The Lure of Peril

This American killed the great and terrible Matabele God Mlimo, thereby ending  a    bloody war. An  Empire was   the   British Empire, when   it found   itself   humbled   by   the   victories   of   the Boers  --  over   its best   troops in South   Africa -- condescended   to   ask   for   his   help   the Ip   of   an   American   citizen   because   he possessed the the   kind   of   brains   they   lacked. The  man   is   Major   Frederick   Russel (sic) Burnham  the   story   of   whose   deeds  on the   Dark   Continent   like   the   deeds   of many   others   there   reads   like   the   inventions of   a   romancer. You  can   count   on   your   fingers,   and then   have   some   to   spare,   the   men   who have   become   famous   in   two   or   more countries   on   their   real   merits,   who   have contributed   to   the   world’s   history   and put   the   color   of   romance   and   the   fire of   action   into   its   matter   of   fact   pages. I  do   not   mean   those   professional   warriors   who   were   sent   out   by   their   respective   countries   at   the   head   of   legions, with   the   resources   and   wealth   of   Empires   behind   them,   or   men   who   were made   heroes   by   the   inflated   newspaper inventions   of   copy   manufacturers. Not men who who  could   not   be   anything   but heroes   for   the   mere   fact   that   they   were paid   huge   sums   by   these   nations   who employed   them. The  very   cowardice   of such   men   is   extolled   into   masterly   retreats   and   cool,   calm   courage   in   adversity   in   front   of   overwhelming   numbers. You  all   remember   the   Boer   war where   even   stupid   and   disinterested mules   were   blamed   for   the   crushing disasters   of   General   Buller   at   the   hands of  General   Louis   Botha   with   a   handful of   Boer   burghers   at   Colenso. This story  is   not   about   a   man   who   could not   help   being   a   hero,   a   man   who   was a   hero   in   spite   of   himself. It  is   about   a man   who   “made good”   as   the   Americans say,  ever   against   prejudice   in   a   foreign land   as   well   as   in   his   own. A  man   like such men   as   Lafayette, Garabaldi, Paul Jones, Henry Stanley, and   the   few others   of   their   kind   who   have   found the   routine   of   civilization   commonplace and   uninteresting,   nerve   racking   in   its monotony   like   the   clash   of   a   cracked bell. Such  a   man   is   Major   Frederick Russel   Burnham, known – everywhere from   Melbourne   to   Port   Arthur,   from Port   Arthur   to   Paris,   from   Cape   to Cairo,   from   Cairo   to   New   York,   from New   York   to   ‘Frisco,   from   Alaska’s snowy   wastes   to   the   parched   plains   of Mexico. Burnham  who   has   not   heard of   him. Had  he   been   born   with   a   hundred   million   behind   him   you   would   perhaps  be not   surprised   that   Frederick Russel   Burnham   has   made   a   world   acquaintance,   has   put   the   seal   of   his genius   on   the   earth’s   annals. Burnham had not   this   advantage. Instead  of bring   born   with   the   proverbial   gilded spoon   in   his   mouth   he   probably   was very   satisfied   with   a   galvanized   iron one. He  started   his   independent   life with   a   rifle   and   a   few   rounds   of   ammunition, and   on   such   a   beginning   laid the   foundation   to   world   fame, and   sees himself, while   he   still   lives,   a  man   to   whom   the British   Empire   is   in   debt.

It  is   the   habit   of   success   purchased by   the   exercise   of   intelligent energy, mainly   rectitude   and   indomitable   courage   that   made   Major   Burnham  respected   and   admired   even   by   his   enemies. I, myself,  have   tossed   coins   with a   brother   scout   for   the   privilege   of   having   first   shot   at   him,   of   splitting   his   body with   a   bullet. Had  I   succeeded   I   would have   had   the   lugubrious   satisfaction  of writing   the   major’s   obituary   notice, which   had   my   aim   been   true, would have   read   thus: Killed,  Major   Frederick   Russel   Burnham,  chief   of   Scouts   of   the   British Army   attached   to   the   column   of   Lord Roberts. Shot  in   a   skirmish   fifteen miles   northeast   of   Kroonstad. Instead of  being   buried   under   the   sod   of   the African  veld, Major Burnham, ever where   danger   flaunts   its   crimson   flag, is  down   in   Mexico   among   the   Yakui Indians   where,   with   John   Hays   Hammond   and   Harry   Payne   Whitney   he   is developing   a   huge   tract   of   land   which he   expects   will   make   a   considerable   addition   to   his   already   comfortable   fortune   in   a   very   short   time. That  is   what he   is   doing   today,   tomorrow   he   might be   standing   with   his   back   against   a cliff   with   half   a   dozen   savages   around him   thirsting   for   his   blood   whilst   he   is doing his “durndest” to continue   his eventful   existence.

How  did   it   come   that   an   American, and   Americans   after   all  never   really liked  by   the   English,   who   are   always prejudiced   against   anything   that   is   not born  under   the   Union   Jack,   became   a  British   hero,   with   a   dozen   gallant   deeds to   his   credit, any   one   of   which would have brought him   or   anyone  else   fame. How  did   Burnham   come   to   be   in   Africa. That  is   the   story   of   an   extraordinary career.

Burnham  opened   his   eyes   in adventure the   storm   of  war raged   around him when he was still in his mother’s arms. He  saw   New   Ulm,   which was fired   by   the   Redskin   Chief   Red   Cloud, after   he   had   massacred   the   women   and children   of   the   town,   go   up   in   flames.

On  one   occasion   his   mother   fled   before the   savage   attack   of   the   Indians   and knowing   that   the   heavy   child   in   her arms   would   sooner   or   later   result   in   her capture   and   be   the   death   of   them   both. Watching  her   chance   she   hid   her precious   child   under   a   shock   of   corn and   drew   the   pursuing   redskins   in   an opposite   direction. She  escaped   and when   the   Indians   were   at   last   driven   off she   found   her   baby   Fred   sound   asleep unconscious   of   the   terrible   fighting   that had   been   raging   around   him. This  baptism   of   fire   lilted   Frederick   Russel Burnham   for   the   adventurous   roll   he was   to   fill   in   after   years.

He  was   living   in   Los   Angeles   California   when   his   father   died   leaving   him a  lad   of    twelve   to   care   for   his   mother. For  a   time   after   the   head   of   the   house passed   away   Mrs   Burnham   and   her   boy felt   the   pangs   of   poverty. The  boy   got a   job   as   mounted   messenger   became   the breadwinner   of   the   household. An uncle  in   one   of   the   eastern   states   hearing   the   family’s   plight   offered   to   care for   Mrs   Burnham   and   her   son. Here young  Fred   Burnham’s   grit   got   a   chance to   show   itself, and   it   did. He  refused to   become   a   burden   and   at   the   mature age   of   thirteen,   he   took   up   his   rifle and   went   into   the   wilderness   of   the Great   Southwest   to   be   a   scout.

He  fought   Indians   and   highwaymen, searched   for   gold   with   prospectors, hunted  big   game   to   supply   the   camps with   meat,   always   doing   more   than   a mans   share. At  last   he   got   his   wish. He  became   a   scout. For  fifteen   years he  wandered   over   that   wilderness   of canyon   and   desert   that   runs   from   the Great  Divide   to   Mexico. Fighting  the fierce   Apache,   hunting   Mexican   thieves, doing  everything   that   was   part   of   the daily   life   of   a   scout   in   those   days. Everyone  throughout   the   West,   knew, or   knew   of   Fred   Burnham,   a   brave man,  a   wonderful   scout,   a   splendid   shot, and   a   fine   horseman.

What  better   training   could   a   man have   to   fit   him   for   the   position   of   chief of  the   British   Scouts   in   South   Africa. His  selection   by   the   British   was   one   of the   clever   acts   of   the   campaign,   which stands   out   like   an   incandescent   light on   a   dark   road   of   blunders.

Major  Burnham   in   appearance   is   of muscular,   tight-knit   build,   a little   under   medium   height,   has   a   soldierly hearing   and   dresses   like   a   businessman. His  face,   the   conspicuous   part of   him,   carries   the   story   of   his   life and  puts   the   seal   of   the   deed   done on   all   he   tells:   it   is   strong   without being  tough. a  peculiar   and   noticeable characteristic   of   the   African   pioneers of   all   races. In  Africa   it   is   not   the gun-carrying   frontiersman   who   has only   brute   courage   and   a   carelessness about   the   continuance   of   his   own   existance   that   succeeds   in   the   arduous task   of   inflicting   civilization   on   the land. It  requires   the   thinker   as   well; therefore   the   scholar   and   scientist   are found   more   frequently   than   the   ordinary   adventurer   waiting   for   the   main chance. Burnham  during   his   many duties   in   the   Southwest,   found   time   to study   and   become   a   proficient   naturalist,   geologist   and   mineralogist. This with  his   scouting   experience   and   his all-round   general   knowledge   gained in   the   school   of   hard   experience, make   him   a   valuable   man   for   any   new country.

In 1893, longing  for   new   fields   of adventure   and   fresh   openings   for   his energy, Burnham  packed   up,   and   accompanied   by   his   wife   and   brother-in-law set   sail   for   South   Africa,   the land   of   diamonds, gold,   Kaffirs,   Boers and  war,   and   he   got   what   he   wanted. Primarily  his   idea   was   to   prospect   for gold   and   precious   stones   in   German East   Africa,   and   pick   up   a   fight   where   he   could. He  no   sooner   reached   the   Dark Continent   than   the   news   of   the   first Matabele  war   reached   his   ears. There was  nothing   else   to   do -- no   choice   to make. In  his   eagerness   to   fight   he forgot   the   quest   for   gold   and   lured by   his   love   for   danger, offered   his services   to   the   British   South   Africa Company,  which   was   conducting   a private   war   against   King   Lobengula and   his   Kaffir   warriors.

It  did   not   take   Burnham   long   to get   into   the   swing   of   African   campaigning   and   his   ability   was   soon   recognized   by   the   British,   even   with their   prejudices   against   all   Americans.

The  destruction   of   Major   Allen (sic) Wilson   and   his   men   at   the   hands   of Lobengula’s   warriors   and   the   daring work   of   Frederick   Russel   Burnham were   the   two   conspicuous   events   in the   campaign. Burnham’s  gallant effort   to   save   Wilson’s   party   made him   a   hero   where   practically   everyone   had   an   heroic   deed   to   his   credit.

Major  Forbes,   with   about   three hundred   men   who   were   all   tried   and true,  was   out   to   give   battle   to   King Lobengula   and   his   warrior   hosts. While  Forbe’s   force   was   pursuing   the king   and   his   warriors,   he   in   turn   was being  followed   by   an   army   of   warlike Matabele   who   were   operating   the well-known  surrounding   movement practiced   in   all   campaigns   by   the   African   races   related   to   the   Zulus,   and which   has   cost   the   British   more   than one  defeat   at   the   hands   of   the   Kaffirs.

As  the   fighting   was   costly   and   the results   in   battle   even   at   the   best   uncertain,   the   British   conceived   the   idea of   capturing   the   main   cause   of   the war,  the   Warrior   King   Lobengula.

It  was   a   daring   plan   and   it   required a   daring   set   to   carry   it   out. The whole  affair,   although   the   men   were under   the   command   of   Major   Wilson, was  practically   in   the   hands   of   Burnham,   who,   with   his   brother-in-law, Ingram, were   to   be   the   scouts;   or otherwise   the   eyes   and   intelligence   of the   venture.

With  twelve   men   besides   Burnham and   Ingram,   Major   Wilson   set   out at  nightfall   to   ride   through   the   Matabele   to   Lobengula’s   camp,   seize   him and  fight   their   way   out.

It  was   a   terrible   night -- just   one for   such   a   deed -- a   terrific   thunderstorm   raged. Rain  fell   in   torrents, like   silver   sheets   on   the   vivid   blue   of the   flash   and   crash   of   the lightning. The  incessant   roll   of   the   thunder made   it   impossible   to   command   and the   earth   became   a   lake   of   rushing waters.

Three  thousand   warriors   were camped   around   their   king   on   the Shangani  river,   and   through   these   in a   wild   ride   galloped   the   daring   little band,  their   only   hope   lying   in   sudden action. They  rushed   the   trek   wagon which  they   thought   Lobengula   was using   as   his   camp. The  dizzy   dancing   of   the   lightning   which   was   succeeded   by   the   sudden   inky   blackness, blinded  and   confused   them   and   they found   to   their   dismay   that   they   had rushed  the   wrong   wagon. As  they were   riding   through   the   Malabele   to Lobengula’s   laager   they   alarmed   the whole   host   and   it   was   now   their   turn to  make   their   escape   before   the   fatal surrounding   movement -- which   they knew  would   come   if   they   delayed -- hemmed   them   in   to   their   doom. Already  they   could   hear   the   rush   of   the enraged   Kaffirs   through   the   bush   on every   side   and   shots   from   their   rifles and   flying   spears   told   them   that   there had   commenced   a   fight   to   a   finish,   for there   is   no   quarter   where   the   Kaffirs are   fighting. About  quarter   of   a mile   away   there   was   a   huge   ant   hill which  the   flashing   lightening   revealed from   time   to   time. This  on   account of  its   dominating   height   was   selected to   make   a   stand   on. Fighting  the black  figures   in   the   darkness   as   they rode   over   the   torrent-covered  ground, exchanging  shots   with   the   savages   as the   lightning   revealed   them. On reaching  the   hill   a   count   was   made and   three   were   found   to   be   missing. Major  Wilson   ordered   the   scout   to find   out   their   fate,   to   locate   them   if them if they were   dead   or   guide   them   back if   they   lived. This  was   a   hazardous undertaking  for   on   account   of   the darkness   of   the   night, the streams of water, and   the   larking   Kaffirs it was necessary for  Burnham to keep on the “spoor” to follow   it unmounted. Knowing  what   was   before   him   Burnham   told   Major   Wilson   he   would   require   some   one   to   lead   his   horse. Major  Wilson   volunteered. Burnham  often   traveled   on   his   knees   to   keep   the “spoor”   and   before   morning   he   was   rewarded   by   finding   the   three   troopers   unharmed   but   lost   in   the   jungle. This feat  established   Burnham’s   reputation with   the   British   and   made   him   a   criterion.

Back  at   the   hill   again   they   joined their   anxious   and   wailing   comrades   and then  the   watch   for   dawn   and   escape commenced. All  around   they   could hear  the   Kaffirs   preparing   to   rush   them, and   when   the   lightning   flashed   they   could see the   glistening   naked   bodies   in   the   rain. Just  before   dawn   they   heard   the   unmistakable   sounds   of   marching   cavalry. They  thought   that   the   column   of   Major Forbes   had   ridden   to   their   rescue. Instead,  it   was   Captain   Borrow   who   was sent   to   their   aid   with   twenty   men. The Kaffirs  with   splendid   skill   concealed   the fact   that   they   had   surrounded   Wilson and   allowed   Borrow   with   his   troop   to join   Wilson,   preferring   to   concentrate their   attack   on   one   place. A  little   later dawn   drove   the   night   from   the   jungle and   in   the   ashy   gray   of   the   wet   morning   the   Matabele   opened   the   attack   from every  piece   of   cover   they   could   find. Assegais  rained   into   the   defense   that was  made   of   the   carcasses   of   the   dead horses,   and   bullets   flew   from   every   tree, tearing   the   flesh   of   the   living   and   the dead. One  by   one   the   defenders   fell and   the   Matabele,   encouraged   by   their success,   made   a   wild   rush   howling   in the   delight   of   their   blood   lust   holding their   shields   before   them   and   swinging their knonkerries at   the   heads   of   the whites   who   could   see   that   unless   a   miracle happened they   were   fighting over   their   graves. A well-held volley drove  them   back,   hurling   death   into their   ranks. They  rallied   and   rushed, and   again   the   foremost   fell   before   Wilson’s   men. One  by   one   the   troopers were   picked   off, and   Major   Wilson, seeing   that   a   desperate   chance   must   be taken   to   save   the   small   remnant   of   his force   asked   Burnham   to   break   through the   enemy’s   lines  if   possible,   and   bring help   from   Forbes. Ingram  and   an   inexperienced   trooper   named   Gooding were   detailed   to   accompany   Burnham. “One  of   you   might   succeed,”   said   Major   Wilson,   who   saw   a   man   drop   at   his side   as   he   spoke.

Taking  the   surviving   horses,   Burnham   and   his   two   comrades, leaping   the breastwork  of   human   bodies   and   horses’ carcasses,   started   their   ride   through   the line   of   investing   Kaffirs. No  sooner were   they   on   the   open   than   the   fire   of the   Kaffirs   was   concentrated   upon   them. Spears  were   hurled   from   every   bush, and   although   they   and   their   horses   were often   grazed   they   escaped   serious   hurt. From  one   side   to   the   other   they   were driven,   Burnham   using   every   wave   of his   mental   energy   to   save   them   from destruction. Every  hollow   in   the   ground had   become   a   lake   and   every   rift   a roaring   torrent   from   the   night   rains. It  was   ride   around   this   through   that over   the   cliffs   into   the   waters   swimming   and   climbing   with   the   continual sing zip   of   the   Kaffir   bullets   around their   heads. Every  trick   Burnham learned   in   the   Southwest   amongst   the Indians   he   used   and   those   no   doubt saved   their   lives. When  he   came  in view   of   Forbes   column   he   found   them surrounded   like   the   party   he   had   left. Riding  through   the   circle   of   attacking natives   he   got   into   the   ring   of   fighting troopers   who   had   all   they  could   do   to hold   their   own   against   their   enemies.

Burnham  delivered   his   message : “I have   been   sent   for   re-enforcements by Major   Wilson. I  believe   that   we   are the   only   surviving   members   of   his party.”  Major   Forbes   could   not   move and   could   not   spare   enough   men   without   risking   the   destruction   of   his   troop, and   Burnham   and   his   companions, seeing   time   situation,   joined   in   the   fight   and helped   to   drive   off   the   Matabele.

Six  weeks   later   the   bodies   of   Wilsons   troops   were   found   lying   in   a   circle,  where   they   fell, not   one, with   the exception   of   Burnham   and   his   daring companions, having   escaped   the   relentless   assagais   of   the   Matabele.

This  would   be   enough   bravery   for the   average   man   but   not   for   Frederick Russel  Burnham. If  there   were   anything   of   a   dangerous   nature   to   be   accomplished, Burnham   generally   was   the one   to   do   it. So  open   did   he   volunteer to   do   hair-raising   deeds   and   succeed   in doing   them   that   it   became   the   habit   in Matabeleland   for   all   eyes   to   turn   his way   when   death   was   to   be   defied   in   the performance   of   some   act   that   would make   the   ordinary   man stand   and   tremble.

The  next   little   service   that   Burnham rendered   the   British   Empire   was   the killing  of   the   notable   “God”   Mlimo. This deed  alone   probably   save thousands   of   lives, and   millions   of   pounds   and prevented   the   likelihood   of   an   uprising of  the   blacks   in   South   Africa, for   there was   a   general   unrest   amongst   them, and many   had   secured   modern   arms   and they   got   a   general   idea   of   military   tactics   as   practiced   by   the   British   through experience   in   their   previous   campaign. For  these   reasons   the   second   Matabele war   was   much   more   serious   than   the first. So  serious   in   fact   that   the   Chartered   Company   could   not   cope   with   it and   they   called   in   Imperial   troops. They I  made   very   little   difference   as   far   as   getting results were concerned,   and it looked   like   a   long   and   doubtful   campaign.

The  leading   spirit   of   the   Matabele was   Mlimo,   a   brave   and   patriotic   priest, who   bated   the   whites   who   had   invaded his   country. So  magnetic   a   personality had   he   that   he   was   regarded   by the   natives   as  a   god. And,  like   most   men   who are   given   credit   for   supernatural   powers,   he   pretended   to   live   up   to   them. He  told   his   tribesmen   that   no   harm would   ever   come   to   them   in   a   war against   the   whites   as   he   would   turn their   bullets   to   water   blind   them   and leave   their   women   and   children   at   the mercy   of   their   spears.

Things  were   certainly   serious. The gloom  of   uncertainty   crept   over   the  British, and   visions   of   the   bloody   Zulu war   rose   and   were   reflected   by   the   London   press. The  war   could   be   ended only   by   some   sudden   and   masterful coup, and   the   brains   of   the   home   tacticians   strained   for   ideas,   but   in   vain,  and the   prospect   of   a   rainy   season, which would   greatly   favor   the   Matabele   warriors   was   before   them.

At  this   juncture   the   commissioner   of the   district, a   young   fellow   named   Armstrong   suggested   that   Mlimo   be   captured   or   destroyed. How? Had  not the  army   been   breaking   its   neck   to   accomplish that? It  did   not   strike   the ponderous  tacticians   that   a   couple  of men   often   do   what   is   impossible   for   an  army. Armstrong  told   the   commander that   he   knew   where   Mlimo   made   his retreat. The  British   commander   called   for   volunteers   to   capture   the   “god”. Burnham  was   a   chronic   volunteer,   and he   and   Armstrong   set   out   to   capture Mlimo.

It  was   a   terrible   task, for the priest had   selected   a   cave   at   the   top   of   a kopje   as   his   headquarters,   and   surrounded   himself   with   an   army   of   two thousand  tried   warriors   who   were   encamped   at   the   foot   of   the   hill. Beside this  the   scouts   of   the   blacks   kept   the country   completely   under   their   eyes. What  chance   had   an   enemy   to   pass   these brave   and   alert   savages, especially   a   white skinned   one? One  in   a   thousand. Yet Burnham   and   his   companion   took   the chance. It  was   a   nerve   strainer. Mile after  mile   they   covered, crawling, running, riding, biding   hardly   daring   to breathe when   near   the   Kaffirs   sometimes   covering   half   a   mile   an   hour sometimes   a   little   more. The  last   mile they   covered   took   them   three   hours. At last  unperceived   they   reached   the   foot of   Mlimo’s   kopje. Slowly  from   bush to   bush   from   boulder   to   boulder   they crept   like   wounded   lizards   until the opening   of   the   “god’s”   cave   dwelling showed   black   before   them   an   hour   after they   had   started   the   ascent.

Burnham  being   the   better   shot   was to   fire   first   for   they   decided   that   under the  circumstances. Mlimo  could   not   be taken   alive. And  they   also   knew   that their  shot   would   be   the   signal   to   the   thousands   of   warriors   below   to   attack them   and   there   would   be   little   chance to   escape   but   that   was   a   secondary   consideration.

Closer  they   crowded   to   the   mouth   of the   cave. They  waited   but   the   “god” could  not   he   seen. A  little   nearer   and nearer   Burnham   was   now   in   the   entrance   and   a   cry   came   out   of   the   darkness   inside   and   the   giant   befeathered Mlimo   sprang   at   him. His  rifle   blazed once   and   his   bullet   opened   the   heart   of the   savage. The  shot   echoed   through the   hills   and   in   a   moment   the   Matabele army   was   in   arms   and   rushing   toward the   cave   and   spreading   in   a   search   for the   shooters. Burnham  and   Armstrong flew   over   the   ground   like   springboks dodging   shots   and   spears. They  reached their   mounts   in   safety   and   then   rode   like demons   for   their   lives   being   driven   into a   corner   half   a   dozen   times   from   which   they   had   to   fight   their   way   like   bull buffaloes. They  escaped   and   reached  Buluwayo.

The  Matabele   finding   that   their   “god” was   a   pretender   as   far   as divine powers   were   concerned,  ceased   hostilities. Frederick  Russel   Burnham   ended the  war   with   one   shot   and   added   another success   to   British   arms.

For  his   courage   and   devotion   Burnham   was   greatly   honored   by   the   British and  he   and   Ingram,   with   the   Honorable Manuel   Clifford,   were   jointly   given   a tract   of   land   three   hundred   miles   long in   appreciation   of   their   services.

When  the   British   were   at   war   with the   Boers   Lord   Roberts,   knowing   the weakness  of   his   army   which   had   no trained   eyes,   called   on   Burnham   to   become   his   chief   of   scouts. His  exceptional   services   to   the   British   in   the   campaign   won   him   his   military   title   and made   him   a   perpetual   officer   of   the British   army   on   full   pay. He  was   also decorated   with   the   Distinguished   Service   Order   by   King   Edward. Beside this  he   wears   on   the   breast   of   his uniform  a   number   of   other   medals   the insignia   of   his   love   for   the   lure   of peril.