I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most;I'll take my turn in open fight and die beside my post.But riding round the whole day long as target for a Krupp,A-drawing fire from koppies—well, I'm quite Fed Up!There's not so many men get hit—it's luck that pulls us through,Their rifle fire's no class at all—it misses me and you;But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cupFrom that there bloomin' pom-pom gun—well, I'm Fed Up!We never gets a chance to charge—to do a thrust and cut—think I'll chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.But, after all, what's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day,They occupied a koppie when the Boers had run away.The Cavalry went ridin' on, and seen a score of fights,But there they stuck, those Mounted Fut, for seven days and nights—For seven solid days and nights—with scarce a bite or sup,So when it comes to Mounted Fut—well, I'm Filled Up.And trampin' with the Footies ain't as pleasant as it looks—They scarcely ever sees a Boer, except in picture books.They make a march of twenty mile, which leaves 'em nearly dead,And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty mile ahead!Each "Footy" is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,But walking forty miles to fight—well, I'm Fed Up!So, after all, I think that when I leave the Caval-reeI'll have to join the Ambulance, or else the A.S.C.There's always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup;But bully beef and biscuits—well, I'm fair Fed Up!
I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most;I'll take my turn in open fight and die beside my post.But riding round the whole day long as target for a Krupp,A-drawing fire from koppies—well, I'm quite Fed Up!
There's not so many men get hit—it's luck that pulls us through,Their rifle fire's no class at all—it misses me and you;But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cupFrom that there bloomin' pom-pom gun—well, I'm Fed Up!
We never gets a chance to charge—to do a thrust and cut—think I'll chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.But, after all, what's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day,They occupied a koppie when the Boers had run away.
The Cavalry went ridin' on, and seen a score of fights,But there they stuck, those Mounted Fut, for seven days and nights—For seven solid days and nights—with scarce a bite or sup,So when it comes to Mounted Fut—well, I'm Filled Up.
And trampin' with the Footies ain't as pleasant as it looks—They scarcely ever sees a Boer, except in picture books.They make a march of twenty mile, which leaves 'em nearly dead,And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty mile ahead!Each "Footy" is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,But walking forty miles to fight—well, I'm Fed Up!
So, after all, I think that when I leave the Caval-reeI'll have to join the Ambulance, or else the A.S.C.There's always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup;But bully beef and biscuits—well, I'm fair Fed Up!
There appears to be some general misapprehension as to the authenticity of the letter written by "MissBloemfontein" in our issue of yesterday. The Editors wish to state that the communication in question was written by a lady, a member of a well-known family in this city, and undoubtedly reflects with wit and frankness the feeling of many of those to whom the abandonment of this place to the British forces has been a bitter disappointment.
The newspapers of the world published a notice of the surrender of Bloemfontein on the evening of Thursday, March 15th.
The Boers had wrecked the telegraph line to the south of the town; to the west the field telegraph was useless; yet perhaps not one reader in ten millions stayed a moment to wonder how the news had reached them.
When Lord Roberts left Doornboom the entire expedition wasen l'aire. Telegraphic communication was at the mercy of the passing ox or the malicious passer-by, rain and wind were almost equally destructive, and the inevitable breakdown occurred. The wire, aërial or earth-borne, was useless in forty-eight hours, and, so far as outer communication was concerned, Bloemfontein and all around and within it might have been Tristan d'Acunha.
But the London papers published the full account of the surrender on the second day after the capitulation.
The manner in which news was sent to theEnglish papers may perhaps be of interest. It must be remembered that there was then no communication with the south. It was impossible to pick up the cut wire north of Norval's Pont. The line from Kimberley to Boshof lies, even as we write, in a cat's cradle on the veldt. There was no option—the telegrams must be sent through Kimberley and by despatch riders.
Perhaps it is truer to say that one or two London papers did so, for a certain number relied—and with justice—on the recuperative powers of Captain Faussett and his myrmidons of the wire.
To ride a hundred miles across the veldt against time, and against at least two other competing riders, through the enemy's country, and at a moment's notice, is not the least exciting occupation that can be chosen by a light-weight searching for a new sensation.
It combines the certainty of hardship and discomfort with the possibility of being shot; and over and above all is the pressing need of saving every minute of time.
Three despatch riders set out from Bloemfontein during the evening of Tuesday or the earliest dawn of Wednesday. First in order of starting was theTimesmessenger, second that of Reuter's Agency, third came the "angelos" of theDaily Mail.
From Bloemfontein to Kimberley is, as we have said, a distance of a hundred miles. It is best understood by a Londoner by suggesting the comparison that he should be compelled to ride to Hereford every time he wished to despatch a telegram.
Out from the isolated city the messengers went,making their way in the darkness or in the dawn over the red slushing tracks that had suffered the steady downpour of the night's rain, till, by whichever road they had moved out of Bloemfontein, they met at the battle-ground of Driefontein.
From that point onwards the struggle became keen, and the breakdown of a horse meant a delay that might perhaps be reckoned in days rather than hours. The public that glances casually at the telegrams of their morning papers does not often realise the importance of a few minutes to the correspondents whose work they are reading. In this case, besides the ordinary delay, the lonely riders that were making way across the veldt had to spur them on the risk of finding the Field Telegraph repaired before they could reach the Diamond City, and the cable blocked with messages sent over their heads from Bloemfontein.
Early in the great race theTimesrider met with disaster. The horse he rode fell, and, though the injury seemed slight enough at the time, never properly recovered itself, causing a delay of some hours before the next relay could be reached.
But theDaily Mailwas still more unlucky. Starting last of all, the well-known light-weight who carried the fortunes of the "largest circulation of this earth" made his way forward through the fading light of Wednesday, gaining rapidly on his predecessors, and, confident in the excellent provision made for him, was getting out of his mount the last pound of pace, when a cut corner flung him against a barbed wire fence, which so terribly lacerated his leg that further riding was out of the question.
Binding up his scratches as best he might, he found himself compelled to walk back thirty-five miles to Bloemfontein, unable to ride, and at the journey's end almost unable to stand.
So theTimesand Reuter—each armed with a duplicate despatch from the Commander-in-Chief—were left to compete for the contingent advantage of getting first into Kimberley.
And now was done a notable achievement. Browning, in his poem, "How we brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix," has chosen, by an odd accident, exactly the distance which divides Kimberley from Bloemfontein; but we can rest assured that the "good news" of the capture of the Boer capital sped on as fast as ever went the news across the flat plains of Flanders.
Over the grey sage-brush of the veldt, over the high, dry grass, under the rare shade of poplar trees, where the horse was watered, along the red crumbling road or the mere beaten wheel track where a thousand waggons and twenty thousand animals had worn a temporary track, the hurrying hoof of the courier's mount lessened the long distance between the capital of the O.F.S. and the end of that wire of which the other lies in the capital of the world.
In the afternoon of Wednesday three bullets whistled past the rider of the Agency, and the newspaper's courier had a similar experience at the same spot as he passed a little later.
It soon became obvious that there was no possibility of getting into Kimberley in time to send the despatches before the office closed for the day, and theTimesdespatch rider took the latter stages of thejourney more easily. Reuter's man,[1]however, continued his ride at his utmost speed, and actually achieved what will long remain a record, travelling the entire distance on three horses in twenty hours and twenty minutes.
The need for such lengthy despatch riding luckily seldom occurs, as the expense is one of the heaviest items that can be incurred by newspaper representatives on behalf of their papers; only in the very exceptional circumstances in which the war correspondents found themselves at the capture of Bloemfontein would the enormous expenditure be justified.
A Corrected "Proof" by Rudyard Kipling.(Giving a glimpse of the struggle between the editors and the Dutch compositors.)
A Corrected "Proof" by Rudyard Kipling.
(Giving a glimpse of the struggle between the editors and the Dutch compositors.)
A chapter which introduces a Prince, and tells of our Appeal to the whole Army to write forThe Friend.
The next day's issue, that of March 22nd, was the best-looking number we had produced. We dropped those little frames on either side of the title of the paper which journalists call "ears" or "ear-tabs," so that the front page looked dignified and ship-shape, and the title read simplyThe Friend, without its former addenda of "Playing cards" and "Cue tips." In place of these we printed the royal coat-of-arms. This issue contained a heart-felt eulogy of Sir W. S. A. Lockhart by the Field Marshal.
General Kelly in Camp Orders declared that hereafter horse thieves would be severely dealt with, and there appeared a notice by Prince Francis of Teck, "Staff Captain, Remount Department," that the army desired horses of certain ages and a certain height, as well as agents to buy them.
This reminds all who were at Bloemfontein how the Prince came and put up at the Bloemfontein Hotel, and began to fill up an immense yard just on the edge of the town with a marvellous collection of veldthorses, all of which, I understood, he succeeded in buying at £25 apiece, though I had just paid £100 for a pair, and most men were giving £40 at the least for every horse. The Prince worked like a beaver all the time he was at Bloemfontein.
There went to the stalwart and kindly Prince one day an artist who said he desired to surrender two mules which did not belong to him. It was not the truth that he desired to give them up, nor was it out of politeness that he told the falsehood. The fact was that the army had taken his horses and left him a pair of feeble, poorly animated steeds of the clothes-horse pattern, which gave out on the long road between Poplar Grove and Bloemfontein. At the same time two healthy mules, astray on the veldt, evinced a yearning for human companionship, and insisted upon intruding themselves upon the company of the artist and his Basuto servant while they were preparing lunch. To go on with his own weak and sick animals was to invite a loss of locomotive power in a country infested with Boers. To make use of the fresher mules was the natural and obvious alternative. Therefore the artist abandoned his horses and went on with the mules. Arrived in Bloemfontein, he at once continued his travels by joining the "bill-sticking expedition" of General French over to Thaba N'chu and the region beyond.
"Bill sticking," by the way, was how the officers nicknamed the distribution of copies of Lord Roberts' proclamation calling on the Boers to lay down their arms and sign a promise not to continue the war. When the artist returned to Bloemfontein he was met by friends who said that he would certainly be shot if hewas found to be using animals that did not belong to him. Lord Roberts had grown angry, it was said, and had exclaimed aloud that no matter who or what the man might be, the next offender in this respect should be shot. It was this stentorian cry, and not the still, small voice of conscience, that sent the artist to the Prince, to whom he told the truth and made formal surrender of the mules.
"And very nice indeed it is of you," said the Prince, "very honest and straightforward. I will send some one to get the mules this afternoon."
"But, I beg pardon," said the artist, "now everything's all right, isn't it? The mules were not mine, and I have surrendered them, and there's no trouble to follow?"
"No, indeed," said Prince Francis, "I am much obliged to you. Animals are very scarce and we need all we can get; so very good of you to do as you have done."
"Well, now," said the artist, "won't you please let me keep the mules? The Army stole my horses and left me a broken-down pair. I had to turn them loose and take these mules or I should have been killed or captured by the Boers. I have nothing else to move on with. I wish you would let me keep the mules."
"Really," said the Prince, "I cannot do that. I never heard such a proposition in my life. I have no authority to do as you ask. Upon my word, this is most extraordinary. Come, I'll tell you what I will do. I'll see that you get a pair of animals at the Army price. I can't sell them to you or buy them for you, but I can have a pair put aside for you to buy of somebody who brings them in to sell."
No one who was not there can form any idea of the extent to which this looting or commandeering of horses was then being practised. They were stolen not only from in front of the Club—the busiest spot in the heart of the town—but from before the headquarters of Lord Roberts, and from in front of the hotels. Men were desperate; so many were without horses. Sicknesses, slaughter, and overwork had left us with less than half the animals we needed.
At about this time an American correspondent who was never guilty of taking even an abandoned Boer horse, but who had purchased a fine animal of a negro on the veldt for five shillings, became very nervous over his purchase. He went to the stable and with the help of his servant clipped the animal close, so that it no longer resembled the long-haired beast he had bought. Then he went out into the street and met a Boer, who accused him of having taken his horse and who exactly described the animal in question. The Boer said he would report the case to Major Poore, the Provost-Marshal. The now frightened correspondent came to my room with his burden of sorrows, and stated his case to the company of officers, correspondents, and despatch-riders then present.
"The Boer's name is Voorboom," he said, "and he is in earnest. I suppose I shall be sent home in disgrace."
At the mention of the name three men spoke up saying that of all the rascals in need of a hanging this Voorboom was the sorriest. One had seen Boer combatants in Voorboom's house, another had seen Voorboom's brother trundling into a clump of bushes an English carriage which he had stolen; a third hadmet Voorboom and his negroes riding far and wide gathering up loose horses—English or Boer—which he was undoubtedly now bringing to town to sell to the Army.
"Give him an hour in which to leave town or go to jail at Simon's Bay," said a Colonel, ending the incident.
Mr. Kipling was in town at last and had promised us his assistance, but we could not then know whether this would be great or little; we could not have hoped or dreamed that it would prove a quarter or a third part of all our work, as it did. On the other hand, we were only too painfully aware that very little aid was being vouchsafed us. We found ourselves with a great newspaper on our hands, a newspaper with a gaping void of terrible dimensions. "Reuter" had promised its despatches to us, but these were not allowed on the crowded telegraph wires for days at a time, as it proved, and the whole burden was upon us, joined to the necessity we felt to do our full duty to our newspapers at home—one at least of which demanded a despatch every day and four letters a week if possible. The army had been counted upon for valuable and voluminous help, and it was practically sending us in nothing. Mr. Landon reminds me that within an hour of Mr. Kipling's arrival in Bloemfontein he went to him and said (with considerable trepidation): "We have put you down as an editor ofThe Friend, and we have announced it." Then Mr. Landon held his breath and waited. "Well," Mr. Kipling replied, "I should have been mortally offended if you had not. Where's the office? I want to go to work as soon as I have finished my grapejam." He did literally go straight to work. As he entered our editorial dustbin he sniffed the mingled odours of ink, wet paper, and dust, and said, "It's quite like old times in India." It was agreed that I should stir up the consciences and pens of all our friends and readers in an ink-blast, fierce and loud. I did this in the editorial of the day entitled, "The Silent Army":—
Other armies (I wrote), have always been distinguished by brilliant raconteurs. Other armies have always contained a plenitude of wits and humorists. Other armies have been noted for the abundance of funny anecdotes with which chum assailed chum and battalion guyed battalion. Other armies have taken note of the more striking deeds of prowess, of valour and of strategy which have been done among their members; and other armies have boasted poets grave, poets gay, poets rollicking, and poets who dedicated their verses to their mistress's eyebrows.Alas! none of these things has this poor army—so poor in wit and literary talent, however rich it be in courage, patience, dogged persistence and proud victories.This army is like a sponge for taking what entertainment the sweating editors ofThe Friendwill give it. It is like a barnacle for fastening itself upon us and fattening its dead weight upon this little literary bark. It is like a horse behind our waggon, which was built, like most vehicles, to have its horses in front. It is like the veldt around us in its capacity to swallow any amount of refreshing rain and yet appear as dry in four hours afterwards as if it were the pavement of that place which can only bereferred to by the use of one particular anecdote, which is as follows:—"If I owned Satandom and South Africa," said a Canadian Tommy at Modder River, "I would rent out South Africa and live in Satandom."But we nearly digressed—a sin unpardonable in an article so important as this, written hot upon the impulse of suffering and keen feeling.The committee of war correspondents with Lord Roberts' army, who undertook to conduct, for the first time in history, a full-fledged complete daily newspaper published in an enemy's capital two days after the conquest thereof, are all busy men in their own line of industry. They have constant daily work to do, they are trusted by their own newspapers to devote their whole talents and energies to the interests of the public at home. Nevertheless they have turned aside to conduct this newspaper, they are doing so, and will continue to do so to the day the army pushes on and away.But in undertaking this task their idea was that they merely had to start the paper and give it a momentum, after which the army would turn to and flood the editorial sanctum with tales of humour, wit, and prowess writ upon sheets numberless as the leaves of Vallambrosa.The reader will gather that this has not yet taken place. He will infer that the war correspondents are, like the last rose of summer, left blooming to ourselves. True, two or three generous and gifted souls in the army have come nobly into the breach with contributions; but the breach is nine columns wide—nine columns that persist in emptying themselves as fast as we fill them; in fact, nine columns whichbecome fifty-four columns between each Monday and the succeeding Saturday. It is on this account that when the two or three generous and talented army men flung themselves in the breach, the breach was not aware of the fact—and we have not had the heart to wake it up and notify it that it was being filled, not caring to tell a falsehood even to a silly breach.Come, then, ye gentles and geniuses, ye poets, ye anecdotists, ye thrillers and movers with the pen—join our staff, and put your mighty little ink-damped levers to the rock that we are rolling up the gigantic kopje of your thirst for news and entertainment. Your pay shall be the highest ever meted out to man—the satisfaction of souls content. Your company shall include a Kipling. Your readers shall be the bravest, noblest, proudest soldiers who ever served an earthly race.You can ask no more. You can ask nothing else.But in the meantime we want "copy."
Other armies (I wrote), have always been distinguished by brilliant raconteurs. Other armies have always contained a plenitude of wits and humorists. Other armies have been noted for the abundance of funny anecdotes with which chum assailed chum and battalion guyed battalion. Other armies have taken note of the more striking deeds of prowess, of valour and of strategy which have been done among their members; and other armies have boasted poets grave, poets gay, poets rollicking, and poets who dedicated their verses to their mistress's eyebrows.
Alas! none of these things has this poor army—so poor in wit and literary talent, however rich it be in courage, patience, dogged persistence and proud victories.
This army is like a sponge for taking what entertainment the sweating editors ofThe Friendwill give it. It is like a barnacle for fastening itself upon us and fattening its dead weight upon this little literary bark. It is like a horse behind our waggon, which was built, like most vehicles, to have its horses in front. It is like the veldt around us in its capacity to swallow any amount of refreshing rain and yet appear as dry in four hours afterwards as if it were the pavement of that place which can only bereferred to by the use of one particular anecdote, which is as follows:—
"If I owned Satandom and South Africa," said a Canadian Tommy at Modder River, "I would rent out South Africa and live in Satandom."
But we nearly digressed—a sin unpardonable in an article so important as this, written hot upon the impulse of suffering and keen feeling.
The committee of war correspondents with Lord Roberts' army, who undertook to conduct, for the first time in history, a full-fledged complete daily newspaper published in an enemy's capital two days after the conquest thereof, are all busy men in their own line of industry. They have constant daily work to do, they are trusted by their own newspapers to devote their whole talents and energies to the interests of the public at home. Nevertheless they have turned aside to conduct this newspaper, they are doing so, and will continue to do so to the day the army pushes on and away.
But in undertaking this task their idea was that they merely had to start the paper and give it a momentum, after which the army would turn to and flood the editorial sanctum with tales of humour, wit, and prowess writ upon sheets numberless as the leaves of Vallambrosa.
The reader will gather that this has not yet taken place. He will infer that the war correspondents are, like the last rose of summer, left blooming to ourselves. True, two or three generous and gifted souls in the army have come nobly into the breach with contributions; but the breach is nine columns wide—nine columns that persist in emptying themselves as fast as we fill them; in fact, nine columns whichbecome fifty-four columns between each Monday and the succeeding Saturday. It is on this account that when the two or three generous and talented army men flung themselves in the breach, the breach was not aware of the fact—and we have not had the heart to wake it up and notify it that it was being filled, not caring to tell a falsehood even to a silly breach.
Come, then, ye gentles and geniuses, ye poets, ye anecdotists, ye thrillers and movers with the pen—join our staff, and put your mighty little ink-damped levers to the rock that we are rolling up the gigantic kopje of your thirst for news and entertainment. Your pay shall be the highest ever meted out to man—the satisfaction of souls content. Your company shall include a Kipling. Your readers shall be the bravest, noblest, proudest soldiers who ever served an earthly race.
You can ask no more. You can ask nothing else.
But in the meantime we want "copy."
We published also a brief communication respecting the Dutch name Stellenbosch. This needs a word of explanation. It had long been noticed that whenever an officer was prominently connected with a losing battle, or exhibited marked incompetence in any field of military work, he got a billet at Stellenbosch, a bowery village deep down in the Cape Colony, where was established our base camp of supplies. The name therefore attained a deep significance and common usage in the army, and to say that a man had been "Stellenbosched" was but the ordinary polite mode of mentioning what might otherwise have had to be said in many harsher-sounding words.
THE FRIEND.(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)
BLOEMFONTEIN, FRIDAY, MARCH 22, 1900.
Whereas it is considered necessary in the interests of the Orange Free State, and until arrangements may be made, that the provisions of the Customs Convention existing between the said State and the Colony of the Cape of Good Hope, and the Colony of Natal, shall be duly observed, and the Laws and Regulations appertaining thereto shall be enforced as soon as communication between the said Colonies and such portions of the Orange Free State as have been or may hereafter be occupied by Her Majesty's troops is restored, and the customary commercial relations are resumed; and whereas it is expedient that the necessary officers for the control and management of the Customs Department of the Orange Free State shall be appointed,
Now therefore
I, Frederick Sleigh Baron Roberts of Khandahar, K.P., G.C.B., G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E., V.C., Field Marshal, Commanding-in-Chief of the British Forces in South Africa, do hereby nominate and appoint the following officers, to wit:—
It is evident from the sentences inflicted by the Provost Marshal that the military authorities are wisely determined to repress all forms of lawlessness and unruliness on the part of native boys with a firm hand. Take the following three cases by way of illustration:—
No. 1. Boy: 28 lashes for resisting Military Police in discharge of their duty while arresting him.
No. 2. Two Boys: 25 lashes each for being drunk and fighting.
No. 3. 27 Boys: 5 lashes each for being disorderly and having no pass after 9 o'clock.
At the conclusion of the above cases of the day the Provost Marshal called the native police before him and complimented them on the good work they had done.
When the British entered Bloemfontein there was general rejoicing in the native "location," but it is impossible to insist too plainly that the clemency of British rule will not extend to violent, drunken, and disorderly persons, whether they be white or black.
ARMY ORDERS, SOUTH AFRICA.
Army Headquarters, Government House,Bloemfontein,March 20, 1900.
It is with deep regret that the Field Marshal, Commanding-in-Chief, announces to the Army in South Africa the death of His Excellency Sir W. S. A. Lockhart, G.C.B., K.C.S.I., Commander-in-Chiefin India, which occurred at Calcutta on the evening of the 18th of March, 1900.
Lord Roberts is sure that his own feelings will be shared by every Officer and Soldier who has served under Sir William Lockhart's command, and more particularly by those who have been personally acquainted with him.
After a long and varied Military career, which began in Abyssinia, time of the Mutiny, and which included war service in Acheen, Afghanistan, Burma, The Black Mountain, Wazeristan, Isazai, and finally the command of the Tirah Expeditionary Force, Sir William Lockhart was appointed to the Chief Command in India. Possessed of exceptional ability, he distinguished himself alike as a Staff Officer and as a commander in the field, and by his uniform kindness and consideration he endeared himself to all who came in contact with him. In the late Commander-in-Chief the Soldiers in India, both British and Native, have lost a friend whose only thought was to further their interests and promote their welfare, and the Indian Empire has lost a trusted Counsellor who, on account of his intimate knowledge of the Native races, and his acquaintance with Eastern affairs, cannot soon or easily be replaced.
With reference to Army Order No. 5 (b) of 4th March, for Captain R. H. Hall read Captain R. H. Hare.
The Field Marshal Commanding-in-Chief has great pleasure in publishing the following telegram which has been received:—
From Sirdar Khan, Bahadur Casim, Haji Mahomed Khansahib, Kazi Mahommed Ali Murshaj. Bombay Mahomedans offer your Lordship, your gallant Officers and Soldiers hearty congratulations on brilliant success Transvaal, and pray Almighty crown efforts greater success and honours.
By order,
W. Kelly, M. General,D. A. General.
Trek, trek, trek,On the wild South African veldt,With anthills here and anthills thereAnd holes and ruts, you're inclined to swear,For your mokes will religiously take you o'erThese impediments by the score,But you trek, trek, trek.Trek, trek, trek,With a heart as heavy as lead,For the comrades who have bit the dustWhilst fighting for a cause that's just,With bootless feet and clothing torn,From chilly night to dewy mornYou trek, trek, trek.Trek, trek, trek,There's nothing to do but trek,While your mules half starved and done to death,And yourself ditto and out of breath,You wish to Heaven the war was o'erAnd you say sweet (?) things of the cunning Boer,But you trek, trek, trek.
Trek, trek, trek,On the wild South African veldt,With anthills here and anthills thereAnd holes and ruts, you're inclined to swear,For your mokes will religiously take you o'erThese impediments by the score,But you trek, trek, trek.
Trek, trek, trek,With a heart as heavy as lead,For the comrades who have bit the dustWhilst fighting for a cause that's just,With bootless feet and clothing torn,From chilly night to dewy mornYou trek, trek, trek.
Trek, trek, trek,There's nothing to do but trek,While your mules half starved and done to death,And yourself ditto and out of breath,You wish to Heaven the war was o'erAnd you say sweet (?) things of the cunning Boer,But you trek, trek, trek.
To the Editors of"The Friend,"Sirs:—In the course of a lengthy experience I have heard many quaint conceits and many hard swear words, and have kept a small notebook in which I have jotted down anything especially new. I was the unwilling auditor the other day of a quarrel between two individuals whose rank and profession shall be nameless. The conversation became very animated, and finally one exclaimed with savage irony, "Oh, go to Stellenbosch!" Fortunately some passers-by interrupted the fracas or else I verily believe blows would have been exchanged. Now you, sirs, with your opportunities of knowing many lands and varied languages, may perhaps be able to inform me where this place is and why the request to go there should have caused such fury and such agitation on the part of the individual addressed. It will be a relief to the consciences of Her Majesty's lieges if the time-honoured "D——" can be relegated to the limbo of forgotten oaths in favour of such an apparently innocent expression. I write in all innocence, as no man likes to use a phrase, especially such a potent one, without understanding its meaning.—
Faithfully yours,
Chiriogicus.
[We believe that the place mentioned was located somewhere in the Arctic Regions by the Jackson expedition.—Eds.]
Like a beehive for industry when Rudyard Kipling went to lunch with the Field-Marshal.
Rudyard Kipling was paying visits and getting acquainted with the local situation. He had left his wife and family at the far-famed Mount Nelson Hotel—the "Helot's Rest," as a statesman had called it—with its strange assembly of Rand and Kimberley millionaires, and other refugees from the two republics, its army officers, both of the invalid and the idle class, its censors, war correspondents, sight-seers, and ladies longing to get to the more exciting front.
I first saw Mr. Kipling there, and now found him tenanting a bedroom across the passage from my own in the Free State Hotel at Bloemfontein. When I went to shake his hand he was in the room of W. B. Wollen, the artist, and one of those men who having nothing good to say, are never content to stop there, was exclaiming, "Is it possible that I have the honour to meet the author of 'The Absent-Minded Beggar'?"
Field-Marshal Earl Roberts,V.C., K.G., K.P., G.C.B., G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E.,Commander-in-Chief.
Field-Marshal Earl Roberts,V.C., K.G., K.P., G.C.B., G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E.,Commander-in-Chief.
"Yes," said Kipling, "I have heard that piece playedon a barrel-organ, and I would shoot the man who wrote it if it would not be suicide."
A man of such broad build and short neck that you do not realise him to be of the average stature, wearing a broad-brimmed, flat brown hat of Boer pattern, and below that a brown short coat and very full trousers to match; a vigorous figure, quick in movement as a panther, quicker still in speech; a swinging and rolling figure with head up and hat well back out of the way of his sight which is ever thrown upward as if he searched the sky while he walked. His face is quite a match for his body, being round and broad as well as wide-eyed and alert. His eyes are its most notable features, for they are very large and open, and each one is arched by the bushiest of black eyebrows. They are habitually reflective and sober eyes, but, like a flash, they kindle with fun, and can equally quickly turn dull and stony when good occasion arises. It is not the typical poet's or scholar's face so much as it is the face of the man among men, the out-of-door man, the earnest, shrewd observer and the irrepressible hard worker.
It happened that both of us were to pay our respects to the Field-Marshal at the Residency on the same day, and both were invited to lunch. Of course, Mr. Kipling knew Lord Roberts very well—had seen much of him in India, where they had been both friends and mutual admirers. We went to the Residency together. There we met a very kindly and hospitable young gentleman who asked us who we were and offered us a visitors' book in which to record our signatures. To him we were presently introduced and found him to be none other than theDuke of Westminster, who, as Lord Belgrave had at an earlier stage, been with Sir Alfred Milner at the Cape. The Duke proffered us refreshment of the coveted sort, which, as we have seen, was quoted at 11s. a bottle "on a rising market," and then he conducted us to the great drawing-room with its strong suggestion of the grandeur of a ruler's residence, despite its garish wall-paper and its puckered-up carpet.
The whole Residency was like a beehive for industry. In the dining-room privates were hammering away upon typewriters, and officers were supplying them with copy. We peeped into the large ball-room, and lo! it was appointed with many desks at which members of the illustrious and aristocratic staff of the Field-Marshal were hard at work with pens and ink. Even in the drawing-room, the merely ornamental desks and tables were strewn with documents at which far from merely ornamental lords were writing.
When lunch was announced we found the dining-hall set with two tables—a very long one for the staff, and a very small one at its head for Lord Roberts. Mr. Kipling sat with the Field-Marshal, while I was placed between Lord Stanley and Lord Herbert Scott at the big table. I was not impressed by any unlooked-for excellence in the simple meal with which we were served. I had lived better on the open veldt whenever I had been able to get at my Cape cart, and the boxes I had stored in it. But the flow of wit and the hospitality and courtesy that were shown to me would have rendered worse fare beyond reproach.
After the meal Lord Stanley introduced me to the Field-Marshal, and my very first words caused thosewho do not know how great and broad a man he is, to think that I had offended Lord Roberts.
"I am very proud to know you, General," I said.
We talked for a few moments of trifling things, merely by way of making acquaintance.
"You called him 'General'; you should have said 'Sir,' or 'Lord Roberts,'" said those who were concerned about the episode.
"The highest rank and title in the American Army is 'General,'" said I; "and in that way Washington, Grant, and all our leaders were saluted. Lord Roberts spoke of my being an American. I am sure he understands how I came to make a mistake, while, at the same time, paying him the highest respect."
Our newspaper showed that we were getting on rapidly with the new forces of administration—the outcome, first, of Lord Roberts's brain, and, next, of the extraordinary industry at the Residency. That most skilful of military railway engineers, Colonel E. P. C. Girouard, who, while head of the Egyptian Railways was also restoring our wrecked lines and manning them efficiently, announced in our 6th number (March 23rd), that the daily train to the south would leave at 7 a.m., and the train from the south would arrive at twenty-six minutes after midnight each day.
The Gordon Club opposite the Cathedral was to be reopened next day. The Wesleyan Church announced a parade service for the coming Sunday. The Presbyterian Church announced its meetings for the week. Services at the English Cathedral were also advertised. The Army Sports began on this date. Major Lorimer, of the Cape Police, came with a trooper and somedespatch riders and was taken on the strength. C. V. F. Townshend, A.A.G. to the Military Governor, grappled with the negro problem in a warning notice that all natives must be indoors by eight o'clock p.m. unless possessed of a special permit, and that dancing and drunkenness in the streets would meet with severe punishment.
We published a very informing and authoritative editorial upon martial law, which one of the editors was at some pains to secure. I have a strong idea that it was written either by General Pretyman or Major Poore, but I have no means for making certain.
James Barnes, the distinguished American correspondent, who very kindly and with able results, took my place as correspondent of theDaily Mailwhen I was invalided home, wrote for this number a comparison between this and some recent American wars.
We led the paper with the full text of Mr. Kipling's poem, only one verse of which had reached us a week before.
THE FRIEND.(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)
BLOEMFONTEIN, MARCH 23, 1900.
(Owing to the exigencies of war, we were unable at the time to print more than one stanza of Mr. Kipling's poem, which we now present in its entirety.)
Oh! Terence dear, and did ye hearThe news that's going round?The Shamrock's Erin's badge by lawWhere'er her sons are found!From Bobsfontein to Ballyhack'Tis ordered by the Queen—We've won our right in open fight,The Wearin' of the Green!We sailed upon commandoTo vierneuk our Brother Boer—A landlord and a Protestant,What could the bhoys want more?But Redmond cursed and Dillon wept,And swore 'twas shame and sin;So we went out and commandeeredThe Green they dared not win.'Twas past the wit of man, they said,Our North and South to join—Not all Tugela's blood could floodThe black and bitter Boyne;But Bobs arranged a miracle(He does it now and then),For he'll be Duke of Orange, sure,So we'll be Orange men!Take hold! The Green's above the red,But deep in blood 'tis dyed,We plucked it under Mauser-fireAlong the trenched hill-side:Talana's rush, the siege, the drift,The Fight of Fourteen Days,Bring back what's more than England's roseAnd dearer than her praise!God heal our women's breaking heartsIn Ireland far away!An' Mary tell the news to thoseThat fell before this day—Dear careless bhoys that laughed and diedBy kopje and fontein—Our dead that won the living prize—The Wearin' of the Green!Rudyard Kipling.
Oh! Terence dear, and did ye hearThe news that's going round?The Shamrock's Erin's badge by lawWhere'er her sons are found!
From Bobsfontein to Ballyhack'Tis ordered by the Queen—We've won our right in open fight,The Wearin' of the Green!
We sailed upon commandoTo vierneuk our Brother Boer—A landlord and a Protestant,What could the bhoys want more?But Redmond cursed and Dillon wept,And swore 'twas shame and sin;So we went out and commandeeredThe Green they dared not win.
'Twas past the wit of man, they said,Our North and South to join—Not all Tugela's blood could floodThe black and bitter Boyne;But Bobs arranged a miracle(He does it now and then),For he'll be Duke of Orange, sure,So we'll be Orange men!
Take hold! The Green's above the red,But deep in blood 'tis dyed,We plucked it under Mauser-fireAlong the trenched hill-side:Talana's rush, the siege, the drift,The Fight of Fourteen Days,Bring back what's more than England's roseAnd dearer than her praise!
God heal our women's breaking heartsIn Ireland far away!An' Mary tell the news to thoseThat fell before this day—
Dear careless bhoys that laughed and diedBy kopje and fontein—Our dead that won the living prize—The Wearin' of the Green!
Rudyard Kipling.
[Copyright in England and the U.S.A.]
In times like the present when military matters are discussed by all classes of society, both by soldiers and civilians, the question of the law, by which discipline and law, not only among the troops, but also the civil population in the country they occupy are maintained, frequently arises, and the terms "Martial Law" and "Military Law" are often made use of as if they meant the same thing. It is to explain this that the following is written.
"Military Law" is the Law which governs the soldier in peace and in war, at home and abroad. It is administered under the Army Act which is part of the Statute Law of England, and which, by special provision, must be brought into, and continue in force, by an annual Act of Parliament.
With an army in the field, certain persons, not soldiers, are also subject to the provisions of "Military Law," such as civilians serving with the force in an official capacity; persons accompanying the troops with special leave, such as newspaper correspondents and contractors; persons employed with the troops, such as transport drivers; other persons known as followers who accompany the troops either as sutlers or on business or pleasure with the permission of the commander.
"Martial Law," on the other hand, is only operative in war. It is in fact no law at all, and has been accurately defined as the "will of the conqueror." The expression "Customs of War" would perhaps better define what is meant by "Martial Law," because the word Law conveys the idea to most people of an enactment containing a fixed and rigid rule which must be obeyed, and which, if disobeyed, will involve punishment.
This "Law" or "Custom" is applicable to all persons and inhabitants not subject to "Military Law" residing within the foreign country or that portion of it occupied by the troops, and also within districts under British rule abroad, which, in consequence of riot or rebellion, are so declared to be subject to "Martial Law" by proclamation.
It will thus be seen that a commander of troops in time of war acts in two distinct capacities. First, he governs the troops by "Military Law" only; secondly, in his position of governor of the country he occupies, he imposes such laws or rules on the inhabitants as in his opinion are necessary to secure the safety of his army, and also the good government of the district which, by reason of the war or rebellion, may for the time have been deprived of its ordinary rulers and the machinery for maintaining order.
For the purpose of administering "Martial Law" or the "Customs of War" no rules or regulations are absolutely laid down, but certain customs exist among civilised nations which are generally recognised.
At the present time the practice in force is that, when practicable, "Martial Law" should only supplementthe civil procedure, but when the civil Government is absent or, in consequence of war, is paralysed, "Martial Law" must of necessity replace the civil.
In administrating "Martial Law" by a Military Court the ordinary procedure recognised by "Military Law" is followed. This is done because the Military Court would be composed of military officers whose training would make them conversant with such procedure, and because some uniformity in administrating justice would thus be ensured.
We wish to draw the attention of the troops of all ranks to the benefits which the use of the Public Free Library offers.
A Branch of the Standard Bank is being opened in Colonnade Buildings under the direction of Mr. M. D. Savory, late Manager of the Oudtshoorn Branch.
ThePowerful'scontingent of the Naval Brigade, consisting of twenty-nine men and four officers, left by yesterday's train for Capetown. Mr. Midshipman Lewin, who is in command, has the honour of carrying despatches.
The great want of Bloemfontein just now is some place of light recreation and refreshment to which weary soldiers and civilians can repair after the labour of the day is ended. It is premature, of course, to expect anything so pretentious as the Alhambra or Tivoli of London fame, but the resources of the capital of the Orange Free State should be at least equal to the provision and equipmentof a hall where songs and various forms of light entertainment might be presented nightly. Already there is talk of an enterprising agent proceeding to Capetown with the object of retaining the necessary artistes, who may be expected here as soon as the railway communication is open to the general public; but for present purposes there is sufficient talent amongst our soldiers and sailors and the townspeople to tide over the emergency. A committee of amusement with a good man as chairman is required, and the rest, with the permission of the military authorities, should be tolerably easy. The drums and pipes of the Highland regiments continue to do valiant service in the market square, but the time is surely come when entertainment on a more ambitious programme might be contemplated.
"Know Binks? Of course. Everybody does—local major, staff something at Headquarters of 10th Division—devilish useful chap to know."
Yes, Major Binks; but three short months ago I was only young Binks of the Buffers, arriving at Blankfontein to take charge of a Transport Company; I had no experience, and no instructions, except to "lick 'em into shape," and I felt like the title of a book, "Alone in South Africa." Not quite alone after all, for I had Wopples with me; Wopples being the servant my old uncle, Major Stodger, had found for me. "He'll kill your horses, of course, and lose your kit, but he was our mess corporal in the Blazers for fourteen years, and he'll pull you through."
After asking many questions and getting no answers, I found a seething mass of mules, waggons, and blacks, which turned out to be my company, and in the midst of it was a person of evidently some importance, who turned out to be the conductor. His natural perimeter was nearly doubled by the packets of papers which bulged from every pocket, and he was addressing the crowd in a variety of bad languages when I introduced myself, not without trepidation, as his new C."C."O. His smile was reassuring and patronising. "Oh, that'll be all right, sir; we're getting along nicely—but the Major's coming round to-morrow—commands the station, he does—and wastes a lot of time. Now, if you could offer him a bit of breakfast—"
Next morning the Major rode up; he was a melancholy-looking man with an absent manner. Before I could introduce the subject he said he would not interrupt me if I were having breakfast; I begged him to join me, but he said he never could eat at that hour, but he might as well come in—perhaps he might manage a cup of tea. He managed one cup, and then another, after which he brightened up a lot and managed porridge, fried liver, curried mutton, and half a tin of jam. After one of my cigars (also selected by uncle) he rode away, remarking that he was glad to find they'd sent up somebody at last who had a grasp of things—he felt he could rely on me.
Next day I was appointed his assistant. When I reported myself he said he wanted somebody whom he could leave in the office in case he had to go out—there was no other definite job for me just then; meanwhile I might as well look after the mess. I did so, or rather Wopples did so.
One evening the Major seemed somewhat upset, "Look here, Binks, the Brigadier is coming round to-morrow to discuss a defence scheme; he's inclined to fuss a lot; I've got to go out myself on duty, but you'd better stay in and have a lot of breakfast ready; I think you might almost run to a tin of sausages." Next morning the Brigadier rode up all alone at full gallop, scrambled off his horse, and began to shout, "Come along, come along; mustn't waste time on active service; got fifty things to settle to-day! Here's my brigade on this side of the river—now tell me at once where every man on the other side is posted"—here he fell over Wopples. "Who the deuce!—what, breakfast, eh? Well, well, must eat, even on service. I can spare five minutes. Come along." He rushed into my tent and spared five minutes. The five minutes prolonged themselves to ten minutes, then to an hour and a quarter, after which the Brigadier slept so sweetly that I had no heart to waken him. About 3 o'clock he woke with a sort of explosion, shouted for his horse, and galloped off talking as hard as ever.
Next morning I was appointed his extra A.D.C. with rank of Captain. "There'll be a lot of work for you later on," the Brigade-Major said, "but no bustle just now; meanwhile you might look after the mess." Again we did so. I was left in camp one day when the Brigade had gone out to do something—"Somebody must be left in charge, and, by the by, have a bit of something ready in case we come back hungry." I was reading the advertisement sheets of a paper six weeks old when Wopples rushed in. "Lord Upington, sir, staff boss atDivisional Headquarters, just a'comin' up the road!Wota chance it is! Why, if he don't know what good living means—well, I'm a Boer!"
Wopples was too much of an artist to overdo things—there was just a taste of porridge—not enough to spoil one's appetite, a partridge with full complements of bread-sauce and red pepper, marrow-bones with hot toast and a nip of whisky, black coffee and cigars; where it had all sprung from goodness only knows.
When his lordship departed he said he would not forget me; his heart and other organs were so full that he quite forgot to mention the pressing business on which he had come.
Next morning I was appointed signalling officer to the Division. I had never done a signalling class, and pointed this out to the D.A.G., but he said it didn't matter, what they wanted was a really useful man to supervise generally the signalling business. Of course, just at present there was no signalling as we were on a wire; meanwhile I might take over the mess. Before the words were out of his mouth Wopples had taken the mess over; he had sacked two black cooks, discarded the mess pots in favour of his own, taken the measures of the mess stores, and was getting on with lunch. By that evening my position as an ornament to the staff was secure.
It was at something drift that we gave our first official dinner; we had secured a roomy farm-house with some bits of furniture, so, relying on Wopples, we launched into hospitality. And Wopples had surpassed himself. There was a haunch of venison which brought tears of joy to the five eyes of thethree generals who partook of it—no mere common haunch, there were several such in camp that night—this was a haunch that had been through the hands of Wopples. Then there was his extra specialentrée—but that is another course.
It was a dinner that might be eaten, but could never be described.
Next day I was gently approached by many red tabs. The Provost-Marshal said I was just the sort of chap for his department if I'd care to come; a R.E. enthusiast told me that a balloon was the only place for a real good view of a show and "he'd work the matter for me"; somebody on the intelligence said there was a real well-paid billet he'd been keeping open on purpose for me; and two of the generals declared piteously that they could not get on without my services. The third general had not recovered the dinner, but sent a grinning A.D.C. to represent him.
After that his lordship shut me and Wopples up together in his own room and kept guard outside himself. "We'll take care of you, Binks; we'll get you made a local major, and you shall ride the general's horse as you've lost all your own. I'll find you a Tommy's blanket, by Jove I will! and demme, I'll give you my own second shirt; but I'll be shot if you leave our camp, my boy—shot and starved!"
Anonymous.
The writer, an American, who served during the Cuban war, has been asked to compare the presentheated argument with the late unpleasantness in the Antilles.
It is rather difficult to draw any comparisons between this war in South Africa and the late conflict in Cuba. It is like comparing two games differing in rules and methods, and resembling one another only in the fact that they are played with bat and ball.
One of the strange things about the war in the West Indies was this—when it was over the world waited for the lesson, and there was none in the proper sense of the word. The God of battles must have been with America from start to finish; ours was the good fortune; we had all the luck. It was a series of miracles. Naval men waited to see the great things torpedo-boats would accomplish, and two of the much-dreaded machines were sunk by a millionaire's pleasure-craft transformed into a gun-boat. Vessels with armoured belts and protective decks were set on fire in the old-fashioned way by exploding shells igniting their wood-work. Dewey's victory at Manila was accomplished without loss of life on the American side, and Sampson's victory at Santiago was almost as wonderful—but one man killed and a few slightly wounded.
Army experts waited for the results of the use of long-range magazine rifles, smokeless powder, and high explosives, yet trenches and hills defended by men with Mausers were stormed and taken by men with Krag-Jorgensens in their hands in the old-fashioned way—a steady advance and a rushing charge to clinch it. Caney and San Juan Hill were old-fashioned fights with the exception of the fact that men were killed miles in the rear by the straying droves of bullets and never saw an enemy.
As in this war the losses did not compare to those of some hand-to-hand conflicts of the Rebellion, and many wounds that in the old days would have proved fatal, thanks to the merciful Mauser, amounted to very little. Perhaps to offer explanation of some strange occurrences of the Cuban war would be disparaging to the Spaniards. Perhaps the least that can be said is that in the main the Dons were shocking poor shots, and they had been so weakened by disease and hunger that they had not much fight left in them when it came to cold steel and clubbed muskets. The great losses in Cuba were from fevers, not from bullets. It is in the conditions and environments that the chief difference lies between the war here and the war over there. And it is from this present conflict that the world will learn. The Philippine war, costly as it was in life and money, was nothing but a series of victories over a half-civilised enemy. The interest in it in America, strange to say, dwindled to little or nothing after the first gunshot in South Africa.
Here was a different state of affairs. Cuba (for Puerto Rico was a "walk over") was a country full of dense forests and tangled undergrowth, offering a screen as well as a hindrance to the movements of an army. South Africa is the greatest defensive country in the world, and the Boer is trained by nature and inheritance to make the best of it. Yet it took time to teach some of the English military leaders to adapt themselves to the new conditions—it was hard for them to break away from the traditions of Waterloo and Badajos. The Mauser began to correct the old ideas of warfare in a way that it had failed to do in Cuba. The prophecies in Bloch'sremarkable book were fulfilled almost to the letter. Proper scouting in an open country is a dead department of military service. How long did we lie at Modder River without knowing anything of value of the movements of the enemy? A series of kopjes might conceal a few sharpshooters or an army—at a mile's distance scouts were under the fire of an invisible foe. A good shot ensconced between sheltering rocks discounted four men advancing in the open. In Cuba the American troops were harassed by marksmen concealed in tree-tops who often fired upon them from the rear, but the forces opposed to them in front were mostly infantry, and the problem resolved itself into a contest between individual soldiers as fighting units. It was a soldiers' conflict.
A war in a country such as we have been fighting over for the last five months admits of one thing only—the strategic movements of a military genius. The generalship of a great leader is a necessity. Bravery is well-nigh wasted and courage almost discounted. Mobility of force is essential, forces operating at great distances but under one central head are asine quâ non, and in long-range artillery lies the preponderancy of power. More and more does the great game approximate the moves in a chess problem. It must be admitted that in Cuba there were no such scientific movements, and it has taken the march of Lord Roberts from Enslin to Bloemfontein to prove the fact beyond question that soldiers' battles, where one side is entrenched and invisible and the other advancing in attack, are things of the past, except in a wooded country or where all preliminary movements are concealed. We had soldiers'battles here, but by fighting them the lesson has been taught which the world will learn.
On Tuesday, March 20th, Lord Roberts entertained the following Military Attachés, accredited by the Great Powers to his staff, at dinner at Government House:
Colonel Stakovitch, Russia; Commandant d'Amadi, France; Major Esteben, Spain; Captain Baron V. Luttwitz, Germany; Captain Slocum, America; Captain Hieroka, Japan.
There were also invited the following to meet the distinguished guests: Lieut. General Sir H. Colvile, Lieut. General Kelly-Kenny, Major General Sir W. Nicholson, Major General Pretyman, Major General Wood, Major General Marshall, Major General Pole-Carew, Major General Gorden, The Very Revd. Dean of Bloemfontein, The Honble. Mr. J. G. Fraser; the Private Secretary; the Military Secretary; Major General Kelly, Colonel Richardson, Mr. Justice Hopley, Colonel Stevenson, Colonel Viscount Downe, Lieut. Colonel Otter, Captain Bearcroft, Lieut. Colonel Ricardo, Colonel H. C. Cholmondeley, Colonel Lord Stanley, Reverend H. J. Coney, Lieut. Colonel Byron, A.D.C., Captain Lord Herbert Scott, A.D.C.
After the Queen's health had been drunk, Lord Roberts, in a happy little speech in which he proposed the health of the foreign Attachés, said that he had much regretted while in Capetown not having been able to entertain the Attachés, but now he feltsome satisfaction at not having been able to do it, as he was able to entertain them as comrades, while at Capetown they would only have been representatives of foreign Powers. He had often been distressed at seeing the Attachés undergoing many discomforts on the march. But it had shown him that they were officers devoted to their duty, and regardless of all discomforts. He had not heard complaint or murmur of discontent at their want of comfort, in fact, the only complaint made was one to Lord Downe in which Attachés represented to him that he, with a regard for their personal safety, had not allowed them to go as close as they could wish to the passing line. It had been a great pleasure to see them there that night, and he hoped before long to be able to entertain them again in Pretoria.
Colonel Stakovitch, the Russian Attaché, replied, saying how pleasant it had been for him and his comrades to accompany the British Army on their great and successful march. He thanked the Field Marshal for his kindness and courtesy to them, and wound up by proposing the health of Lord Roberts and his army, to which Lord Roberts made a suitable reply.
The band of the Buffs played a selection of music during dinner.
The Austrian Attaché was unavoidably absent, having left on a short visit to Capetown.
All Ranks join our Corps of Contributors, and the Oasis of Literature sparkles like a Fountain in a Desert.
Generals, colonels, majors, captains, subalterns, privates, war correspondents who had not connected themselves with our venture, naval officers—all ranks and all sorts, suddenly rushed to our support, in consequence of my wail for help, andThe Friendtook on an interest and importance proportionately greater, I think, than that of any newspaper then published in the language. Its circulation rose among the thousands whereas the largest daily distribution had been only 400 copies before the war.
We numbered the paper of March 24th "No. 6," though it was in reality the eighth copy we had published, six being the number since we had enlarged it to its final size. I marvel at our success as I look back upon this number.
Sir William Nicholson, K.C.B., wrote an appreciation of the character, life, and work of the late Sir William Lockhart; General Sir Henry E. Colvile sent us a double acrostic, which the Dutch ones among oureccentric compositors ruined so far beyond repair that it would not be just to reproduce its mangled remains; Mr. Lionel James, who had come over from the Natal side to further distinguish the staff of theTimes, wrote upon the death of our gifted colleague, George W. Steevens. Rudyard Kipling contributed to this number the first of his delicious "Fables for the Staff"; a distinguished officer, who shall remain nameless in this connection, contributed an article on "Beards in War"; and Mr. Gwynne began a series of letters entitled "Is the Art of War Revolutionised?" written solely to interest the Army and spur its thinking men to respond.
Mr. H. Prevost Battersby, of the LondonMorning Post, was another distinguished contributor to this number.
Mr. Kipling now became a regular harnessed member of the four-in-hand team that pulled the paper. With pen in hand and pipe in mouth he sat at the larger of the two tables in our editorial poke-hole, and beginning with a "Now, what shall I do? Write a poem, fill out cables, or correct proofs?" would fall to and toil away with an enthusiasm born of the long time it had been since he had "smelled the sawdust of the ring."
"Oh, how good it is to be at work in a newspaper office again!" he exclaimed on the first day, doubtless with recollections of the sanctum of theAllahabad Pioneerstrong upon him, and the memory of the time when the precursors of the "Plain Tales" and of the Barrack Room Ballads were demanded of him almost every day, and gave him the practice to produce the carefully finished and matured work we are now seeing in the novel "Kim," at which he was at work—in thelaboratory of his mind—even as he sat with us in Bloemfontein.
We wondered at his enthusiasm, and, perhaps, had it not been of his doing, we should have resented the impetus it gave us to toil as never war correspondents worked before—all day forThe Friendand far into the nights to catch the mails with our home correspondence. But we soon came to see that the same tremendous energy and ceaseless flow of wit and fancy were his by nature, and would have found expression as well in a tent on the veldt as in that office. He was always while with us like a great healthy boy in spirits and vitality, good humour, and enterprise.
With us he yelled "Haven't any; go to Barlow's shop around the corner," to the Tommies who trod on one another's heels to get copies of the paper from us who had not got them. With us he consigned the Dutch compositor to æons of boiling torment for the trouble his errors gave us. With us he entertained Lord Stanley, who now came, out of kindness, at noon every day, to save us the trouble of sending our proof-sheets over to him at his office. And from us he insisted upon taking all the "Tommy poetry," as we called it, that came to the office. When we derided much of it as outrageous twaddle, he praised its quality. On this day, I remember, we were belittling a particular poem that he was reading, and he called out, "Why, that is splendid stuff! Listen to these lines—'Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves: Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!'" The reader will not find this particular poem in this book, though it was put inThe Friendby our distinguished poetry editor.
THE FRIEND.(Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force.)
SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1900.
Certain Boers, having blown up a Bridge, departed in the Face of the British Army, which, arriving at that dynamited Place, made Outcry to the Gods, saying, "Oh, Jupiter, these Ruffians have blocked the Traffic, and we are vastly incommoded. Is there Anything worse than the Boer?"
This being reported to the Railway Authorities, they caused a Railway Staff Officer to be sent to that Bridge with Instructions to facilitate Matters by all means in his Power.
Later on They picked up What was left of the British Army in those parts—one dusty Shovelful, and its Lamentations were louder than before.
"Ungrateful Wretches," said the Military Authorities; "what would you now have?"
And the Remnant of the British with one Accord answered, "Give us back the Boer!"