280 
THE HEW AFRICA 
islands that night, but met with such severe treatment each 
time, that they were glad to retire. Between the assaults 
they smoked their dacha pipes, shouting out that this was 
sufficient food for warriors of their stamp, and, dancing the 
war dance, tried to intimidate their enemies. After the third 
attack, however, when day dawned, there was not a live 
Matabele in sight. They had retired beaten, to hurry home 
before starvation ended the work so well commenced by 
Moremi’s men with their breechloading guns. Ho wonder 
these events, of which I shall give the salient points later, 
should have created an implacable hatred for the Matabele 
amongst the Batowaana which sufficiently accounted for the 
anxiety those people displayed to prevent any spies from 
searching out the secrets of their strongholds in the reeds 
of the Cubango. 
At last we were clear of the worst part of the dreadful 
swamps, and camped at a village teeming with herds of cattle 
of the large-horned breed common to the Kalahari country. 
We bought some milk and drank this wholesome beverage 
in place of food, as we had none left. 
During the next thirteen miles we passed only one ‘ Molapo,’ 
signifying wet valley or creek, and camped at another, which, 
we were informed, was the last we should cross before reaching 
the lake. Tschukoorroo, who had waited here for us, assisted 
by some of his companions, gave one of his slaves a beating, 
the equal of which I never witnessed for severity. The man 
had traded away some of the elephant biltong he was carrying 
to another native en route, and when he reached camp his mis¬ 
demeanour was discovered. Four of Tschukoorroo’s men and him¬ 
self took the culprit to a large Waacht een beetje tree standing 
near, with branches reaching to the ground. On one side of 
this tree they formed a half circle, keeping the culprit inside 
backed by the tree. With strong sharp whips ('sjamboks’) of 
hippo hide they started to belabour him, telling him meanwhile 
that if he could make his way out he might go free. Thrashing 
him unmercifully, each stroke of the sjambok lifting the skin 
