During the Zulu War of 1878, a Zulu spy was captured by some members of an irregular corps. The Sergeant-Major of the corps asked the O.C. what should be done with the spy. The officer at that particular moment was suffering from an injured shin and, being in a bad temper in consequence, replied shortly: “Oh, hang the bally spy!” Subsequently a court-martial was summoned to try the spy, and the Sergeant-Major was ordered to march up the prisoner. The Sergeant-Major, who was an Irishman, stared open-mouthed for a few seconds, and then said: “Plaze, sor, I can’t, sure, he’s hung, sor.” “Hung!” exclaimed the Commandant, who was standing within ear-shot. “Who ordered him to be hung?” “The O.C., sor,” replied the Sergeant-Major. “I ordered him to be hung?” then ejaculated the O.C., who was also present. “What do you mean?” “Shure, sor, when I asked you what was to be done with the spy, did you not say, sor, ‘Oh, hang the spoy,’ and there he is,” pointing to the slaughter poles, and sure enough there he was. The court-martial was postponed sine die.
In 1879, when Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood—then Colonel Evelyn Wood—was in command of the column then encamped at Kambulu, in Natal, a trader came into the camp with wagons and asked permission to sell groceries to the troops. Permission was granted to him on the understanding that he had no alcohol of any description. It was later discovered that he was selling gin to the soldiers at a shilling a glass, and Colonel Wood executed summary justice by having the trader tied to the wheel of his own wagon and giving him two dozen lashes. A few weeks later Colonel Wood received a summons issued on behalf of the trader, claiming damages to the tune of £5,000. This summons he ignored. “Some time afterwards,” says Sir Evelyn Wood, in “From Midshipman to Field Marshal,” “I was riding one morning into Utrecht when I met a horseman, who, stopping me, asked if he was on the right road to Colonel Wood’s camp, and also whether the road was safe. I told him he was quite safe until he got to Balte Spruit. ‘What sort of a man is this Colonel Wood?’ he asked. ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘some people like him and some people dislike him.’ ‘I have been told that he is very rough.’ ‘Yes, that is so—when he is vexed.’ ‘I am an officer of the High Court of the Transvaal, and I am going to him with a writ; do you think he will be violent with me?’ ‘Oh, no, I am certain he won’t.’ ‘Then you think there is no risk so far as he is concerned?’ ‘None whatever; but you had better not mention your business in the camp, as his own battalion is at Kambulu Hill, and it might be bad for you if the men got to know your errand.’ ‘Why, what do you think they will do to me—kill me?’ ‘Oh, no; the worst that would happen to you would be to be tarred and feathered.’ ‘I don’t like this job that I am on. I think, if you will allow me, I’d like to turn back and ride with you to Utrecht and send the document by post.’ Accordingly we rode along together, and I showed him the post office in the little town before I went about my business.”
When Mark Twain visited South Africa, he was asked by an eminent Africander what he thought of South African affairs. “Well,” replied Mark Twain, “after I had been in Cape Town a week and had heard both sides of the question, I thought I had mastered it. Then I went to Kimberley, and met with a totally different view. Up in Bulawayo there was quite another story, and in Johannesburg a different opinion was heard, while in Pretoria I might as well have been in another country. When I reached Bloemfontein——” “Yes?” said the eminent Africander, “what conclusion did you come to?” “Well,” said Mark Twain, “the only conclusion I could arrive at was that the South African question was a very good subject for a fool to let alone.”
A shooting story told by Mr. Carl Jeppe in “The Keleidoscopic Transvaal.” Mr. D. S. Mare, magistrate of Zoutpansberg, was out lion shooting with the late Barend Vorster, a mighty hunter before the Lord. A lioness had been wounded, driven out of cover, and stood at bay. The landdrost jumped off his horse, fired, and missed. It was now Vorster’s turn, since there was not time for his friend to reload. In dismounting, Vorster dropped his watch and stopped to pick it up. The lioness seemed about to charge, and Mare urged his friend to shoot. Vorster replied grumblingly that the glass of his watch had been broken. “Never mind that now; the lioness is ready to spring,” Mare replied. “Do you know,” said Vorster, “I shall have to send the watch to Pretoria, and that it will cost me five shillings to get it repaired?” “Good heavens,” cried the magistrate, “don’t you see you have not a moment to loose?” “It’s all very well for you to talk,” Vorster replied; “it’s not your watch that is broken!” At last, however, he fired, and with unerring aim gave the lioness the coup de grace.
The following is an exact copy of a letter written by a half-educated Kaffir in the De Beers Diamond Mine Compound to his sweetheart outside:—