The Cape and the Kaffirs: A Diary of Five Years' Residence in Kaffirland

We asked them if they, too, had lost their cattle? The man smiled, as he said, “Yes;” he seemed amused at our supposing it could have escaped the hands of the robber. The woman sighed, and answered that two of her herds had been killed, and her son had had a narrow escape of being shot. “We did not like to stay after that, Ma’am,” said she, “and we have been many months in Graham’s Town. I’m sure I don’t think we are safe now, in spite of all the fresh soldiers we’ve got in the country,” she continued, casting a frightened glance towards the gloomy mountains behind the homestead, “but we are all ruined, and things can’t be much worse, so we may as well take our chance.”

The colonists, who are the best judges of the benefits conferred on them by Colonel Somerset’s exertions in their behalf, have come forward to bestow a solid testimony of their gratitude towards him, by setting on foot a subscription for the purchase of a piece of plate, setting forth that “The inhabitants of Albany, impressed with the great service rendered them by Colonel Somerset during the Kaffir war, by his rapid march from Block Drift into Lower Albany and other parts of the district, thereby relieving the inhabitants from imminent danger, and in some cases from almost certain destruction, from the wrathful hands of an invading enemy, and further for his services rendered to the Colony in general by his great exertions in the field, it is proposed to present him with a piece of plate, as a mark of their esteem and gratitude.”

The march alluded to, of such importance to the safety and he lives of the unfortunate settlers, was “made on his own responsibility.” By this “forced march,” says the Graham’s Town Journal, February 13th, 1847, “Colonel Somerset saved Theopolis, Farmerfield, Salem, Bathurst, and other places in Lower Albany, from probable destruction.”

On the departure of his Excellency Sir Peregrine Maitland from the frontier, the troops fell back from the Kei to the Buffalo, where Colonel Van der Meulen assumed the command of a division, consisting of four companies of the Rifle Brigade, beside his own regiment, the 73rd, two guns, seventy Cape Corps, a squadron of the 7th Dragoon Guards, and a chequered group of Provisionals. This division encamped amid the ruins of what once promised to be a flourishing town, named by Sir Harry Smith, King William’s Town; the site having been taken possession of by him in the name of William the Fourth, in 1835; but it was subsequently abandoned.

Here, then, among these memorials of the last war, the troops are building huts and bowers for themselves. The heat is intolerable. The walls of Sir Harry Smith’s abode are still standing, and the old garden contains some excellent fruit trees, planted probably under the direction of Lady Smith, the interesting Spanish heroine of some charming sketches of the Peninsula, and the favourite of the African frontier. Lady Smith, of kindly memory, would live in the hearts of those who knew her, even were she not connected with one of the heroes of the late conquests in India.

Fort Peddie has been strengthened, and is now the head-quarters of the 6th Regiment, under Lieutenant-Colonel Michel. Besides the 6th, Colonel Michel has at his disposal a troop of Dragoons, a party of the Cape Corps, and some companies of the Rifle Brigade.

The 91st are scattered far and wide at outposts and bivouacs. The light company, under Captain Savage, are in Colonel Michel’s district, patrolling between Post Victoria (abandoned and resumed within eight months) and Fort Peddie. The Grenadiers, under Captain Ward, are on their march to the neighbourhood of Hell’s Poort, to intercept cattle-lifters. The levies have been dismissed, or dispersed of their own accord; the flank companies of Her Majesty’s 91st are employed in their stead!

The Beaufort Division is under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Johnstone, 27th Regiment, and consists of the 45th Regiment, under Lieutenant-Colonel Erskine; the reserve battalion 91st, under Lieutenant-Colonel Campbell; 7th Dragoon Guards, under Lieutenant-Colonel Richardson, and a Burgher Force, under Major Sutton, Cape Mounted Rifles.

Chapter XIII.

The Registration System

The pithy motto of “Deeds, not words,” is fraught with sound sense; nevertheless, words uttered with calmness and decision, to a suffering community, carry comfort to the hearts of men, if, by their import, they simply prove that the sufferer’s cause is understood.

Sir Henry Pottinger left Cape Town on the 10th February, 1847, in the “President” flag-ship, Admiral Dacres, and an address was presented to him on his landing at Algoa Bay, by the inhabitants of Port Elizabeth, to which he replied in a manner that evinced his determination to meet the difficulties before him unflinchingly.

Whilst Sir Henry Pottinger was receiving and replying to the addresses of the inhabitants of Algoa Bay, Sir Peregrine Maitland, his family and suite, were embarking at Cape Town for England. Every demonstration of respect towards the ex-Governor and Lady Sarah Maitland, was displayed by the inhabitants, who pressed forward to offer a kind farewell.

On the 24th of February, the guns from the battery above the Drostdy Barracks announced the arrival of Sir George Berkeley, K.C.B., the newly appointed Commander-in-Chief of Her Majesty’s forces on the South African frontier; and, on the 27th, another salute told of Sir Henry Pottinger’s approach to the then immediate seat of Government, Graham’s Town.

The registration system has not succeeded. A farmer misses his cattle, sheep, and horses, or his garden is trampled down, or stripped of its produce. He represents the case to the officer of the line, or the Burgher in command of the nearest post, or bivouac. A patrol is ordered; the spoor is traced, and the men enter the thick bush, creeping on their hands and knees. They first come on the ashes of a fire, and the débris of a meal; the eyes of a savage scout gleam through a screen of mimosa thorns, and then disappear; there is a rush through the bush, a Kaffir exclamation of “Ma-wo!” a stray shot or two from the enemy, fired with deadly intent, but unsuccessfully generally, from the very desire to take unerring aim, a volley from the patrol, then a chase to no purpose; for, shortly after, the savages utter a yell of defiance from some distant or impracticable pass, or more frequently vanish in silence, leaving, perhaps, the traces of blood, the Kaffirs possessing extraordinary vitality, and rivalling, though in a different sense, that celebrated British Corps, the “Die Hards.” The deserted bivouac of the enemy is then examined, and the booty that presents itself as a reward of toil and courage, consists of the bones of an ox, the remnant of a roasted goat, or sheep, some trophies from Burn’s Hill, in the shape of an artillery powder-bag, part of a leather belt, a few stray assegais, perchance a good hair-trigger gun, some filthy karosses, and a registration ticket or two, setting forth how Cana, or Weni, or Tuti, Number 300, or 3000, etc, had “surrendered himself at Fort Hare, or Fort Peddie, on such a day, 1847,” the said surrender, by the way, having been followed up on some occasions by a gift of cattle recaptured by the troops on the very morning perhaps that it was presented to the said Cana, Weni, Tuti, etc, etc.

On the 25th of February, the Grenadiers of the 91st Regiment having been detained many days on the eastern side of the Fish River, in consequence of its being impassable from its swollen state, the soldiers adopted a peculiar mode of getting the baggage-waggons across this gulf of dark and sluggish waters. Availing themselves of a short period when the drift became navigable, these patient and experienced soldiers took the waggons to pieces, and embarked them piecemeal with their cargoes in the clumsy craft which forms the sole means of conveyance.

The first two years of our sojourn here, the locusts devastated the land. The prophet Joel describes this dreadful visitation as “Like the noise of chariots on the tops of mountains,” “Like the noise of flame of fire that devoureth the stubble,” as a “strong people set in battle array;” and any one who has ridden through a cloud of locusts, must admit the description to be as true as it is sublime. On one occasion, at Fort Peddie, the cloud, flickering between us and the missionary station, half a mile distant, dazzled our eyes, and veiled the buildings from our sight; at last it rose, presenting its effects in some acres of barren stubble, which the sun had lit up in all the beauty of bright green a few hours before. Verily, “the heavens” seemed “to tremble,” and the sky was darkened by this “great army,” which passed on “every one on his ways,” neither “breaking their ranks” nor “thrusting one another.” So they swept on, occupying a certain space between the heavens and the earth, and neither swerving from their path, extending the mighty phalanx, or pausing in the course: the noise of their wings realising the idea of a “flaming blast,” and their whole appearance typifying God’s terrible threat of a “besom of destruction.”

“They shall walk every one in his path!” Nothing turns them from it. And, if the traveller endeavour to force his way through them with unwonted rapidity, he is sure to suffer. I have ridden for miles at a sharp gallop through these legions, endeavouring to beat them off with my whip, but all to no purpose! nothing turns them aside, and the poor horses bend down their heads as against an advancing storm, and make their way as best they can, snorting and writhing under the infliction of several sharp blows on the face and eyes, which their riders endeavour to evade with as little success. One draws a long breath after escaping from a charge of locusts, and looking round you, you exclaim with the prophet, “The land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them.”

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 him24), 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.

As a set-off to such hostilities, there are some hopes that the Dutch will pause (they paused to fight, and be conquered) in their career beyond Natal. A few words about their settlements in that part of Africa will not be irrelevant to my subject, inasmuch as, from the extension of our possessions to Natal, we are fast approaching the line of demarcation they would wish to establish.

About two hundred miles north-west of the Portuguese settlement at Delagoa Bay, a town has arisen, called by the emigrant Boers Orichstadt, after its founder Orich, one of the first who trekked in a spirit of discontent against the English. The natives of the country round Orichstadt are a branch of the Baraputses, but are called by the Dutch knob-neus, or knob-noses, from that feature being tattooed after the fashion of a string of beads. With these natives they have lately made an expedition against some of the Zooluh race, to rescue cattle. This commando lasted one day, and was successful, many Zooluhs being killed, and the cattle taken from them. Throughout South Africa the cry is still “Cattle! Cattle! Cattle!”

A sort of trade in ivory has been established between Orichstadt and Delagoa Bay, but the chief obstacle is the intervening low swampy country, which is so unhealthy that both men and oxen frequently sicken and die on the journey. The natives near the bay navigate the river Maponta in canoes. These are a half-caste race, employed by their masters, the Portuguese, to purchase ivory in the interior.

The fort at the bay is not the residence of the Governor-General of the Portuguese on the east coast of Africa. He resides at Mozambique, and the officer commanding the troops at the fortress has absolute rule over all the natives within the small district, among whom are a few European settlers, living in wretched dwellings near the native huts. The fort is useless as a defence, being built of mud, and the interior is a mere stock-yard for the Lieutenant-Governor, who traffics in ivory with the vessels which touch here. There is also some suspicion of a trade in slaves.

Near Delagoa Bay is a tract of country, called Tembia. Here Captain Owen, R.N., once proposed to occupy a position for watching the slavers on the coast. A mission was also established here, and progressed favourably for two years; but England giving up her right in Tembia to Portugal, the unfortunate natives who had gathered round “the Teacher,” were soon disposed of to the slavers. The Dutch are also suspected of being connected with this melancholy trade. Let us hope that the future state of their adopted country will be such as to induce them to return to it. The droughts which devastated this part of Africa in 1846, did equal mischief at Orichstadt, and there has been much consequent distress. It is the assurance of this which has arrested the travelling Boers from advancing further to the north-east with their families.

March 24th.—The troops again take the field this day. Páto’s message to the Government is conciliatory, based on the usual grounds—a scheme to gain time until the corn is gathered in. The Governor’s reply is, that “Páto must surrender himself unconditionally.”

Sir Henry Pottinger and his suite have pitched their marquees at Fort Peddie, in the immediate neighbourhood of the I’Slambie tribes. It is possible his Excellency will find more difficulty in dealing with these savages than with His Celestial Majesty the Emperor of China. Active operations are now been carried on under Sir George Berkeley and Colonel Somerset in the I’Slambie country; and, in the mean time, the key to Kaffirland is to be made use of, at last; the Buffalo Mouth is to be opened at once; and, for the present, the haughty spirit of the Gaikas seems at rest.

Chapter XIV.

Opening of the Second Campaign

The opening of the mouth of the Buffalo river, for the transmission of stores seaward to Kaffirland, will, I trust, prove the usefulness of this key to the seat of war and turmoil. With what breathless eagerness will the first boat be watched careering through the foam, which at times separates, as a veil, the stream from the ocean! Intent as we, poor exiles, are upon every movement that affects the progress of operations, languishing for home, as well as interested in the welfare of the colony, we gaze earnestly on each convoy of waggons wending its slow, uncertain way up the hill “hard by,” on its way to the front. On the 22nd of March, we paused in our evening walk to observe the train of twenty-six waggons, en route for the Buffalo mouth. What an example of African locomotion it presented! Some of these contained ammunition, and it struck me that the nature of their contents might have been concealed rather than manifested by their funereal coverings of black canvas. The foremost in the train suddenly stopped. Had a steam-engine led the van, it would have panted, and puffed, and tugged in vain, along such a pathway. The transport for soldiers’ necessaries in this country is so small, that this waggon had been loaded beyond the capabilities of so cumbrous a machine, and it stuck fast; none of the others, therefore, could move along the narrow road. In vain, the driver slashed his long whip,—the echoes only mocked it. In vain, he shouted “Bosjeman!” “Abeveldt!” “England!” to his oxen; in vain, the Hottentot forelouper screamed, and leaped, and scolded “Ireland” and “Scotland.” He might as well have attempted to move those two ancient kingdoms from their foundations, as the oxen named after them: they only tossed their heads at him and their tails at the driver as if in pure scorn. They were weary, and chose to rest! The despairing escort, foreseeing delay, used frantic exertions to push the huge vehicle from behind, and the drivers in the rear took advantage of the blockade to light their pipes and smoke them with their usual imperturbability. The shrill voices of the vrouws, who accompany their husbands on all occasions, to make their coffee, light their fires, and broil their carbonatje, formed a chorus, in very high treble and very low Dutch, to the unmusical medley.