow them when the land of their forefathers shall be under British rule!
It may here be remarked that the Zooluh tribes, near Natal, now punish witchcraft among themselves with death. Umwangela, a chief, lately ordered a Zooluh wizard to be destroyed by one of the tribe, named Nomgulu; both the chief and his subject were seized by the British authorities, and tried for murder. Umwangela’s defence was, “I was dead; I had lost my family by the wizard, and determined to have his life in return.” Nomgulu pleaded that he was “only the dog of Umwangela; that witchcraft was a crime punishable by death.” Umwangela and his “dog” were found guilty of murder on the British territory, and sentenced to death; but the sentence was not carried into effect. The witnesses who discovered the prisoners arrested them when returning from bathing, it being the custom of the Zooluhs to wash after an execution.
Part of the 1st battalion 45th Regiment, stationed at Natal, have lately been engaged in hostile operations against a chief named Fodo, who had assembled his warriors near the Umzunculu River, and carried off a quantity of cattle, killing some of the peaceable inhabitants of the Ambaca tribe. On the 27th January, the troops, consisting of some Artillery, Cape Corps, and a party of the 45th, in all not three hundred, encamped on the banks of the Umzunculu. They were accompanied by some natives subject to our Government. The country was too rugged for the Artillery rockets to be of much use, and the bush aided Fodo’s escape. Some five hundred head of cattle were recaptured from the enemy, and five prisoners were secured. The Lieutenant-Governor has wisely offered a reward for the apprehension of Fodo and his colleague, Nomdabulu.
I have touched on the subject of this skirmish in the district of Natal, because, although that district is under a Lieutenant-Governor of its own, it is closely connected, commercially, politically, and in a domestic way, with these south-western territories, and also because our troops have been engaged there.