Collected works of j s f.., p.113
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 113
An extract from the journal which he kept during the Matabele Campaign shows Baden-Powell in the character of lion-hunter: —
“October 10th (to be marked with a red mark when I can get a red pencil). — Jackson and a native boy accompanied me scouting this morning; we then started off at three in the morning, so that by dawn we were in sight of one of the hills we expected might be occupied by Paget, and where we hoped to see his fires. We saw none there; but on our way, in moving round the hill which overlooks our camp, we saw a match struck high up near the top of the mountain. This one little spark told us a good deal. It showed that the enemy were there; that they were awake and alert (I say ‘they’ because one nigger would not be up there by himself in the dark), and that they were aware of our force being at Posselt’s (or otherwise they would not be occupying that hill). However, they could not see anything of us, as it was then quite dark; and we went further on among the mountains. In the early morning light we crossed the deep river-bed of the Umchingwe River, and, in doing so, we noticed the fresh spoor of a lion in the sand. We went on, and had a good look at the enemy’s stronghold; and on our way back, as we approached this river-bed, we agreed to go quietly, in case the lion should be moving about in it. On looking down over the bank, my heart jumped into my mouth, when I saw a grand old brute just walking in behind a bush. Jackson could not see him, but was off his horse as quick as I was, and ready with his gun; too ready, indeed, for the moment that the lion appeared, walking majestically out from behind the bush that had hidden him, Jackson fired hurriedly, striking the ground under his foot, and, as we afterwards discovered, knocking off one of his claws. The lion tossed up his shaggy head and looked at us in dignified surprise. Then I fired, and hit him in the ribs with a leaden bullet from my Lee-Metford. He reeled, sprang round, and staggered a few paces, when Jackson, who was firing a Martini-Henry, let him have one in the shoulder; this knocked him over sideways, and he turned about, growling savagely.
“I could scarcely believe that we had actually got a lion at last, but resolved to make sure of it; so, telling Jackson not to fire unless it was necessary (for fear of spoiling the skin with the larger bullet of the Martini), I got down closer to the beast, and fired a shot at the back of his neck as he turned his head away from me. This went through his spine, and came out through the lower jaw, killing him dead. We were pretty delighted at our success, but our nigger was mad with happiness, for a dead lion — provided he is not a man-eater — has many invaluable gifts for a Kaffir, in the shape of love-philtres, charms against disease or injury, and medicines that produce bravery. It was quite delightful to shake hands with the mighty paws of the dead lion, and to pull at his magnificent tawny mane, and to look into his great deep yellow eyes. And then we set to work to skin him; two skinning, while the other kept watch in case of the enemy sneaking up to catch us while we were thus occupied. In skinning him, we found that he was very fat, and also that he had been much wounded by porcupines, portions of whose quills had pierced the skin and lodged in his flesh in several places. Our nigger cut out the eyes, gall-bladder, and various bits of the lion’s anatomy, as fetish medicine. I filled my carbine bucket with some of the fat, as I knew my two boys, Diamond and M’tini, would very greatly value it. Then, after hiding the head in a neighbouring bush, we packed the skin on to one of the ponies, and returned to camp mightily pleased with ourselves.
“On arrival there, the excitement among the boys was very great, for, as we rode into camp, we pretended we had merely shot a buck; but when Diamond turned out to take my horse from me, he suddenly recognized the skin, and his eyes almost started from his head as he put his hand over his mouth and ejaculated, ‘Ow! Ingonyama!’ (‘Great Scott! a lion!’) Then, grinning with excitement, he asked leave to go and get some more of it. In vain I told him that it was eight miles away, and close under the enemy’s stronghold. He seized up an assegai and started off at a steady trot along our back-spoor. And very soon one nigger after another was doubling out of camp after him, to get a share of the booty. In the evening they came back quite happy with various tit-bits, and also the head. The heart was boiled and made into soup, which was greedily partaken of by every boy in camp, with a view to gaining courage. Diamond assured me that the bits of fat, &c., of which he was now the proud possessor, would buy him several cattle when he got back to Natal.”
In addition to his fame as a sticker of pigs, a hunter of hogs, a slayer of lions and tigers, Baden-Powell has also greatly distinguished himself as a hunter of big game and an expert polo-player. But there is scarcely anything in the shape of sport and the pursuit of outdoor life which he does not care for. Nature in her wildest and loneliest moods he loves with a whole-hearted devotion, and it is easy to perceive when reading his books and journals that he knows her in all her phases and attitudes, and loves her in them all. It would be strange if it were not so in the case of a man who has so often laid down in the loneliness of the African veldt and slept as trustfully as if he were in his own bed — always taking care, though, with his usual caution, to be sure that his revolver is under his knees, and its lanyard round his neck. To such as him the open air is as the breath of heaven to the saint, and communion with the wild places and wild life of the earth as meat to the hungry.
V. THE KINDLY HUMORIST
IT SEEMS TO me that the distinguishing quality of Baden-Powell’s life and character, so far as the man in the street has been permitted to inform himself about them, is a sense of humour, so strong as to dominate everything else within him. He is essentially the man who, whatever happens, will come up smiling. It is only necessary to look at him to feel sure of that — there is something in the tall, spare figure, in the well-cut, determined face and quick, observant, fun-loving eyes which gives the beholder a sense of very pleasant security. Everybody who knows Baden-Powell bears testimony to the great and unvarying quality of his humour. It is the humour of a great nature — now exuberant even to the verge of mischief, now dry and caustic enough to suit an epigram-loving philosopher, now of a whimsical sort that makes it all the more charming. But it has a further quality which may not be overlooked — it is always kindly. Only a good-natured, sunny-tempered, laughter-loving man could or would have done all the things which are credited to Baden-Powell — things which have been done more for the pleasure which a great nature always feels in lightening life for others than for the mere desire of provoking laughter. The man who was always ready as regimental officer to amuse his men by his powers as an actor, maker of jokes, and general entertainer, differs only from the schoolboy who was always full of fun and high spirits in the sense that his abilities were being turned to more serious account.
The humour which is Baden-Powell’s great characteristic is of much variety and shows itself in the most astonishing ways. It is wonderfully whimsical, and sometimes appears when one would never dream of seeing it. What a whimsical notion, for instance, to assemble the European children, on joining his regiment in India, and march them through the streets to the tune of “The Girl I left behind me,” played upon an ocarina! Or to send a dispatch from Mafeking which laconically said, “All well, four hours’ bombardment — one dog killed.” Or to present himself at a picture exhibition, and on being informed that he must leave his stick outside, to turn away and return a moment later limping so badly that the tabooed stick was perforce allowed to accompany him. Or to seat himself, a full-grown English officer, upon a kerb-stone and pretend to sob bitterly until a constable inquired as to his woes, and then to inform the astonished man that he had just fallen out of his nurse’s arms, and that the unfeeling woman had gone on and left him. This sort of thing is not merely whimsical, but in the last two cases closely allied to practical joking. But it is characteristic of the man who, when Commandant Eloff surrendered to him at Mafeking, said, “How do you do? — come and have some dinner.” That strong, saving sense of humour — which really means a total lack of miserable, morbid self-consciousness — must have been strong in Baden-Powell at a very early age. There is a story told of him in his very youthful days which shows that when little more than a baby his sense of humour was already strong. While staying at the seaside he had the ill-luck to fall into a somewhat deep hole in the rocks, just when the tide was coming in, and was promptly treated to a ducking, which, as he phrases it, “comed up all over my head,” and made him think that he should never “tum out adain.” But he fought, tooth and nail, to “tum out adain,” and was met a few minutes later, a dripping and bedraggled figure, by a lady to whom he coolly explained what had happened. There was no howling and crying about the thing now that it was over — that was Baden-Powell’s sense of humour. Many a long year after that we find him jotting down in his journal some particulars of a narrow escape from sudden death, or at least from serious injury. When the mule battery moved off from Beresford’s position, after the fight of August 5th, 1896, during the proceedings of the Matabele Campaign, one of the mules carried a carbine strapped on its pack-saddle. The carbine had very carelessly been left loaded, and at full cock, and in passing a bush it was discharged, the bullet nearly hitting Baden-Powell, who was close behind. Most men would have made this incident the text for nauseous thankings of Providence, for self-reflection, and the like — Baden-Powell merely remarks: “Many a man has nearly been shot by an ass, but I claim to have been nearly shot by a mule.” It is a fortunate gift to possess, this saving sense of humour, but it strikes some folk as gruesome, all the same. There is a story told to the effect that when the siege of Mafeking began, some individual who had offended very seriously was brought before Baden-Powell. The delinquent’s account of what happened is full of charm. “He told me that if I ever did it again he would have me shot immediately — and then he began to whistle a tune!” Exactly — but the wrongdoer did not know that it is one of the defender of Mafeking’s great beliefs that when one is very much bothered by naughty people or awkward things it is a very good thing to — whistle a tune. What the Boers thought of Baden-Powell’s humour we shall possibly find out in time to come. Commandant Eloff, captive at last, and receiving his captor’s off-hand, cheery invitation to dine, was, no doubt, not surprised by it, for he had already experienced something of his antagonist’s methods of regarding things. During the siege Eloff wrote to Baden-Powell saying that he learnt that the beleaguered garrison amused itself with balls, concerts, tournaments, cricket matches, and the like on Sundays, and hinted that he and his men would very much like to come in and take part, life being pretty dull amongst the Boer forces. To this Baden-Powell replied that he thought the return match had better be postponed until the one then proceeding was finished, and suggested that as Cronje, Snyman, and others had been well tried without effect on the garrison, which was then 200 and not out, there had better be another change of bowling. All which Commander Eloff, no doubt, read with mixed feelings, in which, let us hope, a sense of amused agreement with his correspondent predominated.
Of purely amusing stories about Baden-Powell there have been quite enough given in the public prints to fill a small volume. Whether it is exactly pertinent to the understanding of his character to continually harp on the mirth-provoking side of it is a question which need not be answered, but no one doubts that a great man is made all the more human and all the more attractive to ordinary mortals if he happens to possess a wholesome love of fun. Love of fun, even of what very young ladies call mere frivol, appears to have possessed Baden-Powell ever since he was a small boy. He was always in for a lark. There was a master at the Charterhouse whose usual answer to any boy who bothered him with a question was a more or less testy, “Don’t you know I’m engaged?” It happened to be noised abroad that this gentleman had succeeded in persuading some young lady to share his fortunes, and Baden-Powell was one of the first to hear the news. His brilliant, and one may righteously say mischievous mind, conceived a brilliant notion. He approached the Benedict-to-be as the latter stood amidst a group of other masters, and made some remark or request. Quick came the usual question: “Don’t you know I’m engaged?” “Bathing-Towel” assumed one of the looks which only he could assume. “Oh, Sir!” he exclaimed in accents that expressed — himself best knew what.
Britannia.
There is another story told of him which illustrates his humour in its mischievous best. He was staying at a country house whose mistress was in despair one evening because a professional conjurer on whose services she had been relying had not arrived at the time when his performance was announced to commence. She appealed to Baden-Powell to do something amusing until the man arrived. With characteristic readiness to step into a breach, Baden-Powell mounted the platform, and having announced himself as an amateur conjurer, invited any gentleman present to be so obliging as to lend him a silk hat. Some unsuspecting and innocent gentleman “obliged” in the manner requested. Baden-Powell, having carefully examined the head-gear thus entrusted to him, tore out the lining, cut off the brim, and then slowly cut the rest of the article into very small pieces. He then made a mysterious request for a tray of some particular pattern, and while the house was being ransacked for what he wanted, he amused his audience with the glib utterances of the professional entertainer. At last the tray came, and Baden-Powell heaped the fragments upon it, covered them over, and looked solemnly at his audience. “You have seen me cut up the hat,” he said, “and you know that the pieces are under this covering. The next part of the performance will be to restore the hat whole to its owner. As the real conjurer has just arrived, I will leave that part of the performance to him.” And therewith this very boyish man bowed himself off the platform.
It is just because he is a boyish man that Baden-Powell is what he is. Who could doubt that a man so light-hearted, so full of bright good humour, so sunny of disposition, could fail to uphold the honour of his country, considering that to these desirable qualities he adds the strength, skill, sagacity, and indomitable bravery of the born soldier? I have always thought that the most characteristic thing which Baden-Powell has ever said was when he replied to Cronje’s demand for a surrender: “Tell General Cronje that I will let him know when we have had enough.” Enough? — it may well be doubted if the man whom the Matabele aptly termed “The Wolf that never Sleeps” will ever have enough until he sleeps for ever.
PART II. AN EXPEDITION AND A CAMPAIGN
I. THE ASHANTI EXPEDITION, 1895-6
AMONGST THE VAST collection of relics, trophies, and curiosities which Baden-Powell has housed at his mother’s residence in London there is one object at sight of which those who know its history may be forgiven for feeling some slight qualms. It is a large brass basin, about five feet in diameter, ornamented with four lions and with a number of round knobs all round its rim. If the spirits of blood-lust, of unholiness, and cruelty abide anywhere on earth, they ought to be found in this bowl, which Baden-Powell found at Bantama when he went out with the Ashanti Expedition of 1895-6, and which in its time had received the blood of countless victims to the inordinate love of human sacrifice which has distinguished the kings of the Ashanti empire for centuries. It looks, that bowl, as innocent as an ordinary kitchen utensil as it hangs in its place on the wall, surrounded by trophies of a more fearsome nature, but not even the guillotine of the Reign of Terror had seen and smelt more blood than had run over its rim to putrefy in its depths and to be eventually turned, mixed with certain herbs, into fetish medicines. To Baden-Powell, whenever he sees it — he has had small chance of seeing it since he brought it back to England, though! — it must needs recall many things in connection with that foul corner of the earth into which he journeyed some five years ago in order to assist in bringing a reign of bloodshed and violence to an end.
Sketch Map of the March to Kumassi showing the Camping Places
We are often told that we, as a nation, are much too ready to interfere with the affairs of other folk, and there are candid people amongst us who are not afraid of hinting that our interference is usually with nations not quite so big and powerful as ourselves — that we are, in short, something like the schoolboy bully who wants to fight, but only with a boy several sizes smaller than himself. There were whisperings and hintings of this sort when we sent out our Ashanti Expedition of 1895-6 — but no nation, surely, ever had better reasons for undertaking such an expedition. There were more reasons than one why it should be undertaken, and every reason was a most potent one, but one towered above all in its strength and urgency. Human life was being sacrificed in Ashanti to an extent which civilized folk can scarcely comprehend. The following extract from Baden-Powell’s work on the Ashanti Expedition of 1895-6 gives one some notion of what was going on in and around Kumassi before the British Government stepped in: —
“Any great public function was seized on as an excuse for human sacrifices. There was the annual ‘yam custom,’ or harvest festival, at which large numbers of victims were often offered to the gods. Then the king went every quarter to pay his devotions to the shades of his ancestors at Bantama, and this demanded the deaths of twenty men over the great bowl on each occasion. On the death of any great personage, two of the household slaves were at once killed on the threshold of the door, in order to attend their master immediately in his new life, and his grave was afterwards lined with the bodies of more slaves who were to form his retinue in the spirit world. It was thought all the better if, during the burial, one of the attendant mourners could be stunned by a club, and dropped, still breathing, into the grave before it was filled in. In the case of a great lady dying, slave-girls were the victims. This custom of sacrifice at funerals was called ‘washing the grave.’ On the death of a king the custom of washing the grave involved enormous sacrifices. Then sacrifices were also made to propitiate the gods when war was about to be entered upon, or other trouble was impending. Victims were also killed to deter an enemy from approaching the capital: sometimes they were impaled and set up on the path, with their hand pointing to the enemy and bidding him to retire. At other times the victim was beheaded and the head replaced looking in the wrong direction; or he was buried alive in the pathway, standing upright, with only his head above ground, to remain thus until starvation, or — what was infinitely worse — the ants made an end of him. Then there was a death penalty for the infraction of various laws. For instance, anybody who found a nugget of gold and who did not send it at once to the king was liable to decapitation; so also was anybody who picked up anything of value lying on the parade-ground, or who sat down in the shade of the fetish tree at Bantama. Indeed, if the king desired an execution at any time, he did not look far for an excuse. It is even said that on one occasion he preferred a richer colour in the red stucco on the walls of the palace, and that for this purpose the blood of four hundred virgins was used. I have purposely refrained elsewhere from giving numbers, because, although our informants supplied them, West African natives are notoriously inexact in this respect. The victims of sacrifices were almost always slaves or prisoners of war. Slaves were often sent in to the king in lieu of tribute from his kinglets and chiefs, or as a fine for minor delinquencies. Travelling traders of other tribes, too, were frequently called upon to pay customs dues with a slave or two, and sometimes their own lives were forfeited.
