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Chapter XII.
Sufferings of the Settlers
“Another year has opened its pages in the book of life, and the record of the Kaffir war promises nothing in the shape of peace. Our enemy, instead of being subdued, appears more obstinate than ever, and deeply intent on every device that can thwart our purpose and forward his own.
“When the Kaffirs first began to make concessions, I was of opinion that they were willing to submit to any terms at the moment, in order to gain time to plant and reap. The result has been what every one experienced in the Kaffir character ought to have anticipated. We have dealt too mercifully with the treacherous and cruel foe; cruel he is by nature; witness his brutality even among those of his own colour, nay, his own blood. Some say he is not cowardly; it is certain he meets death at the last moment calmly, and he has a peculiar pride in bearing pain and annoyance at all times with apparent indifference. A Kaffir will not raise his hand to remove a fly from his face; and, as he rubs his skin with clay and grease to protect it from the effects of the sun, these attract the flies, and I have known a savage sit for hours in the sun with his cheeks and brow covered by these tormenting and fidgetty insects, without attempting to remove them. It must be allowed, though, that a Kaffir skin more resembles the hide of some powerful animal than the skin of a human being. In the early part of this war, some person procured the entire skin of a Kaffir, and had it treated in the same way that leather is first prepared for tanning. I am told that the texture is at least three times the thickness of a white man’s, and I see no reason for doubting the assertion.
“The Kaffir has neither generosity nor gratitude, which are invariably the attributes of a brave nature; he will not meet his adversary openly, unless he has the advantage immensely in numbers, as in Captain Sandes’s case. When there are some thousands, to one helpless or unarmed man, they will annihilate him without mercy. The Kaffir has no genuine pride, for he will submit to any personal degradation to obtain his ends; in short, he is an ignoble foe, and we gain no more credit, or profit, in fighting such an enemy than if we were endeavouring to circumvent an army of baboons. The Kaffir warriors move from kloof to kloof, from drift to drift, with their provisions in their pouches, or deposited at certain distances in the bush, while their women contrive to support themselves in the neighbourhood of the British camp, making occasional excursions to see their relatives in the field, to furnish them with useful intelligence and gunpowder. Where the latter is obtained is, professedly, a mystery! The resources of the Colony present temptations to those who have long lived by trading in the country beyond the Kei; and, although provisions have not been forwarded along the coast, small vessels have made their way to the mouths of the rivers between Waterloo Bay and Natal. A report, founded on good grounds, is abroad, that the Kaffir women have lately been employed in conveying ammunition to their friends, by means of pack-oxen, from Algoa Bay to the interior of Kaffirland, right through the Colony. This is by no means improbable, when the territory is so vast, and the population scattered, and comparatively small.
“There is little doubt that the Resident Agent at Block Drift now sees the uselessness of endeavouring to carry out the late arrangements of Government with regard to ‘British Kaffraria.’ How he ever supposed such measures could succeed must remain a puzzle to all acquainted with the Kaffir’s nature! ‘I beseech you by the meekness and gentleness of Christ,’ is an appeal which the South African savage, in his present state, cannot be brought to understand.
“January 6th.—We have the old story from the field; the troops have been patrolling, and have rescued two thousand head of cattle from the I’Slambies. The 6th, under the command of Colonel Michell, have had their share in this foray. Much sickness continues to prevail. The cunning Páto has again succeeded in eluding pursuit, although Colonel Somerset hemmed him in. The gallant Colonel, while moving through a mist with a party of troops, came suddenly on his enemy. The surprise of seeing Páto’s panther-like face, as the gloom cleared for an instant, elicited an exclamation from Colonel Somerset, as he drew his pistol from his holster, and Páto escaped into the bush ere the shot could take effect. At the time the despatches were written, only one part of the troops had crossed the Kei, and our private letters mention that the rivers were rising fast. Those who were on the eastern bank, had only a few days’ provisions with them, and they may be cut off from all communication with the troops on this side for two or three weeks.
“News from England.—Orders have been received to this effect:—the 27th, 90th, and 91st Regiments are to embark for England immediately, if they can possibly be spared. The 90th are to march to Graham’s Town at once, and onward to the coast. I despair of our removal with the 91st. Sir Henry Pottinger is daily expected on the frontier. The 27th and 91st Regiments will no doubt be detained till his arrival, and what his movements may be it is impossible to know.”
On the 12th of January, Sir Peregrine Maitland arrived at Graham’s Town, from the frontier, on his way to Cape Town, bringing with him the intelligence that two thousand head of fine cattle had been captured across the Kei by Colonel Somerset’s division; this was a second recapture in less than a fortnight, and under considerable difficulties. But the grand capture, of six thousand head, was made afterwards, and on the 17th of January, Colonel Somerset crossed the Kei at the imminent peril of his life, but the patrol, with all the cattle, were unable to ford the stream, which was still rising with such force that nothing could stand against the torrent. All provisions and supplies were cut off, and the troops had nothing but a few mealies (Indian corn) to subsist on. Three men were drowned on the morning of the 15th: Serjeant-Major Ritchie, 7th Dragoon Guards, and two of the Cape Corps: and Mr Allen, Assistant-Surgeon of the Cape Corps, was only saved by disengaging himself from his horse and swimming ashore.
The command of the troops on the frontier now devolved on Colonel Somerset, until the arrival of General Berkeley. The efficiency of the Colonel for such a command has been fully proved during this long and harassing war.
On the 19th of January the force made its way across the Kei, with eight thousand head of cattle, captured in Kreli’s country. The Kaffirs hung upon the rear, disputing each drift and passage with the troops. In crossing the Kei, a serjeant of the 6th, and a private of the Cape Mounted Rifles, were shot by the enemy.
Having recaptured so much cattle, Colonel Somerset now determined to fall back towards the Colony, and on the 19th he issued an order, warning those in command of posts and divisions, to be as vigilant as ever in their observations of the enemy’s movements, as hostilities had not ceased.
Meanwhile, sickness prevailed among the troops in the field and still increasing. Rheumatism, camp-fever, and dysentery, reduced the subject of them to a deplorable state of debility, and it was melancholy to see young men, who had been scarcely three months in the Colony, brought to positive decrepitude from these sufferings.
“February 6th.—The 91st are under orders to proceed from Fort Peddie to Graham’s Town, for the purpose of preparing for embarkation for home.
“The ‘Thunderbolt’ steamer, having on board Her Majesty’s Commissioner, Sir Henry Pottinger, and Lieutenant-General Berkeley, the Commander of the Forces; in rounding Cape Recife, on the 3rd of February, struck upon a sunken rock, sprung a leak, and it is feared will go to pieces with the first south-easter. The disappointment of the 90th, who were waiting at Algoa Bay for this vessel to convey them to Cape Town for final embarkation, may be will imagined. The old soldiers who stood eagerly watching her approach, set up a universal shout as they saw her coming round. What must have been their feelings when they beheld her run right ashore?
“The appearance of the 90th on leaving the Colony is so totally different to what it presented on its arrival here, that it goes far to prove the good effect of the Cape climate on constitutions debilitated by Indian service. Under every disadvantage of fatigue, privation, and a residence under canvas during an African summer, with the thermometer at times 157 degrees in the open air, the 90th, on their march from Graham’s Town to the coast, presented a perfect picture of a regiment of British veterans.
“We lately saw them in our evening ride, as they toiled up a steep hill before us with their long line of waggons and dusky waggon-drivers. How cheerful they looked! I envied them as I turned my horse’s head back to the land of banishment and anxiety! I could not help uttering the words, ‘Happy 90th, God speed you!’ aloud, as the last waggon passed us, and an old soldier, with a bronzed cheek and grey hair, saluted our party, by way of ‘Thank you for your good will!’ How little they anticipated their disappointment at Algoa Bay!”
It is not long since we rode a few miles on the Fort Beaufort road to see the cattle that had been captured by Colonel Somerset’s division across the Kei. We reached the bivouac just as the sun was declining. The cattle, seven thousand in number, were gathered into a dense mass, and surrounded by their guards. I never see a poor patient-looking Cape ox, that I do not think of the strife continually existing here for the sake of its race. The mass of cattle was a Smithfield show; but the tents round it—the huts contrived to hold one person—being a few bushes and a piece of tattered canvas, the fires where the Hottentots and their vrouws cooked their suppers, the piled muskets, the picquets and scouts turning out for the night, and the pack-oxen, apart from their fellows, and so tame as to be pets and playmates of the boys who watched them, presented an extraordinary sight, particularly in that strange light between the setting of the sun and the reign of the moon. This crowd of cattle had been brought into the Colony with great speed and security, by the levy in command of Captain Hogg, 7th Dragoon Guards; and, as was anticipated, the enemy followed them, in various parties, through the different passes between Kaffirland and our own territory. Fortunately, Captain Hogg and his people had been too swift and careful in their movements to be circumvented even by Kaffirs, and the cattle was distributed to the farmers without delay.
We took another ride one day, which created sad sensations. Above the Drostdy barracks, on the western side of Graham’s Town, is a succession of hills and undulating plains. We chose our path along the open ground, being a vast irregular space, evidently very fertile, for the turf was gay with beautiful wild flowers. Gigantic mountains, piled one above the other, formed the background of this noble amphitheatre. Here and there a hill was clothed in patches of deep green, and on its summit waved a few small trees, but there was no dense bush, and two or three farms dotted the plains, many miles in extent.
“These farms have probably been secure from the Kaffirs during the war,” said I.
We reached one of them. Although it had escaped the brand of the savage, it looked desolate. The owners had only returned within a few days. They had not deserted it till the last moment; their cattle had been stolen and their herds wounded, their land was untilled, and the little watercourse was choked with rubbish. We passed on to the farm a short distance beyond it. The settlers, a man and his wife, perfectly English in appearance, but pale and harassed, stood surveying their miserable homestead. This, too, from its open position, had escaped the brand; but the windows were shattered, the door swung on imperfect hinges, the steps were broken and grass grew between them; the little garden laid waste; and, as if in mockery, a scarlet geranium streamed garishly over the crumbling embankment; rank weeds filled the place of other plants under the broken boughs of the apricot trees, and a few poor articles of furniture which had been borne away to Graham’s Town, on the family flitting, stood in the open air, awaiting more strength than the exhausted mistress of the place could command. Her husband had been trying to bring a piece of ground into some sort of cultivation, but it was heavy work; the long droughts had parched the earth, and the mimosa fence was scattered over the face of the patch, which had once yielded vegetables.
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.
