Broken River Tent Page 17

  ‘Sadly, that extends to Harry Smith and I, but let me not put my wagon before the oxen. Desire for vengeance made me bold. My hatred for Ndlambe made me bold. My needs made me bold. I was sometimes led astray by the seductions of victory, intoxicated by the strength of youth. After the Battle of Amalinde, Ngqika’s star, never resplendent, went on the wane. He started giving himself up to white man’s liquor.’ Maqoma’s face took on a forlorn look of wistful remembrance. ‘Ndlambe’s mistake lay in being taken too much by Nxele. He decided to embark on a premature stance, going for the eye of the octopus – the frontier capital here, eRhini.’

  ‘I read that it was organised suicide.’

  ‘That it was. Don’t get me wrong, such an attack had to be done, in the long run, no question about it. Perhaps even his timing was great, because amaXhosa were still intoxicated by the unity gained in Ngqika’s defeat. And the colonial government was still a weak rumour of a few white settlers, more stranded than established in the beginning. He could have nipped the white expansion in the bud had fate not been armed against him. But his preparations were dismal. AmaXhosa still did not possess the proper ammunition to go for an all-stakes war with the colony. I kept telling my people: we must first learn enough about the white man’s ways, unite completely among ourselves, before going on an all-out war with them.

  ‘Nxele was at the height of his influence, spoiling for glory. His word was basically law among amaNdlambe. I was sickly, but curious to see for myself the all-out war led by Nxele, who had never even been to battle, let alone led a war. It could only be because of old age for a fine war strategist like Ndlambe to allow his armies to fall under the command of a war novice like Nxele. Perhaps Ndlambe trusted Nxele’s sagacity too much, and his son’s military strategy.

  ‘Their first error was choosing broad daylight to attack the fortified buildings of white settlement. I watched from this hill.’ They had finally reached the top with Phila sweating profusely and dizzy with tiredness from the climb. ‘There was still a litter of boulders here then, which elegantly broke the sky. I see them no more now.’

  ‘They carved away a portion of the hill to make way for the tarred road,’ said Phila. The traffic to PE, or Peddie in the other direction, sounded like the movements of the seas from up there.

  ‘As you can see, the place is a naturally raised coliseum.’

  ‘That’s why white people chose to build the Settlers Monument nearby.’

  ‘I had often heard Nxele preach from the adjacent hill. It was known as his pulpit during our era. White people subsequently called it Makana’s Kop. The two hills dwarfed the eminence of the town – still just a huddle of houses then. Around the town there were rolling woods towards the banks of the Fish River, making for an easy disappearance under need. From there I watched the tragic spectacle of Nxele’s war. Opposite, that way towards Gwanga, are those numerous other hills and ravines where Nxele and his warriors hid. Further behind, in the thick Fish River woods, the attacking warriors had left their women and children, with the promise that by evening they would all be occupying the town. Mats, pots and cooking utensils were brought along by those Xhosa who had been driven away from the area by the operations of Colonel Graham. Meanwhile, the warriors went on an errand of death.

  ‘I watched the to and fro movements of Mdushane’s horse early in the morning across the river. Mdushane, my arch rival at Amalinde, acted as the captain of the day, waiting for a command from his supreme commander, Nxele. Behind the brow of the hill stood a myriad of ant-like warriors, mostly on foot, carrying assegais and cowhide shields. The only hope they had against the white man’s guns rested with Nxele’s prophecies of turning white people’s bullets into water.

  ‘There are always those last-minute doubts when you’re about to engage in battle, when you begin to ask yourself real questions. What is the value of that for which I’m about to shed the blood of these young people? What certainty of honour even in victory justifies spilling so much blood? I didn’t envy Nxele at that particular moment. Those questions must have been even more intense for him whose supreme hope rested on the prophecy he knew to be a lie. Not that I blame him. When you’re going to war you use everything at your disposal to build the courage of your men, because, in the end, wars are won mostly on that.

  ‘I sat wondering what might have been on Nxele’s mind that very moment. Was he thinking perhaps it was not too late to call off the bluff? I don’t think Nxele was insensitive to other people’s sufferings, but he was more consumed with seeking glory for himself.’

  ‘Like all brave people – Caesar, Napoleon, Shaka, Hitler – he was a sociopath. You great men of war are great by the expense of young men’s blood.’ Phila’s growing anger caught even himself by surprise, but Maqoma did not rise.

  ‘Early in the morning, on the side of the British army, I saw the garrison commander, Colonel Willshire, go out to inspect the detachment of the Cape Mounted Corps. He must have learnt of the pending attack of kaffir warriors through the green flies; probably from that treacherous elephant hunter Boezak. All of a sudden white people began assembling their troops on the adjacent slopes. I took fright for Nxele’s sake, because the attack was to happen at noon according to Nxele’s plan. We learnt later that it was the Khoi, Ngcuka – whom the white people called Nootka – who was once my father’s interpreter, who had informed Willshire that he saw kaffir warriors hiding towards Kaffir Drift. While the British platoon went to patrol the area of Kaffir Drift, Nxele was to attack the town.

  ‘The colonel almost fell for Nxele’s trap all right. He sent some of his troops to patrol the direction up to Kaffir Drift. And those patrolling troops didn’t return until the battle was almost over. But he himself, escorted by about twelve soldiers, galloped in the other direction towards where Nxele’s warriors were hiding, to satisfy himself, perhaps, that there was no danger there. Whether he was tipped off or not is now a moot point. Nxele panicked when he saw them coming. When the colonel and his escorts crossed the dongas to round the gorges where a few of them were hiding Nxele ordered an attack. I’m certain the Xhosa warriors who were at the bottom of deep gorges further on were not in immediate view of the colonel and his troops, otherwise the white people would not have been so stupid as to expose themselves like that so close. But as I said, Nxele panicked. That is the usual tell-tale sign of a novice on the battleground.

  ‘Nxele’s warriors, who were hiding in the ravines, waiting for noon to attack, climbed out at his command. The moment they realised the danger they were in, the colonel and his men made an urgent about turn, pursued by the frontal point of Nxele’s warriors. The chase would have been comical if it were not so tragic – the bullet-speed fury of the colonel and his men, chased by a few mounted Xhosas who were followed by the hordes of foot warriors. The warriors caught up with and killed a few of the foot soldiers, but the colonel and the rest of the mounted soldiers got away. The colonel later boasted, when he presented me with a dock-tailed roan as a sign of goodwill between us during one of our armistices, that the swiftness of his steed, Blucher, saved his life that day. “If you take care of your horse, groom it well, it’ll be a loyal friend and take care of you.”

  ‘When the colonel and his men came galloping they raised the attention of their army. The carnage was about to begin. White troops, assisted by white farmers, shopkeepers and so on, assembled at the town’s municipal building, which was built like a fort. Meanwhile, Nxele’s warriors hared downhill. With their artillery, the whites formed laagers and waited. The street above the watercourse, next to the site now occupied by that stone church, was the major battleground. I narrowed my eyes and saw on the plains, through the haze of dust, that Nxele was whipping his followers into a frenzy with an animated speech, getting ready to cross the river to the town centre. Apparently, he even promised the aid of the spirits to assist the cause. “The spirits will countervail the boastful prowess of the white man’s fire, turning their bullets into water!” they say he kept shouti
ng in frenzy above the din. We heard the first British artillery thundering on the descending hordes. Battery fire raked Nxele’s warriors. Shells flew with a roar. The destructive musketry didn’t need to aim much to find targets. There were just too many warriors for any fire from white men to miss.

  ‘Nxele had drawn his army into three columns. One column went for the municipal building on the west side. The main one went for the barracks, the first point of British defence in the middle, made up of mostly KhoiKhoi and amaMfengu. The Xhosas looked like a cloud of whirring hornets coming down, despite being raked by fire. On the first attack, across the river, they met up with Mfengus, whose location was between them and town. They passed through with relative ease when the Mfengus turned back to the safety of the municipal building, joining the laager of white people who were garrisoned there with armed troops.

  ‘With no cover of darkness or forest, from there the warriors were sitting ducks as they charged. I couldn’t help shouting to them from up on my hill, as though they could hear me: “Break up! Break up, you fools! Break up into little knots so the cannon shrapnel shells do not harvest you!” As if they had heard me, two columns went for the square, which was where the concentration of British fire was, and the other column continued towards the barracks. Furthermore they broke into little knots of about fifty men as they charged. I was smiling and about to doff my hat at Nxele’s sagacity when I discovered none of them had throwing spears. They had broken all their spears in anticipation of a close combat. How was he hoping to get a close combat against the British in broad daylight and under open field attack? The fool! How did he hope to get close to the enemy without the diversion of throwing spears? That was Nxele’s second fatal error. While still thinking about that, I noticed that they had again organised themselves into continuous clusters in the firing line of the soldiers. Thus the real reign of terror began. I threw my hands on my head and turned away, but anxiety drew my eyes back into the massacre.

  ‘All the soldiers needed to do was fire in the right direction and their shots found targets. Nxele and Mdushane were busy cheering the warriors into the muzzles of the soldiers’ guns. When it was clear the warriors were falling in droves, unable to engage the enemy in close combat, butterflies fluttered in my stomach. My nerves tautened into little bundles. I would have given anything not to witness the slaughter, yet at the same time there was nothing I would not have given to witness it. It was only a matter of time before the Xhosas realised what was happening and turned back helter-skelter.

  ‘The colonial force rallied behind their stone buildings, raining murderous fire over the warriors. Dust mixed with lilac smoke blinded me from seeing the gruesome action in detail. After the concentrated attack from the warriors I could see the firing from British soldiers slackening, which lit the fire of my hope. They must have been exhausted. They can’t keep up their fire for long, I thought. The warriors are just too many, outnumbering the soldiers by more than a hundred to one. Then I noticed something that alarmed me more than anything else. The hired mercenaries of Boezak’s elephant hunters were rushing along the river bank. Late did I notice what they were up to. Their marksmen were targeting and eliminating the chiefs one by one. Boezak was familiar with our ways. He knew that most of our people would lose courage once the chiefs fell. That made for the turning point of the battle. Most of the warriors lost courage. Believing they could not sustain the attack, when they saw their leaders fall wild panic set in. The majority retreated in disarray and confusion. A cheer went up from the soldiers and although the white people’s garrison was by then already feeble, they fired with renewed alacrity. All the warriors needed to do was hold their attack. As they had been taken by surprise, the white people were bound to run out of ammunition. The warriors didn’t think about taking advantage, however. In fact, I’m certain, had Nxele not promised them the assistance of the spirits they would not have been brave enough to stand on their own and fight it out. The warriors took the fall of their chiefs as a sign of dissatisfaction from the spirits and ancestors. It was this realisation that sowed confusion among them. They realised no spirits were coming to their assistance to turn the white man’s bullets into water. All that was left was for individuals to save their own dear lives.

  ‘The moment the warriors started retreating they fell like flies. More perished in that retreat than in the advance. Many leapt, wounded, trying to save themselves, into the Kowie ditch, where they were easily shot by the soldiers from the barracks. In vain did some try to conceal themselves by thick grass or weeds; the soldiers burnt the marshes and fired at anything that came out of it. As a result most of their bodies lay lifeless in the Kowie ditch. That was how the river got its name, Egazini, the place of blood. Many warriors died there that day. Ndlambe lost three of his sons.

  ‘I surveyed the scene of slaughter a little before we left. Bodies with distorted faces lay hopelessly dead. The eyes of those who were still alive were drunk with pain. Crows and vultures were already wheeling in the red evening sky. To this day, the pines and firs in the area bow mournfully, remembering, perhaps, the bones that enrich that soil.’

  Phila went down the slope with a heavy heart. The calm of the day had graduated into an inferno. Maqoma’s voice was relentless.

  ‘I felt terrible relief as the battle came to a close. I’m not sure I would have been able to stomach more. The carnage was too much and painfully one-sided. When the mournful hues of the evening shadows came upon the wounded, my men and I headed home. I was still struggling with weakness from my wounds. My legs wilting and drooping like stalks of crushed corn, they trembled as I mounted my horse. A stagnant scent of marsh dampness made my stomach heave. The scrunching sounds of horses’ hooves crushing pine-cones made me sick. When the evening shadows deepened we camped on a coppice near a river bank somewhere – I can’t remember which river. The iron planted by war took root in my heart that night. The chill of death was in the air. We took out corncobs from our leather carrier bags to cook and eat. I tried chewing and swallowing but it was difficult. Somebody passed me a peeled prickly-pear; the seeds were too hard for my weak jaws.

  ‘Silence howled as we lay defeated against hope of ever prevailing against white men. At the break of dawn we prepared to leave. “We might find ourselves in awkward situations, my chief,” said one of my escorts, meaning we might come across colonial patrols, or be surprised by feeding elephants that abounded the area. “We’ll ride it anyway,” I said, feeling agitated. We went through very steep and rocky cliffs into the thick of bushes. In the morning, the thunder of the white man’s cannons resumed; we heard their stuttering shatter the anxious silence now and then through the trees. Branches lay crashed to the ground. They chased amaNdlambe all over the place; some more to protect their cattle. Luckily, none of them spotted us. We emerged from the woods with death laid on our shoulders like a sand-bag.

  ‘One of my escorts sang softly against the bluish grey of the sky. His voice sounded comforting against the crumbling background of cannon fire. No matter what, we always have songs to comfort us, I thought to myself. The calm of the sky felt like an insult to our mood. The horses pricked their ears now and then as the thunder of gunfire reached us. Turning back I could see smoke hovering in the sky from a long way off and I knew in my discouraged heart that another black man had just fallen. Each cannon pound pulled in strained a muscle in my heart.

  ‘The newly minted sun raised lazy swirls of mist over the hills. The wind travelled aimlessly across the scree. Clouds began to mass in the distance, shading the sky into a tender smoky lilac beyond the tops of the mountains. We proceeded cautiously, dashing for the protection of the woods whenever we heard the creak of wagon wheels or the rattle of stirrups. There’s a run downhill before you reach upper Nxuba when you cross towards Double Drift. There we met up with elephants drinking water. We filled our calabashes before fording the river, knee-deep, towards a very steep hill. My horse slid on an elephant carcass and nearly dropped me. Only the tus
ks had been gouged out by the hunters; they had left the carcass to rot. The mischief of white people followed us everywhere.

  ‘The river disappeared around a sand bend and parted ways with us. We proceeded by way of hills, rugged and bold. Baboons looked down at us from hanging cliffs, howling and barking in derisive banter: “Baagoom! Baa! Baargoom! Boorg! Baa!” Whenever they got too close for our comfort we cracked the whip to scare them off. Curious hyenas came to investigate, laughed and lost interest when they discovered we were not stranded.

  ‘One of my escorts managed to shoot a porcupine, which made for a great roast in the evening. We bivouacked at the foot of a cliff with a challenge of hyraxes rolling rocks down at us in their migrations. We fed our horses oats, stolen from white farmers, and ate bitter lemongrass, which grew wild on the river banks. The proliferation of orchards of oranges, lemons, figs and other strange fruits amazed me as we passed towards the eMthontsi forests. White people were working the land. Ostriches roamed the plains with steady strides. When we reached the place where Fort Willshire was eventually built to threaten our villages, I was dog tired. A ramshackle of colonial buildings was already starting to go up there. We avoided attention. In time, it became a scene of enterprise, women with bundles on their heads and babies on their backs, head turbans and skin mantles trimmed with buttons and beads, assembled under the trees that surrounded the fort. Bartering was taking place in a cacophony of loud strange languages, giving the impression of a flock of vultures over the dead carcass of an elephant. I became weary of the nature of things.

  ‘By the time I reached my house I was gnawed by black potencies and ineffable weariness. I could see the concern and questions in the eyes of my followers. What now? I had no answers. My mind lost its clarity. I admitted none of my wives into my hut that night. There was a feverish cloud of mental stress in my mind. I took the tin of fat with a piece of rag for a wick to light as a lamp. It had been a gift from the Governor to replace the thin smoky strips of wood we lit for light. A moth buzzed around the flame with nauseating insistence. Pallid ash gleamed from the hearth fire. Disturbing thoughts crawled through my mind like snakes. I can never completely delineate the depth of bitterness I felt that day.