At the Fireside Read online

  The British reached Hlobane near nightfall, rested for an hour, built large fires to make it look as if they were encamped for the night and then quietly moved out into the dark.

  So far, so good. But then the attack began to go wrong. By 3 am Buller and his dismounted troops had begun to scale Hlobane in spite of a tremendous thunderstorm which not only delayed them but resulted in their losing contact with part of his force.

  It was extremely hard going. The battle-wise Mbelini had built barriers of boulders at various places on the sides of the hill to limit access for the British troops, and manned them with riflemen. They struggled up to the summit, however, where they faced a renewed shower of bullets and assegais.

  Worse was to come. In the meantime Cetewayo’s relief force had noticed the fighting on the summit and despatched one of its impis to assist the AmaQulusi while the main body carried on to Khambula. Some of the Zulus slipped down the other side of Hlobane while Buller was still busy on top, and joined hands with the new arrivals at the base of the mountain from where they began to work their way up the only path to and from the summit.

  On the summit Buller and his men found themselves before a sheer cliff more than 150 feet high. With no other option, they were forced to turn around and go back down Hlobane by the same route along which they had come up, and then retrieve their horses and fight their way through the Zulus massed at its foot.

  Their horses fell like flies under the storm of bullets and assegais, so that many of Buller’s men were riding two-up as they hotfooted it back to Khambula. Their respite was short, however – next day the Zulus’ main body attacked the fortified camp, leading to a bout of ferocious fighting that eventually ended with the attackers giving way, having lost at least 785 men and possibly many more (later estimates were as high as 2 000 to 3 000).

  As they retreated, Buller and his mounted troops sallied forth and hounded them mercilessly for many miles, with the British infantry and auxiliaries following up to finish off stragglers and wounded (later there were questions asked in Britain about this, but nothing came of them).

  So Khambula can be accounted a victory, although not a decisive one, but our main concern here is Hlobane. Does that sound to you like a resounding British victory? It is true that in traditional military usage two connected actions may be treated as one, and Hlobane and Khambula were certainly intimately linked, so that if it is seen as merely the opening phase of the battle which ended at Khambula it might be classed as a British victory.

  But that does not answer the question: who won at Hlobane? The participants seem to have had little doubt, to judge by a letter home written by one Captain Henry Vaughn of the Royal Artillery which was published in the Illustrated London News of 31 May 1879:

  An expedition started on the 27th, consisting of the Frontier Light Horse and two other volunteer corps of mounted men – all together 1 000, under the command of Redvers Buller. Another column started about 6 hours later under Colonel Russell, the whole thing being under the immediate command of Sir Evelyn Wood.

  The object was to storm the Hlobane Mountain, a great Zulu stronghold where they had collected their cattle. Colonel Buller with his men had to go around the mountain as this was the only accessible place for mounted men, and on the side nearest the camp, Colonel Russell had to go up and meet Colonel Buller at the top …

  None could do this, for there were immense boulders and a wall built across by the Kaffirs, and up on the top the whole of the horseshoe was filled with Zulu firing men, and people like Lieutenant George Williams and Captain Barton of the Coldstream Guards had to rescue the bodies. Captain Barton was killed.

  Colonel Buller’s force was coming down again when he encountered an immense number of the enemy who were coming up the same way that we were coming down. How anyone got down, was a miracle, with horses plunging madly and Zulus shooting and assegai’ing the poor fellows.

  It was, let us admit it, a disastrous day for British forces, although pretty small beer compared to Isandlwana. But that is what really happened. It is true that history is always written by the victors and never the vanquished. But sooner or later the revisionist thinkers and commentators always start asking inconvenient questions, and so, very, very slowly, the other side of the Anglo-Zulu War story is emergin – thanks to the late David Rattray and all those who follow in the wake of that great man.

  FOOTNOTE: Five Victoria Crosses were later awarded for the action at Hlobane, as well as five Distinguished Conduct Medals. One VC went to Redvers Buller, who ended up with a knighthood and became the general officer commanding the British forces at the start of the Second Anglo-Boer War, but led the British forces into a string of disasters during the first months of fighting.

  Forgotten Places in History

  FORGOTTEN PLACES IN HISTORY

  There are many places in this magnificent country of ours with interesting histories which have been partly or completely lost because they were overshadowed by much bigger or more spectacular events.

  One of these places is Pilgrim’s Rest, whose fascinating story was obscured by the 1886 Witwatersrand gold rush to such an extent that it has only been resurrected in the past 30 years – thanks to the efforts of a few dedicated people like John Theunissen of Sabi and Marion Moir of Lydenburg, people who tirelessly dig out the rich history of their area and preserve it so that others may someday appreciate and enjoy it.

  Then there is now-deserted Steynsdorp and the equally forsaken town of Malmani, both forgotten after the 1886 gold rush. The only relic of the once-bustling mining town just outside Ottoshoop in the Northern Province is a beautiful silver racing bowl that was auctioned off by Sotheby’s some years ago and dropped out of sight.

  And remember Barkly West. Once you have left Kimberley and are driving westwards on the R31, you eventually come to a handsome, solid-looking old stone bridge constructed of dolomite over which the original toll house still stands guard.

  Get out of your car, walk onto the old bridge and look westward, and you’re back in the 1870s because this is Klipdrift, the old fording place across the Vaal River. On your right-hand side looms Canteen Kopje, the site of the first great rush for the alluvial stones in the bed of the mighty Vaal; during the Ice Age 220 million years ago, the glaciers ground their way through the rock in the area, leaving a spoor that can still be seen. There are Stone Age middens and the traces of ancient tribes in the area.

  In January of 1870 a party of prospectors from Natal led by Captain Loftus Rolleston arrived here – and found river diamonds. In no time the place became an uproarious diggers’ tented camp, notorious for its gun-running, bootlegged strong liquor and traffic in stolen diamonds. A vile place by modern standards, perhaps, but this is where our diamond history took root.

  A little further on there is a giant pool known as Webster’s Pool which, according to tribal legend, is haunted by a serpent. Near it is Webster’s Kopje. Both are named after a fortunate early digger named Captain Webster who found that the kopje was studded with diamonds. Here, too, a great breakwater almost half a kilometre long was flung across the Vaal River, and below it hundreds of men toiled at retrieving diamonds from the bed of the river.

  The breakwater was funded by a diamond buyer named Bernie Goldberg who is, perhaps, better remembered because in later years he used to make his rounds on the diggings in a 1902 De Dion car; the only other ‘horseless carriage’ in Kimberley at the time, which arrived before his, was a 1901 Panhard et Levassor which belonged to the general manager of the Kimberley Mines.

  Diggers at the alluvial sites like Webster’s Pool, Canteen Kopje, Gong Gong (so called because the Bushmen said that was the noise that the water made while cascading down the rocks), Waldeck’s, Winter’s Rush and Delport’s Hope reaped a rich harvest, bringing up thousands of river diamonds worth many, many millions.

  Close to Webster’s Pool a well-known digger na
med Fred Wilson found a ‘blue’ of 110 carats. He sold it for £1 250. Goodness knows what it would be worth today – millions, most likely. Let your mind’s eye paint the scene for you: The gravels come up from the washer in sieves and are poured onto the sorting table – a rough structure with a corrugated-iron roof and a cloth-covered board below – and the digger experiences the moment that never ceases to thrill him. He takes his scraper and spreads a circle of gravel with an easy flick of his wrist, born of long practice, and sweeps the mass of garnets, moonstones, cat’s eyes, agates and bantams to one side, not one diamond eluding his experienced eye.

  An old diamond buyer named Aaronson once told me that at one stage he was paying out £9 000 a day for river diamonds; his best deal ever was when he bought a good stone and sold it for a profit of £3 000 that same day. What made the deal even sweeter was the fact that earlier another dealer had refused to buy it! Then there was a stone found in the Hopetown district with such a wonderful colour that everybody doubted it was actually a diamond. Nevertheless Mr Aaronson bought it for £1 550 – and sold it next day for £3 500.

  At various times in the early days various other groups like the Khoina, Andries Waterboer’s Griquas and the Tswana Batlhaping tribe under Chief Mankuroane tried to assert their claims over the area, but the diggers, armed and led by one Roderick Barker, chased each claimant away. The Orange Free State claimed the south side of the river, and in June of 1870 President MW Pretorius of the ZAR tried to assert control. The diggers – still led by Barker – would have none of him either, however, and threatened to pull down the Transvaal flag if it was hoisted.

  Three days later Pretorius tried again, this time by attempting to install a magistrate called Hugh Owen as the diggers’ magistrate. A yelling mob surrounded the presidential party, tore up the ZAR flag, dumped Owen in a boat and sent him off to the southern bank of the river with a promise to tar and feather him if he ever returned.

  Pretorius retreated to the mission station at Hebron, now called Windsorton, from where he tried to negotiate with the diggers. They ignored him and formed a mutual protective society, proclaimed the birth of the ‘Klipdrift Republic’ and elected none other than the famous Stafford Parker as their president (now there’s a character who deserves to have a book written about his life – incidentally, his great-grandson still lives in White River).

  President Parker is recorded as saying in his acceptance speech: ‘If you have any confidence in me, support me loyally, and for heaven’s sake don’t allow any drunk fool to pitch me into the river’ (for the record, no-one ever did).

  In December 1870 the Rev John Campbell arrived as an emissary of the Cape Colony’s government, which also laid claim to the area. Eventually the whole ownership squabble was taken to arbitration. In due course this resulted in the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) ‘Keate Award’ which we shall speak about at a later stage. The winners were the Griquas who quickly ceded it to the British; Sir Henry Barkly, the then Governor of the Cape, visited the area and established the town that to this day carries his name – Barkly West.

  The majority of the old diggers abandoned the place once the fabulous diamond pipe at Kimberley had been discovered, and it faded into obscurity, its wonderfully colourful story overshadowed by the equally colourful history of the ‘City of Diamonds’. But if you ever get the chance, go along there and relive its old tales in your imagination for a brief moment.

  The Malmani Gold Rush of 1879

  THE MALMANI GOLD RUSH

  OF 1879

  If you happen to be looking for Ottoshoop – not the tiny, peaceful hamlet of today but the wild one of the gold-rush days – you will find its remains after you have crossed the railway bridge near where the road from Lichtenburg intersects the one linking Mafekeng and Zeerust.

  And, if you then go back down the road towards Lichtenburg and turn off to the left, you will find the eye of the Malmani River. It is worth visiting, because it is a very short river. Crystal-clear water bubbles out of the dolomitic substructure to become the Malmani – but just 13 kilometres further on the river disappears down a sinkhole, never to be seen again.

  On this inconsiderable little waterway lies the farm Stinkhoutboom which was originally owned by an Irish sailor called Mick Kelly. Kelly jumped ship in Cape Town and headed inland, like so many other birds of passage who set their boots on southern African soil in the last few decades of the 19th century, and ended up a farmer along the Malmani River.

  But Kelly and Stinkhoutfontein are remembered for something else because it was here that the Malmani gold rush of 1879 took place, although you would never say so now.

  By way of a little background we need to know about the sequence of gold rushes in South Africa. The first was at Pilgrim’s Rest in 1873, which was followed by the rush at Ottoshoop in 1879, then Barberton in 1881 and Kaapschehoop in 1882, and finally in 1886 the biggest goldfield ever discovered in the world, the Witwatersrand.

  When Kelly discovered gold on his farm in 1879 President Paul Kruger went to have a look at it and fell into a discussion with the landdrost or magistrate of the Lichtenburg area, one Mr Otto. The landdrost remarked in passing that he hoped a great town would develop there, and Kruger replied that if it did, ‘we will call it Ottoshoop’ – Otto’s hope.

  There certainly was plenty of hope at Ottoshoop when the diggings were proclaimed. Thousands of would-be diggers rushed there, determined to make their fortunes. In a matter of three months there were 13 hotels and bars, well-stocked with ‘ladies of the night’ who had caught the stagecoaches from the coastal towns on hearing the news.

  You can just picture it even now – a rip-roaring boomtown which was enough to make the notorious Wild West look tame. Smoke-filled saloons crammed with tough, hard-drinking miners, the player at the honky-tonk piano tickling the ivories as if his life depended on it, revellers of all shapes, sizes and states of griminess gambling, drinking and paying the girls for their tawdry favours – in pure gold, needless to say. There was even a Freemasons’ lodge, appropriately named the ‘El Dorado’, for those of a more sober bent.

  In no time there was a horse-racing arena in operation, too, where everyone came to bet their money as if there were no tomorrow. And there wasn’t; soon the gold started to peter out, and with it the number of hopefuls. Some went to Barberton to try their luck at the new diggings there, and no doubt others went on to the strike at Kaapschehoop the year after Barberton was proclaimed, and of course a mere five years later the greatest goldfield of them all opened up on the Witwatersrand.

  Literally overnight Ottoshoop became a ghost of its former self as it suffered the fate of all mining towns which had lost their only reason for existence. The corrugated-iron hotels and pubs were dismantled and moved to the Rand, along with the girls, the pianos and everything else. The El Dorado lodge has long ago moved, and the building is now the corner bottle store, replacing the dignified hum of its vanished mystic rituals.

  Today’s Ottoshoop is a little place which caters to the modest needs of a small local population and passing railway travellers; the wide-open boom years of 1879 and 1880 are almost forgotten. But in actual fact it has left a couple of deep footprints on our history, even though few people know about them.

  Firstly, in a sense, it is the mother of the city of Johannesburg, unlikely as this might sound. When Johannesburg literally sprang up out of the dusty veld after the gold strikes of 1886 there was an urgent need for a formal town plan to bring some order to the chaos. Then President Kruger came up with an ingenious solution.

  Elaborate plans had been drawn up for the city that was to have arisen at Ottoshoop, but had been gathering dust since it had proved to be a flash in the plan. He simply dusted them off to use for the town he called Johannesburg. So it is no coincidence that mighty Johannesburg and almost invisible Ottoshoop each boasted a main road called Commissioner Street.
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br />   Then, in 1896, Dr Leander Starr Jameson and his troops arrived at Ottoshoop on that unbelievably foolish adventure now known as Jameson’s Raid, and he and his officers gathered at the local store (which is just still standing) to make final preparations for marching into Johannesburg to, so they fondly expected, the acclaim of the crowds.

  Marching orders were duly revealed in the local lodge building and Jameson’s force set out to Zeerust along the ‘Mafeking Road’ of Herman Charles Bosman’s famous book, leaving behind a rear party which was tasked to cut the telegraph line to Pretoria and thus ensure a complete surprise.

  Unfortunately the members of the rear party decided to repair to one of the 13 hotels to celebrate the imminent fall of the Boer republic, and they celebrated lengthily and far too well. By the time they got to work they were so falling-down drunk that they cut down five miles of fence wire, carefully rolled it up and buried it, leaving the telegraph wire completely intact overhead.

  In the meantime the local mining commissioner, a ZAR patriot named David Marais, saddled up his horse and hotfooted it to Mafeking. There he telegraphed Pretoria to warn of the impending raid. The ZAR assembled a large commando which lay in wait for Jameson and his men, and the rest, as they say, is history.

  About a kilometre east of the ghost town lies the Ottoshoop cemetery, and, boy, does it have stories to tell! One permanent resident is none other than Mr Marais, the mining commissioner who single-handedly ensured that Jameson’s raiders had to suffer an ignominious surrender long before they got anywhere near Johannesburg. It seems that he banned a certain Scholtz from all bars and hotels because of his raucous behaviour, and Scholtz was so incensed that he shot Marais dead at point-blank range.