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A Natal paper has come in with an account of Buller's defeat at Taba Nyama on the 25th. We read with astonishment the loud praises of a masterly retreat over the Tugela without the loss of a single man. When shall we hear of a masterly advance to our aid? Do we lose no men?
It is true a heliogram to-day tells us there are seventy-four big waggons waiting at Frere for our relief milk, vegetables, forage, eleven waggons of rum, fifty cases of whisky, 5,000 cigarettes, and so on. But all depends upon those parallels, so slowly advancing against Taba Nyama, and our insides are being sapped and mined far more quickly.
Rain fell, and though the air afterwards was strangely clear, the heliograph could not be used till the afternoon. We were left in uncertainty. Shells were bursting along the ridge of Taba Nyama, on the double peaks and the Boer tents below. Only on the highest point in the centre we could see no firing, and that in itself was hopeful. About 8 a.m. the fire slackened and ceased.
January 24, 1900. The entire interest of the day was centred on Taba Nyama that black mountain, commanding the famous drift in its front and the stretch of plain behind. It is fifteen miles away. From Observation Hill one could see the British shells bursting along this ridge all morning, as well as in the midst of the Boer tents half-way down the double peaks, and at the foot of the hill.
Like the great automaton it was, it had scented the human beings just as the bull had scented them, "fussed" just as he had fussed, charged as he had charged, and died as he had died. And now from the camp rose a great outcry, "Nyama, nyama!
The fierce countenance of the gun bearer lit up in triumph. He shifted the heavy rifle and reached out to touch the lighter weapon resting again in the crook of his master's arm. "Nyama Yangu! Nyama Yangu!" he murmured. That was Simba's name for the light rifle that did most of the shooting. The words meant simply "my meat."
All day from King's Post or Waggon Hill I watched the Great Plain of Taba Nyama as usual. Now and then we could see the shells bursting, but the Boer camps have not moved. The ration coffee has come to an end, except a reserve of 3 cwt, which would hardly last a day. The tea ration is again reduced. The flour mixed with mealy meal makes a very sour bread.
And they, racing eagerly forward, their faces illuminated with one of the strongest joys the native knows, shouted back: "Nyama! nyama!" For another two days the provisioning was assured. The little safari made the distance to Simba's guarded water in a trifle over the four hours. Camp was made high up on the kopje whence the eye could carry to immense distances.
A freshly wounded animal, if kept moving, is capable of astonishing endurance. But these two knew better than that. In a very few minutes the zebra, without fright, without suffering for a modern bullet benumbs toppled over dead. Again Simba raised his voice exultantly to the waiting porters. "Nyama! nyama!" he shouted.
There were no longer soldiers, or gun-bearers, or porters; every distinction was forgotten; they were all savages, voicing the eternal cry of the jungle, "Nyama, nyama! In the last rays of the sunset the two gigantic forms lay stretched forever in death.
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